* * * * *

Travelling from Abradbanya up towards Bucsum, one might have seen two
riders toiling up the mountain along the stream overshadowed by dark
alders; one of them was a grey-haired, gigantic Roumanian, the other a
proud-looking young woman. The old man wore a lambskin mantle, on his
head he carried a tall pointed cap, also of lambs' wool, drawn down over
his eyebrows, his body was carelessly girdled with a golden girdle. His
rich grey locks were plaited into two thick pig-tails which reached down
to his broad shoulders, and his snow-white moustache hung down from his
mouth like two seamew's wings. A coarse sack lay in front of him across
his saddle, both ends of which appeared to be full of something heavy;
across the sack lay his fowling-piece.

The fair cavalier was sitting on a small, wild, shaggy horse, which
constantly evinced a praiseworthy endeavour to overtake the rider in
front of him; his mistress with difficulty held him in. She was one of
those famous Roumanian beauties. Her features, the cut of her lips, her
full chin could have stood as a model beside any antique statue. And
then those sparkling eyes, that vividly red complexion, those coal-black
eyebrows--they made an ideal beauty of her. And the picturesque
Roumanian costume enhanced her charms. Her black hair, twisted into a
double plait, was bound round with a flaming-red scarf, and on her head
she wore a round hat, trimmed with pearls and garnished in front with a
row of gold pieces which reached down to her marble-white forehead.
Moreover, her fine cambric shirt embellished with bright flowers and
gold ornaments fitted so closely as to betray the outlines of her
harmonious figure. Wound ten times round her neck she wore a necklace
of gold coins extending down to her bosom. As she rode along (and she
sat astride her saddle like a man), every now and then one could catch
glimpses beneath her variegated girdle of her red morocco boots and of a
Turkish dagger, with a massive silver handle, gleaming forth from their
shafts. On each side of her holsters peeped forth a double-barrelled
pistol with an ivory handle.

When the old man stopped to water his horse at the spring gushing forth
from the black slate rock, he said to the girl: "Anicza, when did you
speak last with Fatia Negra?"

"Just a month ago. It was at the time of the full moon, like it is now.
He then said that he was going away on a long journey."