bass
voices gave it a kind of solemnity. The view which the encampment took
of her captivity was clear. Where was the woman that brought her to the
tent--whose tent it was? She seemed kind. Though her face had a hard
look, surely she meant to be friendly. Or did she only mean to betray
her; to give her a fancied security, and leave her to Jethro--and the
night? She looked round for some weapon. There was nothing available
save two brass candlesticks. Though the door of the tent was closed, she
knew that there were watchers outside; that any break for liberty would
only mean defeat, and yet she was determined to save herself.

As she tried to take the measure of the situation and plan what she
would do, the noise of the music suddenly ceased, and she heard a voice,
though low in tone, give some sort of command. Then there was a cry,
and what seemed the chaotic noise of a struggle followed; then a voice
a little louder speaking, a voice of someone she remembered, though she
could not place it. Something vital was happening outside, something
punctuated by sharp, angry exclamations; afterwards a voice speaking
soothingly, firmly, prevailed; and then there was silence. As she
listened there was a footstep at the door of the tent, a voice called
to her softly, and a hand drew aside the tent curtain. The woman who had
brought her to this place entered.

"You are all safe now," she said, reaching out both hands to Fleda. "By
long and by last, but it was a close shave! He meant to make you his
wife to-night, whether you would or no. I'm a Fawe, but I'd have none of
that. I was on my way to your father's house when I met someone--someone
that you know. He carries your father's voice in his mouth."

She stepped to the tent door and beckoned; and out of the darkness, only
faintly lightened by the dying fires, there entered one whom Fleda had
seen not more than fifty times in her life, and never but twice since
she had ceased to be a Romany. It was her father's secret agent, Rhodo,
the Roumelian, now grizzled and gaunt, but with the same vitality which
had been his in the days when she was a little child.

Here and there in the world went Rhodo, the voice of the Ry of Rys to do
his bidding, to say his say. No minister of a Czar was ever more dreaded
or loved. His words were ever few, but his deeds had been many. Now, as
he looked at Fleda, his old eyes gleamed, and he showed a double row of
teeth, not one of which was imperfect