Somewhat remote from this scene of bustle and noise, at the door of a
small tent, sat two female gypsies. One of these was the queen, an
aged crone, who, though bent with age and care, and wrinkled by time
and the indulgence of vehement passions, yet prided herself upon the
unfrosted darkness of her raven tresses, which fell over her shoulders
in profusion. A turban of rich crimson cloth crowned her head, and a
shawl of the same color and material was wrapped around her shoulders.
Her skinny hands were supported by a silver-headed staff, which was
covered with quaint carvings. Her gown was of dark serge, and her
shoes were pointed, and turned up in the Oriental fashion, and
garnished with broad silver buckles. She sat apart, and the rising
moon shone down upon her dusky figure, and threw her wild features
into bold relief. At her feet sat a beautiful girl, with dark Grecian
features, and a full, voluptuous form. She, too, had long, flowing,
raven tresses, into which were twisted strings of pearl. From a
necklace of topaz hung a little silver crucifix, resting upon a full
and heaving bust, to which was fitted a close jacket, made of
deep-blue cloth, and fastened together with loops and silver buttons.
Her soft and round arms were naked, save at the shoulders, and her
wrists were encircled with tarnished gold bracelets. Her white
petticoat was short enough to display a well-turned ankle, and a small
foot, encased in neat black slippers. Her features, dark and
sun-browned, showed to more advantage in the pale moonlight than they
would have done in the broad blaze of day. The gypsy girl sat at the
feet of the queen, and looking up in her face, listened attentively to
her discourse.

"Myra," said the queen of the gypsies, "do you love him yet?"

"Love him!" repeated the girl. "Yes, mother--passionately. To obtain
his hand--his heart, I would peril every thing!"

"Strange and mysterious passion!" said the crone, "which defies reason
and law. Many years agone I loved with the same intense devotion. The
same fiery blood courses in your veins; the same contempt of
obstacles. Yet the man I loved was nobler and prouder than the sexton
of St. Hubert's. We lived among the Gitanos of Spain, when we were
wedded. Five sons I bore to the partner of my cares. Where are they?
One followed his father to the gibbet; a second hurled defiance at his
enemies, as he perished in the flames of an _auto da fe_; the third
and fourth died in the