In some cryptic way it was associated with the direful experience through which she had just passed.
What she heard in the darkness was a voice which sang there by her window--at it or beneath it--the words of a Romany song.
It was a song of violence, which she had heard but a short time before in the trees behind her father's house, when a Romany claimed her as his wife: "Time was I went to my true love, Time was she came to me--" Only one man would sing that song at her window, or anywhere in this Western world.

This was no illusion of her overwrought senses.

There, outside her window, was Jethro Fawe.
She sat up and listened, leaning on one arm, and staring into the half-darkness beyond the window, the blind of which she had not drawn down.

There was no moon, but the stars were shining brightly, relieving the intensity of the dark.

Through the whispering of the trees, and hushing the melancholy of a night-bird's song, came the wild low note of the Romany epic of vengeance.