“Do you know what this means, gentlemen?” said Belleville.
“It means,” said Giurgenow, “that the people will learn from their great prophet something of the continuance, or rather of the conclusion of this war. These good, simple people, as it seems to me, long for rest, and wish to know when they may hope to attain it. That man knows, for he is a great prophet, and all his prophecies are fulfilled.”
“But you forget to make mention of the woman?” said Ranuzi, with a peculiar smile.
“The woman is, I think, a fortune-teller with cards, and the Princess Amelia holds her in great respect; but let us listen to what the prophet says.”
They were silent, and listened anxiously. And now the voice of the prophet raised itself high above the silent crowd. Pealing and sounding through the air, it fell in trumpet-tones upon the ear, and not one word escaped the eager and attentive people.
“Brothers,” cried the prophet, “why do you interrupt me? Why do you disturb me, in my quiet, peaceful path—me and this innocent woman, who stood by my side last night, to read the dark stars, and whose soul is sad, even as my own, at what we have seen.”
“What did you see?” cried a voice from the crowd.
“Pale, ghostly shadows, who, in bloody garments, wandered here and there, weeping and wailing, seating themselves upon a thousand open graves, and singing out their plaintive hymns of lamentation. ‘War! war!’ they cried, ‘woe to war! It kills our men, devours our youths, makes widows of our women, and nuns of our maidens. Woe, woe to war! Shriek out a prayer to God for peace—peace! O God, send us peace; close these open graves, heal our wounds, and let our great suffering cease!’”
The prophet folded his hands and looked to heaven, and now the woman’s voice was heard.
“But the heavens were dark to the prayer of the spirits, and a blood-red stream gushed from them; colored the stars crimson, turned the moon to a lake of blood, and piteous voices cried out from the clouds, and in the air—‘Fight on and die, for your king wills it so; your life belongs to him, your blood is his.’ Then, from two rivulets of blood, giant-like, pale, transparent forms emerged; upon the head of the first, I read the number, ‘1759.’ Then the pale form opened its lips, and cried out: ‘I bring war, and ever-new bloodshed. Your king demands the blood of your sons; give it to him. He demands your gold; give it to him. The king is lord of your body, your blood, and your soul. When he speaks, you must obey!’”