“‘Tell him,’ said I, ’that Captain Malone and a friend wish to see him at once.  Perhaps he has overslept.’

“She came back looking frightened.

“‘I have called,’ she said, ’and rung his bell many times, but he does not answer.’

“I knew where his sleeping-room was.  Kearny and I pushed by her and went to it.  I put my shoulder against the thin door and forced it open.

“In an armchair by a great table covered with maps and books sat Don Rafael with his eyes closed.  I touched his hand.  He had been dead many hours.  On his head above one ear was a wound caused by a heavy blow.  It had ceased to bleed long before.

“I made the old woman call a mozo, and dispatched him in haste to fetch Herr Bergowitz.

“He came, and we stood about as if we were half stunned by the awful shock.  Thus can the letting of a few drops of blood from one man’s veins drain the life of a nation.

“Presently Herr Bergowitz stooped and picked up a darkish stone the size of an orange which he saw under the table.  He examined it closely through his great glasses with the eye of science.

“‘A fragment,’ said he, ’of a detonating meteor.  The most remarkable one in twenty years exploded above this city a little after midnight this morning.’

“The professor looked quickly up at the ceiling.  We saw the blue sky through a hole the size of an orange nearly above Don Rafael’s chair.

“I heard a familiar sound, and turned.  Kearny had thrown himself on the floor and was babbling his compendium of bitter, blood-freezing curses against the star of his evil luck.

“Undoubtedly Phoebe had been feminine.  Even when hurtling on her way to fiery dissolution and everlasting doom, the last word had been hers.”

Captain Malone was not unskilled in narrative.  He knew the point where a story should end.  I sat reveling in his effective conclusion when he aroused me by continuing: 

“Of course,” said he, “our schemes were at an end.  There was no one to take Don Rafael’s place.  Our little army melted away like dew before the sun.

“One day after I had returned to New Orleans I related this story to a friend who holds a professorship in Tulane University.

“When I had finished he laughed and asked whether I had any knowledge of Kearny’s luck afterward.  I told him no, that I had seen him no more; but that when he left me, he had expressed confidence that his future would be successful now that his unlucky star had been overthrown.

“‘No doubt,’ said the professor, ’he is happier not to know one fact.  If he derives his bad luck from Phoebe, the ninth satellite of Saturn, that malicious lady is still engaged in overlooking his career.  The star close to Saturn that he imagined to be her was near that planet simply by the chance of its orbit—­probably at different times he has regarded many other stars that happened to be in Saturn’s neighbourhood as his evil one.  The real Phoebe is visible only through a very good telescope.’