t of years was too strong to lay
aside--and, moreover, he was fastidious in his dress to preserve his
self-respect--he appeared at the door looking slender and well-set up in
his dark clothes. Although it was August the night was warm, and Lambert
did not trouble to put on cap or overcoat. With his hands in his pockets
and a cigar between his lips he strolled over to the girl, where she
swayed and swung in the fairy light.

"Hullo, Chaldea," he said leisurely, and leaning against one of the
moss-grown monoliths, "what are you doing here?"

"The rye," exclaimed Chaldea, with a well-feigned start of surprise.
"Avali the rye. Sarishan, my Gorgious gentleman, you, too, are a
nightbird. Have you come out mousing like an owl? Ha! ha! and you hear
the nightingale singing, speaking in the Gentile manner," and clapping
her hands she lifted up a full rich voice.

"Dyal o pani repedishis,
M'ro pirano hegedishis."

"What does that mean, Chaldea?"

"It is an Hungarian song, and means that while the stream flows I hear
the violin of my love. Kara taught me the ditty."

"And Kara is your love?"

"No. Oh, no; oh, no," sang Chaldea, whirling round and round in quite a
magical manner. "No rom have I, but a mateless bird I wander. Still I
hear the violin of my true love, my new love, who knows my droms, and
that means my habits, rye," she ended, suddenly speaking in a natural
manner.

"I don't hear the violin, however," said Lambert lazily, and thinking
what a picturesque girl she was in her many-hued rag-tag garments, and
with the golden coins glittering in her black hair.

"You will, rye, you will," she said confidentially. "Come, my darling
gentleman, cross my hand with silver and I dance. I swear it. No hokkeny
baro will you behold when the wind pipes for me."

"Hokkeny baro."

"A great swindle, my wise sir. Hai, what a pity you cannot patter the
gentle Romany tongue. Kek! Kek! What does it matter, when you speak
Gentile gibberish like an angel. Sit, rye, and I dance for you."

"Quite like Carmen and Don Jose in the opera," murmured Lambert, sliding
down to the foot of the rude stone.

"What of her and of him? Were they Romans?"

"Carmen was and Jose wasn't. She danced herself into his heart."

Chaldea's eyes flashed, and she made a hasty sign to attract the happy
omen of his saying to herself. "Kushto bak," cried Chaldea, using the
gypsy for good luck. "And to me, to me," she clapped her hand. "Hark, my
golden rye