They looked, and indeed the curious thing from the heart of the earth or from some distant planet (who could tell which?) seemed to smile.
But again Petite Jeanne shuddered; for, at that precise moment the window sash rattled again, this time with an unmistakable bang.
“Come,” urged Angelo, “snap out of it. It’s only the wind. We’ll make a beginning.”
“Wait. Wait but one little minute!” the French girl pleaded. She pressed her hand over her throbbing heart.
“Now,” she murmured as she sank back among the cushions, “it is over.”
“Behold, then!” Angelo began in the grand manner. “You, Petite Jeanne, are, just as you were in France, a refugee. No mother; no father; only a dancing bear. The gypsies, good gypsies, the best in all France, have befriended you. From village to village you have danced your way across France. All France has come to know and love you.
“But now—” He paused for emphasis. “This is where our play shall begin, just here. Now your bear seems at the point of death. He lies in the shadows, out of sight. But the gypsies, gathered about the camp fire that burns before the gaily painted wagons, are conscious of his presence. They, too, are sad. Sad because they love you and your ponderous dancing companion; sad, as well, because no longer the coins will jingle at your feet when the dance of the bear is ended.
“The light of the fire dispels the dark shadows of night for but a short distance. At the edge of those shadows, unobserved by those about the camp fire, sits an old man. His hair is long. It curls at the ends. His battered hat is drawn low over a mellow, kindly face.
“That man—” He turned suddenly toward Dan Baker. “That man is no other than yourself, Dan. You, too, are a wanderer. Down the road a short distance is a small tent. Close by are two burros. You are an old time prospector. All over America, with pick and pan, you have wandered.
“Some one has told you that there is gold to be found in the hills of France. And here you are.”