"Who is that woman?" inquired Cosel, pointing towards the beggar.
The German shrugged his shoulders contemptuously:
"She is a Slav, a Wendish woman! I cannot get rid of her. She claims that this property used to belong to her father. She lives not far from here in a hut built at the foot of the mountain. I don't know what she lives on; she wanders across the fields muttering, and who knows but it may be some devilish incantations, for she must be a witch. Sometimes of nights when the storm howls she sings, and then we shiver. I cannot chase her away, for she knows how to conjure up devils, who serve her."
Then with a sigh, he added,--
"She foretells the future, and she is never mistaken."
Cosel turned and looked at the old woman; then she went over to her. She was the only one of the party bold enough; her companions, hearing witchcraft mentioned, had withdrawn to a distance.
"What is her name?" she asked the German.
The man hesitated, then whispered so low that even she could scarcely hear what he said,--
"Mlawa."
The old woman made a movement as though she heard her name; she raised her emaciated head proudly, shook her long, hanging, grey locks, and looked around, as though searching for the bold person who had dared to mention her name.