“Wretch!” exclaimed the priest indignantly, “thy mercenary demand alone proves the vanity of thy pretence of being initiated into the secrets of the Gods.  Depart my presence this moment!”

The old woman retired without a syllable of remonstrance, and the incident soon passed from the mind of the afflicted priest.  But on the following day, at the same hour, the aged woman again stood before him, and said: 

“My price is two hundred pieces of gold.”

Again she was commanded to depart, and again obeyed without a murmur.  But the adventure now occasioned the priest much serious reflection.  To his excited fancy, the patient persistency of the crone began to assume something of a supernatural character.  He considered that the ways of the Gods are not as our ways, and that it is rather the rule than the exception with them to accomplish their designs in the most circuitous manner, and by the most unlikely instruments.  He also reflected upon the history of the Sibyl and her books, and shuddered to think that unseasonable obstinacy might in the end cost the temple the whole of its revenues.  The result of his cogitations was a resolution, if the old woman should present herself on the following day, to receive her in a different manner.

Punctual to the hour she made her appearance, and croaked out, “My price is three hundred pieces of gold.”

“Venerable ambassadress of Heaven,” said the priest, “thy boon is granted thee.  Relieve the anguish of my bosom as speedily as thou mayest.”

The old woman’s reply was brief and expressive.  It consisted in extending her open and hollow palm, into which the priest counted the three hundred pieces of gold with as much expedition as was compatible with the frequent interruptions necessitated by the crone’s depositing each successive handful in a leather pouch; and the scrutiny, divided between jealousy and affection, which she bestowed on each individual coin.

“And now,” said the priest, when the operation was at length completed, “fulfil thy share of the compact.”

“The cause of the oracle’s silence,” returned the old woman, “is the unworthiness of the minister.”

“Alas! ’tis even as I feared,” sighed the priest.  “Declare now, wherein consists my sin?”

“It consists in this,” replied the old woman, “that the beard of thy understanding is not yet grown; and that the egg-shell of thy inexperience is still sticking to the head of thy simplicity; and that thy brains bear no adequate proportion to the skull enveloping them; and in fine, lest I seem to speak overmuch in parables, or to employ a superfluity of epithets, that thou art an egregious nincompoop.”

And as the amazed priest preserved silence, she pursued: