Amos took the paper and closed his eyes, but in a moment looked up and said, “You are in the dark and I can see nothing.”
“Then you have no knowledge of what goes on in the dark?”
“No, sir; only of things that I can see. If there is any light at all I can see as if I were there in person, but no better. To-night at ten o’clock you are in your own chamber, and it is absolutely black.”
“Then change the hour to six o’clock.”
As Mr. Cabot, a moment later, turned a sidelong glance toward his friend, sitting with closed eyes before him, he thought the little mark upon his forehead had never been so distinct. He regarded it with a mild surprise as it seemed almost aglow; but the sky was becoming rosy in the west, and there might be a reflection from the setting sun. Amos wrote something on a slip of paper, folded it up and returned it to Mr. Cabot, who carefully tucked it away in a pocket saying, “I shall not read it until six-thirty. I will tell you to-morrow if you are correct.”
“Oh, that is correct, sir! You need have no anxiety on that point.”
As he spoke there passed slowly along the road a cart containing two men, and behind the cart, securely fastened, walked a heavy, vicious-looking bull.
“That is an ugly brute,” he said.
“So I was just thinking. Does he belong in the town?”
“Yes; it is Barnard’s bull. Yesterday he got loose and so mutilated a horse that it had to be shot; and within an hour he tried his best to kill old Barnard himself, which was a good undertaking and showed public spirit. He is sure to have a victim sooner or later, and it certainly ought to be old Barnard if anybody.”