“Not so, my lord. No one knows it yet except the persons concerned in it. No one will ever know it if your lordship so pleases. I told you but to show the power of the Black Art.”
“I wonder, then, how you know.”
“The Wizard, by his Art, learns as much of the past as he desires to know; he reads the present around him, still by aid of this great Art; he can foretell the future, not by the gift of prophecy, but by studying the stars.”
“Tell me, then,” said Lord Chudleigh, as if in desperation, “the future. Yet this is idle folly and imposture.”
“That which is done”—the Sage opened the book and turned over the pages, speaking in low, deep tones—“cannot be undone, whatever your lordship might ignorantly wish. That which is loved may still be loved. That which is hoped may yet come to pass.”
“Is that all you have to say to me?”
“Is it not enough, my lord? Would any king’s counsel or learned serjeant give you greater comfort? Good-night. Leave, now, this young lady with me, alone.”
“First read me the oracle of her future, as you have told me mine; though still, I say, this is folly and imposture.”
The Magician gravely turned over his pages, without resenting this imputation, and read, or seemed to read—
“Love shall arise from ashes of buried scorn:
Joy from a hate in a summer morning born;
When heart with heart and pulse with pulse shall beat,
Farewell to the pain of the storm and the fear of the Fleet.”