"For everything there is only one right time, say I, Marcu," the chief
explained, in measured solemn voice. "And so now is the time for my
daughter to get married. I have chosen her a husband from amongst the
sons of my men, a husband who will become the chief when I am no longer
here to come to your hut at the beginning of every winter. She shall
marry him in the spring. I now go with her to the bazaars to buy silks
and linens which the women of my tribe will fashion into new clothes for
both. And may Allah be good to them."

"_Allah il Allah_," Mehmet assured Marcu. "And who is he whom you have
chosen from amongst your men?"

"I am old, Mehmet, I would otherwise have chosen a younger man for my
daughter; but because I fear that this or the following winter will be
the last one, I have chosen Stan, whose orphaned daughter is Fanutza's
own age. He is good and true and strong. Young men never make careful
chiefs."

"That be right and wise," remarked Mehmet, who was by that time ready
for the trip. During the whole conversation the young gipsy girl had
been looking to her father when he spoke and sidewise when Mehmet
answered.

At fourteen Fanutza was a full-grown woman. Her hair, braided in
tresses, was hanging from underneath a black fur cap she wore well over
her forehead. Her eyes were large and brown, the long eyebrows were coal
black. Her nose was straight and thin and the mouth full and red. Withal
she was of a somewhat lighter hue than her father or the rest of the
gipsy tribe. Yet there was something of a darker grain than the grain in