She was still dwelling on these satisfactory deductions when there was a
sudden rustling among the dead leaves and a noise of footsteps.
She was going to run away when a gipsy lad of eighteen or twenty appeared
before her--a tall, lithe, dark fellow with thick woolly hair, shining
black eyes, and thick parted lips.
His eyes glittered as he cried--
"Almani!"
"Almani!" replied Myrtle, moved with much interest.
"Ha, ha!" cried the lad, "what gang do you go with?"
"I don't know--I am looking for it."
And without any concealment she told him how Bremer had found her and
brought her up, and how she had escaped yesterday from his house.
The young gipsy grinned, and showed a long double row of white teeth.
"I am going to Hazlach," he cried. "To-morrow there's a _fete_ there; our
band will all be there--Pfiffer Karl, Melchior, Blue-Titmouse, Fritz the
clarionet, Coucou-Peter, and Magpie. The women are going fortune-telling,
and we play the music. If you like, you may go with me."
"I will," said Myrtle, looking down.
Then he kissed her, laid his bag upon her back, and grasping his stick in
both his hands, he cried--
"Now you are my wife! You will carry the bag for me, and I will keep you.
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