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It has taken twenty years of my life to save such a sum yet, instead of accepting your offer, I will give you the same sum for the woman I want." "Fool, a woman is only a woman. They are all alike," roared the gipsy. "Not to me!" answered Mehmet Ali quietly. "I shall not say another word." "Fool, fool, fool," roared the gipsy as he still tried to catch Fanutza's eye. It was already too dark.
Fanutza's eyes met the eyes of her father. She looked at him entreatingly, "Don't give in to the Tartar," her eyes spoke clearly, and Marcu refused the offer. "I offer you fifty instead that you buy yourself another woman than my daughter." "No," answered the Tartar, "but I offer sixty for this one, here."
As he did so he met Fanutza's proud eye. "Here. Count it. Just one hundred." "That's good enough," the gipsy chief answered as he put the purse in his pocket without even looking at it. "Row, I am cold. I am anxious to be home." "It will not be before daylight, chief," remarked Mehmet Ali as he bent again over his oars and counted aloud, "Bir, icki, Bir, icki."
"All, save the ones with blood of Chans in their veins," said Mehmet Ali who had put himself between the girl and the whole of her tribe. And the Tartar's words served as a reminder to Marcu that Fanutza's own mother had been the daughter of a Tartar chief and a white woman. By MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT
"Allah il Allah," Mehmet assured Marcu. "And who is he whom you have chosen from amongst your men?" "I am old, Mehmet, I would otherwise have chosen a younger man for my daughter; but because I fear that this or the following winter will be the last one, I have chosen Stan, whose orphaned daughter is Fanutza's own age. He is good and true and strong. Young men never make careful chiefs."
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