She was going to run away when a gipsy lad of eighteen or twenty appeared before her—a tall, lithe, dark fellow with thick woolly hair, shining black eyes, and thick parted lips.
His eyes glittered as he cried—
"Almâni!"
"Almâni!" replied Myrtle, moved with much interest.
"Ha, ha!" cried the lad, "what gang do you go with?"
"I don't know—I am looking for it."
And without any concealment she told him how Brémer had found her and brought her up, and how she had escaped yesterday from his house.
The young gipsy grinned, and showed a long double row of white teeth.
"I am going to Hazlach," he cried. "To-morrow there's a fête there; our band will all be there—Pfiffer Karl, Melchior, Blue-Titmouse, Fritz the clarionet, Coucou-Peter, and Magpie. The women are going fortune-telling, and we play the music. If you like, you may go with me."
"I will," said Myrtle, looking down.