"She is the daughter of the devil. She shall be soundly thrashed!
The chalana!* And he a Gorgio!"**

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* Chalana--She jockey (a compliment).
** Gorgio--Gentile (an insult).
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Suddenly Fred began to shout for help then, and we rode back, the
gipsies following and Rustum Khan remaining on guard between them
and their camp with his upbrushed black beard bristling defiance
of Asia Minor. Our Turkish muleteers had decided to make a final
bolt for it, and were using their whips on the Zeitoonli, who clung
gamely to the reins. As soon as we got near enough to lend a hand
the Turks resigned themselves with a kind of opportune fatalism.
The Zeitoonli promptly turned the tables on them by laying hold of
a leg of each and tipping them off into the mud. Ibrahim showed
his teeth, and reached for a hidden weapon as he lay, but seemed
to think better of it. It looked very much as if those four Zeitoonli
knew in advance exactly what the interruption in our journey meant.

Will was out of the running entirely, or else the rest of us were,
depending on which way one regarded it. He had eyes for nobody and
nothing but the girl, nor she for any one but him, and nobody could
rightfully blame either of them. Yankee though he is, Will sat his
mule in the western cowboy style, and he was wearing a cowboy hat
that set his youth off to perfection. She looked fit to flirt with
the lord of the underworld, answering his questions in a way that
would have made any fellow eager to ask more. Strangely enough,