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.”

“Some other time,” replied Ulrich, repellently.  Good fortune always comes in good time, and to know ill-luck in advance, is a misfortune I should think.”

“I can read the past, too.”

Ulrich started.  He must learn what his rival’s companion knew of his former life, so he answered quickly, “Well, for aught I care, begin.”

“Gladly, gladly, but when I look into the past, I must be alone with the questioner.  Be kind enough to give Zorrillo your company for quarter of an hour, Sergeant.”

“Don’t believe everything she tells you, and don’t look too deep into her eyes.  Come, Lelaps, my son!” cried the lansquenet, and did as he was requested.

The woman dealt the cards silently, with trembling hands, but Ulrich thought:  “Now she will try to sound me, and a thousand to one will do everything in her power to disgust me with desiring the Eletto’s baton.  That’s the way blockheads are caught.  We will keep to the past.”

His companion met this resolution halfway; for before she had dealt the last two rows, she rested her chin on the cards in her hands and, trying to meet his glance, asked: 

“How shall we begin?  Do you still remember your childhood?”

“Certainly.”

“Your father?”

“I have not seen him for a long time.  Don’t the cards tell you, that he is dead?”

“Dead, dead:—­of course he’s dead.  You had a mother too?”

“Yes, yes,” he answered impatiently; for he was unwilling to talk with this woman about his mother.

She shrank back a little, and said sadly:  “That sounds very harsh.  Do you no longer like to think of your mother?”

“What is that to you?”

“I must know.”

“No, what concerns my mother is . . .  I will—­is too good for juggling.”

“Oh,” she said, looking at him with a glance from which he shrank.  Then she silently laid down the last cards, and asked:  “Do you want to hear anything about a sweetheart?”

“I have none.  But how you look at me!  Have you grown tired of Zorrillo?  I am ill-suited for a gallant.”

She shuddered slightly.  Her bright face had again grown old, so old and weary that he pitied her.  But she soon regained her composure, and continued: