"Your name."
"Leopold Dietrich, a vintner by trade."
"You speak like a Hanoverian or a Prussian."
"I have passed some time in both countries. I have wandered about a good
deal."
"Give me your hand."
The vintner looked surprised for a moment. Gretchen approved. So he gave
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.
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