‘You don’t ask me how you happened to meet me at Holywell, brother,’ said she to me, as we stood looking across the water at Carnarvon Castle, over whose mighty battlements the moon was fighting with an army of black, angry clouds, which a wild wind was leading furiously against her—­’you don’t ask me how you happened to meet me at Holywell, nor how long I’ve been back agin in dear old Wales, nor what I’ve been a-doin’ on since we parted; but that’s nuther here nor there.  I’ll tell you what I think about Winnie an’ the chances o’ findin’ her, brother, and that’ll intrust you more.’

‘What is it, Sinfi?’ I cried, waking up from the reminiscences, bitter and sweet, the bright moon had conjured up in my mind.

‘Well, brother, Winnie, you see, was very fond o’ me.’

‘She was, and good reason for being fond of you she had.’

‘Well, brother, bein’ very fond o’ me, that made her very fond o’ all Romanies; and though she took agin me at fust, arter the cuss, as she took agin you because we was her closest friends (that’s what Mr. Blyth said, you know, they allus do), she wouldn’t take agin Romanies in general.  No, she’d take to Romanies in general, and she’d go hangin’ about the different camps, and she’d soon be snapped up, being so comely, and they’d make a lot o’ money out on her jist havin’ her with ’em for the “dukkerin’."’

‘I don’t understand you,’ I said.

‘Well, you know,’ said Sinfi, ’anybody as is under the cuss is half with the sperrits and half with us, and so can tell the real “dukkerin’.”  Only it’s bad for a Romany to have another Romany in the “place” as is under the cuss; but it don’t matter a bit about having a Gorgio among your breed as is under a cuss; for Gorgio cuss can’t never touch Romany.’

‘Then you feel quite sure she’s not dead, Sinfi?’

‘She’s jist as live as you an’ me somewheres, brother.  There’s two things as keeps her alive:  there’s the cuss, as says she’s got to beg her bread, and there’s the dukkeripen o’ the Golden Hand on Snowdon, as says she’s got to marry you.’

’But, Sinfi, I mean that, apart from all this superstition of yours, you have reason to think she’s alive? and you think she’s with the Romanies?’

’I know she’s alive, and I think she’s with the Romanies.  She must be, brother, with the Shaws, or the Lees, or the Stanleys, or the Boswells, or some on ’em.’

‘Then,’ said I, ’I’ll turn Gypsy; I’ll be the second Aylwin to own allegiance to the blood of Fenella Stanley.  I’ll scour Great Britain till I find her.’

‘You can jine us if you like, brother.  We’re goin’ all through the West of England with the gries.  You’re fond o’ fishin’ an’ shootin’, brother, an’ though you’re a Gorgio, you can’t help bein’ a Gorgio, and you ain’t a mumply ’un, as I’ve said to Jim Burton many’s the time; and if you can’t give the left-hand body-blow