“Somebody must save that girl!” he panted.  “And who else can do it?  Who else is there?”

“There’s only you!” Fred agreed, choking down his mirth.

“I’m glad you agree with me.  At least you have that much blessedness, Mr. Fred. D’you know that girl was willing to be a murderess?  Yes!  She tried to murder Rustum Khan.  Rustum Khan ought to be hanged, for he is a villain—­a black villain!  But she must not have blood on her hands—­no, no!”

“Why didn’t she murder him?” demanded Fred.  “Qualms at the last moment?”

“No.  I’m sorry to say no.  She has no God-likeness yet.  But that will come.  She will repent.  I shall see to that.  It was I who prevented her, and she all but murdered me!  She would have murdered me, but Kagig held her wrist; and to punish her he gave an order that I should preach to her morning, afternoon, and evening—­three times a day.  So I had my opportunity.  There was a guard of gipsy women set to see that she obeyed.”

“Continue,” said Fred.  “What happened?”

“She broke away, and came down to see the fighting.”

“Why did you follow her?  Weren’t you afraid?”

“Oh, Mr. Fred, if you only knew!  Yet I felt impelled to find her.  I could not trust her out of sight.”

“Why not?  She seems fairly well able to look after herself.”

“Oh, I can not allow wickedness.  I must make it to cease!  It entered my head that she intended to find Kagig!”

“Well?  Why not?”

“Oh, Mr. Fred—­tell me!  You may know—­you perhaps as well as any one, for you are such an ungodly man!  What are her relations with Kagig?  Does he—­is he—­is there wickedness between them?”

“Dashed if I know.  She’s a gipsy.  He’s a fine half-savage.  Why should it concern you?”

“Oh, I could not endure it!  It would break my heart to believe it!”

“Then why think about it?”

“How can I help it?  I love her!  Oh, I love her, Mr. Fred!  I never loved a woman in all my life before.  It would break my heart if she were to be betrayed into open sin by Kagig!  Oh, what shall I do?  What shall I do?  I love her!  What shall I do?”

“Do?” said Fred, looking forward in imagination to new worlds of humor, “why—­make love, if you love her!  Make hot love and strong!”

“Will you help me, Mr. Fred?” the biped stammered.  “You see, she’s rather wild—­a little unconventional—­and I’ve never made love even to a sempstress.  Will you help me?”

“Certainly!” Fred chuckled.  “Certainly.  I’ll guarantee to marry her to you if you’ll dig up the courage.  Have you a ring?”

Peter Measel produced a near-gold ring with a smirk almost of recklessness, a plain gold ring whose worn appearance called to mind the finger taken from a dead Kurd’s cartridge pouch.  It may be that Measel bought it, but neither Fred nor I spoke to him again, for half an hour.