He thought of all the circumstances now. It was very many months ago. The man had been accused of stealing and assault, but the evidence was unconvincing to Gaston. The feeling in court was against the gipsy. Fearing a verdict against him, Gaston rose and cross-examined the witnesses, and so adroitly bewildered both them and the justices who sat with his grandfather on the case, that, at last, he secured the man’s freedom. The girl was French, and knew English imperfectly. Gaston had her sworn, and made the most of her evidence. Then, learning that an assault had been made on the gipsy’s van by some lads who worked at mills in a neighbouring town, he pushed for their arrest, and himself made up the loss to the gipsy. It is possible that there was in the mind of the girl what some common people thought: that the thing was done for her favour; for she viewed it half-gratefully, half-frowningly, till, on the village green, Gaston asked her father what he wished to do--push on or remain to act against the lads. The gipsy, angry as he was, wished to move on. Gaston lifted his hat to the girl and bade her good-bye. Then she saw that his motives had been wholly unselfish--even quixotic, as it appeared to her--silly, she would have called it, if silliness had not seemed unlikely in him. She had never met a man like him before. She ran her fingers through her golden-brown hair nervously, caught at a flying bit of old ribbon at her waist, and said in French: “He is honest altogether, sir. He did not steal, and he was not there when it happened.” “I know that, my girl. That is why I did it.” She looked at him keenly. Her eyes ran up and down his figure, then met his curiously. Their looks swam for a moment. Something thrilled in them both. The girl took a step nearer. “You are as much a Romany here as I am,” she said, touching her bosom with a quick gesture. “You do not belong; you are too good for it. How do I know? I do not know; I feel. I will tell your fortune,” she suddenly added, reaching for his hand. “I have only known three that I could do it with honestly and truly, and you are one. It is no lie. There is something in it. My mother had it; but it’s all sham mostly.” Then, under a tree on the green, he indifferent to village gossip, she took his hand and told him--not of his fortune alone. In half-coherent fashion she told him of the past--of his life in the North. She then spoke of his future. She told him of a woman, of another, and another still; of an accident at sea, and of a quarrel; then, with a low, wild laugh, she stopped, let go his hand, and would say no more. But her face was all flushed, and her eyes like burning beads. Her father stood near, listening. Now he took her by the arm. “Here, Andree, that’s enough,” he said, with rough kindness; “it’s no good for you or him.” He turned to Gaston, and said in English: “She’s sing’lar, like her mother afore her. But she’s straight.” Gaston lit a cigar.