As though by magic, like the pictures of a dream, out of the horizon,
in caravans, by train, on horseback, the Romany people gathered to the
obsequies of their chief and king. For months, hundreds of them had not
been very far away. Unobtrusive, silent, they had waited, watched, till
the Ry of Rys should come back home again. Home to them was the open
road where Romanys trailed or camped the world over.
A clot of blood in the heart had been the verdict of the doctors; and
Lebanon and Manitou had watched the Ry of Rys carried by his own people
to the open prairie near to Tekewani’s reservation. There, in the
hours between the midnight and the dawn, all Gabriel Druse’s personal
belongings--the clothes, the chair in which he sat, the table at which
he ate, the bed in which he slept, were brought forth and made into a
pyre, as was the Romany way. Nothing personal of his chattels remained
behind. The walking-stick which lay beside him in the moment of his
death was the last thing placed upon the pyre. Then came the match, and
the flames made ashes of all those things which once he called his own.
Standing apart, Tekewani and his braves watched the ceremonial of fire
with a sympathy born of primitive custom. It was all in tune with the
traditions of their race.
As dawn broke, and its rosy light valanced the horizon, a great
procession moved away from the River Sagalac towards the East, to which
all wandering and Oriental peoples turn their eyes. With it, all that
was mortal of Gabriel Druse went to its hidden burial. Only to the
Romany people would his last resting-place be known; it would be as
obscure as the grave of him who was laid:
“By Nebo’s lonely mountain, On this side Jordan’s wave.”
Many people from Manitou and Lebanon watched the long procession pass,
and two remained until the last wagon had disappeared over the crest
of the prairie. Behind them were the tents of the Indian reservation;
before them was the alert morn and the rising sun; and ever moving on
to the rest his body had earned was the great chief lovingly attended
by his own Romany folk; while his daughter, forbidden to share in the
ceremonial of race, remained with the stranger.
With a face as pale and cold as the western sky, the desolation of this
last parting and a tragic renunciation giving her a deathly beauty,
Fleda stood beside the man who must hereafter be, to her, father,
people, and all else. Shuddering with the pain of this hour, yet
resolved to begin the new life here and now, as the old life faded
before her eyes, she turned to him, and, with the passing of the last
Romany over the crest of the hill, she said bravely:
“I want to help you do the big things. They will be yours. The world is
all for you yet.”
Ingolby shook his head. He had had his Moscow.
His was the true measure of things now; his lesson had been learned;
values were got by new standards; he knew in a real sense the things
that mattered.
“I have you--the world for sale!” he said, with the air of one
discarding a useless thing.
GLOSSARY OF ROMANY WORDS
Bosh----fiddle, noise, music.
Bor----an exclamation (literally, a hedge).
Chal----lad, fellow.
Chi----child, daughter, girl.
Dadia----an exclamation.
Dordi----an exclamation.
Hotchewitchi----hedgehog.
Kek----no, none.
Koppa----blanket.
Mi Duvel----My God.
Patrin----small heaps of grass, or leaves, or twigs, or string, laid
at cross-roads to indicate the route that must be followed.
Pral----brother or friend.
Rinkne rakli----pretty girl.
Ry----King or ruler.
Tan----tent, camp.
Vellgouris----fair.
ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS FOR THE ENTIRE “WORLD FOR SALE”:
Agony in thinking about the things we’re never going to do
I don’t believe in walking just for the sake of walking
It’s no good simply going--you’ve got to go somewhere
Most honest thing I ever heard, but it’s not the most truthful
Saw how futile was much competition
They think that if a vote’s worth having it’s worth paying for
When you strike your camp, put out the fires
Women may leave you in the bright days
You never can really overtake a newspaper lie
End of Project Gutenberg’s The World For Sale, Complete, by Gilbert Parker