The end to that had come. Gaiety, daring, passion, elation, depression,
were alive in her now, and in a sense had found an outlet in a handful of
days--indeed since the day when Jethro Fawe and Max Ingolby had come into
her life, each in his own way, for good or for evil. If Ingolby came for
good, then Jethro Fawe came for evil. She would have revolted at the
suggestion that Jethro Fawe came for good.
Yet, during the last few days, she had been drawn again and again towards
the hut in the wood. It was as though a power stronger than herself had
ordered her not to wander far from where the Romany claimant of herself
awaited his fate. As though Jethro knew she was drawn towards him, he had
sung the Gipsy songs which she and Ingolby had heard in the distance. He
might have shouted for relief in the hope of attracting the attention of
some passer-by, and so found release and brought confusion and perhaps
punishment to Gabriel Druse; but that was not possible to him. First and
last he was a Romany, good or bad; and it was his duty to obey his Ry of
Rys, the only rule which the Romany acknowledged. "Though he slay me, yet
will I trust him," he would have said, if he had ever heard the phrase;
but in his stubborn way he made the meaning of the phrase the pivot of
his own action.
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