The Prince, arisen, replied simply: "I rejoice with my Lord;" and folding his arms across his breast, he waited, knowing he had been summoned for something more serious than to witness an outburst so wild—that directly this froth would disappear, as bubbles vanish from wine just poured. The most absolute of men have their ways—this was one of Mahommed's. And behind his composed countenance the Jew smiled, for, as he read it, the byplay was an acknowledgment of his influence over the chosen of God.
And he was right. Suddenly Mahommed replaced the sword, and standing before him, asked abruptly:
"Tell me, have the stars fixed the day when I may assault the Gabours?"
"They have, my Lord."
"Give it to me."
The Prince returned to his apartment, and came back with a horoscope.
"This is their decision, my Lord."
In his character of Messenger of the Stars, the Prince of India dispensed with every observance implying inferiority.
Without looking at the Signs, or at the planets in their Houses; without noticing the calculations accompanying the chart; glancing merely at the date in the central place, Mahommed frowned, and said:
"The twenty-ninth of May! Fifty-three days! By Allah and Mahomet arid Christ—all in one—if by the compound the oath will derive an extra virtue—what is there to consume so much time? In three days I will have the towers lording this gate they call St. Romain in the ditch, and the ditch filled. In three days, I say."