These words, which convinced me that Bug-Jargal had been made prisoner, were followed by a cry of grief from a band of negroes who wore short scarlet breeches. They belonged to the band of Morne-Rouge.
Then the Obi began again—
“If you have on the right side of the forehead in the line of the moon a mark resembling a fork, do not remain idle, and avoid dissipation of all kinds. A small mark like the Arabic cypher 3 in the line of the sun betokens blows with a stick.”
An old negro here interrupted the magician, and dragging himself to his feet begged him to dress his wound. He had been wounded in the face, and one of his eyes almost torn from the socket hung upon his cheek. The Obi had forgotten him when going through his patients. Directly, however, he saw him he cried out—
“Round marks on the right side of the forehead in the line of the moon foretell misfortunes to the sight. My man, let me see your hand.”
“Alas, excellent sir,” answered the other, “it is my eye that I want you to look at.”
“Old man,” replied the Obi, crossly, “it is not necessary to see your eye, give me your hand, I say.”
The miserable wretch obeyed, moaning, “My eye, my eye.”
“Good,” cried the Obi; “if you see on the line of life a spot surrounded by a circle you will lose an eye. There is the mark. You will become blind of an eye.”
“I am so already,” answered the negro, piteously.