"By Hercules, it is! She is mine! She is in my arms! She is on my bosom! I have her in my galley! She speeds with me to my home! I see it all, even as thou hast promised me!"
"I promise thee nothing. I but show thee only what is written."
"And when and how shall this be effected?"
"How, I know not," answered the woman, "this is withheld from me. Fate shows what her work is only as it appears when done, but not the manner of the doing."
"But when will this be?" was the question.
"It must be ere she marries with Ulric Barberigo, for him she will never marry."
"And it is appointed that he weds with her on the day of St. Mary's Eve. That is but a week from hence, and the ceremony takes place—"
"At Olivolo."
"Ha! at Olivolo!" and a bright gleam of intelligence passed over the features of the stranger, from which his cloak had by this time entirely fallen. The woman beheld the look, and a slight smile, that seemed to denote scorn rather than any other emotion, played for a moment over her shriveled and sunken lips.
"Mother," said the stranger, "must all these matters be left to fate?"