“We’ll see what can be done,” replied Lysander, laughing, “and if, when you return in a month, I don’t turn you from the door as a bad prophet, in spite of your fine clothes, your flute-player shall have a piece of linen for his thin limbs.  But now foretell my daughter’s future, too.”

The dwarf took Xanthe’s leaf from her hand, and said: 

“This comes from an olive-tree, is particularly long, and has a light and dark side.  You will live to a great age, and your life will be more or less happy as you shape it.”

“As you shape it,” repeated the girl.  “That’s a real hen’s oracle.  ’As people do, so things will be,’ my nurse used to say every third word.”  Disappointed and angry, she threw the leaf on the ground, and turned her back on the little man.

The conjurer watched her keenly and searchingly, as not without difficulty he picked up the leaf.  Then glancing pleasantly at her father, he called her back, pointed with his finger to the inner surface, and said: 

“Just look at these lines, with the little strokes here at the end.  That’s a snail with horns.  A slow creature!  It warns people not to be over-hasty.  If you feel inclined to run, check your steps and ask where the path will lead.”

“And move through life like a cart creaping down into the valley with drags on the wheels,” interrupted Xanthe.  “I expected something unlike school-masters’ lessons from the clever hen that loaded Semestre with so many years.”

“Only question her about what is in your heart,” replied the little man, “and she won’t fail to answer.”

The young girl glanced irresolutely at the conjurer, but repressed the desire to learn more of the future, fearing her father’s laughter.  She knew that, when Lysander was well and free from pain, nothing pleased him so much as to tease her till she wept.

The invalid guessed what was passing in his little daughter’s mind, and said, encouragingly: 

“Ask the hen.  I’ll stop both ears while you question the oracle.  Yes, yes, one can scarcely hear his own voice for the monaulus and the shouts of the crazy people yonder.

“Such sounds lure those who are fond of dancing, as surely as a honey-comb brings flies.  By the dog! there are four merry couples already!  Only I miss Phaon.  You say the couch in my brother’s house has grown too hard for him, and he has found softer pillows in Syracuse.  With us the day began long ago, but in the city perhaps they haven’t quite finished with yesterday.  I’m sorry for the fine fellow.”

“Is it true,” asked Xanthe, blushing, “that my uncle is seeking a rich bride for him in Messina?”

“Probably, but in courtship one does not always reach the desired goal.  Has Phaon told you nothing about his father’s wishes?  Question the conjurer, or he’ll get his new clothes with far too little trouble.  Save me the reproach of being a spendthrift.”