“Well, go’-night. I’m off round the square.”
“Good-night,” said the Prophet.
Suddenly a blinding flash of light dazzled his eyes. He covered them with his hands. When he could see again the blot was gone.
Although he was retired to rest that night when the clock struck three, the Prophet did not sleep. His nervous system was in a condition of acute excitement. His brain felt like a burning ball, and the palms of his hands were hot with fever. For the spirit of prophecy was upon him once more, and he was bound fast in the golden magic of the stars. Like the morphia maniac who, after valiant fasting, returning to his drug, feels its influence the stronger for his abstinence from it, the Prophet was conscious that the heavens held more power, more meaning for him because, for a while, he had intended to neglect them. He was ravaged by their mystery, their majesty and revelation.
When he came down in the morning pale, dishevelled, but informed by a curious dignity, he was met at once by Mr. Ferdinand.
“I have cleared the area, sir,” said the functionary.
“The area, Mr. Ferdinand. What of?”
“Telegrams, sir. The boys must have thrown ‘em down without knocking.”
“Very probably,” replied the Prophet. “Their comrade was right. They did not wish to be strangled.”
“No, sir. And I have placed them in a basket on the breakfast table, sir, while awaiting your orders.”