“‘A fragment,’ said he, ‘of a detonating meteor. The most remarkable one in twenty years exploded above this city a little after midnight this morning.’
“The professor looked quickly up at the ceiling. We saw the blue sky through a hole the size of an orange nearly above Don Rafael’s chair.
“I heard a familiar sound, and turned. Kearny had thrown himself on the floor and was babbling his compendium of bitter, blood-freezing curses against the star of his evil luck.
“Undoubtedly Phœbe had been feminine. Even when hurtling on her way to fiery dissolution and everlasting doom, the last word had been hers.”
Captain Maloné was not unskilled in narrative. He knew the point where a story should end. I sat reveling in his effective conclusion when he aroused me by continuing:
“Of course,” said he, “our schemes were at an end. There was no one to take Don Rafael’s place. Our little army melted away like dew before the sun.
“One day after I had returned to New Orleans I related this story to a friend who holds a professorship in Tulane University.
“When I had finished he laughed and asked whether I had any knowledge of Kearny’s luck afterward. I told him no, that I had seen him no more; but that when he left me, he had expressed confidence that his future would be successful now that his unlucky star had been overthrown.
