I’ve always had to chase the can.
Heigho, fair Rosaline!”
“Oh!” cried I, “you say that is original?”
“Aye, it is,” he answered.
“Strange how much you resemble your father,” quoth I, and left him.
II
I had scarce advanced an hundred paces ere I espied a murmurous brook and at the same time was aware of snapping of twigs and sounds of one, who burst through all obstacles in desperate flight. I gazed wildly about and espied a gypsy girl, who came bounding adown the steep. At sight of me she checked and stood at gaze.
There she stood, a young dryad of the woods, gray eyes adream, passionate with life yet boldly virginal.
“Who the hell are you?” she murmured softly. Then she seized me by the hand. “Come, let’s run,” she quoth; “they’re after me.”
“Oh,” I gasped, “who?”