“It is true,” croaked the sibyl. “She lies dead, and her last word was a curse upon your wicked head.” “Not wicked; oh, no--only weak and suffering,” moaned the girl. “Oh, mother, now I have indeed nothing to live for, nothing to love.” “That is just as well, girl, for fate hangs heavy over your head,” croaked the hag. “What fate could be more cruel than mine?” sobbed Berry wildly. The old Indian wagged her turbaned head, muttering low: “Death is the most cruel fate of all when it overtakes the young, the beautiful, the loving. It is death that menaces you, girl--death in a horrible form by drowning!” “Why should I tremble at death? I have nothing but toil and sorrow in my life,” cried Berry wearily, with the tears running down her face. Again the woman peered into her hand, replying: “The doom is not a certainty, only a risk. It may be averted, and if you escape it, there will come a wondrous change in your life. There will be years of love and happiness and wealth before you.” “You are sure, quite sure?” the girl cried piteously. “It is written, and nothing can alter it,” cried the seeress, and Berry thought of some words she had read in a book of Eastern verses: The moving finger writes; and having writ, Moves on: nor all your piety, nor wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all your tears wash out a word of it. She knelt there sobbing piteously, as a beaten child, and that cracked voice went on, and on: “I can save your life, girl, and I will do it, because you are so young and so fair that I pity you. If you will meet me on the stroke of twelve down in the Bonair grounds in the northern walk leading to the private zoo, I will lend you for a week a charm against drowning--for nothing, because I pity you so. When the week is ended the danger will be past, and a long and happy life lies before you. Is it worth the trouble? Will you come?” “I--I--yes, I will come!” faltered Berry wildly; then she fled from the hag’s presence, followed by a low, exultant laugh, and in the hall she fainted with the horror of all she had heard, believing that the woman must indeed be gifted with supernatural powers. Now that she was alone, it all rushed wildly over her, and she knew that she must go to receive the mysterious charm that could avert her impending doom of death. “I can go and be back again before the kind housekeeper returns,” she thought, slipping out of the room and stealing like a shadow along the dim corridors till she reached a door that led out upon the beautiful grounds into the calm, sweet night. CHAPTER XIV. COTTAGE AND CASTLE. The beautiful California night, sweet and balmy, although it was March--how like a dream of beauty lay the grounds about Bonair, with their thick shrubberies and fragrant flowers! Yet Berry, unused to nocturnal wanderings alone, would have been frightened only for the wild excitement that dominated every other emotion.