Picking her up in his arms again, he carried her out across the strip of moorland to the camp.
The gipsies were out and astir, there seemed to be a sort of meeting going on among the tents and caravans. Jack Carstairs walked into the centre of them and deposited his burden on the ground.
The girl sat up. "There's Sam," she said, pointing to a young gipsy sitting propped up against the wheel of a caravan. His face was deathly pale, and one eye was bulged out like a small balloon.
The young engineer's heart gave a great bound at the sight of him.
"So you were not killed," he said.
"'Taint no fault of yours," the man growled. The gipsies gathered round.
"Where's mother?" the girl asked.
A woman of about fifty, eagle-eyed, black-haired, descended the steps of a particularly well-appointed caravan and went over to the girl, and felt her carefully all over. "Who did it?" she asked.
"Sam kicked me," the girl answered.
The gipsies made no sound, but dark glistening eyes rolled from the recumbent gipsy to the tall, fair-haired young Englishman.