“No, by the stars.  And behold!” drawing aside the curtain, “yonder they shine!”

“Take me to an upper room,” the astrologer exclaimed, in an inspired tone, “and leave me.  Destiny is propitious.  The fate that ruled your son’s birth has set forth the shining stars for Achmet to read.  Lead on!”

Like a man in a dreamy swoon, Sir Jasper Kingsland obeyed.  He led the astrologer up the grand sweeping staircases—­up and up, to the very top of the house—­to the lofty, lonely battlements.  Cloudless spread the wide night sky; countless and brilliant shone the stars; peaceful and majestic slept, the purple sea; spotless white gleamed the snowy earth.  A weird, witching scene.

“Leave me,” said the astrologer, “and watch and wait.  When the first little pink cloud of sunrise blushes in the sky, come to me.  My task will have ended.”

He waved him away with a regal motion.  He stood there gazing at the stars, as a king looking upon his subjects.  And the haughty baronet, without a word, turned and left him.

The endless hours wore on—­two, three, and four—­and still the baronet watched and waited, and looked for the coming of dawn.  Faintly the silver light broke in the Orient, rosy flushed the first red ray.  Sir Jasper mounted to the battlements, still like a man in a dazed dream.

Achmet the Astrologer turned slowly round.  The pale, frosty sunrise had blanched his ever-white face with a livid hue of death.  In one hand he held a folded paper, in the other a pencil.  He had been writing.

“Have you done?” the baronet asked.

“I am done.  Your son’s fate is here.”

He touched the paper.

“Is that for me?” he asked, shrinking palpably from it even while he spoke.

“This is for you.”  The astrologer handed him the paper as he spoke.  “It is for you to read—­to do with after as you see fit.  I have but one word to say:  not I, but a mightier power traced the words you will read—­your son’s irrevocable fate.  Don’t hope to shirk it.  My task is ended, and I go.  Farewell!”

“No, no,” the baronet cried; “not so!  Remain and breakfast here.  The morning is but just breaking.”

“And before yonder sun is above the horizon I will be far away.  No, Sir Jasper Kingsland, I break no bread under your roof.  I have done my work, and depart forever.  Look to your son!”

He spoke the last words slowly, with a tigerish glare of hate leaping out of his eyes, with deadly menace in every syllable.  Then he was gone down the winding stair-way like a black ghost, and so out and away.

Sir Jasper Kingsland took the folded paper and sought his room.  There in the pale day-dawn he tore it open.  One side was covered with cabalistic characters, Eastern symbols, curious marks and hieroglyphics.  The other side was written in French, in long, clear, legible characters.  There was a heading:  “Horoscope of the Heir of Kingsland.”  Sir Jasper sat down and began to read.