A mocking burst of laughter hailed my expression of regret. It came from the little Obi. This species of evil spirit, this living mystery, approaches me roughly.
“Ha, ha, ha! you regret life then, Labadosca Dios. My only fear was that death would have no terrors for you.”
It was the same voice, the same laugh that had so often before baffled my conjectures.
“Wretch!” exclaimed I, “who are you?”
“You are going to learn,” replied he, in a voice of concentrated passion; and thrusting aside the silver sun that half concealed his brown chest, he exclaimed, “Look!” I bent forward.
Two names were written in white letters on the hairy chest of the Obi, showing but too clearly the hideous and ineffaceable brand of the heated iron. One of these names was Effingham, the other was that of my uncle and myself, D’Auverney!
I was struck dumb with surprise.
“Well, Leopold d’Auverney,” asked the Obi, “does not your name tell you mine?”
“No,” answered I, astonished to hear the man name me, and seeking to recall to my mind my thoughts. “These two names were only to be found thus united upon the chest of my uncle’s fool. But the poor dwarf is dead, and besides that, he was devotedly attached to us. You cannot be Habibrah.”
“No other,” shrieked he, and casting aside the blood-stained cap, he raised his veil and showed me the hideous features of the household fool; but a threatening and sinister expression had usurped the half-imbecile smile which was formerly eternally imprinted on his features.