"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.