_In the square and wynds--weavers in groups_:
"No, no, Davit, Mr. Dishart hadna felt the blow the piper gave him
till he ascended the pulpit to conduct the prayer-meeting for rain,
and then he fainted awa. Tammas Whamond and Peter Tosh carried him to
the Session-house. Ay, an awful scene."
"How did the minister no come to the meeting? I wonder how you could
expect it, Snecky, and his mother taen so suddenly ill; he's at her
bedside, but the doctor has little hope."
"This is what has occurred, Tailor: Mr. Dishart never got the length
of the pulpit. He fell in a swound on the vestry floor. What caused
it? Oh, nothing but the heat. Thrums is so dry that one spark would
set it in a blaze."
"I canna get at the richts o' what keeped him frae the meeting, Femie,
but it had something to do wi' an Egyptian on the hill. Very like he
had been trying to stop the gypsy marriage there. I gaed to the manse
to speir at Jean what was wrang, but I'm thinking I telled her mair
than she could tell me."
"Man, man, Andrew, the wite o't lies wi' Peter Tosh. He thocht we was
to hae sic a terrible rain that he implored the minister no to pray
for it, and so angry was Mr. Dishart that he ordered the whole Session
out o' the kirk. I saw them in Couthie's close, and michty dour they
looked."
"Yes, as sure as death, Tammas Whamond locked the kirk-door in Mr.
Dishart's face."
"I'm a' shaking! And small wonder, Marget, when I've heard this minute
that Mr. Dishart's been struck by lichtning while looking for Rob Dow.
He's no killed, but, woe's me! they say he'll never preach again."
"Nothing o' the kind. It was Rob that the lichtning struck dead in the
doctor's machine. The horse wasna touched; it came tearing down the
Roods wi' the corpse sitting in the machine like a living man."
"What are you listening to, woman? Is it to a dog barking? I've heard
it this while, but it's far awa."
_In the manse kitchen_:
"Jean, did you not hear me ring? I want you to--Why are you staring
out at the window, Jean?"
"I--I was just hearkening to the ten o'clock bell, ma'am."
"I never saw you doing nothing before! Put the heater in the fire,
Jean. I want to iron the minister's neckcloths. The prayer-meeting is
long in coming out, is it not?"
"The--the drouth, ma'am, has been so cruel hard."
"And, to my shame, I am so comfortable that I almost forgot how others
are suffering. But my son never forgets, Jean. You are not crying, are
you?"
"No, ma'am."
"Bring the iron to the parlor, then. And if the minis--Why did you
start, Jean? I only heard a dog barking."
"I thocht, ma'am--at first I thocht it was Mr. Dishart opening the
door. Ay, it's just a dog; some gypsy dog on the hill, I'm thinking,
for sound would carry far the nicht."
"Even you, Jean, are nervous at nights, I see, if there is no man in
the house. We shall hear no more distant dogs barking, I warrant, when
the minister comes home."
"When he comes home, ma'am."
_On the middle of a hill--a man and a woman_:
"Courage, beloved; we are nearly there."
"But, Gavin, I cannot see the encampment."
"The night is too dark."
"But the gypsy fires?"
"They are in the Toad's-hole."
"Listen to that dog barking."
"There are several dogs at the encampment, Babbie."
"There is one behind us. See, there it is!"
"I have driven it away, dear. You are trembling."
"What we are doing frightens me, Gavin. It is at your heels again!"
"It seems to know you."
"Oh, Gavin, it is Lord Rintoul's collie Snap. It will bite you."
"No, I have driven it back again. Probably the earl is following us."
"Gavin, I cannot go on with this."
"Quicker, Babbie."
"Leave me, dear, and save yourself."
"Lean on me, Babbie."
"Oh, Gavin, is there no way but this?"
"No sure way."
"Even though we are married to-night----"
"We shall be married in five minutes, and then, whatever befall, he
cannot have you."
"But after?"
"I will take you straight to the manse, to my mother."
"Were it not for that dog, I should think we were alone on the hill."
"But we are not. See, there are the gypsy fires."
_On the west side of the hill--two figures_:
"Tammas, Tammas Whamond, I've lost you. Should we gang to the manse
down the fields?"
"Wheesht, Hendry!"
"What are you listening for?"
"I heard a dog barking."
"Only a gypsy dog, Tammas, barking at the coming storm."
"The gypsy dogs are all tied up, and this one's atween us and the
Toad's-hole. What was that?"
"It was nothing but the rubbing of the branches in the cemetery on ane
another. It's said, trees mak' that fearsome sound when they're
terrified."
