And he took all, forgetting that the Greeks bore gifts; or, perhaps,
remembering, rejoicing, happy in his servitude, he took into his heart
and soul the tribute this young girl offered, a grateful, thankful
captive.
The terrible cataclysm impending, menacing the world, they seemed
powerless, yet, to grasp and comprehend and understand.
Outside, the street rippled and roared with the interminable clatter
of passing cavalry: the girl looked into the eyes of the boy across
the tea-table, and her young eyes, half fearful yet enchanted, scarce
dared divine what his eyes were telling her while his hurrying tongue
chattered irrelevancies.
Three empires, two kingdoms, and a great republic resounded with the
hellish din of arming twenty million men. Her soft lips were touched
with the smile of youth that learns for the first time it is beloved;
her eyes of a child, exquisite, brooding, rested with a little more
courage now on his--were learning, little by little, to sustain his
gaze, endure the ardour that no careless, laughing speech of his could
hide or dim or quench.
In the twilight of the streets there was silence, save for the rush of
motors and the recurrent trample of armed men. But the heart of Rue
Carew was afire with song--and every delicate vein in her ran singing
to her heart.
There was war in the Eastern world; and palace and chancellery were
ablaze. But they spoke of the West--of humble places and lowly homes;
of still woodlands where mosses edged the brooks; of peaceful
villages they both had known, where long, tree-shaded streets slept in
the dappled shadow under the sun of noon.
* * * * *
Marotte came, silent, self-respecting, very grey and tranquil in his
hour of trial.
There were two letters for Neeland, left by hand. And, when the old
man had gone away bearing his silver tray among his heavier burdens:
"Read them," nodded Rue Carew.
He read them both aloud to her: the first amused them a little--not
without troubling them a little, too:
* * * * *
Monsieur Neeland: It is the Tzigane, Fifi, who permits herself the honour of addressing
you.
Breslau escaped. With him went the plans, it seems. You behaved
admirably in the Café des Bulgars. A Russian comrade has you and
Prince Erlik to remember in her prayers.
You have done well, monsieur. Now, your task is ended. Go back to the
Western World and leave us to end this battle between ourselves.
It is written and confirmed by the stars that what the Eastern World
has sown it shall now reap all alone.
We Tziganes know. You should not mock at our knowledge. For there is a
dark star, Erlik, named from the Prince of Hell. And last night it was
in conjunction with the red star, Mars. None saw it; none has ever
beheld the dark star, Erlik.