The Ry of Rys sat in his huge armchair, his broad-brimmed hat on his knee in front of him. One hand rested on the chair-arm, the other clasped the hat as though he would put it on, but his head was fallen forward on his breast.

It was a picture of profound repose, but it was the repose of death. It was evident that the Ry had prepared to leave the house, had felt a sudden weakness, and had taken to his chair to recover himself. As was evident from the normal way in which his fingers held his hat, and his hand rested on the chair-arm, death had come as gently as a beam of light. With his stick lying on the table beside him, and his hat on his knee, he was like one who rested a moment before renewing a journey. There could not have been a pang in his passing. He had gone as most men wish to go—in the midst of the business of life, doing the usual things, and so passing into the sphere of Eternity as one would go from this room to that. Only a few days before had he yielded up his temporary position as chief constable, and had spent almost every hour since in conference with Rhodo. What he had planned would never be known to his daughter now. It was Rhodo himself who had found his master with head bowed before the Master of all men.

Before Fleda entered the room she knew what awaited her; a merciful intuition had blunted the shock to her senses. Yet when she saw the Ry on his throne of death a moan broke from her lips like that of one who sees for the last time someone indelibly dear, and turns to face strange paths with uncertain feet. She did not go to the giant figure seated in the chair. In what she did there was no panic or hysteria of lacerated heart and shocked sense; she only sank to her knees in the room a few feet away from him, and looked at him.

“Father! Oh, Ry! Oh, my Ry!” she whispered in agony and admiration, too, and kept on whispering.

Fleda had whispered to him in such awe, not only because he was her father, but because he was so much a man among men, a giant, with a great, lumbering mind, slow to conceive, but moving in a large, impressive way when once conception came. To her he had been more than father; he had been a patriarch, a leader, a viking, capable of the fury of a Scythian lord, but with the tenderness of a peasant father to his first child.

“My Ry! My father! Oh, my Ry of Rys!” she kept murmuring to herself.

On either side of her, but a few feet behind, stood Rhodo and Ingolby.

Presently in a low, firm voice Rhodo spoke.

“The Ry of Rys is dead, but his daughter must stand upon her feet, and in his place speak for him. Is it not well with him? He sleeps. Sleep is better than pain. Let his daughter speak.”

Slowly Fleda arose. Not so much what Rhodo had said as the meaning in his voice, aroused her to a situation which she must face. Rhodo had said that she must speak for her father. What did it mean?

“What is it you wish to say to me, Rhodo?” she asked.

“What I have to say is for your ears only,” was the low reply.

“I will go,” said Ingolby. “But is it a time for talk?” He made a motion towards the dead man. “There are things to be said which can only be said now, and things to be done which can only be done according to what is said now,” grimly remarked Rhodo.

“I wish you to remain,” said Fleda to Ingolby with resolution in her bearing as she placed herself beside the chair where the dead man sat. “What is it you want to say to me?” she asked Rhodo again.

“Must a Romany bare his soul before a stranger?” replied Rhodo. “Must a man who has been the voice of the Ry of Rys for the long years have no words face to face with the Ry’s daughter now that he is gone? Must the secret of the dead be spoken before the robber of the dead—”

It was plain that some great passion was working in the man, that it was wise and right to humour him, and Ingolby intervened.

“I will not remain,” he said to Fleda. To Rhodo he added: “I am not a robber of the dead. That’s high-faluting talk. What I have of his was given to me by him. She was for me if I could win her. He said so. This is a free country. I will wait outside,” he added to Fleda.

She made a gesture as though she would detain him, but she realized that the hour of her fate was at hand, and that the old life and the new were face to face, Rhodo standing for one and she for the other. When they were alone, Rhodo’s eyes softened, and he came near to her. “You asked me what I wished to tell you,” he said. “See then, I want to tell you that it is for you to take the place of the dead Ry. Everywhere in the world where the Romanys wander they will rejoice to hear that a Druse rules us still. The word of the Ry of Rys was law; what he wished to be done was done; what he wished to be undone was undone. Because of you he hid himself from his people; because of you I was for ever wandering, keeping the peace by lies for love of the Ry and for love of you.”

His voice shook. “Since your mother died—and she was kin of mine—you were to me the soul of the Romany people everywhere. As a barren woman loves a child, so I loved you. I loved you for the sake of your mother. I gave her to the Ry, who was the better man, that she might be great and well placed. So it is I would have you be ruler over us, and I would serve you as I served your father until I, also, fall asleep.”

“It is too late,” Fleda answered, and there was great emotion in her voice now. “I am no longer a Romany. I am my father’s daughter, but I have not been a Romany since I was ill in England. I will not go back; I shall go with the man I love, to be his wife, here, in the Gorgio world. You believed my father when he spoke; well, believe me—I speak the truth. It was my father’s will that I should be what I am, and do what I am now doing. Nothing can alter me.”

“If it be that Jethro Fawe is still alive he is free from the Sentence of the Patrin, and he will become the Ry of Rys,” said the old man with sudden passion.

“It may be so. I hope it is so. He is of the blood, and I pray that Jethro has escaped the sentence which my father passed,” answered Fleda. “By the River Starzke it was ordained that he should succeed my father, marrying me. Let him succeed.”

The old man raised both hands, and made a gesture as though he would drive her from his sight.

“My life has been wasted,” he said. “I wish I were also in death beside him.” He gazed at the dead man with the affection of a clansman for his chief.

Fleda came up close to him. “Rhodo! Rhodo!” she said gently and sadly. “Think of him and all he was, and not of me. Suppose I had died in England—think of it in that way. Let me be dead to you and to all Romanys, and then you will think no evil.”

The old man drew himself up. “Let no more be said,” he replied. “Let it end here. The Ry of Rys is dead. His body and all things that are his belong now to his people. Say farewell to him,” he added, with authority.

“You will take him away?” Fleda asked.

Rhodo inclined his head. “When the doctors have testified, we will take him with us. Say your farewells,” he added, with gesture of command.

A cry of protest rose from Fleda’s soul, and yet she knew it was what the Ry would have wished, that he should be buried by his own people where they would.

Slowly she drew near to the dead man, and leaned over and kissed his shaggy head. She did not seek to look into the sightless eyes; the illusion of sleep was so great that she wished to keep this picture of him while she lived; but she touched the cold hand which held the hat upon the knee and the other that lay upon the chair-arm. Then, with a mist before her eyes, she passed from the room.