"It was a dog barking at somebody that's stoning it. I ken that sound,
Hendry Munn."
"May I die the death, Tammas Whamond, if a great drap o' rain didna
strike me the now, and I swear it was warm. I'm for running hame."
"I'm for seeing who drove awa that dog. Come back wi' me, Hendry."
"I winna. There's no a soul on the hill but you and me and thae
daffing and drinking gypsies. How do you no answer me, Tammas? Hie,
Tammas Whamond, whaur are you? He's gone! Ay, then I'll mak' tracks
hame."
_In the broom--a dogcart_:
"Do you see nothing yet, McKenzie?"
"Scarce the broom at my knees, Rintoul. There is not a light on the
hill."
"McKenzie, can that schoolmaster have deceived us?"
"It is probable."
"Urge on the horse, however. There is a road through the broom, I
know. Have we stuck again?"
"Rintoul, she is not here. I promised to help you to bring her back to
the Spittal before this escapade became known, but we have failed to
find her. If she is to be saved, it must be by herself. I daresay she
has returned already. Let me turn the horse's head. There is a storm
brewing."
"I will search this gypsy encampment first, if it is on the hill.
Hark! that was a dog's bark. Yes, it is Snap; but he would not bark at
nothing. Why do you look behind you so often, McKenzie?"
"For some time, Rintoul, it has seemed to me that we are being
followed. Listen!"
"I hear nothing. At last, McKenzie, at last, we are out of the
broom."
"And as I live, Rintoul, I see the gypsy lights!"
* * * * *
It might have been a lantern that was flashed across the hill. Then
all that part of the world went suddenly on fire. Everything was
horribly distinct in that white light. The firs of Caddam were so near
that it seemed to have arrested them in a silent march upon the hill.
The grass would not hide a pebble. The ground was scored with shadows
of men and things. Twice the light flickered and recovered itself. A
red serpent shot across it, and then again black night fell.
The hill had been illumined thus for nearly half a minute. During that
time not even a dog stirred. The shadows of human beings lay on the
ground as motionless as logs. What had been revealed seemed less a
gypsy marriage than a picture. Or was it that during the ceremony
every person on the hill had been turned into stone? The gypsy king,
with his arm upraised, had not had time to let it fall. The men and
women behind him had their mouths open, as if struck when on the point
of calling out. Lord Rintoul had risen in the dogcart and was leaning
forward. One of McKenzie's feet was on the shaft. The man crouching
in the dogcart's wake had flung up his hands to protect his face. The
precentor, his neck outstretched, had a hand on each knee. All eyes
were fixed, as in the death glare, on Gavin and Babbie, who stood
before the king, their hands clasped over the tongs. Fear was
petrified on the woman's face, determination on the man's.
They were all released by the crack of the thunder, but for another
moment none could have swaggered.
"That was Lord Rintoul in the dogcart," Babbie whispered, drawing in
her breath.
"Yes, dear," Gavin answered resolutely, "and now is the time for me to
have my first and last talk with him. Remain here, Babbie. Do not move
till I come back."
"But, Gavin, he has seen. I fear him still."
"He cannot touch you now, Babbie. You are my wife."
In the vivid light Gavin had thought the dogcart much nearer than it
was. He called Lord Rintoul's name, but got no answer. There were
shouts behind, gypsies running from the coming rain, dogs whining, but
silence in front. The minister moved on some paces. Away to the left
he heard voices--
"Who was the man, McKenzie?"
"My lord, I have lost sight of you. This is not the way to the camp."
"Tell me, McKenzie, that you did not see what I saw."
"Rintoul, I beseech you to turn back. We are too late."
"We are not too late."
Gavin broke through the darkness between them and him, but they were
gone. He called to them, and stopped to listen to their feet.
"Is that you, Gavin?" Babbie asked just then.
For reply, the man who had crept up to her clapped his hand upon her
mouth. Only the beginning of a scream escaped from her. A strong arm
drove her quickly southward.
Gavin heard her cry, and ran back to the encampment. Babbie was gone.
None of the gypsies had seen her since the darkness came back. He
rushed hither and thither with a torch that only showed his distracted
face to others. He flung up his arms in appeal for another moment of
light; then he heard Babbie scream again, and this time it was from a
distance. He dashed after her; he heard a trap speeding down the green
sward through the broom.
Lord Rintoul had kidnapped Babbie. Gavin had no other thought as he
ran after the dogcart from which the cry had come. The earl's dog
followed him, snapping at his heels. The rain began.
Chapter Thirty-Four.