"Farewell, Cuthbert, farewell, farewell! Heaven speed you on your
way! We shall look for tidings of you some day. And when the long
summer days come upon the green world, perchance you may even make
shift to ride or walk the twenty miles that separates us from
London to tell of your own well being and ask of ours."
These and many like words were showered on Cuthbert as he sat his
steed at the door of Trevlyn Chase, as the dusk was beginning to
gather, and his uncle and cousins stood clustered together on the
steps to see him ride forth to seek his fortune, as Kate insisted
on calling it, though her father spoke of it rather as a visit to
his mother's kinsfolks.
Cuthbert had been very loath to go. He had found himself happier
beneath his uncle's roof than ever he had been before (Sir Richard
was in point of fact his cousin, but the lad had given him the
title of uncle out of respect, and now never thought of him as
anything else), but he knew that to linger long would be neither
safe nor possible.
Only his strange and savage life had prevented the news of his
son's present quarters from coming to the knowledge of the angry
Nicholas, and all were feeling it better for the young man to take
his departure. Now the moment of parting had really come, and
already the hope of a flying visit to the Chase in the summer next
to follow was the brightest thought to lighten the regrets of the
present.
"Ay, that will I gladly do!" cried the lad, with kindling eyes.
"Why, twenty miles is naught of a journey when one can rise with
the midsummer sun. I trow I shall pine after the forest tracks
again. I shall have had enough and to spare of houses and cities by
the time the summer solstice is upon us."
"We shall look for you, we shall wait for you!" cried Kate, waving
her hand; and as it was fast growing dark, Sir Richard made a sign
of dismissal and farewell, and Cuthbert moved slowly along the dark
avenue, Philip walking beside his bridle rein for a few last words.
Cuthbert would have liked his sister to have seen him go forth, but
that was not thought advisable. He wore an old riding suit of
Philip's, which had fitted the latter before his shoulders had
grown so broad and his figure assumed its present manly
proportions. It suited Cuthbert well, and in spite of its having
seen some service from its former owner, was a far better and
handsomer dress than anything he had ever worn before, His own
meagre wardrobe and few possessions were packed in the saddlebag
across the saddle. His uncle had made no attempt to send him out
equipped as a relative of the house of Trevlyn, and Cuthbert was
glad that there should be no false seeming as to his condition when
he appeared at Martin Holt's door. Sir Richard had given him at
parting a small purse containing a couple of gold pieces and a few
silver crowns, and had told him that he might in London sell the
nag he bestrode and keep the price himself. He was not an animal of
any value, and had already seen his best days, but he would carry
Cuthbert soberly and safely to London town; and as the lad was
still somewhat weak from his father's savage treatment, he was not
sorry to be spared the long tramp over the deep mud of winter
roads.
"I would not have you travel far tonight," said Philip, as he paced
beside the sure-footed beast, who leisurely picked his way along
the familiar road. "The moon will be up, to be sure, ere long; but
it is ill travelling in the night. It is well to get clear of this
neighbourhood in the dark, for fear your father might chance to
espy you and make your going difficult. Yet I would have you ask
shelter for your steed and yourself tonight at the little hostelry
you will find just this side Hammerton Heath. The heath is an ill
place for travellers, as you doubtless know. If you should lose the
road, as is like enough, it being as evil and rough a track as well
may be, you will like enough plunge into some bog or morass from
which you may think yourself lucky to escape with life. And if you
do contrive to keep to the track, the light-heeled gentlemen of the
road may swoop down upon you like birds of prey, and rob you of the
little worldly wealth that you possess. Wherefore I counsel you to
pause ere you reach that ill-omened waste, and pass the night at
the hostel there. The beds may be something poor, but they will be
better than the wet bog, and you will be less like to be robbed
there than on the road."
"I will take your good counsel, cousin," said Cuthbert. "I have not
much to lose, but that little is my all. I will stop at the place
you bid me, and only journey forth across the heath when the
morrow's sun be up."
