A dozen or more of these cheerful, dark-visaged wanderers were soon about the fire. And after supper, as the night was still young, one of their number produced a flageolet and began to play upon it not unpleasantly. It was a well-toned instrument, far superior to the one out of which the draggle-tailed wanderer of the village street had wrung such doubtful music. Indeed Gervase, who had the ear of the true amateur, was delighted with the whole performance. He was fain to compliment the musician upon his melody. And in such a wonderful manner had warmth and good cheer revived the young man’s spirits, which less than an hour ago were at their lowest ebb, that now he begged to be allowed to discourse a little on the gypsy’s pipe--a request that was readily granted. Now it chanced that Gervase, for all that he had a very humble estimate of his own powers, had a certain skill in this, the most charming of the arts. Upon a natural and refined taste was grafted years of delighted study. Moreover the instrument was rather a choice one. The gypsies had a real love of music; and when cunning strains began to rise from their midst as they lay round the warm fire, they were spell-bound. First Gervase played a soft, refined piece he had learned in Italy. Its delicacy composed the ear even while it ravished it. Then followed bolder harmonies, less exquisite perhaps, but none the less delightful. Finally he passed into a couple of ranting pieces known and admired over all the countryside. When they heard these famous tunes some began to sing and others rose and danced round the fire. They would not hear of Gervase ceasing to play. For long enough was he kept at his task; all kinds of revelry accompanied the cheerful strains of the pipe, and when at last the accomplished musician was so weary that he could play no more it was gravely whispered about the fire that this soft-spoken wanderer with the wonderful gift was none other than Tat Barcey, the gentleman prig. All went well that evening with Gervase and Anne. An almost superstitious respect was paid to them. The old woman gave them a good place beside the fire in which to pass the night, and when the morning came they had another good meal. The gypsies showed them so much kindness that they were in no hurry to go forth. And before they left these friends, so heedful were they of present opportunity, that two things of consequence befell. In the first place a great desire had been kindled in Gervase to get possession of the gypsy’s flute. Again was the dagger with the silver hilt produced. Devoutly he hoped it would be deemed a full equivalent for the thing he coveted. The owner of the flute examined the weapon closely. Gervase’s heart began to beat excitedly. At that moment he desired the flute beyond anything else in the world. The value of the dagger tempted the gypsy to make the exchange. “Why, yes,” said he, “certainly I will.”