the old woman his left hand. The grandmother smoothed it out upon her
own and bent her shrewd eyes. Silence. Gretchen could hear the malter
stirring above; the log cracked and burst into flame. A frown began to
gather on the vintner's brow and a sweat in his palm.

"I see many strange things here," said the palmist, in a brooding tone.

"And what do you see?" asked Gretchen eagerly.

"I see very little of vineyards. I see riches, pomp; I see vast armies
moving against each other; there is the smell of powder and fire;
devastation. I do not see you, young man, among those who tramp with
guns on their shoulders. You ride; there is gold on your arms. You will
become great; but I do not understand. I do not understand," closing her
eyes for a moment.

The vintner sat upright, his chin truculent, his arm tense.

"War!" he murmured.

Gretchen's heart sank; there was joy in his voice.

"Go on, grandmother," she whispered.

"Shall I live?" asked the vintner, whose belief in prescience till this
hour had been of a negative quality.

"There is nothing here save death in old age, vintner." Her gnarled hand
seized his in a vise. "Do you mean well by my girl?"