“And if he is not here, why is the God of Fire in this land? There can be but one answer. The tribe of Bihari would never part with so priceless a possession. It has been stolen and sent to America.”
“And then lost in the express.”
“You are quite right.”
“But who would steal it?”
“Who can say? Perhaps a gypsy who hates Bihari. There are many such. Perhaps only some sight-seeing Americans. There are some who would steal the Arch of Triumph in Paris as a souvenir if they could.”
“But is it so wonderful?” Florence’s tone was cold. Petite Jeanne had placed the strange object of their discussion upon the mantel. There, far from the glow of a fire, the thing seemed hideous, smoke-blackened, dead.
“Who can tell all?” Petite Jeanne’s voice trailed off into a weary silence.
When she spoke again it was as with the lips of a philosopher:
“Who can know all? The gypsies believe that the fire dance and this god give them strength and courage, that their sick are healed, that by these their fortunes are mended. There are those who have been to many schools and who should know much more than the poor, wandering gypsies, but they believe in even stranger things.
“I only know that this god, this God of Fire, is very old and that I believe in his power because I was taught to do so as a child.