"I see ink," said Marie sedately. "It will make your hand very dirty, sir. Once I got some on my frock, and it never came out. I was beaten for that."
"Hush, then, little one, and look into the ink. Presently there will be pictures there. Then you may speak and tell us what you see."
Silence fell on the small hot room. Ange Desaix rocked softly with the sleeping child. She was the only one who never even glanced at the astrologer and his pupil.
Presently Marie said:
"Monsieur, there is a picture."
"What then, say?"
"A boy, with a broom, sweeping."
He nodded gravely.
"Yes, yes. Watch well; the pictures come."
"He has made a clean place," said the child, "and on the clean place there is a shadow. Ah, now it turns into a lady—into this lady whose hand is on my head. She stands and looks at me, and a man comes and catches her by the neck and cuts off her hair. That is a pity, for her hair is very long and fine. Why does he cut it?"