Instantly the leaping flames transformed the great, uncomfortable,
draughty barn into a hall of gorgeous color and shadows without limit.
There was no other illumination, except for the glow here and there
of pipes and cigarettes, or matches flaring for a moment. Barring
the tobacco, we lay like a baron's men-at-arms in Europe of the Middle
Ages, with a captive woman to make sport with in the midst, only
rather too self-reliant for the picture.

Feeling himself warm, and rested, and full enough of food, Fred flung
a cigarette away and reached for his inseparable concertina. And
with his eyes on the great smoked beams that now glowed gold and
crimson in the firelight, he grew inspired and made his nearest to
sweet rnusic. It was perfectly in place--simple as the savagery
that framed us--Fred's way of saying grace for shelter, and adventure,
and a meal. He passed from Annie Laurie to Suwannee River, and all
but made Will cry.

During two-three-four tunes Maga stood motionless in the midst of
us, hands on her hips, with the fire-light playing on her face, until
at last Fred changed the nature of the music and seemed to be trying
to recall fragments of the song she had sung that afternoon. Presently
he came close to achievement, playing a few bars over and over, and
leading on from those into improvization near enough to the real
thing to be quite recognizable.

Music is the sure key to the gipsy heart, and Fred unlocked it.
The men and women, and the little sleepy children on the long wooden
platform opposite began to sway and swing in rhythm. Fred divined
what was coming, and played louder, wilder, lawlessly. And Maga