"Tell me the dreams," he answered. "Mine are always more true than facts."
"He was born," she began, "in the Mediterranean—"
She turned her head. The stone on which Thorn's foot rested had crashed into the water. He staggered slightly in regaining his balance, and his face had the pale, startled look it wore when he had first seen her from the roadside. He drew back, and again his hand went up across his face.
"Yes," he said. "Go on."
"In the Mediterranean—just where, I don't know, but on an island—and his mother was Romaic. I have never seen Greece, but I like to know that some of it is in my blood. His father was American, of a family that had a tradition of Gipsy descent. Perhaps he was born with the 'thumb-print' on the palm that they call the Romany mark. As a child I used to wonder what it looked like."
She smiled up at him, but his face was turned away. He had taken his hand from his brow, and slipped it into his loose sleeve, and stood rigidly erect.
"I often used to try to imagine his mother. I am sure she had a dark and beautiful face, with large, brown eyes like a wild deer's, that used to bend above his cradle. Perhaps each night she crossed her fingers over him, and said—"
"En to onoma tou Patros," he repeated, "kai tou Ouiou kai tou Agiou Pneumatos!"
"Yes," she said, surprised. "In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. You know it?"
"It is the old Greek-orthodox fashion," he said in a low voice.