quiet in manner and face; others still most
friendly and kind in face and manner. All showed instant respect for
Fleda. They raised their hands in a gesture of salutation as a Zulu
chief thrusts up a long arm and shouts "Inkoos!" to one whom he honours.
Some, however, made the sweeping Oriental gesture of the right hand,
palm upward, and almost touching the ground--a sign of obedience and
infinite respect. It had all been well arranged. Skilfully managed as it
was, however, there was something in it deeper than theatrical display
or dramatic purpose.

It was clear that many of them were deeply moved at being in the
presence of the daughter of the Ry of Rys, who had for so long exiled
himself. Racial, family, clan feeling spoke in voice and gesture, in
look and attitude; but yet there were small groups of younger men whose
salutations were perfunctory, not to say mocking. These were they who
resented deeply Fleda's defection, and truthfully felt that she had
passed out of their circle for ever; that she despised them, and looked
down on them from another sphere. They were all about the age of Jethro
Fawe, but were of a less civilized type, and had semi-barbarism written
all over them. Unlike Jethro they had never known the world of cities.
They repudiated Fleda, because their ambition could not reach to
her. They recognized the touch of fashion and of form, of a worldly
education, of a convention which lifted her away from the tan and the
caravan, from the everlasting itinerary. They had not had Jethro's
experiences in fashionable hotels of Europe, at midnight parties, at
gay suppers, at garish dances, where Gorgio ladies answered the amorous
looks of the ambitious Romany with the fiddle at his chin. Because
these young Romanys knew they dare not aspire, they were resentful; but
Jethro, the head of the rival family and the son of the dead claimant
to the headship, had not such compulsory modesty. He had ranged far and
wide, and his expectations were extensive. He was nowhere to be seen
in the groups which sang and gestured in the light of the many coloured
fires, though once or twice Fleda's quickened ear detected his voice,
exulting, in the chorus of song.

Presently, as she stood watching, listening, and strangely moved in
spite of herself by the sudden dramatic turn which things had taken, a
seat was brought to her. It was a handsome stool, looted perhaps from
some chateau in the Old World, and over it was thrown a