I could hardly believe my ears. What man dared use such language to Murdo and hope still to live? By that time a number of men and women of the camp surrounded the two. “Lost my belief!” Murdo exclaimed, laughing. “I never had any!” “Never had any!” Lica echoed, and looked around at the other men. His mother’s face twitched, her body became contorted. She gave one long hiss, like a snake, and hobbled away on her stick. “Never had any! What about the time she had darkened the sun? When she had sailed away on a broomstick in open daylight?” many of the other Gypsies repeated. They put as much space between themselves and their chief as they could. It was blasphemy. Murdo was calling down the wrath of the evil one upon himself and the camp. And if Miora were no witch at all, why had he not told them before? Was it possible they had lived so many years without protection from evil spirits? From “Ciuma,” the mother of the forest! When they had all gone Murdo said to me, “Keep as near my tent as possible, for, though thou hast not insulted them, their anger may turn upon thee.” I sat in front of the tent watching the men busying themselves feverishly each at his work. I could hear them muttering as they worked. I could see them grouping themselves and talking in subdued voices as they shot out glances from underneath their lashes toward where Murdo was sitting. Only Lica and Miora were not to be seen. Curiously enough, Murdo’s face, which had been so choleric only a while ago, had suddenly turned a glossy white. A certain beatitude seemed to be enveloping him. His eyes were very wide open and an unearthly smile played about his lips. It was the same smile that played when he confused an adversary in a discussion, when he was tremendously satisfied with himself. “One can never rule too well,” he said to me after a while. “If a ruler is kind, men think him a weakling. So he is a bad ruler. If a ruler is severe, his men think him a tyrant. So he is a bad ruler. One should rule well according to his own lights. A kind ruler should be kind and a severe one severe.” That night Murdo remained awake. He came over several times to my tent. He said he could not sleep; but I knew he was watching over me, fearing something might happen. I had attempted several times to make conversation with the men and the women of the tribe, but they avoided me and sent me unceremoniously about my work. Only Miora had come nearer, and, passing her bony hands through my hair, she asked, “Were you with Murdo when he visited that witch?” “No,” I replied. “He was alone. I never saw the witch.” Miora looked into my eyes to see if I had told the truth. Satisfied, she hobbled away to the tent she occupied with her son.