By the time the early night settled over the marshes, the camp was quiet
and dark. Even the dogs had curled up near the tired horses and had gone
to sleep.
Early the following morning the whole thing could not be distinguished
from one of the hundreds of mountains of snow that had formed over
night. After the horses had been fed and watered, Marcu, accompanied by
his daughter, Fanutza, left the camp and went riverward, in search of
the hut of the Tartar whose flat-bottomed boat was moored on the shore.
Marcu knew every inch of the ground. He had camped there with his tribe
twenty winters in succession. He sometimes arrived before, and at other
times after, the first snow of the year. But every time he had gone to
Mehmet Ali's hut and asked the Tartar to row him across the Danube, on
the old Roumanian side, to buy there fodder for the horses and the men;
enough to last until after the river was frozen tight and could be
crossed securely with horses and wagon. He had always come alone to
Mehmet's hut, therefore, the Tartar, after greeting Marcu and offering
to do what his friend desired, inquired why the girl was beside the old
chief.
"But this is my daughter, Fanutza, Mehmet Ali," Marcu informed.
"Who, Fanutza? She who was born here fourteen winters ago on the plains
here?"
"The same, the same, my friend," Marcu answered as he smilingly
appraised his daughter.
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