As the beldame repeated and emphasized these words, she raised her hand
with a prophetic gesture and advanced upon the group of pedestrians.

"Now, then, you old crow! What are you up to with your croaking?"
demanded Mr. Marwig. "Look here, Mistress Beelzebub! Do you know that
you are a very lucky woman to live in a land where not only may a
barefooted boy rise to the highest honors by talent and perseverance,
but where a malignant old witch may torture and terrify her neighbors
without fear of the ducking stool or the stake?" he demanded.

The beldame looked at him scornfully, and disdained to reply.

"Wait!" said a stout, dark, middle-aged, black-whiskered man, Timothy
Ryland by name, and one of the managers of the "works" by state. "Wait,
I want to question this miserable lunatic. She may have got wind of
something. Tell me, old mother, why will not the governor-elect take his
seat to-morrow?"

"Because Fate forbids it," solemnly replied the crone.

"Will the governor be--murdered?"

"No; Regulas Rothsay has not an enemy in the world!"

"Will he be killed on the railroad, or kidnapped?"

"No!"

"Will he be taken suddenly ill?"