"Malediction!" the man exclaimed. "What foolery is this?" "No foolery," the old charlatan resumed in a dull monotone. "Thou didst consult the oracle, oh thou, who art the Chosen of the people of France! and the oracle has spoken. Beware of a scarlet flower! From that which is scarlet comes danger of death for thee!" Whereat Robespierre tried to laugh. "Some one has filled thy head, Mother," he said in a voice which he vainly tried to steady, "with tales of the mysterious Englishman who goes by the name of the Scarlet Pimpernel----" "Thy mortal enemy, O Messenger of the Most High!" the old blasphemer broke in solemnly. "In far-off fog-bound England he hath sworn thy death. Beware----" "If that is the only danger which threatens me----" the other began, striving to speak carelessly. "The only one, and the greatest one," the hag went on insistently. "Despise it not because it seems small and remote." "I do not despise it; neither do I magnify it. A gnat is a nuisance, but not a danger." "A gnat may wield a poisoned dart. The spirits have spoken. Heed their warning, O Chosen of the People! Destroy the Englishman ere he destroy thee!" "Pardi!" Robespierre retorted, and despite the stuffiness of the room he gave a shiver as if he felt cold. "Since thou dost commune with the spirits, find out from them how I can accomplish that." The woman once more raised the crystal globe to the level of her breast. With her elbows stretched out and her draperies falling straight all around her, she gazed into it for a while in silence. Then she began to murmur. "I see the Scarlet Flower quite plainly . . . a small Scarlet Flower. . . . And I see the great Light which is like an aureole, the Light of the Chosen One. It is of dazzling brightness--but over it the Scarlet Flower casts a Stygian shadow." "Ask them," Robespierre broke in peremptorily, "ask thy spirits how best I can overcome mine enemy." "I see something," the witch went on in an even monotone, still gazing into the crystal globe, "white and rose and tender . . . is it a woman . . .?" "A woman?" "She is tall, and she is beautiful . . . a stranger in the land . . . with eyes dark as the night and tresses black as the raven's wing. . . . Yes, it is a woman. . . . She stands between the Light and that blood-red flower. She takes the flower in her hand . . . she fondles it, raises it to her lips. . . . Ah!" and the old seer gave a loud cry of triumph. "She tosses it mangled and bleeding into the consuming Light. . . . And now it lies faded, torn, crushed, and the Light grows in radiance and in brilliancy, and there is none now to dim its pristine glory----" "But the woman? Who is she?" the man broke in impatiently. "What is her name?" "The spirits speak no names," the seer replied. "Any woman would gladly be thy handmaid, O Elect of France! The spirits have spoken," she concluded solemnly. "Salvation will come to thee by the hand of a woman."