Hardly had the last word left his lips, when an old woman--ugly as the witch of Endor--with red coif and scarlet cloak, hobbled out of the wood and planted herself deliberately before him. Her brown face, peaked eyes, and sharply cut features would have proclaimed her Romany, even without her fantastic garments and dazzling gold coins. From ears and neck and wrists depended strings of sequins, which jingled musically as she shivered in the keen air and stared at the new-comer. He beheld a withered gipsy hag, she a splendidly handsome young man. In her feminine eyes he was well worth looking at. Brown velveteen coat and knickerbockers, grey cloth shirt with blue neckerchief, cloth cap, gaiters, and heavy boots. There you have his dress--that of a gamekeeper. Yet the wearer would not have escaped the guillotine in the Reign of Terror. Aristocrat was writ largely on face and bearing. His six feet of stalwart manhood showed the influence of athletic training; his masterful mien, and the imperious look of his grey eyes, firm lips, and wide nostrils, betrayed the class to which he belonged. A glance revealed that this dominating nature was derived from long generations of men accustomed to command. His attempt to pass as a man of the people was a dismal failure. A step, a word, a gesture, proclaimed his breeding, and showed him superior to his surroundings. With the astuteness of her race, the gipsy saw the stamp of birth in this shabbily dressed vagrant, and framed her speech accordingly. "Cross my hand with gold, my fair-faced lord, and let the poor gipsy tell your fortune." The man addressed smoothed his moustache, and looked down with a quiet smile at the red-cloaked dame. He reflected before making answer, and even when he opened his mouth gave her but little satisfaction. "With you, no doubt, every one to be wheedled is a lord." "Trust a Romany to trick a Gorgio," said she, with a flicker of mirth in her glazed eye; "but truth will out at times. You are a gentleman, rye." He glanced at the vehicle behind him, at his rough clothes and heavy boots, and dismissed her speech with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. "A gentleman! A lord! And tramping the country tinker-fashion! Your eyes are not sharp, mother." "Glib tongue! Steady eye. A rare lie, my dearie; but Mother Jericho ain't no fool. Can an eagle hide in goose-feathers? No! nor can you hide gentle birth in rough clothes." "I am having greatness thrust upon me," he answered smiling. "You are quite wrong, mother. Some rags of gentility, some scraps of learning, I may have picked up; but I am neither lord nor gentleman. My name is Dan, and I set up for being a cheap-jack." "Can you patter, rye?" "Can I what?" asked he, unable to understand her speech. "He! he!" mocked Mother Jericho. "A fine cheap-jack, truly! Why, he doesn't even know the lingo of the road! No, no, my dearie; I'm too fly to be taken in. Give me your hand and I'll tell your fortune. Then you can go."