to back myself, I held my peace, and let the Gorgio have it all his own way, who, after turning up his nose at me, went on discoursing about the said invention, saying what a fund of profit it would be to those who knew how to make use of it, and should have the laying down of the new roads, and the shoeing of England with iron.  And after he had said this, and much more of the same kind, which I cannot remember, he and his companion got up and walked away; and presently I and Sylvester got up and walked to our camp; and there I lay down in my tent by the side of my wife, where I had an ugly dream of having camped upon an iron road; my tent being overturned by a flying vehicle; my wife’s leg injured; and all my affairs put into great confusion.”

“Now, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “I have braided your hair in our fashion:  you look very beautiful, madam; more beautiful, if possible, than before.”  Belle now rose, and came forward with her tire-woman.  Mr. Petulengro was loud in his applause, but I said nothing, for I did not think Belle was improved in appearance by having submitted to the ministry of Mrs. Petulengro’s hand.  Nature never intended Belle to appear as a gypsy; she had made her too proud and serious.  A more proper part for her was that of a heroine, a queenly heroine,—­that of Theresa of Hungary, for example; or, better still, that of Brynhilda the Valkyrie, the beloved of Sigurd, the serpent-killer, who incurred the curse of Odin, because, in the tumult of spears, she sided with the young king, and doomed the old warrior to die, to whom Odin had promised victory.

Belle looked at me for a moment in silence; then turning to Mrs. Petulengro, she said, “You have had your will with me; are you satisfied?” “Quite so, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “and I hope you will be so too, as soon as you have looked in the glass.”  “I have looked in one already,” said Belle; “and the glass does not flatter.”  “You mean the face of the young rye,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “never mind him, madam; the young rye, though he knows a thing or two, is not a university, nor a person of universal wisdom.  I assure you, that you never looked so well before; and I hope that, from this moment, you will wear your hair in this way.”  “And who is to braid it in this way?” said Belle, smiling.  “I, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “I will braid it for you every morning, if you will but be persuaded to join us.  Do so, madam, and I think, if you did, the young rye would do so too.”  “The young rye is nothing to me, nor I to him,” said Belle; “we have stayed some time together; but our paths will soon be apart.  Now, farewell, for I am about to take a journey.”  “And you will go out with your hair as I have braided it,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “if you do, everybody will be in love with you.”  “No,” said Belle; “hitherto I have allowed you to do what you please, but henceforth I shall have my own way.  Come, come,” said she, observing that the gypsy was about to speak, “we have