of figure and manner. He was so closely knit in form; there was such
concentration in face, bearing and gesture, that the isolation of his
position was greatly deepened.

"No, you never kissed me after you were old enough to like or dislike,"
he said with mournful and ironical reflection.

There crept into his face a kind of yearning such as one might feel who
beheld afar off a promised land, and yet was denied its joys. Rhodo was
wifeless, childless, and had been so for forty years. He had had no
intimates among the Romany people. His life he lived alone. That the
daughter of the Ry of Rys should kiss him was a thing of which he would
dream when deeds were done and over and the shadows threatened.

"I will kiss you again in another fifteen years," she said half-smiling
through her tears. "But tell me--tell me what has happened."

"Jethro Fawe has gone," he answered with a sweeping outward gesture.

"Where has he gone?" she asked, apprehension seizing her.

"A journey into the night," responded the old man with scorn and wrath in
his tone, and his lips were set.

"Is he going far?" she asked.

"The road you might think long would be short to him," he answered.

Her hands became cold; her heart seemed to stop beating.