linen on that reflection, not a very clear one at first, why had he not
told Mehmet to row across alone and deliver the fodder and food. He
could have passed the night in Anastasidis' inn and hired another boat
the following morning if the river had not frozen meanwhile! He should
have known, he who knew these passionate beasts so well. It was all the
same with them; whether they set their eyes on a horse that captured
their fancy or a woman. They were willing to kill or be killed in the
fight for what they wanted. A hundred gold pieces for a woman! Twenty
years' work for a woman!

The two men rowed in silence, each one planning how to outwit the other
and each one knowing that the other was planning likewise. According to
Tartar ethics the bargain was a bargain. When the boat had been pulled
out of danger Mehmet hastened to fulfil his end. With one jerk he
loosened a heavy belt underneath his coat and pulled out a leather purse
which he threw to Marcu. As he did so he met Fanutza's proud eye.

"Here. Count it. Just one hundred."

"That's good enough," the gipsy chief answered as he put the purse in
his pocket without even looking at it. "Row, I am cold. I am anxious to
be home."

"It will not be before daylight, chief," remarked Mehmet Ali as he bent
again over his oars and counted aloud, "_Bir, icki, Bir, icki_."
An hour later, Fanutza had fallen asleep on the bags of fodder and was
covered by the heavy fur coat of the Tartar. The two men rowed the whole
night upstream against the current in the slushy heavy waters of the
Danube. A hundred times floating pieces of ice had bent back the flat of
the oar Marcu was handling, and every time Mehmet had saved it from