“That is no phantom!” Bihari declared stoutly. “Some great artist is hidden away in those hills. Why? I wonder. I should like very much to hunt him out and sit at his feet. But tomorrow—no, the day after—we become water gypsies again. We must play and dance. Coins must jingle, for we must live.
“And you—” He turned eagerly to Jeanne. “You will go with us, round the island?”
“Yes! Yes! She will go, Jeanne will go!” The gypsy band, all old friends, swarmed about her. What more could she say but “Yes, I will go.”
“And you,” she cried, gathering Greta and Florence in her arms, “you will go also?”
“It would be a grand adventure,” Florence replied, “but Greta is here, in part to rest and grow strong. I think we must stay and keep the ship until your return.”
So in the end this was agreed upon. “And we,” Greta whispered to Florence, “we shall go over to Duncan’s Bay. We shall dig for a barrel of gold and hunt down the home of that phantom who plays so divinely.”
“Yes,” Florence agreed. “We will do just that.” But in her own mind’s eye was the face of a very ugly man. And that man was trying to cut off her head with an ashen oar.
Next day was Sunday. There was no wild and hilarious music on this day, for Bihari and his band were deeply religious. All day they sat about the ship, some in groups talking quietly, and some alone meditating on the ways of a great Creator who rules the waves and watches over His children in all their wanderings.
As darkness fell a bright fire was lighted. Bihari took down his violin and all joined in those sacred melodies that belong to all time, all lands and all people.
Next day, with many a shout of farewell, the gypsy bark sailed away. And in the prow, standing beside Bihari, was the little French girl.