“As they dance on about the fire, they are joined by others, many beautiful gypsy maidens, dressed in colorful gypsy fashion. This is our chorus. They will appear often, but this will be the beginning.”
Angelo paused for breath. The room went strangely silent. The fire had burned low. Still the God of Fire appeared to smile.
“When the dance is over,” he took up the thread of the story once more, “the mysterious dancer binds the bargain by presenting the chief with a double eagle, twenty dollars in gold. Then he vanishes into the shadows.
“Instantly it is murmured that this is some very rich American in disguise. For, as you must know, the French think all Americans are rich. And here, with the gypsies speculating in regard to the future, and Petite Jeanne gazing raptly at the gypsy god who has brought her such good fortune—
“See!” The young Italian prodded the fire vigorously. “See? He smiles! He approves!”
But this time Jeanne did not see, for once more the window above them had rattled. And this time, as the beacon cast its glow upon the glass, there appeared a shadow, the shadow of a man, the man who had without doubt been looking down upon them and upon the smiling gypsy god.
Both light and shadow were gone in an instant. Not, however, until the keen eyes of the little French girl had identified the one who had cast that shadow.
“At such a time and such a place!” she whispered to herself, as a shudder ran through her slight form. To her companions she said not a word.
“That’s as far as we go to-night.” Angelo rose from his place by the fire and dropped limply into a chair. Gone was the fire in his dark eyes. His spell of inspiration at an end, he desired only rest and peace.
“Miss Florence,” he passed a hand across his face, “the water in the kettle is steaming. Will you honor us by making tea? There’s black tea in the green can on the mantel and a lemon yonder on the table.”