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I had not moved from the stile, where I had been seized by the screaming horror, when I heard the sound of steps behind me, and turning round I perceived that a pathway led across the field upon the farther side of the stile. A woman was coming towards me along this pathway, and it was evident to me that she was one of those gipsy Rias, of whom the master has said so much. Looking beyond her, I could see the smoke of a fire from a small dingle, which showed where her tribe were camping. The woman herself was of a moderate height, neither tall nor short, with a face which was much sunburned and freckled. I must confess that she was not beautiful, but I do not think that anyone, save the master, has found very beautiful women walking about upon the high-roads of England. Such as she was I must make the best of her, and well I knew how to address her, for many times had I admired the mixture of politeness and audacity which should be used in such a case. Therefore, when the woman had come to the stile, I held out my hand and helped her over.

“What says the Spanish poet Calderon?” said I. “I doubt not that you have read the couplet which has been thus Englished:

Oh, maiden, may I humbly pray
That I may help you on your way.”

The woman blushed, but said nothing.

“Where,” I asked, “are the Romany chals and the Romany chis?”

She turned her head away and was silent.

“Though I am a gorgio,” said I, “I know something of the Romany lil,” and to prove it I sang the stanza–

Coliko, coliko saulo wer
Apopli to the farming ker
Will wel and mang him mullo,
Will wel and mang his truppo.

The girl laughed, but said nothing. It appeared to me from her appearance that she might be one of those who make a living at telling fortunes or “dukkering,” as the master calls it, at racecourses and other gatherings of the sort.

“Do you dukker?” I asked.

She slapped me on the arm. “Well, you are a pot of ginger!” said she.

I was pleased at the slap, for it put me in mind of the peerless Belle. “You can use Long Melford,” said I, an expression which, with the master, meant fighting.

“Get along with your sauce!” said she, and struck me again.

“You are a very fine young woman,” said I, “and remind me of Grunelda, the daughter of Hjalmar, who stole the golden bowl from the King of the Islands.”

She seemed annoyed at this. “You keep a civil tongue, young man,” said she.

“I meant no harm, Belle. I was but comparing you to one of whom the saga says her eyes were like the shine of sun upon icebergs.”

This seemed to please her, for she smiled. “My name ain’t Belle,” she said at last.

“What is your name?”

“Henrietta.”

“The name of a queen,” I said aloud.

“Go on,” said the girl.

“Of Charles’s queen,” said I, “of whom Waller the poet (for the English also have their poets, though in this respect far inferior to the Basques)–of whom, I say, Waller the poet said:

That she was Queen was the Creator’s act,
Belated man could but endorse the fact.”

“I say!” cried the girl. “How you do go on!”

“So now,” said I, “since I have shown you that you are a queen you will surely give me a choomer”–this being a kiss in Romany talk.

“I’ll give you one on the ear-hole,” she cried.

“Then I will wrestle with you,” said I. “If you should chance to put me down, I will do penance by teaching you the Armenian alphabet–the very word alphabet, as you will perceive, shows us that our letters came from Greece. If, on the other hand, I should chance to put you down, you will give me a choomer.”