“Ah, ha! Ah, ha!” The smuggler’s blue eyes rested on Ortho, benevolent yet probing. “And where can you find thirty horses, my son? ’Tis a brear passell.” “Gypsy Herne rests on my land over winter; he has plenty.” “An Egyptian! An idolater! A worshiper after false gods! Put not thy trust in such, boy—though I do hear many of the young ones is baptized and coming to the way of Light. Hum! Ha! . . . But how do ’e knaw he’ll do it!” “’Cos he wants the money bad. He lost three parts of his stock in Wales this summer. I was with en.” “Oh, wid en, were ’e? So you knawn en well. And horse leaders?” “There’s seven Romanies and three of us up to farm.” “You knaw the country, s’pose?” “Day or night like my own yard.” King Nick turned on Jacky’s George, a faint smile curling the corners of his mouth. “What do ’e say now, George? Can this young man find the horses, think you?” “Ess, s’pose.” “Do ’e trust en?” A nod. “Then what more ’ave ’e got to say, my dear?” The fisherman scratched his beard, breathed heavily through his nostrils and said, “All right.” King Nick rose to his feet, rubbing his hands together. “‘Now let Jacob rejoice and Israel be glad.’ That’s settled. Welcome back to the fold, George, my old soul. ‘This is my brother that was dead but is alive again.’ Soon’s you give me word the Romany is agreeable I’ll slip ’e the cargoes, so shall the poor tinner be comforted at a reasonable price and the Lord be praised with cymbals—‘yea, with trumpets also and shawms.’ Gather in all the young men and maidens, George, that we may ask a blessing on our labors! Fetch ’em in to once, for I can feel the word of the Lord descending upon me!” * * * * * Dawn peering through the bottle-panes of Jacky’s George’s Kiddlywink saw the entire Baragwanath family packed shoulder to shoulder singing lustily, while before them, on a chair, stood a benevolent old gentleman in black beating time with one of John Wesley’s hymnals, white hair wreathing his head like a silver glory. “Chant, my dear beauties!” he cried. “Oh, be cheerful! Be jubilant! Lift up your voices unto the Lord! ‘Awake up, my glory, Awake lute and harp!’ Now all together!” “When passing through the watery deep I ask in faith His promised aid; The waves an awful distance keep And shrink from my devoted head.” CHAPTER XV Pyramus came down earlier than usual that year. The tenth of December saw his smoke-grimed wigwams erected in the little wood, the cloaks and scarves of the Romany women making bright blots of color among the somber trees, bronze babies rolling among bronze leaves.