Taric watched her under his bent brow until the music ceased, and she dropped on the grass spent and panting like a swallow after a long ocean flight.
"She will do," he muttered.
"What is it you mean with the child?" some women asked.
Taric laughed.
"The little vermin is good for a gold piece or two," he answered.
Phratos said nothing, but he heard.
After awhile the camp was still; the gypsies slept. Two or three of their men went out to try and harry cattle by the light of the moon if they should be in luck; two others went forth to set snares for the wood partridges and rabbits; the rest slumbered soundly, the dogs curled to a watching sleep of vigilant guard in their midst.
Taric alone sat by the dying fire. When all was very quiet, and the stars were clear in midnight skies, the woman Zarâ stole out of her tent to him.
"You signed to me," she said to him in a low voice. "You want the child killed?"
Taric showed his white teeth like a wolf.