feet, joy would be transformed to sorrow and power to servitude.  Therefore, child, the full moon has a different effect from the waxing or waning one during the other twenty-nine nights of the month.  To ask of one what belongs to another is to expect an answer from the foreigner who does not understand your language.  How young you are, child, and how foolish!  To question the cords for you in the moonlight now is to expect to gather grapes from thorns.  Take my word for that!”

Here she interrupted the words uttered with so much difficulty, and with her blackish-blue cotton dress wiped her perspiring face, strangely flushed by the exertion and the firelight.

Ledscha had listened with increasing disappointment.

The wise old dame was doubtless right, yet before she ventured to the sculptor’s workshop the next day she must know at every cost how matters stood, what she had to fear or to hope from him; so after a brief silence she ventured to ask the question, “But are there only the stars and the cords which predict what fate holds in store for one who is so nearly allied to you?”

“No, child, no,” was the reply.  “But nothing can be clone about looking into the future now.  It requires rigid fasting from early dawn, and I ate the dates you brought me.  I inhaled the odor of the roasting ducks, too, and then—­it must be done at midnight; and at midnight your people will be anxious if you are not at home by that time, or perhaps send a slave to seek you here at my house, and that—­that must not be done—­I must prevent it.”

“So you are expecting some one,” Ledscha eagerly replied.  “And I know who it is.  Your son Satabus, or one of your grandsons.  Else why are the ducks cooked?  And for what is the wine jar which I just took from its hiding place?”

A vehement gesture of denial from Tabus contradicted the girl’s conjecture; but directly after she scanned her with a keen, searching glance, and said:  “No, no.  We have nothing to fear from you, surely.  Poor Abus!  Through him you will always belong to us.  In spite of the Greek, ours you are and ours you will remain.  The stars confirm it, and you have always been faithful to the old woman.  You are shrewd and steadfast.  You would have been the right mate for him who was also wise and firm.  Poor, dear, brave boy!  But why pity him?  Because the salt waves now flow over him?  Fools that we are!  There is nothing better than death, for it is peace.  And almost all of them have found it.  Of nine sons and twenty grandsons, only three are left.  The others are all calm after so much conflict and danger.  How long ago it is since seven perished at once!  The last three their turn will come too.  How I envy them that best of blessings, only may they not also go before me!”

Here she lowered her voice, and in a scarcely audible whisper murmured:  “You shall know it.  My son Satabus, with his brave boys Hanno and Labaja, are coming later in the evening.  About midnight—­if ye protect them, ye powers above—­they will be with me.  And you, child, I know your soul to its inmost depths.  Before you would betray the last of Abus’s kindred—­”