Gabriel Druse was on him, gripping his arms so tight to his body that his swift motion to draw a weapon was frustrated.

The old man put out all his strength, a strength which in his younger days was greater than any two men in any Romany camp, and the "breath and beauty" of Jethro Fawe grew less and less.

His face became purple and distorted, his body convulsed, then limp, and presently he lay on the ground with a knee on his chest and fierce, bony hands at his throat.
"Don't kill him--father, don't!" cried the girl, laying restraining hands on the old man's shoulders.

He withdrew his hands and released the body from his knee.

Jethro Fawe lay still.
"Is he dead ?" she whispered, awestricken.