It seemed a hopeless effort, but my determination was strong as ever; so springing to the ground, I felt my way to the stone balustrade and tied Jupiter. Then guiding myself by the carved stone, I mounted one flight of the steps that curved like the two horns of a crescent from the great oaken doors that divided them upon the arch.
I started, and a shriek burst from me. Upon my hand, which lay upon the balustrade, another fell. When I shrieked it grasped my fingers like iron, and a voice that I knew, said in that language—the language I had never spoken, but could understand—“hush. Who taught you to fear?”
“You came upon me so abruptly, so still!” I whispered, shuddering as his breath floated across my lips.
“Speak in your own language—speak Rommany,” he said, in the same tongue.
“I cannot,” was my half timid answer.
“Try!”
The command was imperative. I made an effort to answer in his own mysterious tongue. To my surprise the words syllabled themselves rudely on my trembling lips; he comprehended me.
“Where are you taking me?” I had said.
He grasped my hand till the pain made me cry out.
“It is there—the true fire—old Papita kindled it in the soul of her great-grandchild—the mystery is not broken—the sorcery still works—queen of our people, speak again,” he cried, with an outburst of fiery enthusiasm, more impressive from the hushed tones in which he spoke.