shouts and the tramp of booted feet. A troop of soldiers marched directly toward her, helmets flashing with a blinding brilliance, lances held high, their fluttering pennons snapping in the breeze. The crowd parted readily, many, in fact, diving out of their way so as not to be trampled. She stared, paralyzed by fear like any hunted creature. A commotion arose, both men and women shouting.
“Stop!”
“Don’t let her get away!”
In too great a panic to wonder how either soldiers or mob could have identified her as their quarry, she stood frozen until she saw a short figure hurtle toward her in a confusion of jingling chains and bracelets and ragged but colorful skirts. The child, for it was a little girl, cannoned into her so hard that she nearly lost her footing. Reflexively, she threw her arms around the child to keep her balance. The little girl, in turn, wrapped her skinny brown arms around Rachel and clung to her, whimpering damply into Rachel’s skirt as the soldiers came pounding up and ground to a halt surrounding them.
A stout market woman in apron and kerchief pushed past the soldiers. Two hulking youths followed her, shouting and brandishing cudgels. Rachel panted like an animal at bay.
“That’s her!” the market woman cried. “She stole an orange and knocked over my cart, the dirty little gypsy!”
“We don’t need her kind,” yelled one of the youths, “stealing from respectable folk.”
“Beat them and lock them up!” shouted the other. “Or drive them out of town! We don’t want them here!”
At this, the child, who looked to be no more than six or seven, lifted her tearstained face from Rachel’s skirt.
“I didn’t steal!” Her black eyes flashed, and her small hands formed claws as if she would have flown at her accusers and scratched them.
The leader of the soldiers dipped the tip of his lance toward her. The child shrank back against Rachel.
“Liar!” screamed the woman. “We know them gypsies’ thieving ways! And who knocked over my cart?”
“It was an accident!” the little girl screamed back. “I didn’t steal your fruit, you fat, cross-eyed gadjo !”
“Then what’s this?” the woman cried. She plunged her hand into the neck of the child’s ragged bodice and held up an orange, her eyes glittering with triumph.
“I offered to pay!” the child cried.
“With lies!” the woman countered. “Search her well,” she challenged the soldiers, “and you’ll find not a coin upon her, unless she’s been thieving from others than me this day.”
The little girl tugged at Rachel’s sleeve. When Rachel bent down, she said in a low voice, “I offered to read her palm. It was a fair trade, and I was hungry and thirsty, but she would have none of it. You must believe me!”
Rachel patted her shoulder.
“I will help you explain to the soldiers. Surely we can make them understand.” She caught the leader’s eye and opened her mouth to speak.
“They’re in it together!” the market woman bawled. “Look at them, two dirty gypsies, alike as two peas. Arrest them both! My sons and I will bear witness.”
“But I am not—” Rachel began.
The soldier nodded, and four of his men stepped forward and clapped an iron grip on Rachel’s arms and the little girl’s.
“You can tell it to my captain at the guardhouse,” he said. “I’m just the sergeant. It’s my job to bring in anyone who makes a disturbance, and you’ve done that all right.”
“But I didn’t —”
“Save it for the captain. Forward, march!”
Rachel looked around wildly. This would be a good time for Doña Marina, with her unfailing air of authority, to appear. Diego and the men at arms would be welcome too, though she supposed that they could not challenge a troop of soldiers without being overcome and arrested themselves. The little girl appeared to be more angry than cowed, kicking and spitting. The two soldiers who held her had to carry her at arm’s length, with her
“Stop!”
“Don’t let her get away!”
In too great a panic to wonder how either soldiers or mob could have identified her as their quarry, she stood frozen until she saw a short figure hurtle toward her in a confusion of jingling chains and bracelets and ragged but colorful skirts. The child, for it was a little girl, cannoned into her so hard that she nearly lost her footing. Reflexively, she threw her arms around the child to keep her balance. The little girl, in turn, wrapped her skinny brown arms around Rachel and clung to her, whimpering damply into Rachel’s skirt as the soldiers came pounding up and ground to a halt surrounding them.
A stout market woman in apron and kerchief pushed past the soldiers. Two hulking youths followed her, shouting and brandishing cudgels. Rachel panted like an animal at bay.
“That’s her!” the market woman cried. “She stole an orange and knocked over my cart, the dirty little gypsy!”
“We don’t need her kind,” yelled one of the youths, “stealing from respectable folk.”
“Beat them and lock them up!” shouted the other. “Or drive them out of town! We don’t want them here!”
At this, the child, who looked to be no more than six or seven, lifted her tearstained face from Rachel’s skirt.
“I didn’t steal!” Her black eyes flashed, and her small hands formed claws as if she would have flown at her accusers and scratched them.
The leader of the soldiers dipped the tip of his lance toward her. The child shrank back against Rachel.
“Liar!” screamed the woman. “We know them gypsies’ thieving ways! And who knocked over my cart?”
“It was an accident!” the little girl screamed back. “I didn’t steal your fruit, you fat, cross-eyed gadjo !”
“Then what’s this?” the woman cried. She plunged her hand into the neck of the child’s ragged bodice and held up an orange, her eyes glittering with triumph.
“I offered to pay!” the child cried.
“With lies!” the woman countered. “Search her well,” she challenged the soldiers, “and you’ll find not a coin upon her, unless she’s been thieving from others than me this day.”
The little girl tugged at Rachel’s sleeve. When Rachel bent down, she said in a low voice, “I offered to read her palm. It was a fair trade, and I was hungry and thirsty, but she would have none of it. You must believe me!”
Rachel patted her shoulder.
“I will help you explain to the soldiers. Surely we can make them understand.” She caught the leader’s eye and opened her mouth to speak.
“They’re in it together!” the market woman bawled. “Look at them, two dirty gypsies, alike as two peas. Arrest them both! My sons and I will bear witness.”
“But I am not—” Rachel began.
The soldier nodded, and four of his men stepped forward and clapped an iron grip on Rachel’s arms and the little girl’s.
“You can tell it to my captain at the guardhouse,” he said. “I’m just the sergeant. It’s my job to bring in anyone who makes a disturbance, and you’ve done that all right.”
“But I didn’t —”
“Save it for the captain. Forward, march!”
Rachel looked around wildly. This would be a good time for Doña Marina, with her unfailing air of authority, to appear. Diego and the men at arms would be welcome too, though she supposed that they could not challenge a troop of soldiers without being overcome and arrested themselves. The little girl appeared to be more angry than cowed, kicking and spitting. The two soldiers who held her had to carry her at arm’s length, with her
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