But stretch and lengthen her arm as she would, her hand only reached the gypsy's eyes.
"Wait!" she cried, and, running lightly round to a little postern gate, she threw it open, and found herself face to face with the stranger, who for some moments held the white, tapering fingers in her great, strong, brown hand.
"Well?"
"Your life-line is well marked, but it is crossed here."
"Some danger?"
"A great crisis."
"At what epoch?"
"If I had drawn up your horoscope, I could have told you almost to an hour. So far as I can see, it will occur before your eighteenth year is accomplished."
"I shall be eighteen next Friday!"