“Here I am,” Dan Baker echoed.
“You have found no gold. You have found something better—a beautiful young lady in distress.”
The color in Petite Jeanne’s cheek deepened.
“The gypsies have given up hope. For them the bear is as good as dead.”
“But you—” He turned again to Jeanne. “You have not despaired. For, is there not still the Dance of Fire? Is not the gypsy God of Fire close beside you? And have not this dance and this god worked miracles in the past?”
The young Italian paused to prod the fire. As it blazed up the face of the gypsy god was illumined in a strange manner. His lips appeared to part. He seemed about to speak. Yet no sound was heard.
“See!” cried Petite Jeanne. “He approves! We shall succeed! Truly this is my luckee day!”
Once more Angelo held up a hand for silence. “So there,” he began again, “by the gypsy camp fire, with all your dark-faced companions gathered about you, and with the God of Fire smiling at you from the very heart of the flames, you dance the gypsy Dance of Fire.”
As if this were a cue, the little girl, half French, half gypsy, sprang to her feet and before the curious god, gleaming there at the edge of the flame, danced her weird dance as it had never been danced before.
“Bravo! Bravo!” shouted Swen.