Bewitched (Bantam Series No. 16) by Barbara Cartland

also made of coins to match her necklace, and they glittered in the sunshine as she moved her head.
    “Has Hobley given you the money as I instructed him?” the Marquis asked suddenly.
    Saviya turned her face from the window to look at him.
    “I do not want your money,” she answered.
    As she spoke, the Marquis realised that the coins around her neck and in her ears were worth a hundred times more than the five pounds with which he had thought to recompense her for her injuries.
    He also had an uneasy suspicion that the red stones he had supposed were glass were in fact rubies.
    Then he told himself he must be in a state of stupidity. How could Gypsies be expected to own anything so valuable?
    “Tell me about your tribe, the Kalderash,” he said.
    “I have told you that we are the metal-workers,” Saviya answered in a tone that was almost reproving, because she must repeat herself.
    “And what metals do you use?” the Marquis enquired.
    “Copper, silver or gold. Whatever is necessary for the work we have to do,” Saviya replied.
    “Gold?” the Marquis questioned.
    “The Nobles in Hungary use goblets for their wine and vessels of every description to ornament their tables. It is the Kalderash who fashion them.”
    “You liked being in Hungary?” the Marquis said, and added before she could answer: “I have the feeling the Hungarians call you something rather special.”
    “In Hungary and in Germany our Chiefs are ‘the Dukes of Little Egypt’.”
    “An important designation! Does it please you?”
    “Sometimes we are Kings, in Germany the ‘Zigeuner,’ in France ‘Bohemians,’ in Turkey the ‘Tchinghanie,’ and in Persia ‘Karaki.’ What does it matter? We are still Gypsies.”
    “But more appreciated in some countries than in others.”
    “King Sigismund of Hungary gave the Gypsies letters of protection. James V of Scotland gave one of our patrons, Johnie Faur, Lord and Earl of Little Egypt, juridical rights over his own Gypsy Bands.”
    “How do you know that?” the Marquis asked.
    “Our history is passed by mouth from tribe to tribe so that we know where we may find friends,” Saviya answered.
    “That is good sense,” the Marquis said. “I would very much like to meet the rest of your tribe. May I come to your camp?”
    “No!”
    The refusal was positive.
    “Why not?”
    “Because if they see you, I shall not be able to come here again.”
    The Marquis was surprised.
    “But why?”
    “You would not understand.”
    “What would I not understand?”
    Saviya hesitated before she said:
    “My Father, who is the Chief of the Kalderash, or, as we call him, the ‘Voivode,’ allowed me to come here and read your books because you were not at home. If he knows that you are back, then I cannot come again.”
    “But what has your father got against me?” the Marquis asked incredulously.
    “You are a man!”
    “Explain what you are trying to say,” he begged.
    “Perhaps another time,” Saviya said, rising to her feet. “It is getting late. I must return or they will come in search of me.”
    “Return where?” the Marquis asked.
    “To where we are camped in your woods.”
    “But I thought you were staying here in the House!”
    “Only for the first two days when I was unconscious,” Saviya replied. “But because Mr. Hobley was so kind and treated my wounds, I was allowed to return to have them dressed. Then, because I begged and besought my Father to let me read some of your books, he agreed. But there must be no other reason for me to visit your house.”
    “But you will come tomorrow?” the Marquis asked.
    “I think it will be permitted.”
    “Then do not tell your father that I am here.”
    She gave him a glance from under her long lashes.
    “Please come tomorrow,” the Marquis begged. “There is so much I want to learn about you. Why you are a witch, for instance, and what strange enchantments you can perform.”
    Saviya smiled but did not answer.
    Instead she