“What did I tell you?” cried Fräulein von Staubach, catching Cyril’s arm again. “It is a man, and we are lost!”
“Come on,” said Cyril coolly, and he led the way after the flying figure, which had burst into a circle of people sitting round a large fire with a cry of “Strangers! Christians!” There was an instant commotion, knives were drawn and hatchets brandished; but the appearance of Cyril and the two women on the edge of the clearing allayed the tumult. They were not formidable foes, and a venerable old man with a long beard, who seemed to be the chief of the party, advanced to meet them. As for Cyril, he had no doubt of the identity of the people on whom he had chanced. The long black kaftans and greasy ringlets of the men, the fuzzy wigs and occasional gleaming jewels of the women, showed them to be the Jews expelled that day from Karajevo.
“I tracked them all the way from the town. The man talked to the dark woman in a strange tongue!” cried the youth who had announced the approach of the new arrivals, and who stood breathless before the old Rabbi.
“Who are you? and what do you want here?” asked the old man of Cyril in Thracian.
“We are travellers who were refused a night’s lodging in the town. Will you allow us to join your company for the night?”
“But why were you refused lodging? You are not beggars?”
“No; they wanted to make us kiss one of their icons, and she,” pointing to the Queen, “refused. She is a foreigner.”
“But you do not belong to us?”
“No; but I will pay you five piastres—ten—if you will let us build a shelter for ourselves near you, and use your fire.”
“I saw them driven out of the town with stones and curses!” cried the youth, and a consultation took place between the Rabbi and two other old men. Cyril heard the words “Spies!” pass between them, to which the Rabbi seemed to demur, only to be silenced by one of his fellow-counsellors—