The dust shall caress my feet,
The sun shall warm my limbs,
The trees shall tell me their thoughts
At dusk as the twilight dims.
And I shall inhale the smoke
Of fires beside the road;
I shall hear the camels grunt
As the drivers shift their loads.
And best of all, I shall hear
The wild, mad Tzigane songs,
Cruel and gay and lustful,
Like fiddles and clanging gongs.
And in the glare of the campfires
I shall see the Tziganes dance—
Women with lithe, round bodies,
Men straight as a heiduck's lance.
And perhaps a wild brown maiden
Will seek me amongst the throng,
And dance with me down the twisting road
To a wild, mad Tzigane song.
He ended with a crashing of keys, and looked up to meet my fascinated gaze.
"You liked it?" he asked shyly. "I can see you did. It is a little song I have made out of the heart-beats of my people. We Gypsies can make music, if nothing else. And all Gypsy music should be played on strings. Only the fiddle can reach the heights and depths of human emotion. But I have put my fiddle away from me until we have finished this job."
He walked over and slipped his arm through mine.
"Let us see what Watty has for breakfast," he went on, "and send him to awaken that lazy-bones, Hugh."
"But see here, Nikka," I broke in. "Are you really a Gypsy? In the usual sense of the word?"