Sophia, as she passed through Trieste, in the course of her adventurous life, had been present, in the court of the inn where she had put up, at a quarrel between Milona and her ferocious suitor. The little one boldly opposed the zingaro, who wished to compel her to follow him, and to his loud-voiced threats uttered in the Romany tongue, she replied by a determined denial and a flashing look of defiance. The whole band, the only relations Milona knew, supported the young bandit’s pretensions. But Milona continued her refusal, when the chief of the band, an old man with grey beard and white curly hair, a regular patriarch, whose chief business was to steal poultry from the villages they traversed, tried to reason with the young girl. Sophia, with her elbows resting on the window-sill, was enjoying the sight, and a feeling of sympathy came over her for this proud child who would not submit to the man’s tyranny. She appeared to understand the language these gipsies spoke, and smiled at the highly-coloured expressions of their speech. “Milona,” said the venerable poultry-thief, “you are not acting aright. You refuse Zambo, who belongs to the tribe, and loves you well, because you have been listening to this little Hungarian hussar who has lately been making love to you. And yet you are well aware that he is a dog, an enemy of our race, who will soon tire of you, and leave you all alone. It was to me your mother left you when she died. I have paid for your training and food, taught you to tell fortunes, and all about chieromancy and the composition of love philtres. Will you be ungrateful and refuse to be the wife of my little nephew Zambo?” “I do not love him,” said the girl, dryly. “But he loves you.” “That does not matter to me.” “But if you resist him, he will kill you.” “That is my business!” “Do you intend to leave us, then?” “Yes. I am tired of living on robbery, and being clothed in rags!” “Then pay for your freedom.” “I have no money. Wait, and some day the hussar will give me my hands full of money.” At these words, Zambo gave a terrible imprecation, and leapt towards the child with the words— “That is the last word you shall ever speak!” And, brandishing a long dagger, he threw himself on Milona. At that critical moment the Baroness Sophia gave a shrill, whistling sound, which drew the attention of the whole band, and speaking in their own tongue, she said— “That is quite enough. I intend to send for the police. You, old man, would you like to sell the girl?” “Yes, your ladyship.” “How much?” “Twenty golden ducats.” “You thief!” “I cannot take less, your Excellency!” A purse fell into the courtyard at the patriarch’s feet. He picked it up with the rapidity of a juggler, counted the money, and, after bowing to the Baroness, said to Milona— “Thank your noble benefactress. She has paid; you are free!” “Come up here, little one,” said Sophia.