"Have you forgotten the Sentence of the Patrin?" Fleda asked the
question in a voice which showed a sudden access of determination.

"He will have to wipe it out after to-morrow," replied the other with a
gleam of sulky meaning and furtive purpose in his eyes.

"If you mean that I will change my mind to-morrow, and be your wife, and
return to the Gipsy life, it is the thought of a fool. I asked you to
come here to speak with me because I was sure I could make you see things
as they truly are. I wanted to explain why I did not tell the Romanys
outside there that the Sentence had been passed on you. I did not tell
them because I can't forget that your people and my people have been sib
for hundreds of years; that you and I were children together; that we
were sealed to one another when neither of us could have any say about
it. If I had remained a Gipsy, who can tell--my mind might have
become like yours! I think there must be something rash and bad in me
somewhere, because I tell you frankly now that a chord in my heart rang
when you made your wild speeches to me there in the hut in the Wood
months ago, even when I hated you, knowing you for what you are."

"That was because there was another man," interjected Jethro.

She inclined her head. "Yes, it was partly because of another man,"
she replied. "It is a man who suffers because of you. When he was alone
among his foes, a hundred to one, you betrayed him. That itself would
have made me despise you to the end of my life, even if the man had been
nothing at all to me.

"It was a low, cowardly thing to do. You did it; and if you were my
brother, I would hate you for it; if you were my father, I should leave