"Nothing can change that. It
was done by the River Starzke, and it was the word of the Ry of Rys. It
stands for ever. There is no divorce except death for the Romany."
"The patrins cease to mark the way," returned the old man with a swift
gesture. "The divorce of death will come."
Jethro's face grew still paler, and he opened his lips to speak, but
paused, seeing Fleda, with a backward look of pity and of horror, draw
back into the darkness of her room.
He made a motion of passion and despair. His voice was almost shrill
when he spoke. "Till that divorce comes, the daughter of the Ry of Rys
is mine!" he cried sharply. "I will not give my wife to a Gorgio thief.
His hands shall not caress her, his eyes shall not feed upon her--"
"His eyes will not feed upon her," interrupted the old man, "So cease
the prattle which can alter nothing. Begone."
For a moment Jethro Fawe stood like one who did not understand what was
said to him, but suddenly a look of triumph and malice came into his
face, and his eyes lighted with a reckless fire. He threw back his head,
and laughed with a strange, offensive softness. Then, waving a hand to
the window from which Fleda had gone, he swung his cap on his head and
plunged into the trees.
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