"A sleigh, Kaya? Stay here in the shadow—I will steal ahead and look."
"Don't leave me; let me go with you!"
The woolen glove clung to him and they went forward again, a step at a time, with eyes straining through the snow.
"Is it the sleigh of the Countess, big and black with three horses abreast?"
"Yes—it looks so."
"Is there some one inside?"
"The driver perhaps! No, there is no one. Velasco, they have gone into the inn to drink something warm and ask questions perhaps—'Have you seen two gypsies, one dark and one fair?'—Ah, Velasco, what shall we do? Shall we creep past on tiptoe?"
The girl drew close to him and looked up in his face. "What shall we do, Velasco—speak! You stand there with your eyes half shut, in a dream. Shall we run, Velasco? Shall we run on ahead?"
The gypsey put his finger to his lips and crept forward. "This is a God-forsaken hole, Kaya!" he whispered, "No telegraph—and perhaps no horses; they could only get oxen or mules. It will take several minutes to drink their hot tea—and the brutes are quite fresh!"
He moved cautiously, swiftly, to the hitching post, fumbling with the straps. The horses whinnied a little, nosing one another and pawing the earth.