Yet more astonishing was Jeanne’s attitude toward the whole matter. She appeared bubbling over with joy. Such a smile illumined her face as had not been there for weeks.
“But, Jeanne,” said Florence, “do you not fear the gypsies? Once you were kidnapped and nearly killed by them.”
“Oh—” Jeanne spread her hands, then pretended to blow a feather from her fingers. “That is all long ago. In spirit I am still a gypsy. And the gypsies live, not for the past, not for to-morrow, but for this day only. This day is quite enough.
“Besides,” she added after a moment, “I do not know fear as many do. Gypsies are not afraid. They love life so much that danger, even death itself, is forgotten. See! I must tell you a story; then you will understand.”
CHAPTER XIV
THE DANCE OF DEATH
“In France, at one time,” Jeanne began, as she settled back in her place and Florence rested on her oars, “the gypsies were treated as outlaws. They were hunted from province to province. Many were hanged on trees. Perhaps—” She shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps this was their own fault. They may have behaved badly.
“All this did not rob them of their love for life. They danced and sang all the same.
“Sometimes they had rifles and bullets. One time they had none. A company of soldiers were stealing upon them through the forest. They were expected at midnight, when a young man, Bratu Vaicu, who was in love with the old chief’s daughter, said to him:
“‘This is the time Tinka promised to marry me.’
“‘Spoken like a brave gypsy!’ exclaimed the chief. ‘Let the wedding go on.’