oached. One could
hear it coming steadily and gauge how much nearer it was. The ice was
splitting lengthwise in numberless sheets which broke up in smaller
parts and submerged gaily in the water, rising afterwards and climbing
one on top of the other, as in a merry embrace.

"Whoa, whoa, Murdo ..." but there was no time to give warning. With one
gesture Murdo had given his orders. The wagons spread as for a frontal
attack; the men seized the children and with the women at their heels
they ran as fast as their legs could take them. On the shore every one
fell to his knees in prayer. The strongest men closed their eyes, too
horrified to watch the outcome. The noise of the cracking of the ice
increased. A loud report, as of a dozen cannon, and the Danube was a
river again--and all, all the gypsies had saved themselves.

It was a gay afternoon, that afternoon, and a gay night also for the
whole village. It drank the inn out of everything. The gypsies had a
royal welcome. To all questions of why he had dared Providence, Murdo
answered, "There was no food for my people and horses. The Tartars have
none to sell."

Murdo and his tribe became the guests of the village. His people were
all lean. The men hardly carried themselves on their legs. Each one of
them had something to nurse. The village doctor amputated toes and
fingers; several women had to be treated for gangrene. The children of
the tribe were the only ones that had not suffered much. It was Murdo's
rule: "Children first, the horses next." The animals were stabled and
taken charge of by the peasants. The gypsies went to live in the huts of
the people in order to warm themselves back to life. Father liked Murdo,
and so the old chief came to live with us. The nights were long. After
supper we all sat in a semicircle around the large fireplace in which a
big log of seasoned oak was always burning.

I had received some books from a friend of the family who lived in the
capital of the country, Bucharest. Among them was Carlyle's Heroes and
Hero-Worship, translated into French. I was reading it when Murdo
approached the table and said, "What a small Bible my son is reading."

"It is not a Bible, it is a book of stories, Murdo."

"Stories! Well, that's another thing."

He looked over my shoulders into the book. As I turned the page he
asked:

"Is everything written in a book? I mean, is it written what the hero
said and what she answered and how they said it? Is it