“The boy came obediently; at first he was afraid and loth to speak, but he seemed to be shy rather than sullen, and after a while he talked fearlessly and simply of such things as he knew; of the lore of his race, and of the customs of the peoples of the wood, sometimes called dumb brutes by those who cannot speak their tongue. His simplicity and gentleness, and his forgetfulness of the harshness of his former judge, won upon the man. He felt remorse, and asked him what he had done when his songs were destroyed, ‘For I might,’ said he, ‘have left those to you in which I found no offence.’ The gipsy answered simply that he went hungry for three days; also his sweetheart followed another because he could not give her the beads he had promised her. There were tears in his eyes as he spoke and yet he laughed.
“They went on for a while in silence; at last the lad stopped, and said:
“‘Gentlemen, I am sorry. The wood is very strange to-night, and I have missed my way. I meant to lead you right. Do not think evil of me. I know now that you who are not of our race quarrel among yourselves. But in this you agree. To curse us who are not of any faith, and to believe evil of us because we live under the sky and have other ways and thoughts than yours. But—but I am very tired of being cursed.’
“‘You shall not be cursed by me,’ said the man by whose side he walked. ‘Nor will I believe you wilfully led us wrong.’
“Then the gipsy took courage; he listened a little while, and cried:
“‘I hear the crackle of a camp fire. Perhaps some of my people are hereabouts. If so, do not fear us; we will welcome you if you trust us, and give you what we have to share.’
“The others heard nothing, but the lad led them towards the sound his ears caught, and soon they saw he was right. They came to an open space in the wood; there was a circle of huge grey stones, a temple of the gods of a vanished faith; within the circle was turf, where rabbits leaped and ate; in the centre a pool twenty feet deep, crystal clear, and green as pale chrysolite; had it been day each tiny weed that grew in the depth, each little stone that lay there, would have shone clear. In the centre of the pool was an islet, and on the isle a little ruined chapel dedicated to the Mother of God; in the chapel was a gipsy fire streaming upwards towards the great starlit sky, and causing wondrous shadows to leap and chase on the ruined walls. A thin slab of rock rose from the depths of the pool to the surface of the water, so that there was a narrow perilous pathway from the shore to the isle. In the chapel by the fire there sat on the broken pavement a young barefooted woman, clad in a peasant dress of blue frieze, a cloak about her shoulders, her hair falling veilwise around her, and a young child sleeping in her arms. The boy called to her in Romany; she rose and came to the shore of the isle, her child in her arms, and answered him in the same tongue. She was a beautiful brown-haired young woman; her solemn eyes were grey, and as clear as the pool by which she stood.
“‘Bid her speak in a tongue we can understand,’ said the preacher.
“The boy did so; asking whether she could direct them.
“‘I could, little brother,’ she answered in a sweet voice. ‘But you and these gentlemen might not understand me well. Better to shelter by these stones to-night, or cross the water to my fire; to-morrow you may seek your own way.’