Gretchen opened the door, which was unlocked.  There was no light in the hall.  She pressed her lover in her arms, kissed him lightly, and pushed him into the living-room.  A log smoldered dimly on the irons.  Gretchen ran forward, turned over the log, lighted two candles, then kissed the old woman seated in the one comfortable chair.  The others were simply three-legged stools.  There was little else in the room, save a poor reproduction of the Virgin Mary.

“Here I am, grandmother!”

“And who is here with you?” sharply but not unkindly.

“My man!” cried Gretchen gaily, her eyes bright as the candle flames.

“Bring him near me.”

Gretchen gathered up two stools and placed them on either side of her grandmother and motioned to the vintner to sit down.  He did so, easily and without visible embarrassment, even though the black eyes plunged a glance into his.

Her hair was white and thin, her nose aquiline, her lips fallen in, a cobweb of wrinkles round her eyes, down her cheeks, under her chin.  But her sight was undimmed.

“Where are you from?  You are not a Dreiberger.”

“From the north, grandmother,” forcing a smile to his lips.

The reply rather gratified her.

“Your name.”

“Leopold Dietrich, a vintner by trade.”

“You speak like a Hanoverian or a Prussian.”

“I have passed some time in both countries.  I have wandered about a good deal.”

“Give me your hand.”

The vintner looked surprised for a moment.  Gretchen approved.  So he gave the old woman his left hand.  The grandmother smoothed it out upon her own and bent her shrewd eyes.  Silence.  Gretchen could hear the malter stirring above; the log cracked and burst into flame.  A frown began to gather on the vintner’s brow and a sweat in his palm.

“I see many strange things here,” said the palmist, in a brooding tone.

“And what do you see?” asked Gretchen eagerly.

“I see very little of vineyards.  I see riches, pomp; I see vast armies moving against each other; there is the smell of powder and fire; devastation.  I do not see you, young man, among those who tramp with guns on their shoulders.  You ride; there is gold on your arms.  You will become great; but I do not understand.  I do not understand,” closing her eyes for a moment.

The vintner sat upright, his chin truculent, his arm tense.

“War!” he murmured.

Gretchen’s heart sank; there was joy in his voice.

“Go on, grandmother,” she whispered.

“Shall I live?” asked the vintner, whose belief in prescience till this hour had been of a negative quality.

“There is nothing here save death in old age, vintner.”  Her gnarled hand seized his in a vise.  “Do you mean well by my girl?”

“Grandmother!” Gretchen remonstrated.

“Silence!”

The vintner withdrew his hand slowly.