“The first part of my story, Olivia,” began the dying man, “belongs to you.  Years before I knew you, when I was a young, hot-headed, rashly impulsive boy, traveling in Spain, I fell in with a gang of wandering gypsies.  I had been robbed and wounded by mountain brigands; those gypsies found me, took me to their tents, cared for me, cured me.  But long after I was well I lingered with them, for the fairest thing the sun shone on was my black-eyed nurse, Zenith.  We were both so young and so fiery-blooded, so—­Ah! what need to go over the old, old grounds?  There was one hour of mad, brief bliss, parting and forgetfulness.  I forgot.  Life was a long, idle summer holiday to me.  But she never forgot—­never forgave!  You remember the woman, Olivia, who burst into the church on the day of our boy’s christening—­the woman who died in the sexton’s house?  That woman was Zenith—­old and withered, and maddened by her wrongs—­that woman who died cursing me and mine.  A girl, dark and fierce, and terrible as herself, stood by her to the last, lingered at her grave to vow deathless revenge—­her daughter and mine!”

The faint voice ceased an instant.  The fluttering spirit rallied, and resumed: 

“I have reason to know that daughter was married.  I have reason to know she had a child—­whether boy or girl I can not tell.  To that child the inheritance of hatred and revenge will fall; that child, some inward prescience tells me, will wreak deep and awful vengeance for the past.  Beware of the grandchild of Zenith, the gypsy—­beware, Olivia, for yourself and your son!”

“Is this all?” Olivia said, in a constrained, hard voice.

“All I have to say to you—­the rest is for Everard.  My son, on the night of your birth an Eastern astrologer came to this house and cast your horoscope.  He gave that horoscope to me at day-dawn and departed, and from that hour to this I have neither seen nor heard of him.  Before reading your future in the stars he looked into my palm and told me the past—­told me the story of Zenith and her wrongs—­told me what no one under heaven but myself knew.  My boy, the revelation of that night has blighted my life—­broken my heart!  The unutterable horror of your future has brought my gray hairs to the grave.  Oh, my son! what will become of you when I am gone?”

“What was it, papa?” the lad asked.  “What has the future in store for me?”

A convulsive spasm distorted the livid face; the eye-balls rolled, the death-rattle sounded.  With a smothered cry of terror Lady Kingsland lifted the agonized head in her arms.

“Quick, Jasper—­the horoscope!  Where?”

“My safe—­study—­secret spring—­at back!  Oh, God, have mercy—­”

The clock struck sharply—­twelve.  A vivid blaze of lambent lightning lighted the room; the awful death-rattle sounded once more.

“Beware of Zenith’s grandchild!”

He spoke the words aloud, clear and distinct, and never spoke again.