I shall never hear--"
"You'll hear the bosh played-fiddle, they call it in these heathen
places--at your second wedding with Jethro Fawe," he rejoined insolently,
lighting his cigarette. "Home you'll come with me soon--'ay bor'!"
"Listen to me," she answered with anger tingling in every nerve and
fibre. "I come of your race, I was what you are, a child of the hedge and
the wood and the road; but that is all done. Home, you say! Home--in a
tent by the roadside or--"
"As your mother lived--where you were bornwell, well, but here's a Romany
lass that's forgot her cradle!"
"I have forgotten nothing. I have only moved on. I have only seen that
there is a better road to walk than that where people, always looking
behind lest they be followed, and always looking in front to find refuge,
drop the patrin in the dust or the grass or the bushes for others to
follow after--always going on and on because they dare not go back."
Suddenly he threw his cigarette on the ground, and put his heel upon it
in fury real or assumed. "Great Heaven and Hell," he exclaimed, "here's a
Romany has sold her blood to the devil! And this is the daughter of
Gabriel Druse, King and Duke of all the Romanys, him with ancestor King
Panuel, Duke of Little Egypt, who had Sigismund, and Charles the Great,
and all the kings for friends.
Pages:
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121