The end to that had come. Gaiety, daring, passion, elation, depression,
were alive in her now, and in a sense had found an outlet in a handful of
days--indeed since the day when Jethro Fawe and Max Ingolby had come into
her life, each in his own way, for good or for evil. If Ingolby came for
good, then Jethro Fawe came for evil. She would have revolted at the
suggestion that Jethro Fawe came for good.

Yet, during the last few days, she had been drawn again and again towards
the hut in the wood. It was as though a power stronger than herself had
ordered her not to wander far from where the Romany claimant of herself
awaited his fate. As though Jethro knew she was drawn towards him, he
had sung the Gipsy songs which she and Ingolby had heard in the distance.
He might have shouted for relief in the hope of attracting the attention
of some passer-by, and so found release and brought confusion and perhaps
punishment to Gabriel Druse; but that was not possible to him. First and
last he was a Romany, good or bad; and it was his duty to obey his Ry of
Rys, the only rule which the Romany acknowledged. "Though he slay me,
yet will I trust him," he would have said, if he had ever heard the
phrase; but in his stubborn way he made the meaning of the phrase the
pivot of his own action. If he could but see Fleda face to face, he made
no doubt that something would accrue to his advantage. He would not give
up the hunt without a struggle.

Twice a day Gabriel Druse had placed food and water inside the door of
the hut and locked him fast again, but had not spoken to him save once,
and then but to say that his fate had not yet been determined. Jethro's
reply had been that he was in no haste, that he could wait for what he
came to get; that it was his own--'ay bor'! it was his own, and God or
devil could not prevent the thing meant to be from the beginning of the