And yet almost the self-same glance that showed him this, showed him the self-same lady rising with a scornful air of weariness and lassitude, and turning away with nothing expressed in face or figure but careless beauty and imperious disdain.
A withered and very ugly old woman, dressed not so much like a gipsy as like any of that medley race of vagabonds who tramp about the country, begging, and stealing, and tinkering, and weaving rushes, by turns, or all together, had been observing the lady, too; for, as she rose, this second figure strangely confronting the first, scrambled up from the ground--out of it, it almost appeared--and stood in the way.
'Let me tell your fortune, my pretty lady,' said the old woman, munching with her jaws, as if the Death's Head beneath her yellow skin were impatient to get out.
'I can tell it for myself,' was the reply.
'Ay, ay, pretty lady; but not right.

You didn't tell it right when you were sitting there.

I see you! Give me a piece of silver, pretty lady, and I'll tell your fortune true.

There's riches, pretty lady, in your face.' 'I know,' returned the lady, passing her with a dark smile, and a proud step.

'I knew it before.
'What! You won't give me nothing ?' cried the old woman.