“Milona,” said the venerable poultry-thief, “you are not acting aright. You refuse Zambo, who belongs to the tribe, and loves you well, because you have been listening to this little Hungarian hussar who has lately been making love to you. And yet you are well aware that he is a dog, an enemy of our race, who will soon tire of you, and leave you all alone. It was to me your mother left you when she died. I have paid for your training and food, taught you to tell fortunes, and all about chieromancy and the composition of love philtres. Will you be ungrateful and refuse to be the wife of my little nephew Zambo?”
“I do not love him,” said the girl, dryly.
“But he loves you.”
“That does not matter to me.”
“But if you resist him, he will kill you.”
“That is my business!”
“Do you intend to leave us, then?”
“Yes. I am tired of living on robbery, and being clothed in rags!”
“Then pay for your freedom.”
“I have no money. Wait, and some day the hussar will give me my hands full of money.”