The Countess retreated a few paces, feeling rather afraid, for in those days every one believed in witchcraft.
"Don't be afraid, my beauty," said Mlawa calmly. "I shall not soil your white fingers, I shall only look at them."
Cosel drew off her glove, and exhibited to the old woman, a beautiful white hand, glittering with rings.
"What a beautiful hand! Worthy to be kissed by kings; but, my child, there are dreadful signs in it. That hand often touched the face that looked on her boldly. Am I right?"
Cosel blushed; Mlawa was thoughtful.
"What are you going to tell me?" whispered Cosel uneasily.
"You are going on towards your destiny. Who has ever avoided his fate? Who has ever seen its precipices? After long happiness, there awaits you a still longer, oh, far longer season of penitence, a rigorous captivity, sleepless nights, unaccustomed tears. Having children, you will be childless; with a husband, you will be a widow, you will be an imprisoned Queen; you will be free, but you will throw away your freedom--you will be--oh! don't ask me--"
Cosel was as white as marble, but still she tried to smile.
"What have I done to you," she asked, "that you wish to terrify me?"
"I pity you!" said Mlawa. "Why did you wish to look into my soul? Wormwood grows there! Bitterness flows through my words. I pity you!"