“Fleda—daughter of the Ry of Rys,” the voice called again.
She gathered her dressing-gown tight about her, and, going to the window, raised it high and leaned out.
“What do you want?” she asked sharply.
“Wife of Jethro Fawe, I bring you news,” the voice said, and she saw a hat waved with mock courtesy. In spite of herself, Fleda felt a shiver of premonition pass through her. The Thing which had threatened her in the night seemed to her now like the soul of this dark spirit in the trees.
Resentment seized her. “I have news for you, Jethro Fawe,” she replied. “I set you free, and I gave my word that no harm should come to you, if you went your ways and did not come again. You have come, and I shall do nothing now to save you from the Ry’s anger. Go at once, or I will wake him.”
“Will a wife betray her husband?” he asked in soft derision.
Stung by his insolence, “I would not throw a rope to you, if you were drowning,” she declared. “I am a Gorgio, and the thing that was done by the Starzke River is nothing to me. Now, go.”
“You have forgotten my news,” he said: “It is bad news for the Gorgio daughter of the Romany Ry.” She was silent in apprehension. He waited, but she did not speak.
“The Gorgio of Gorgios of the Sagalac has had a fall,” he said.
Her heart beat fast for an instant, and then the presentiment came to her that the man spoke the truth. In the presence of the accomplished thing, she became calm.