These words were said more to herself than as if she wished to be answered. So the doctor took no heed of them in words, but seated himself in a chair, which she wheeled toward the table, forgetting all her assumed dignity in an eager desire to learn something of the future. The doctor seated himself just as Zamara came in with a pen in his hand, one of those golden and jeweled extravagances which it was the delight of this low-born woman to have about her. Dr. Gosner took the pen, and drawing a sheet of vellum toward him, prepared to make a calculation. The countess, in her anxiety, placed herself behind him, and folding her arms on the back of his chair, watched his movements while a sensation of awe crept over her. The dwarf, Zamara, knelt down upon a cushion, which still had an imprint of the countess’ foot pressed in the velvet, and regarded first one and then the other with the vigilance of a favorite dog. Then a profound stillness fell upon the room. Gosner was making calculations on the vellum, the other two were watching him. Neither of them seemed to breathe. At last the doctor turned his face to the woman, who was partly leaning over his shoulder. “You will have me go on, madame?” “Yes, yes!” “Remember, it is only at your imperative command. From the very first I shrunk from this task.” “I will remember anything you wish, only go on.” Still he paused. She saw that his face was pale, and a quiver of light on the jeweled pen, warned her that his hand was trembling. “Reflect,” he said, very earnestly. The countess was bold and brave to recklessness; the visible agitation of this man only made her the more determined. “Go on! go on!” she repeated, impatiently; but her face grew white, and her eyes shone. The dwarf sprang from his knees and caught hold of her dress. “No, mistress, do not let him go on. It frightens you. It makes him tremble. He sees something wicked coming out from the parchment—something that will hurt you.” The countess stooped down and patted Zamara’s head exactly as she would have pacified a pet spaniel. “Go back to your cushion, marmoset,” she said; “this will not hurt me. It is only writing.” “Strange writing,” muttered the dwarf, with a glance at the parchment. “It is like the tracks of a spider, and spiders are venomous. I do not like it—I do not like it.” No one seemed to heed these muttered words. The doctor was absorbed by the hieroglyphics he worked out, and the countess watched him in breathless suspense. All at once he lifted his head and laid the pen down. “We are not alone; send that child out.” “Child!” exclaimed the dwarf, laying his hand on a little poniard that glittered in his belt. “Monsieur calls me a child, when I am twenty years of age, and stay only to protect my mistress.”