“What do you mean to do?” asked Ulrich; but Hans Eitelfritz had already raised the huge goblet, banging it down again so violently that the table shook.  Then he struck the top with his clenched fist, and when the Spaniards fixed their eyes on him, shouted in their language:  “Yes, indeed, it was delightful in those days, Caballero Navarrete.  Your uncle, the noble Conde in what’s its name, that place in Castile, you know, and the Condesa and Condesilla.  Splendid people!  Do you remember the coal-black horses with snow-white tails in your father’s stable, and the old servant Enrique.  There wasn’t a longer nose than his in all Castile!  Once, when I was in Burgos, I saw a queer, longish shadow coming round a street corner, and two minutes after, first a nose and then old Enrique appeared.”

“Yes, yes,” replied Ulrich, guessing the lansquenet’s purpose.  “But it has grown late while we’ve been gossiping; let us go!”

The woman at the table had not heard the whispers exchanged between the two men; but she guessed the object of the lansquenet’s loud words.  As the latter slowly rose, she laid the child in the basket, drew a long breath, pressed her fingers tightly upon her eyes for a short time, and then went directly up to her son.

Florette did not know herself, whether she owed the name of sibyl to her skill in telling fortunes by cards, or to her wise counsel.  Twelve years before, while still sharing the tent of the Walloon captain Grandgagnage, it had been given her, she could not say how or by whom.  The fortune-telling she had learned from a sea-captain’s widow, with whom she had lodged a long time.

When her voice grew sharp and weaker, in order to retain consideration and make herself important, she devoted herself to predicting the future; her versatile mind, her ambition, and the knowledge of human-nature gained in the camp and during her wanderings from land to land, aided her to acquire remarkable skill in this strange pursuit.

Officers of the highest rank had sat opposite to her cards, listening to her oracular sayings, and Zorrillo, the man who had now been her lover for ten years, owed it to her influence, that he did not lose his position as quartermaster after the last mutiny.

Hans Eitelfritz had heard of her skill and when, as he was leaving, she approached and offered to question the cards for him, he would not allow Ulrich to prevent him from casting a glance into the future.

On the whole, what was predicted to him sounded favorable, but the prophetess did not keep entirely to the point, for in turning the cards she found much to say to Ulrich, and once, pointing to the red and green knaves, remarked thoughtfully:  “That is you, Navarrete; that is this gentleman.  You must have met each other on some Christmas day, and not here, but in Germany; if I see rightly, in Swabia.”

She had just overheard all this.

But a shudder ran through Ulrich’s frame when he heard it, and this woman, whose questioning glance had always disturbed him, now inspired him with a mysterious dread, which he could not control.  He rose to withdraw; but she detained him, saying:  “Now it is your turn, Captain.”