This looked serious, and it was evident that some sort of trap was being laid for my unfortunate watch, so I resolved that nothing in the world should induce me to enter any such suspicious-looking house. My maid was nearly crying with fright by this time, and shaking like an aspen leaf, so I kindly advised her not to be a fool, pointing out that there was really no cause for alarm after all. “We need not enter any house unless we like, and they will hardly think of murdering us in the open street, so do not make a fuss about nothing.”
“It is not for myself, but on account of the gnädige frau, that I am frightened,” the girl now explained, apparently stung by the insinuation of cowardice. “If anything should happen to you, madam, what will the master say to me when I go home alone? He will say it was all my fault!”
“Make your mind quite easy,” I said (perhaps rather cruelly, as it now strikes me). “If they should cut my throat to get the watch, they will for a certainty cut yours as well to prevent you telling tales of them, so you will never reach home to be scolded.”
But the question of what to do was in truth becoming perplexing; rest and food were now secondary considerations, my only thought being how safely to reach home. The long lonely way that separated this village from the town seemed doubly long and desolate in anticipation, and I hardly liked to start from here alone. I now thought with regretful longing of the handy little revolver I had left at home in its Russia-leather case. Not that I should ever have required to use it, of course, but its appearance alone would have served as antidote to the dangerous fascinations of the gold watch. If I had but followed my boy’s advice I should not have found myself in this awkward predicament.
Taking a turn down the road to collect my ideas, a thought struck me. In the course of my peregrinations through the village earlier in the day, I had noted one house where the people appeared more respectable, though in nowise wealthier, than their neighbors. The man had a frank open face, in which I could hardly be mistaken; and, moreover, I had observed a few books lying on a shelf, in itself an unusual circumstance in any Roumanian house, which would seem to imply some degree of culture. To this man, therefore, I resolved to go for advice; perhaps he would himself accompany us part of the way, or else provide some other escort who would undertake not to cut our throats between this and Hermanstadt.
This plan seemed reasonable; but just as I was about to push open the gate of the little court-yard, the same gypsy woman who had been set on before to follow me came running up: “Don’t go in there; there is a terrible bad dog.” She warned so earnestly that for a moment I hesitated with my hand on the latch; for if in the whole world there is a thing which has the power to make my flesh creep and my blood run cold, it is a savage dog, and this woman, with the quickness of her race, had already had occasion to note my weak point. Her warning, however, missed its effect, for having been in that courtyard before, I distinctly remembered the absence of any dog whatever, whether good, bad, or indifferent, and her anxiety to prevent me from entering was in itself a sign that there was no danger.
So in I went: the man with the good face was not at home, I was told—he had gone to the field, but would presently return; only his wife, a sweet-faced young woman, and his aged mother, being alone in the house. Yes, I might sit down and welcome, said the young woman; and she hastened to bring me a chair and set some fresh milk before me; so I passed half an hour very pleasantly in examining the cottage and its inhabitants.
The young wife was seated at her loom weaving one of the red and blue towels which adorn each Roumanian cottage. Some of the pillow-cases and towels here hung up were of superior make to those usually seen, being both softer in color and richer in texture. “It is the old mother who made them,” she explained. “She works far better than I can do, but now she is too old, and the weaving fatigues her; she was ninety-five this year.”
“Was she in good health?” I asked by means of my interpreter.
“Quite good; but she cannot eat much—a little soup and a glass of wine every day is about all she takes.”