"
Half-dazed with unregulated emotion, Jethro acted with indecision for a
moment, and the fiddle was safe. But he had suffered the indignity of
being flung like a bag of bones across the room, and the microbe of
insane revenge was in him. It was not to be killed by the cold humour of
the man who had worsted him. He returned to the attack.
"She is mine, and her father knows it is so. I have waited all these
years, and the hour has come. I will--"
Ingolby's eyes became hard and merciless again. "Don't talk your Gipsy
rhetoric. I've had enough. No hour has come that makes a woman do what
she doesn't want to do in a free country. The lady is free to do what
she pleases here within British law, and British law takes no heed of
Romany law or any other law. You'll do well to go back to your Roumelian
country or whatever it is. The lady will marry whom she likes."
"She will never marry you," the Romany said huskily and menacingly.
"I have never asked her, but if I do, and she said yes, no one could
prevent it."
"I would prevent it."
"How?"
"She is a Romany: she belongs to the Romany people; I will find a way."
Ingolby had a flash of intuition.
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