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wrapped in old cloaks, which covered their spangled dresses.
These dresses, just then glancing in the first rays of the sun,
reminded Michael of the curious appearance which he had observed
during the night. It must have been the glitter of those spangles
in the bright flames issuing from the steamboat's funnel
which had attracted his attention.

"Evidently," said Michael to himself, "this troop of Tsiganes, after
remaining below all day, crouched under the forecastle during the night.
Were these gipsies trying to show themselves as little as possible?
Such is not according to the usual custom of their race."

Michael Strogoff no longer doubted that the expressions he had heard,
had proceeded from this tawny group, and had been exchanged between
the old gypsy and the woman to whom he gave the Mongolian name
of Sangarre. Michael involuntarily moved towards the gangway,
as the Bohemian troop was leaving the steamboat.

The old Bohemian was there, in a humble attitude,
little conformable with the effrontery natural to his race.
One would have said that he was endeavoring rather to avoid
attention than to attract it. His battered hat, browned by the suns
of every clime, was pulled forward over his wrinkled face.
His arched back was bent under an old cloak, wrapped closely
round him, notwithstanding the heat. It would have been difficult,
in this miserable dress, to judge of either his size or face.
Near him was the Tsigane, Sangarre, a woman about thirty years old.
She was tall and well made, with olive complexion, magnificent eyes,
and golden hair.

Many of the young dancers were remarkably pretty, all possessing
the clear-cut features of their race. These Tsiganes are generally
very attractive, and more than one of the great Russian nobles,
who try to vie with the English in eccentricity, has not
hesitated to choose his wife from among these gypsy girls.
One of them was humming a song of strange rhythm, which might
be thus rendered:

"Glitters brightly the gold
In my raven locks streaming
Rich coral around
My graceful neck gleaming;
Like a bird of the air,
Through the wide world I roam."

The laughing girl continued her song, but Michael Strogoff ceased
to listen. It struck him just then that the Tsigane, Sangarre,
was regarding him with a peculiar gaze, as if to fix his features
indelibly in her memory.

It was but for a few moments, when Sangarre herself followed
the old man and his troop, who had already left the vessel.
"That's a bold gypsy," said Michael to himself.
"Could she have recognized me as the man whom she saw at
Nijni-Novgorod? These confounded Tsiganes have the eyes of a cat!
They can see in the dark; and that woman there might well know--"

Michael Strogoff was on the point of following Sangarre
and the gypsy band, but he stopped. "No," thought he,
"no unguarded proceedings. If I were to stop that old
fortune teller and his companions my incognito would run

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