"I have, lord," and again Ulamhala salaamed.

"Then declare, be it good or ill;" commanded Pompeius, and he gripped
the arms of his chair to conceal his anxiety.

The scene was in a way weird enough. The visitors exchanged uneasy
glances, and Cato, who broke out in some silly remark to Favonius, in
a bold attempt to interrupt the oppressive silence, suddenly found his
words growing thick and broken, and he abruptly became silent. Each
man present tried to tell himself that Pompeius was a victim of
superstition, but every individual felt an inward monition that
something portentous was about to be uttered.

The conference had lasted long. The lamps were flickering low. Dark
shadows were loitering in every corner of the room. The aroma of
flowers from the adjacent gardens floated in at the open windows, and
made the hot air drugged and heavy. Ulamhala slowly and noiseless as a
cat stepped to the window, and, leaning out over the marble railing,
looked up into the violet-black heavens. There was no moon, but a
trembling flame on one of the candelabras threw a dull, ruddy glow
over his white dress and snowy turban. His face was hid in the gloom,
but the others knew, though they could hardly see, that he was
pointing upward with his right hand.

"Behold," began the astrologer, "three thousand seven hundred and
fifty years since the days of the great Sargon of Agade have we of the
race of the Chaldeans studied the stars. One generation of watchers
succeeded another, scanning the heavens nightly from our
_ziggurats_,[90] and we have learned the laws of the constellations;
the laws of Sin the moon, the laws of Samas the sun, the laws of the