He conjectured that the fallen rider, with his broken leg, would avoid the dry harvest-fields, over which the fire was rapidly spreading, and would be found in the moist ditch beside the road.

Nor was he wrong in this surmise.

He was soon saluted in a voice that he recognised.
"Gipsy, come here!" "Not so fast," the fiddler replied.

"How do I know you won't shoot me ?" "I have nothing to shoot with.

I am lying in the water, so that even if I had my pistols the powder would be soaked through." "But what do you want of me ?" "I wish you to save my life." "And won't you have me locked up afterward ?" "If you will help me get away from here I'll make you a rich man.