hem all
that the sentence of the patrin had been passed upon Jethro Fawe,
but she laid a hand upon herself. She knew they were unaware that the
Sentence had been passed, else they would not have been with Jethro. In
that case none would give him food or shelter or the hand of friendship;
none dare show him any kindness; and it was the law that any one against
whom he committed an offence, however small, might take his life. The
Sentence had been like a cloud upon her mind ever since her father had
passed it; she could not endure the thought of it. She could not bring
herself to speak of it--to denounce him. Sooner or later the Sentence
would reach every Romany everywhere, and Jethro would pass into the
darkness of oblivion, not in his own time nor in the time of Fate. The
man was abhorrent to her, yet his claim was there. Mad and bad as it
was, he made his claim of her upon ancient rights, and she was still
enough a Romany to see his point of view.

Getting to her feet slowly, she ignored Jethro, looked into the face of
the crowd, and said:

"I am the daughter of the Ry of Rys still, though I am a Romany no
longer. I made a pledge to be no more a Romany and I will keep it;
yet you and all Romany people are dear to me because through long
generations the Druses have been of you. You have brought me here
against my will. Do you think the Ry of Rys will forgive that? In your
words you have been kind to me, but yet you have threatened me. Do you
think that a Druse has any fear? Did a Druse ever turn his cheek to be
smitten? You know what the Druses are. I am a Druse still. I will not
talk longer, I have nothing to say to you all except that you must take
me back to my father, and I will see that he forgives you. Some of you
have done this out of love; some of you have done it out of hate; yet
set me free again upon the path to my home, and I shall forget it, and
the Ry of Rys will forget it."

At that instant there suddenly came forward from the doorway of a tent
on the outskirts of the crowd a stalwart woman, with a strong face and
a self-reliant manner. She was still young, but her slightly pockmarked
countenance showed the wear and tear of sorrow of some kind. She
had, indeed, lost her husband and her father in the Montenegrin wars.
Hastening forward to Fleda she reached out a hand.

"Come with me," she said; "come and sleep in my tent to-night. To-morrow
you shall go back to the Ry of Rys, perhaps. Come with me."