No one spoke until the quaint words of this mysterious child of France rose once more like a tiny wisp of smoke from the center of the stage.
“This is the gypsy Fire God,” she chanted. “Years and years ago, many, many centuries before we were born, strange men and women with dark and burning eyes danced their fire dance in his honor, beneath the palm trees of India.
“This is the God of Fire. Other gods may come and go, but he must live on forever. He will not perish. None can destroy him. Fallen from some planet where fires burn eternal, he alone holds the secret of fire. Let him perish and all fire on earth will cease. Matches will not light. Wood and fire will not burn. The earth will grow cold, cold, cold!” She shuddered. And those who listened shuddered.
“The very fire at the center of the earth will burn low and go out. Then the earth will be covered with ice and snow. All living things must perish.
“He will not be destroyed!” She threw her arms out as if to protect this god of fiery enchantment.
Again there was silence.
“She does not believe that.” Florence voiced her skepticism.
“Who knows?” Angelo’s voice was tense. “And after all, it doesn’t matter. The thing is perfect. Can’t you see? It is perfect!” He sprang excitedly to his feet. “This shall be our first scene. The curtain shall rise just here and about this God of Fire we shall weave our play. And it shall be called ‘The Gypsy God of Fire.’”
CHAPTER IX
THE SHADOW ON THE WINDOW PANE
Even as the young Italian spoke, there came a knock at the door. With a little cry of fear, Petite Jeanne threw a small Persian rug over her treasured god; then, as if prepared to hold her ground against all comers, she clenched her small fists and turned to face the door.