Suddenly, however, Gregor Jhaere reached inside his shirt.  Maga screamed.  Rustum Khan beside me swore a rumbling Rajput oath, and we all four leapt to our feet.  Maga drew no weapon, although she certainly had both dagger and pistol handy.  Instead, she glanced toward Kagig, who, strangely enough, was lolling on his blankets as if nothing in the world could interest him less.  The glance took as swift effect as an electric spark that fires a mine.  He stiffened instantly.

“Yok!” he shouted, and at once there ceased to be even a symptom of impending trouble.  Yok means merely no in Turkish, but it conveyed enough to Gregor to send him back to his place between his women and the Turk unashamedly obedient, leaving Maga standing beside Will.  Maga did not glance again at Kagig, for I watched intently.  There was simply no understanding the relationship, although Fred affected his usual all-comprehensive wisdom.

“Another claimant to the title!” he said.  “A fight between Will and Kagig for that woman ought to be amusing, if only Will weren’t a friend of mine.  Watch America challenge him!”

But Will did nothing of the kind.  He smiled at Maga, offered her a cigarette, which she refused, and returned to his place beyond Fred, leaving her standing there, as lovely in the glowing firelight as the spirit of bygone romance.  At that Kagig shouted suddenly for fuel, and three of the Turk’s seven hoydens ran to heap it on.

Instantly the leaping flames transformed the great, uncomfortable, draughty barn into a hall of gorgeous color and shadows without limit.  There was no other illumination, except for the glow here and there of pipes and cigarettes, or matches flaring for a moment.  Barring the tobacco, we lay like a baron’s men-at-arms in Europe of the Middle Ages, with a captive woman to make sport with in the midst, only rather too self-reliant for the picture.

Feeling himself warm, and rested, and full enough of food, Fred flung a cigarette away and reached for his inseparable concertina.  And with his eyes on the great smoked beams that now glowed gold and crimson in the firelight, he grew inspired and made his nearest to sweet rnusic.  It was perfectly in place—­simple as the savagery that framed us—­Fred’s way of saying grace for shelter, and adventure, and a meal.  He passed from Annie Laurie to Suwannee River, and all but made Will cry.

During two-three-four tunes Maga stood motionless in the midst of us, hands on her hips, with the fire-light playing on her face, until at last Fred changed the nature of the music and seemed to be trying to recall fragments of the song she had sung that afternoon.  Presently he came close to achievement, playing a few bars over and over, and leading on from those into improvization near enough to the real thing to be quite recognizable.

Music is the sure key to the gipsy heart, and Fred unlocked it.  The men and women, and the little sleepy children on the long wooden platform opposite began to sway and swing in rhythm.  Fred divined what was coming, and played louder, wilder, lawlessly.  And Maga did an astonishing thing.  She sat down on the floor and pulled her shoes and stockings off, as unselfconsciously as if she were alone.