"
"A violet-leaf!" exclaimed Xanthe. "Yes, a violet-leaf," repeated the
conjurer. "Put it in my hand. There are--just look here--there are
seven lines, and seven--everybody knows that--seven is the number of
health. Peaceful happiness in good health, that is what your oracle
says." "The gods owe me that, after suffering so long," sighed Lysander.
"At any rate, come back here in a year, and if your cackling Pythia and
this little leaf tell the truth, and I am permitted to bring it to you
without support or crutch, I'll give you a stout piece of cloth for a new
cloak; yet nay, better try your luck in six months, for your chiton looks
sicker than I, and will hardly last a whole year."
"Not half a one," replied the conjurer, with a sly smile. "Give me the
piece of stuff to-day, that, when I come back in a month, I may have
suitable garments when I amuse the guests at the feast given for your
recovery. I'm no giant, and shall not greatly impair your store."
"We'll see what can be done," replied Lysander, laughing, "and if, when
you return in a month, I don't turn you from the door as a bad prophet,
in spite of your fine clothes, your flute-player shall have a piece of
linen for his thin limbs. But now foretell my daughter's future, too."
The dwarf took Xanthe's leaf from her hand, and said:
"This comes from an olive-tree, is particularly long, and has a light and
dark side.
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