"Not so deep as your eyes, Kaya. You thief! Ah, take your fingers away and pay for your bread."
"Are you fooling, Velasco? You look at me so strangely! Sometimes your eyes are slits and disappear under your brows, and now—Velasco, turn your head away—I am hungry. You make my heart beat!—Velasco—give me the bread."
"Pay first and then you shall have it."
She stared at him a moment, drawing back into the straw. "I am a boy," she said softly, panting, "Remember I am a boy! Don't—tease me!"
"Just once, Kaya."
"No—Velasco."
The older gypsey glanced again about the low raftered loft. The window in the rafters was hung with cob-webs; the light came through it dimly, a shaft of sun-beams dancing on the floor; they fell on her hair beneath the cap and the curls glistened like gold. Her eyes were watching him.
"No—no—Velasco!"
He came nearer to her, and the straw crackled as he moved, stretching out his arms: "When you were weary, Kaya, I carried you. When you fell asleep I watched over you. It is not your heart that is beating so fast; it is mine! The colour has come back to your cheeks and the light to your eyes. You slept while I guarded you. My eyes were heavy, but I dared not shut them; I watched the folds of your jacket rising and falling, the breath as it came through the arch of your lips; the gold of your curls against the straw; the oval of your cheek and your lashes. My eyes never closed.—I have given up everything for you, Kaya, my life and my art."
He stretched out his arms to her again, and his dark eyes gazed into her blue ones, passionate and eager.