He found Hilda with a blanched face, a look of terror in her eyes, and seeming almost on the verge of fainting.
“Oh, Fred,” she whispered, “the fortune teller sprang from behind that bush the moment you left, and I cannot tell you the terrible things she said to me! She heard all you said and has gone to tell them.”
Fred was no coward, nor was he foolhardy. He realized the danger they were in, and his cheek grew as pale as that of his companion.
A commotion was visible among the gypsies—loud talking, curses and threatening looks toward the carriage, and a general uprising from the table.
Fred sprang to his place beside Hilda, took the reins preparatory to flight, had turned Planchette’s head toward the road and reached to take the whip from the socket, when the bridle was grasped by one of the men.
“Halt, liar, and explain, or you shall not leave this place alive!” cried the gypsy, his black eyes blazing with fury.
For answer Fred brought the lash down upon his hand with a quick, stinging stroke. The bridle was released, and Planchette sprang forward just as a bullet whizzed through the back of the carriage between the heads of the occupants, and amid shouts and imprecations from men, women and children, they cleared the woods, and were in comparative safety.
“This is only loaned,” exclaimed Fred, with flashing eyes, and face pale from anger and excitement. “I was single-handed, unarmed, and have a lady with me. It shall be returned with interest!”
“Oh, Fred,” implored Hilda, almost faint from terror, “promise me not to molest them! I should never forgive myself if anything happened to you, Which would surely be the case if you attacked them. Promise me!”
“That horse was stolen, Hilda; they should be made to return it! They fired upon me, and it is not through any merit in them that one of us is not lying dead at this moment. Would you wish me to leave all these things unpunished?”