“So that’s Romipen (marriage),” said I—“and do you consider it binding?” “Always, prala,” she replied impressively. “Supposing the man did not think it was, and left you?” I ventured. “So much the worse for him,” she answered—“for whenever any of my people saw him they’d down him with a cosh.” “Is that the gypsy law?” “That is the gypsy law, prala.” The earnest manner, and the convincing tone in which all this was said left no room for doubt that the unwritten laws of the Romanies are really felt by them to be more sacred and binding than the law of the land,—the former being obeyed because of an inherited respect for them, or a mystical allegiance to tribal traditions, while the latter would appear to command respect only on account of the physical force behind. The gypsy wedding is usually accompanied by a spree by way of celebration, and unhappily some of the company emulate the gorgios at similar functions by getting into a state quite the reverse of sober. Such conduct, even if pardonable on these occasions, is of course discreditable, but to be quite just to the gypsy I must say that his behaviour in the circumstances seems to be less bestial than that of many a non-gypsy who professedly despises him. “Are you married?” asked one of the girls of me. “No,” I replied. “Well, you ain’t got much to worry about,” said she, with a saucy smile. Not far from our group was a camp that had all day appeared deserted save for a child or two left “on guard.” Now there came from it sounds as of meat sizzling in the frying-pan, while clouds of wood-smoke ascended and a cheery voice called out: “Will you join us?—you’re welcome.” Accordingly, we went over to the living wagons and tents and found several women busily engaged in preparing for the evening meal; one was dexterously manipulating a frying-pan, another tended the fire, and so on. I was invited to partake of the meal with a family whose home was a tent. In the way of food there was bread and jam, German sausage and bread, and bowls of tea. As I was the guest I was offered for a seat a boot-repairing iron upon which a piece of sacking was placed to modify its undesirable qualities. I imagine it would take years of practice to enable one to sit with any degree of comfort on a boot-repairing iron, but I determined to make the best of it and to appear as though I liked it and had sat upon nothing but boot-irons all my life. However, the fumes from the coke fire hard by proved almost too much for me and I was in danger of falling from my precarious perch. My friends evidently noticed this as they made a less uncertain seat for me by upturning an empty bucket and covering the bottom with an old coat as a cushion. [Illustration: “There is in all this cold and hollow world No fount of deep, strong, deathless love, Save that within a mother’s heart.” MRS. HEMANS.]