The soul-shattering experience made them remember old words and old curses. Customs and habits which had long ago fallen into disuse, fallen by the wayside at the Ganges River, on the Turkestan roads, rose to the surface again. The women formed a circle holding each other’s braids and pulling hard, yelling and turning round and round. The men stripped and flogged one another. At one time during the night, when I had seen an altar built, I feared a return to human sacrifice. But the fire was not lighted. An old Gypsy spoke and stayed whatever was about to take place. He urged them to keep their minds away. Not to commit themselves. For if Miora were stronger and they had committed themselves mentally to the other one, they were sure to be punished. So they danced rhythmless dances and sang tuneless songs, buried their nails in the flesh of their faces and their breasts, and howled with delight. In the end some one started to repeat incessantly two words, “Cirtra, vatra; cirtra, vatra; cirtra, vatra.” Soon they were all repeating the same words, holding one another under the spell of their feverish, dilated eyes and the jerking, nervous movements of their limbs and shoulders. The loud moaning of Miora rose above the din of the monotone, which soon became like an accompaniment to the wailing song. From time to time this unearthly cacophony was punctured with a dry and piercing report from Lica’s pistol. In their distraction the Gypsies had not noticed the appearance of Murdo in their midst. When they had noticed him they remained silent and surrounded him. Oh, they believed in him and his witch! He could see that in their eyes. Why had he thought it necessary to test them? Murdo was in his bare feet and dressed only in a white shirt, held closely to the hips with a wide red sash. “Call Lica,” he ordered, “but let two men keep Miora in her tent.” Lica came out. He was not too sure on his feet. I could see Murdo remarked that. The old chief walked to where the young Gypsy was standing, measured six feet away from him, opened the shirt at his chest until the gray-haired surface was exposed, and said: “Aim well, Lica, for I want no excuse afterward. It is known thou art the best shot of the tribe.” Miora howled her loudest. The others were awe-struck and silent. “Now,” and the old chief leveled his pistol. “When I say ‘three.’” Lica was pale, but he had regained his composure. It was evident both men were anxious to end the affair. “One.” “Two.” “Three.” Both men emptied their pistols; and Murdo fell flat on his back. The blood trickled. “Murdo!” I cried, leaning over the dying man. Lica was untouched, wondering, amazed at what had happened. “In--my--left--hand--take it--” Murdo murmured softly. “He--is--a good shot. They will believe in him. It’s what--they need. A chief--in whom they believe--a great witch, Miora--greater than mine----” From his left hand I took the lead of the bullet Murdo had fired at Lica!