Many times, as they journeyed homeward that night, Petite Jeanne cast apprehensive glances over her shoulder. More than once, as some object appeared to move in the darkness, she felt a great fear gripping at her heart, and had it not been for the presence of her staunch companion she would doubtless have gone fleeing into the night.

The cause of her fear, the gypsy god, was safely tucked away under her arm. This did not allay her fear. It only served to increase it, for had she not seen the shadow cast upon Angelo’s windowpane? And had she not recognized that shadow as belonging to the very gypsy who had pursued her in the darkness of that very morning?
81

“It is very strange about this gypsy god,” she said to Florence, as with a sigh of relief she sank into the depths of her own easy chair in their own little room. “One does not understand it at all. This god has been in the possession of the gypsy tribe of Bihari, my gypsy stepfather. As chief of the tribe he has watched over it for many years. Bihari is not in America. If he were I should know. Good news travels far in the wide world of the gypsies.

“And if he is not here, why is the God of Fire in this land? There can be but one answer. The tribe of Bihari would never part with so priceless a possession. It has been stolen and sent to America.”

“And then lost in the express.”

“You are quite right.”

“But who would steal it?”

“Who can say? Perhaps a gypsy who hates Bihari. There are many such. Perhaps only some sight-seeing Americans. There are some who would steal the Arch of Triumph in Paris as a souvenir if they could.”
82

“But is it so wonderful?” Florence’s tone was cold. Petite Jeanne had placed the strange object of their discussion upon the mantel. There, far from the glow of a fire, the thing seemed hideous, smoke-blackened, dead.

“Who can tell all?” Petite Jeanne’s voice trailed off into a weary silence.

When she spoke again it was as with the lips of a philosopher:

“Who can know all? The gypsies believe that the fire dance and this god give them strength and courage, that their sick are healed, that by these their fortunes are mended. There are those who have been to many schools and who should know much more than the poor, wandering gypsies, but they believe in even stranger things.

“I only know that this god, this God of Fire, is very old and that I believe in his power because I was taught to do so as a child.

“But the gypsies of America desire this god!”

She sprang suddenly to her feet and began pacing the floor.

“Why,” exclaimed Florence, “they can’t even know it is here!”
83

“One of them does. He saw it smiling in the fire to-night. I saw his shadow on the windowpane. He will tell others.”

“You saw him?”

“It could have been none other. I recognized him instantly. His coat, his curious hat, his profile, were all visible.

“But we must guard this god well. We must keep him in hiding.” She went to the door and locked it. “I must have him for our opera.”

“But you could have a model made of clay. Y............