"Then let his improvising damn himself," replied Basil sullenly. "To call himself inspired and pretend to read the stars! How about his prophecy now?"
"He holds to it!"
"What! That I have less than one month to live?"
"Just that—no more!"—
Basil gave the speaker a quick glance.
"What niggardly dispensation and presumption withal! This fellow to claim kinship with the stars! To profess to be in their confidence, to share the secrets of the heavens while he is smothered by darkness, utter and everlasting. The heavens mind you, Maraglia! My star! It is a star of darker red than Mars and crosses Hell—not Heaven! In thought I watch it every night with sleepless eyes. Is it not well to cleanse the earth of such lying prophets that truth may have standing room? Where have you lodged him?"
"In the Hermit's cell—"
"Well done! Thereby he shall prove his asceticism. Let practised abstinence save him in such a pass! He shall eat his words—an everlasting banquet. A fat astrologer—by the token—as I hear, was he not?"
"He was fat when he entered."
"Wretch! Would you starve him? Remember the worms and the fishes—your friends. Would you cheat them? Hath he foretold his end?"