“His name is a secret,” said the Earl; “yet, I must own, thy prognostication hath not been unfaithful.  He has been sick, and dangerously so, not, however, to death.  But hast thou again cast my horoscope as Varney directed thee, and art thou prepared to say what the stars tell of my present fortune?”

“My art stands at your command,” said the old man; “and here, my son, is the map of thy fortunes, brilliant in aspect as ever beamed from those blessed signs whereby our life is influenced, yet not unchequered with fears, difficulties, and dangers.”

“My lot were more than mortal were it otherwise,” said the Earl.  “Proceed, father, and believe you speak with one ready to undergo his destiny in action and in passion as may beseem a noble of England.”

“Thy courage to do and to suffer must be wound up yet a strain higher,” said the old man.  “The stars intimate yet a prouder title, yet an higher rank.  It is for thee to guess their meaning, not for me to name it.”

“Name it, I conjure you—­name it, I command you!” said the Earl, his eyes brightening as he spoke.

“I may not, and I will not,” replied the old man.  “The ire of princes Is as the wrath of the lion.  But mark, and judge for thyself.  Here Venus, ascendant in the House of Life, and conjoined with Sol, showers down that flood of silver light, blent with gold, which promises power, wealth, dignity, all that the proud heart of man desires, and in such abundance that never the future Augustus of that old and mighty Rome heard from his HARUSPICES such a tale of glory, as from this rich text my lore might read to my favourite son.”

“Thou dost but jest with me, father,” said the Earl, astonished at the strain of enthusiasm in which the astrologer delivered his prediction.

“Is it for him to jest who hath his eye on heaven, who hath his foot in the grave?” returned the old man solemnly.

The Earl made two or three strides through the apartment, with his hand outstretched, as one who follows the beckoning signal of some phantom, waving him on to deeds of high import.  As he turned, however, he caught the eye of the astrologer fixed on him, while an observing glance of the most shrewd penetration shot from under the penthouse of his shaggy, dark eyebrows.  Leicester’s haughty and suspicious soul at once caught fire.  He darted towards the old man from the farther end of the lofty apartment, only standing still when his extended hand was within a foot of the astrologer’s body.

“Wretch!” he said, “if you dare to palter with me, I will have your skin stripped from your living flesh!  Confess thou hast been hired to deceive and to betray me—­that thou art a cheat, and I thy silly prey and booty!”

The old man exhibited some symptoms of emotion, but not more than the furious deportment of his patron might have extorted from innocence itself.

“What means this violence, my lord?” he answered, “or in what can I have deserved it at your hand?”