On reading this communication the Prophet felt that all further struggle was useless. Fate—cruel and remorseless Fate—had him in her grasp. He could only bow his head and submit to her horrible decrees. He could only go upstairs and at once prepare for the journey to the Mouse.
He laid the letter down and got up, fixing his eyes upon the kids, who sat solemnly awaiting his further procedure.
“You—I suppose you know, my little ones, what this—what you have to do?” he said.
“Not so little, if you please, Mr. Vivian,” returned the boy. “Yes, we’ve got to take you with us to see pater familias.”
“And mater familiar—familias,” added the little girl.
“I see—you know,” said the Prophet, in a despairing voice. “Very well. Wait here quietly—very quietly, while I go and get ready.”
“And please don’t forget the Crab and grandmother, rashes, et ceterus,” said the little girl.
“Tera Corona,” piped her brother.
“I won’t,” said the Prophet. “I will not.”
And he tottered out of the room, carrying the Sagittarius letter in his hand.