Fleda Druse, she was mine, she is my wife, and you, the
Gorgio, come between, and she will not return to me."
A sudden savage desire came to Ingolby to strike the man in the
face--this Gipsy vagabond the husband of Fleda Druse! It was too
monstrous. It was an evil lie, and yet she had said she was a Romany, and
had said it with apparent shame or anxiety. She had given him no promise,
had pledged no faith, had admitted no love, and yet already in his heart
of hearts he thought upon her as his own. Ever since the day he had held
her in his arms at the Carillon Rapids her voice had sounded in his ears,
and a warmth was in his heart which had never been there in all his days.
This waif of barbarism even to talk of Fleda Druse as though he was of
the same sphere as herself invited punishment-but to claim her as his
wife! It was shameless. An ugly mood came on him, the force that had made
him what he was filled all his senses. He straightened himself; contempt
of the Ishmael showed at his lips.
"I think you lie, Jethro Fawe," he said quietly, and his eyes were hard
and piercing. "Gabriel Druse's daughter is not--never was--any wife of
yours. She never called you husband. She does not belong to the refuse of
the world."
The Romany made a sudden rush towards the wall where the weapons hung,
but two arms of iron were flung out and caught him, and he was hurled
across the room.
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