The gypsy camp was arranged for a dance. Zula lay on her bed and ever and anon caught a glimpse of some gaily dressed gypsy, as they flitted by the tent door. A young girl entered the tent, and going to Zula, said:
“Meg sent me in to tell you to get up and come out; they want you to play the guitar.”
“I don’t want to play,” said Zula, in a half angry tone. “I am too lame to play or dance, and they would 62 not let me dance if I could, just because they know I would enjoy it more.”
“Well, I suppose you will have to come anyway, ’cause Meg said so, and so did Crisp.”
“Crispin,” and Zula’s eyes flashed a light like that of an angry tiger. “Crisp, I hate him bad enough to kill him.”
“I’m sorry for you, Zu,” said Fan, as she noticed the great red marks on Zula’s flesh. “I am so sorry, and if I was you I’d——”
“What would you do?”
“I’d run away, and join some other band,” said Fan, coming close and whispering the words in Zula’s ear.
“No, I don’t want to join any band. I don’t want to be a gypsy at all. Oh, I was so much happier when I was at home and had a nice clean bed, and everybody was so kind to me.”
“Well, that was nice, but you see, you had to work.”