“Never mind whether there are others or not, and never mind about what you consider us—three’s enough to settle your matter for you. You’ll prove that you threw a stone, or it shall go hard with you.”
“That’s so!” shouted the crowd, and surged up as closely as they could to the center of interest.
“And first you will answer that other question,” cried the blacksmith, pleased with himself for being mouthpiece to the public and hero of the occasion. “What are you laughing at?”
Satan smiled and answered, pleasantly: “To see three cowards stoning a dying lady when they were so near death themselves.”
You could see the superstitious crowd shrink and catch their breath, under the sudden shock. The blacksmith, with a show of bravado, said:
“Pooh! What do you know about it?”
“I? Everything. By profession I am a fortune-teller, and I read the hands of you three—and some others—when you lifted them to stone the woman. One of you will die to-morrow week; another of you will die to-night; the third has but five minutes to live—and yonder is the clock!”
It made a sensation. The faces of the crowd blanched, and turned mechanically toward the clock. The butcher and the weaver seemed smitten with an illness, but the blacksmith braced up and said, with spirit: