s maid, and she and her husband would give him shelter till he
could see his father and make terms.

If things turned out well then his life and Arithelli's would be one
long fairy-tale, which should begin where all other fairy-tales ended.
If his father refused to see him then surely they could both find some
engagement in another circus or Hippodrome.

She had the advantage of the reputation she had gained here, and he
could work in the stables again, and they would be free and together.

Arithelli kissed the letter, before she put it down, and lay back with
her hands over her eyes, trying to think. She had begun her adventures
by running away from home, and now for the second time her only course
was flight. Even Emile had told her not to waste time in going. For
her it seemed there was never to be any peace or rest.

If they could only find some haven away from all the world, she
thought. A forest or desert, some unknown spot where there was air and
space and natural savage beauty, a tent to dwell in, a horse to ride,
complete freedom, the life of her remote ancestors, simple, dignified.

Once she had craved for change. Now she feared it. She knew what
Vardri had ignored, that the moment they both left Barcelona they would
become fugitives. If they were discovered they would be treated simply
as deserters from the ranks of an army.

Instinctively her thoughts turned to Emile. It was he who must help
her to decide. She slid out of bed, and commenced her toilet, while
she recalled to mind the things that must be got through during the
day. There was a manuscript to be delivered to Sobrenski, an article
of Jean Grave's from _Les Temps Nouveaux_ which she had copied for
reproduction.

She finished dressing her hair, and pushed the window more widely open,
for the sound of music in the distance had caught her ear.

Though it was now autumn, and in England there would have been mist and
gloom and fogs, here the sun shone, and the air was sweet and mild.

The parching, exhausting heat of the summer was gone, and everything
smelt fresh and clean, without any touch of winter cold.

Down below in the Calle Catriona the music swelled louder and higher
till her attic room was filled with the dancing notes.

Along the pavement two men walked slowly with guitar and flageolet.

They walked turning in opposite directions, their heads thrown back,
their feet keeping step, two black-haired, supple vagabonds of g