“Or a cloak, just as you please,” added Marsa.

The poor people on the barge made no reply, but looked at one another in bewilderment.

“Is it a little girl?” asked the Tzigana.

“No, Madame, no,” responded the mother.  “A boy.”

“Come here, jean,” said Marsa to the oldest child.  “Yes, come here, my little man.”

Jean came forward, glancing askance at his mother, as if to know whether he should obey.

“Here, jean,” said the young girl, “this is for your baby brother.”

And into the little joined hands of the boy, Marsa let fall a purse, through whose meshes shone yellow pieces of gold.

The people of the barge thought they were dreaming, and stood open-mouthed in amazement, while Jean cried out: 

“Mamma, see, mamma!  Mamma!  Mamma!”

Then the younger bargeman said to Marsa: 

“Madame, no, no! we can not accept.  It is too much.  You are too good.  Give it back, Jean.”

“It is true, Madame,” faltered his wife.  “It is impossible.  It is too much.”

“You will cause me great pain if you refuse to accept it,” said Marsa.  “Chance has brought us together for a moment, and I am superstitious.  I would like to have the little children pray that those I love—­that the one I love may be happy.”  And she turned her eyes upon Prince Andras, who had returned to the deck, and was coming toward her.

The lock was now opened.

“All aboard!” shouted the captain of the steamer.

The poor woman upon the barge tried to reach the hand of Marsa to kiss it.

“May you be happy, Madame, and thank you with all our hearts for your goodness to both big and little.”

The two bargemen bowed low in great emotion, and the whole bevy of little ones blew kisses to the beautiful lady in the black dress, whom the steamer was already bearing away.

“At least tell us your name, Madame,” cried the father.  “Your name, that we may never forget you.”

A lovely smile appeared on Marsa’s lips, and, in almost melancholy accents, she said: 

“My name!” Then, after a pause, proudly:  “The Tzigana!”

The musicians, as she spoke, suddenly struck up one of the Hungarian airs.  Then, as in a flying vision, the poor bargemen saw the steamer move farther and farther away, a long plume of smoke waving behind it.

Jacquemin, hearing one of those odd airs, which in Hungary start all feet moving and keeping time to the music, exclaimed: 

“A quadrille!  Let us dance a quadrille!  An Hungarian quadrille!”

The poor people on the barge listened to the music, gradually growing fainter and fainter; and they would have believed that they had been dreaming, if the purse had not been there, a fortune for them, and the fruit which the children were eating.  The mother, without understanding, repeated that mysterious name:  “The Tzigana.”