your house; if you were my husband, I should kill you. I asked you to
speak with me now because I thought that if you would go away--far away--
promising never to cross my father's path, or my path, again, I could get
him to withdraw the Sentence. You have kidnapped me. Where do you think
you are? In Mesopotamia? You can't break the law of this country and
escape as you would there. They don't take count of Romany custom here.
Not only you, but every one of the Fawes here will be punished if the law
reaches for your throat. I want you to escape, and I tell you to go now.
Go back to Europe. I advise you this for your own sake--because you are
a Fawe and of the clan."

The blood mounted to Jethro's forehead, and he made an angry gesture.
"And leave you here for him! 'Mi Duvel!' I can only die once, and I
would rather die near you than far away," he exclaimed.

His eyes had a sardonic look, there was a savage edge to his tongue, yet
his face was flushed with devouring emotion and he was quivering with
hope. That which he called love was flooding the field of his feelings,
and the mad thing--the toxic impulse which is deep in the brain of
Eastern races bled into his brain now. He was reckless, rebellious
against fate, insanely wilful, and what she had said concerning Ingolby
had roused in him the soul of Cain.

She realized it, and she was apprehensive of some desperate act; yet she
had no physical fear of him. Something seemed to tell her that, no
matter what happened, Ingolby would not wait for her in vain, and that
he would yet see her enter to him again with the love-light in her eyes.

"But listen to me," Jethro said, with an unnatural shining in his eyes,
his voice broken in its passion. "You think you can come it over me with