The count’s camp was pitched within a mile of the doomed castle. The count’s soldiers were lying about—playing, singing, gambling, and polishing up their arms—when the soldier, Ferrando, was seen to run quickly towards the count, who was walking moodily amidst the troopers.
“One hath seized a gipsey woman, general. She is a spy, perhaps.”
“Let her be brought hither,” said the count, and looking up as the sound of a tramping, mixed with smothering cries, reached his ears, he saw a middle-aged, stern-looking gipsey-woman being dragged towards him by half-a-dozen thick-bearded men. She showed no fear.
“Wherefore do ye thus treat me? What evil have I done ye?”
“Come hither, woman. Answer me truly.”
“That shall be as thy questions are.”
“Whither goest thou?”
“Whither the gipsies ever go. To the north or to the south, sometimes westward, yet ever gladly to the east.”
“What wouldst thou?”
“My son—I only crave my dear, dear son. He hath left me, and I seek him. Thou tremblest—perchance thou hast lost a mother.”