"About M'sieu'
Marchand."
Fleda's face hardened; she had had more than enough of "M'sieu'
Marchand." She was bitterly ashamed that she had, even for a moment,
thought of using diplomacy with him. But this woman's face was so
forlorn, apart, and lonely, that the old spirit of the Open Road worked
its will. In far-off days she had never seen a human being turned away
from a Romany tent, or driven from a Romany camp. She opened the door
and stood aside to admit the wayfarer.
A few moments later, the woman, tidied and freshened, sat at the ample
breakfast which was characteristic of Romany home-life. The woman's
plate was bountifully supplied by Fleda, and her cup filled more than
once by Madame Bulteel, while old Gabriel Druse bulked friendly over all.
His face now showed none of the passion and sternness which had been
present when he passed the Sentence of the Patrin upon Jethro Fawe;
nothing of the gloom filling his eyes as he left Ingolby's house. The
gracious, bountiful look of the patriarch, of the head of the clan, was
upon him.
The husband of one wife, the father of one child, yet the Ry of Rys had
still the overlooking, protective sense of one who had the care of great
numbers of people.
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