"Then, brother," continued the girl, "the Gorgio who paints gives me gold to dance for him." The Servian's face--what could be seen of it for hair--grew sombre, and he spat excessively.

"Curses on the Gentile!" he growled low in his throat.
"On him, but not on the money, brother," coaxed the girl, stooping to pat his face.

"It's fine work, cheating the rye.

But jealous you must not be, if the gold is to chink in our pockets." Kara still frowned.

"Were you my romi, sister--" "Aye, if I were.