"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