The stranger of course imputed all this to imposture; but when he reflected upon what she had already told him, he felt perfectly confounded with amazement.  The prophetess then went to her father’s counter and wrote something upon a small fragment of paper, which she handed to him.  No earthly language could now express his astonishment, not from any belief he entertained that she possessed supernatural power, but from the almost incredible fact that she could have known so much of a man’s affairs who was an utter stranger to her, and to whom she was herself unknown.

“Well, it is odd enough,” he added; “but this knocking on the wall and listening was useless jugglery.  Did you not say, when first you inspected my hand, that you could read my name in the lines of it? then, of course you knew it before you knocked at the wall—­the knocking, therefore, was imposture.”

“I knew the name,” she replied, “the moment I looked into your hand, but I was obliged to ask permission to reveal it.  Your observation, however, was very natural.  It may, in the meantime, be a consolation for you to know that I’m not at liberty to mention it to any one but yourself and one other person.”

“A man or woman?”

“A woman—­she you saw this morning.”

“Whether that be true or not,” observed the stranger, “the mention of my name at present would place me in both difficulty and danger; so that I hope you’ll keep it secret.”

She threw the slip of paper into the fire.  “There it lies,” she replied, “and you might as well read it in those white ashes as extract it from me until the proper time comes.  But with respect to it, there is one thing I must tell you before you go.”

“What is that, pray?”

“It is a name you will not carry long.  Ask me no more questions.  I have already said you will succeed in the object of your pursuit, but not without difficulty and danger.  Take my advice, and never go anywhere without a case of loaded pistols.  I have good reasons for saying so.  Now pass on, for I am silent.”

There was an air of confidence and superiority about her as she uttered these words—­a sense, as it were, of power—­of a privilege to command, by which the stranger felt himself involuntarily influenced.  He once more offered her money, but, with a motion of her hand, she silently, and somewhat indignantly refused it.

Whilst this singular exhibition took place, the stranger observed the very remarkable and peculiar expression of the old man’s countenance.  It is indeed very difficult to describe it.  He seemed to experience a feeling of satisfaction and triumph at the revelations the woman had made; added to which was something that might be termed shrewd; ironical, and derisive.  In fact, his face bore no bad resemblance to that of Mephistopheles, as represented in Retsch’s powerful conception and delineation of it in his illustration of Goethe’s “Faust,” so inimitably translated by our admirable countryman, Anster.