Zula had been a prisoner three weeks, all that time being closely watched by Crisp, and had it not been for the stolen visits she received from the young gypsy girl, Fan, she would have been desolate indeed. She entered the hut one day where Zula was imprisoned, and going close to her she whispered:
“Zula, they are going to drug you to-night, but now don’t you be scared, for I’ll manage to fix it myself. They don’t think I would play any trick, but I will, and you be sure not to say a word against taking it.”
“What is that for? What are they going to do?”
“They say you must be untied, or you will get lame, and not be able to travel, for we’ll move on in a week or two, and don’t you attempt to go out of the tent, for they are going to keep an eye on you to see if the herb works right.”
Zula sat a moment in deep thought ere she replied; then, looking closely in Fan’s eyes, and speaking in a voice so low that Fan could just distinguish her words, she asked:
“Fan, will you trust me to ask you something and promise me not to tell a living soul?”
“Yes; I’ll promise.”
“You won’t betray me?”
“No.”