Jehan looked this way and that. At length, with dry lips, he muttered, "Yours."
"No, you are not," the man in black replied. "Think again. You have a short memory."
Jehan thought and sweated. But the man would have his answer, and at last Jehan whispered, "The devil's."
"That is better," the astrologer said coldly. "Do you know what this is?"
He held up a glass bowl. The boy recognised it, and his hair began to rise. But he shook his head.
"It is holy water," the man in black said, his small cruel eyes devouring the boy. "Hold out your hand."
Jehan dared not refuse "This will try you," Nôtredame said slowly, "whether you are the devil's or not. If not, water will not hurt you. If so, if you are his for ever and ever, to do his will and pleasure, then it will burn like fire!"
At the last word he suddenly sprinkled some with a brush on the boy's hand. Jehan leapt back with a shriek of pain, and, holding the burned hand to his breast, glared at his master with starting eyes.
"It burns," said the astrologer pitilessly, "It burns. It is as I said. You are his. His! After this I think you will remember. Now go."
Jehan went away, shuddering with horror and pain. But the lesson had not the precise effect intended. He continued to fear his master, but he began to hate him also, with a passionate, lasting hatred strange in a child. Though he still shrank and crouched in his presence, behind his back he was no longer restrained by fear. The boy knew of no way in which he could avenge himself. He did not form any plans to that end, he did not conceive the possibility of the thing. But he hated; and, given the opportunity, was ripe to seize it.