“Of course you would. And that only goes to prove that I, who have been a gypsy, have no right to try living as those do who have not been gypsies.
“But truly I must tell you!” Jeanne set down her cup of tea. “You see, these gypsies are French. They knew I, too, was French, that I had been a gypsy, and that I had the God of Fire. How?” She threw up her hands. “How do they know many things? Because they are gypsies.
“These people,” she went on, “believe very much in the power of the Fire God. He is able to heal the sick. They believe that.
“They believe more than this. They think that when one is sick he is only sad. If they can cheer him up, then he will be well again. So: sing to him; play the violin and guitar; dance for him. Bring the Fire God and dance before him. That is best of all.
“Did you see that beautiful child?” she asked suddenly. She nodded her head toward the camp. “The one among the blankets before the fire?”
Merry nodded.
“That child has been very, very sick. Now we have sung for her. We have danced for her. The Fire God is here. He has smiled for her. Perhaps she will get well.
“And that,” she concluded, as if all had been explained, “that is why they kidnaped me. They knew I could dance very well. They wished me to dance before the Fire God that the child might be well again.
“And I—” Her voice took on an appealing quality. “I might have escaped. After they had taken me from the theatre, they did not compel me to stay. But how could I come away? There was the child. And is not one child, even a gypsy child, more than friends or plays or money or food, or any of these?”
“Yes,” said Merry thoughtfully, “she is more than all these. But why did they not ask you to come? Why did they carry you away?”