“Yes—or rather, no; for though born in England, I am not English. I come of another race.”
The fixed glance of the smuggler’s eyes grew each moment more intense, his dark face paled and paled, until, contrasting with his jet-black hair and beard, it looked ghastly. His breath came quick and short as he almost gasped:
“And that race is—”
“The gipsy! Yes, I am of the degraded gipsy race,” exclaimed Ray, with a sort of fierce pride, as though he dared and defied the world to despise him for that.
The smuggler-captain reeled as though some one had struck him a blow, and grasping Ray by the arm, he exclaimed, in a low, husky whisper:
“Tell me who brought you here. You were a child, you say, when you left England—who had charge of you?”
“My grandmother—a gipsy! What in the name of heaven, sir, is all this to you?” exclaimed Ray, like the rest completely astounded by this strange emotion.
“Her name!” said the outlaw, hoarsely, unheeding his question and the wonder of the rest.
“Among her tribe she was known as the gipsy queen, Ketura.”
“Just God!” exclaimed the smuggler-chief, as his grasp relaxed and with a face perfectly colorless, he stood like one suddenly turned to stone.