At that instant there suddenly came forward from the doorway of a tent on the outskirts of the crowd a stalwart woman, with a strong face and a self-reliant manner. She was still young, but her slightly pockmarked countenance showed the wear and tear of sorrow of some kind. She had, indeed, lost her husband and her father in the Montenegrin wars. Hastening forward to Fleda she reached out a hand.
“Come with me,” she said; “come and sleep in my tent to-night. To-morrow you shall go back to the Ry of Rys, perhaps. Come with me.”
There was a sudden murmuring in the crowd, which was stilled by a motion of Jethro Fawe’s hand, and a moment afterwards Fleda gave her hand to the woman.
“I will go with you,” Fleda said. Then she turned to Jethro: “I wish to speak to you alone, Jethro Fawe,” she added.
He laughed triumphantly. “The wife of Jethro Fawe wishes to speak with him,” he bombastically cried aloud to the assembled people, and he prepared to follow Fleda.
As Fleda entered the woman’s tent a black-eyed girl, with tousled hair and a bold, sensual face, ran up to Jethro, and in an undertone of evil suggestion said to him:
“To-night is yours, Jethro. You can make tomorrow sure.”