Even as the young Italian spoke, there came a knock at the door. With a little cry of fear, Petite Jeanne threw a small Persian rug over her treasured god; then, as if prepared to hold her ground against all comers, she clenched her small fists and turned to face the door.

Noting this, Angelo approached the door with silent footsteps, opened it a crack and demanded in a hoarse whisper:

“Who’s there?”

“Only I, your friend, Swen,” came in a large round voice.

“Swen Swenson! The Swedish night hawk!” Angelo shouted, throwing the door wide and extending both hands in greeting: “Who could be more welcome at a time like this?”
67

“What time?”

The youth who asked this question as he entered was a near giant in stature. His head was crowned with a shock of yellow hair. His cheeks were as rosy as a country child’s. His blue eyes were wide and smiling.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Angelo with a flourish, “allow me to present the big Swede who will write the music for our immortal masterpiece!

“Perhaps—” His eyes circled the room. “Perhaps you believe that the Scandinavians are not musicians. You are mistaken. Only recall Jenny Lind and Ole Bull and Eduard Grieg!

“But here—” He stood on tiptoe to touch that shock of yellow hair. “Here shall rest the richest crown of all!”

“It may be so,” grumbled Swen, as a broad grin belied his assumed ill humor. “But if you don’t explain I’ll crown you with a chair.”
68

“Patience!” The young Italian held out a hand. “All must be done in proper form. One moment. I shall light the fire. The kettle shall simmer. Before the fire all will be confessed. And after this we shall lay the plot, and what a plot it will be!”

Removing a heavy wire screen, Angelo dropped on his knees before a broad fireplace. A match flickered and a yellow flame appeared. As if by magic, the place that a moment before had seemed a theatre became an artist’s retreat glowing with light and warmth. At the right of the fireplace, where real flames went roaring skyward, was a broad wooden seat. Here, amid many bright pillows, Petite Jeanne and Florence were soon enthroned. The young host and his companions threw themselves upon thick rugs before the fire.

The lights were put out. The yellow glow of flames playing upon Angelo’s dark face transformed him seemingly into quite another being.

“See!” Florence whispered. “He is like a god in ancient bronze.”

“But not so ancient as this.” With fingers that trembled Petite Jeanne placed the gypsy god on the very border of the flames.
69

The transformation that followed instantly was startling. Florence jumped from her place. The big, blonde musician sprang backward. Angelo stared with wide eyes. As for Dan Baker, he stared at the thing with the fascination of a child.

And Jeanne? She merely smiled. Many times, at the back of hedges in the dead of night, or hidden away in some black forest, she had seen this thing, had witnessed the transformation of something that appeared all metal into a being that seemed alive with savage, fantastic grandeur: the gypsy God of Fire.

Even as they stared, voiceless, intent, motionless, a sound startled them all—the rattling of a windowpane in the skylight several feet above their heads.

Instantly all eyes were on that window. Everyone there knew that it was a silent, star-lit night.

“It rattled!” Jeanne whispered.

“And there is no wind!” Florence answered low.
70

As they looked, a mellow glow overspread the window.

“Who—What is it?” Jeanne’s eyes were staring.

“That?” Angelo laughed a low laugh. “That is only the gleam of Lindbergh Light, the airplane beacon.”

“But does it always rattle the window?”

“Light? Never!”

“But this,” the young Italian added quickly, “this is nothing. Come! We are wasting time. To-night, by this fire, we shall lay the groundwork for such a light opera as has never been known before. You, Swen,” he turned to the big blonde, “you are to write the music. I shall write the play. And these, our friends, are to be the stars.”

“Beautiful dream!” Petite Jeanne murmured.

“A dream for a night. A reality forever!” The Italian youth flung his arms wide in the characteristic gesture that the little French girl loved to see.
71

“See!” he exclaimed as the fire died down to the orange glow of a sunset. “The ugly little god smiles. It is an omen of good.”

They looked, and indeed the curious thing from the heart of the earth or from some distant planet (who could tell which?) seemed to smile.

But again Petite Jeanne shuddered; for, at that precise moment the window sash rattled again, this time with an unmistakable bang.

“Come,” urged Angelo, “snap out of it. It’s only the wind. We’ll make a beginning.”

“Wait. Wait but one little minute!” the French girl pleaded. She pressed her hand over her throbbing heart.

“Now,” she murmured as she sank back among the cushions, “it is over.”

“Behold, then!” Angelo began in the grand manner. “You, Petite Jeanne, are, just as you were in France, a refugee. No mother; no father; only a dancing bear. The gypsies, good gypsies, the best in all France, have befriended you. From village to village you have danced your way across France. All France has come to know and love you.
72

“But now—” He paused for emphasis. “This is where our play shall begin, just here. Now your bear seems at the point of death. He lies in the shadows, out of sight. But the gypsies, gathered about the camp fire that burns before the gaily painted wagons, are conscious of his presence. They, too, are sad. Sad because they love you and your ponderous dancing companion; sad, as well, because no longer the coins will jingle at your feet when the dance of the bear is ended.

“The light of the fire dispels the dark shadows of night for but a short distance. At the edge of those shadows, unobserved by those about the camp fire, sits an old man. His hair is long. It curls at the ends. His battered hat is drawn low over a mellow, kindly face.

“That man—” He turned suddenly toward Dan Baker. “That man is no other than yourself,............