appearance which he had observed during the
night. It must have been the glitter of those spangles in the bright
flames issuing from the steamboat's funnel which had attracted his
attention.

"Evidently," said Michael to himself, "this troop of Tsiganes, after
remaining below all day, crouched under the forecastle during the night.
Were these gipsies trying to show themselves as little as possible? Such
is not according to the usual custom of their race."

Michael Strogoff no longer doubted that the expressions he had heard,
had proceeded from this tawny group, and had been exchanged between the
old gypsy and the woman to whom he gave the Mongolian name of Sangarre.
Michael involuntarily moved towards the gangway, as the Bohemian troop
was leaving the steamboat.

The old Bohemian was there, in a humble attitude, little conformable
with the effrontery natural to his race. One would have said that he was
endeavoring rather to avoid attention than to attract it. His battered
hat, browned by the suns of every clime, was pulled forward over his
wrinkled face. His arched back was bent under an old cloak, wrapped
closely round him, notwithstanding the heat. It would have been
difficult, in this miserable dress, to judge of either his size or face.
Near him was the Tsigane, Sangarre, a woman about thirty years old. She
was tall and well made, with olive complexion, magnificent eyes, and
golden hair.

Many of the young dancers were remarkably pretty, all possessing the
clear-cut features of their race. These Tsiganes are generally very
attractive, and more than one of the great Russian nobles, who try to
vie with the English in eccentricity, has not hesitated to choose his
wife from among these gypsy girls. One of them was humming a song of
strange rhythm, which might be thus rendered:

"Glitters brightly the gold
In my raven locks streaming
Rich coral around
My graceful neck gleaming;
Like a bird of the air,
Through the wide world I roam."

The laughing girl continued her song, but Michael Strogoff ceased
to listen. It struck him just then that the Tsigane, Sangarre, was
regarding him with a peculiar gaze, as if to fix his features indelibly
in her memory.

It was but for a few moments, when Sangarre herself followed the old man
and his troop, who had already left the vessel. "That's a bold gypsy,"
said Michael to himself. "Could she have recog