The girl, pushed forward by the dark-faced woman, was now on the platform. She danced, Jeanne was forced to admit, very well, much better indeed than any of the others. The crowd saw and applauded.
“She is a good dancer,” Jeanne thought, “very good. And yet she is sailing under false colors. She is not a gypsy. Still,” she wondered, “am I right? Do all American gypsies know the gypsy tongue?” She could not tell. And still, her feet were moving restlessly. Not she, but her feet wished to dance.
And then, with the suddenness of the sun escaping from a cloud, came great joy to Jeanne. A powerful arm encircled her waist and a gruff voice said:
“Tiens! It is my Jeanne!”
It was Bihari, Bihari, Jeanne’s gypsy step-father! She had supposed him to be in France.
“Bihari!” she cried, enraptured. “You here?”
“Yes, my child.”
“But why?”
“Does it matter now?” Bihari’s tone was full of serious joy. “All that matters now is that you must dance. You are a gypsy. We are all gypsies, all but that one, the one who, without your dancing, will win. She is an impostor. She is no gypsy. This I know. Come, my Jeanne! You must dance!”
“Here!” Jeanne sprang forward, at the same time dragging the bright shawl from the slender girl’s shoulders. “Here! I, too, am a gypsy! I, too, will dance.”