But the incident did not end there: a small woman, of not unattractive appearance, albeit sadly faded and poorly dressed, seized the child, and, speaking to him as if she were his mother, pushed him toward Guillaume, then ran after D'Alvimar, holding out her hand, but at the same time gazing at him as if she wished never to forget his face.
D'Alvimar, with increasing irritation, urged his horse toward the woman, and would have ridden her down had she not quickly stepped aside; he even put his hand to the butt of one of the pistols in his holsters, as if he would readily have fired on one of those wretched beasts of idolaters.
Thereupon the gypsies exchanged glances, and drew together as if to consult.
"Avanti! avanti!" Guillaume shouted to D'Alvimar.
He loved to use Italian words, to show that he had been to the queen-mother's court; or perhaps he fancied that an i at the end of a word was sufficient to make it unintelligible to those gypsies.
"Why avanti?" said D'Alvimar, declining to urge his horse.
"Because you have irritated yonder blackbirds. See! they are crowding together like cranes in distress; and, faith! there are a score of them and only seven of us."
"How now, my dear Guillaume! Can it be that you have any fear of those feeble, cowardly animals?"
"I am not accustomed to fear," replied the young man, slightly piqued, "but it would be exceedingly distasteful to me to fire on the poor, ragged wretches; and I am surprised that they have roused your temper so, when it would have been a very simple matter to rid yourself of them with a little small change."
"I never give to such people," said Sciarra D'Alvimar, in a short dry tone, which surprised the good-humored Guillaume.