He laughed in his anger. “Is only the Gorgio to embrace the Romany lass? One fondled mine to-day in his arms down there at Carillon. That’s the way it goes! The old song tells the end of it:
“‘But the Gorgio lies ‘neath the beech-wood tree;
He’ll broach my tan no more;
And my love she sleeps afar from me,
But near to the churchyard door.
‘Time was I went to my true love,
Time was she came to me—‘”
He got no farther. Gabriel Druse was on him, gripping his arms so tight to his body that his swift motion to draw a weapon was frustrated. The old man put out all his strength, a strength which in his younger days was greater than any two men in any Romany camp, and the “breath and beauty” of Jethro Fawe grew less and less. His face became purple and distorted, his body convulsed, then limp, and presently he lay on the ground with a knee on his chest and fierce, bony hands at his throat.
“Don’t kill him—father, don’t!” cried the girl, laying restraining hands on the old man’s shoulders. He withdrew his hands and released the body from his knee. Jethro Fawe lay still.
“Is he dead?” she whispered, awestricken. “Dead?” The old man felt the breast of the unconscious man. He smiled grimly. “He is lucky not to be dead.”
“What shall we do?” the girl asked again with a white face.
The old man stooped and lifted the unconscious form in his arms as though it was that of a child. “Where are you going?” she asked anxiously, as he moved away.
“To the hut in the juniper wood,” he answered. She watched till he had disappeared with his limp burden into the depths of the trees. Then she turned and went slowly towards the house.