heaviest of the year, lashed the river. When Mehmet had finally moored
his boat to the Roumanian side of the Danube, he turned around to the
gipsy chief and said:

"Be back before sundown. It shall be my last crossing of the year. For
when the sun rises the waters will be frozen still. The gale blows from
the land of the Russians."

"As you tell me, friend," answered Marcu while helping his daughter out
of the boat.

When the two had gone a short distance Fanutza turned her head. Mehmet
Ali was leaning on an oar and looking after them. A little later, a
hundred paces further, she caught fragments of a Tartar song that
reached her ears in spite of the shrill noises of the wind.

Marcu and his daughter entered the inn that stood a few hundred feet
from the shore. The innkeeper, an old fat greasy Greek, Chiria
Anastasidis, welcomed the gipsy chief. Not knowing the relationship
between the old man and the girl, he feared to antagonize his customer
by talking to the young woman. He pushed a white pine table near the big
stove in the middle of the room and after putting two empty glasses on
the table he inquired "White or red?"

"Red wine, Chiria. It warms quicker. I am getting old."

"Old!" exclaimed the Greek as he brought a small pitcher of wine. "Old!
Why, Marcu, you are as young as you were twenty years ago."

"This is my daughter, Fanutza, Chiria, and not my wife."