"You belong," I said. "But I feel like an imposter."
"You'll grow used to it," he answered, folding in the ends of his sash. "Did they give you a knife?" I exhibited the horn-handled, eight-inch blade, with its sheath hooked to a leather belt that encircled my waist beneath the sash. "Good! Got your automatic and spare clips?"
"And these clothes?"
I pointed to the civilized garments we had discarded.
"Kostabidjian will send them on to Constantinople in a few days." He sighed. "Personally, Jack, I don't care if I never wear them again. I can earn a thousand dollars an hour with my fiddle, but what's it worth compared with this? Rawhide on your feet that flexes with your soles; clothing that covers you, but doesn't bind; and the open road ahead! Civilization is a fraud, Jack. I was a fool ever to quit the Gypsy life.'
"Well, you're back in it again," I replied, "and perhaps you'll be feeling you were a fool to return to it. I know I feel like a fool. Let's go."
It was still dark when we left the house. Kostabidjian and his servant were awaiting us in the courtyard. They had saddled two horses, and a mule was loaded with bulky packs, food, and blankets, tarpaulins and several cooking utensils. The Armenian kept himself in the background. He seemed in deadly fear of Wasso Mikali, who treated him as though he was a cur to be kicked into the gutter if he interfered. And indeed, there was something singularly imposing about the old Tzigane, who strode around with the air of one used to taking as he desired and giving as he pleased.
But just as we were leaving, the dumb servant having swung open the outer door, Kostabidjian mustered sufficient courage to press to Nikka's side.
"Everything was satisfactory?" he inquired timidly. "I have served—"
"Well enough," returned Nikka, swinging into the saddle of one of the horses, "except that you talk too much. Guard your tongue if you would keep it. Your servant there—"