She had read the real truth concerning him. He had gone
too far. He had been convincing while he had said what was true, but her
instinct had suddenly told her what he was. Her perception had pierced to
the core of his life--a vagabondage, a little more gilded than was common
among his fellows, made possible by his position as the successor to her
father, and by the money of Lemuel Fawe which he had dissipated.
He had come when all his gold was gone to do the one bold thing which
might at once restore his fortunes. He had brains, and he knew now that
his adventure was in grave peril.
He laughed in his anger. "Is only the Gorgio to embrace the Romany lass?
One fondled mine to-day in his arms down there at Carillon. That's the
way it goes! The old song tells the end of it:
"'But the Gorgio lies 'neath the beech-wood tree;
He'll broach my tan no more;
And my love she sleeps afar from me,
But near to the churchyard door.
'Time was I went to my true love,
Time was she came to me--'"
He got no farther. Gabriel Druse was on him, gripping his arms so tight
to his body that his swift motion to draw a weapon was frustrated. The
old man put out all his strength, a strength which in his younger days
was greater than any two men in any Romany camp, and the "breath and
beauty" of Jethro Fawe grew less and less.
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