"What did the single cry--the motif--express?" Ingolby asked coolly. "I
know there was catastrophe, the tumblings of avalanches, but the voice
that cried-the soul of a lover, was it?"
The Romany's lips showed an ugly grimace. "It was the soul of one that
betrayed a lover, going to eternal tortures."
Ingolby laughed carelessly. "It was a fine bit of work. Sarasate would
have been proud of his fiddle if he could have heard. Anyhow he couldn't
have played that. Is it Gipsy music?"
"It is the music of a 'Gipsy,' as you call it."
"Well, it's worth a year's work to hear," Ingolby replied admiringly, yet
acutely conscious of danger. "Are you a musician by trade?" he asked.
"I have no trade." The glowing eyes kept scanning the wall where the
weapons hung, and as though without purpose other than to get a pipe from
the rack on the wall, Ingolby moved to where he could be prepared for any
rush. It seemed absurd that there should be such a possibility; but the
world was full of strange things.
"What brought you to the West?" he asked as he filled a pipe, his back
almost against the wall.
"I came to get what belonged to me."
Ingolby laughed ironically. "Most of us are here for that purpose. We
think the world owes us such a lot.
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