'And why?'
'Because ye can't tell a lie.'
'That is well. I believe in witchcraft; this is why I hear you. Had you not come here, I would sooner or later have sought you, because time is slow, is slow, woman, and I want to know my fate! I will not say God forgive me: it seems almost mockery to ask forgiveness on what my heart knows to be wrong.'
'Wrong, lady?'
'Yes, wrong!' cried the maid, striking her foot on the ground. With that she held out her hand, a pink palm and tender lines, for the witch-woman's mystic reading. They both stood silent—the gipsy gazing downwards; Deborah gazing on the weird countenance before her, while the rich blood spread and deepened on her own with timidity and with shame. 'What do you see?' asked Deborah at length, with curling lip. 'I scarce believe you; it seems too vain!'
Then answered the gipsy woman, in low strange tones: 'You will be a great lady yet—ay, greater than Mistress Fleming. Ye will not go far to find yer greatness, either—it will meet ye at yer own gates; love and greatness will come hand in hand.'
Deborah's eyes sparkled. Then she said: 'Woman, that cannot be!' Then with the blood mounting to her brow like flame: 'What did you say—of one whom my soul loves? Who is he?'
'A fair tall youth. I know his title; but the title, look ye, will never be yours.'
'Then I care for nought!' said Deborah Fleming, and she flung away the gipsy's hand. 'Your craft is wanting. It is a vain, lying, deceitful craft! Look ye, Deborah Fleming will never be your great man's wife! You lie! I love power and riches; but I scorn them as you would foretell them to me. Gipsy, I have had enough of your fortunes and of you!'
She was gone—that proud young Mistress Fleming, whose will had never been crossed or curbed; tall beautiful young ash, that would yield neither to breeze nor tempest, but held its head so high.