d sat down beside her, nothing loth.

"You are a Gallegan, I see!" said the woman, while she continued to stir
something savoury in a pot without appearing to pay Ramon much
attention.

"A Gallician from Lugo--yes--but I have been long in these parts,"
answered El Sarria, mindful of his accent.

"And we of Granada--as you may both see and hear!" said the old gipsy,
tossing her head with the scorn of the Romany for the outlander.

"What is going on up there?" he said, indicating the mill-house with his
thumb. And as he spoke, for the first time the woman ceased stirring the
pot and turned her eyes upon him.

"What is that to thee?" she inquired with a sudden fiery thrill in her
speech.

As fierce and strong beat the passion in the heart of El Sarria, but
nevertheless he commanded himself and answered, "Naught!"

"Thou liest!" she said; "think not to hide a heart secret from a hax, a
witch woman. Either thou lovest to the death or thou hatest to the
death. In either case, _pay_! Pay, and I will tell thee all thy desire,
according to the crossing of my hand!"

El Sarria drew a gold double _duro_ from his pouch and gave it into her
withered clutch.

"Good," she said, "'tis a good crossing! I will tell you truth that you
may take oath upon, whether kissing or slaying be in your thought. A
woman is sick to the death or near by. A babe little desired is born.
The Tia Elvira is with her. Whether the woman live or die, the Tia will
decide according to the crossing of _her_ hand. And the babe--well, when
the mother is soon to be a bride, its life is not like to be long! A
rough crossing for so short a sojourn, I wot. Good morning, brave man's
son! And to you, sir, a safe journey till the knife strikes or the lips
meet!"

The cryptic utterance of the witch woman sitting crooning over her pot
affected El Sarria greatly. He did not doubt for a moment that Dolores
lay within the house of Luis Fernandez, and that he had heard the
crying of his own first-born son. He arose uncertainly, as if the solid
earth were swaying beneath him.

Leaving her pot simmering on the wood-ashes, the gipsy woman came after
Ramon to the corner of the garden. The broad-leaved fig-trees made a
dense green gloom there. The pale grey undersides of the olive whipped
like feathers in the light chill breeze of night.

"There--go in there!"

She pointed with her hand to a little pillared summer-house in the
garden. It was overgrown with creepers,