“Oh, no, no, no!” sobbed Berry, sinking to her knees in despair.
“It is true,” croaked the sibyl. “She lies dead, and her last word was a curse upon your wicked head.”
“Not wicked; oh, no—only weak and suffering,” moaned the girl. “Oh, mother, now I have indeed nothing to live for, nothing to love.”
“That is just as well, girl, for fate hangs heavy over your head,” croaked the hag.
“What fate could be more cruel than mine?” sobbed Berry wildly.
The old Indian wagged her turbaned head, muttering low:
“Death is the most cruel fate of all when it overtakes the young, the beautiful, the loving. It is death that menaces you, girl—death in a horrible form by drowning!”
“Why should I tremble at death? I have nothing but toil and sorrow in my life,” cried Berry wearily, with the tears running down her face.
Again the woman peered into her hand, replying:
“The doom is not a certainty, only a risk. It may be averted, and if you escape it, there will come a wondrous change in your life. There will be years of love and happiness and wealth before you.”