The gypsy children returned toward the camp just as the sun was setting. “Aren’t you ’fraid that Spico’ll strike us?” the goblin-like boy asked, holding close to Nan as the small, mottled pony galloped along the coast road.
“No; I’m not scared,” Nan said. “If he strikes us, we’ll run away for good.”
“Could we go back and live in that garden?”
“I don’t know where we’d go. Somewheres! Maybe up there.” Nan pointed and the boy glanced at the encircling mountains where the canyons were darkening. Surely they would be well hidden there. They were close enough now to see the smoke curling up from the camp fire near the clump of live oaks.
Leaving the small horse in the rope corral with the others, the children approached the wagons, keeping hidden behind bushes as best they could. Nan wanted to see who was about the fire before she made her presence known. The one whom she dreaded was not there and so she boldly walked into the circle of the light, leading Tirol. Then she spoke the gypsies’ word of greeting: “Sarishan, Manna Lou.”
“Leicheen Nan, dearie, how troubled my heart has been about you,” the gypsy woman said. “You ran away. I thought forever.”
“Where is Anselo Spico?” the girl inquired.
“He hasn’t come yet. Mizella’s been asking this hour back. He said at high sun he’d be here sure, more than likely he’s been—”
“Hark!” Nan whispered, putting a protecting arm about the boy. “Hide, quick, Tirol, here he comes.”
But only one horseman appeared, galloping through the dusk, and that one was Vestor, who had ridden away with the Romany rye that morning. His dark face told them nothing and yet they knew that he had much to tell. They gathered about him, but before he could speak, the old queen pushed her way to the front. “Where’s my son?” she demanded.