"You will do well. And now farewell, for I must return. I will do
all that in me lies to watch over and guard Petronella. She shall
be to me as a sister, and I will act a brother's part by her, until
I may have won a right to call her something more. Have no fears
for her. I will die sooner than she shall suffer. Her father shall
not visit on her his wrath at your escape."
The cousins parted on excellent terms, and Cuthbert turned, with a
strange smile on his brave young face, for a last look at the old
Gate House, the gray masonry of which gleamed out between the dark
masses of the leafless trees, a single light flickering faintly in
an upper casement.
"Petronella's light!" murmured Cuthbert to himself. "I trow well
she is thinking of me and praying for me before the little shrine
in the turret. May the Holy Saints and Blessed Virgin watch over
and protect her! I trust the day may come ere long when I may have
power to rescue her from that evil home, and give to her a dower
that shall make her not unworthy of being Philip's wife."
By which it may be seen that Cuthbert's thoughts were still running
on the lost treasure, and that he had by no means relinquished his
dream of discovery through hearing how others had sought and
failed.
"If I may but win a little gold in these winter days when the
forest is too inhospitable to be scoured and searched, I can give
the whole of the summer to the quest. I will find these gipsies or
their descendants and live amongst them as one of them. I will
learn their ways, win their trust, and gradually discover all that
they themselves know. Who dare say that I may not yet be the one to
bring back the lost luck to the house of Trevlyn? Has it always
been the prosperous and rich that have won the greatest prize? A
humble youth such as I may do far more in the wild forest than
those who have been bred to ease and luxury, and have to keep state
and dignity."
Thus musing, Cuthbert rode slowly along in the light of the rising
moon, his thoughts less occupied with the things he was leaving
behind than with thoughts of the future and what it was to bring
forth. The lad had all the pride of his house latent within him,
and it delighted him to picture the day when he might return all
Sir Richard's benefits a thousandfold by coming to him with the
news of the lost treasure, and bidding him take the elder brother's
share before ever his own father even knew that it had been found
at last. His heart beat high as he pictured that day, and thought
how he should watch the light coming into Kate's bright eyes, as
the obstacle to her nuptials should be thus removed. Sure she could
coax her father to remove his veto and overlook the cousinship if
she had dower to satisfy Lord Andover. And if the Trevlyn treasure
were but half what men believed, there would be ample to dower all
three daughters and fill the family coffers, too.
"In truth it is a thing well worth living for!" cried the eager
lad, as he pushed his way out of the wood and upon the highroad,
where for a time travelling was somewhat better. "And why should I
not succeed even though others have failed? My proud kinsmen have
never lived in the forest themselves, learning its every secret
winding track, making friends of its wild sons and daughters,
learning the strange lore that only the children of the forest
gather. What chance had they of learning secrets which but few may
know? I trow none. I will not believe that great treasure has been
cast away to the four winds. I verily believe it is still hidden
away beneath the earth in some strange resting place known but to a
few living souls. What do these wild gipsy folks want with gold and
silver and jewels? They have all they need with the heavens above
them and the earth beneath. They may love to have a buried hoard;
they may love to feel that they have treasure at command if they
desire it; but I can better believe they would keep it safe hidden
in their forest or moorland home than that they would scatter it
abroad by dividing it amongst their tribe. Moreover, any such
sudden wealth would draw upon them suspicion and contumely. They
would be hunted down and persecuted like the Jews in old days. No:
they may well have stolen it out of revenge, but I believe they
have hidden it away as they took it. It shall be my part to learn
where it lies; and may the Holy Saints aid and bless me in the
search!"
Cuthbert crossed himself as he invoked the Saints, for at heart he
was a Romanist still, albeit he had had the wit to see that the
same cardinal doctrines were taught by the Established Church of
the land, whose services he had several times attended. And even as
he made the gesture he became suddenly aware that he was not alone
on the road. A solitary traveller mounted on a strong horse was
standing beneath the shadow of a tree hard by, and regarding his
approach with some curiosity, though the lad had not been aware of
his close proximity until his horse paused and snorted.
"Good even, young man," said this traveller, in a pleasant voice
that bespoke gentle birth. "I was waiting to see if I had an enemy
to deal with in the shape of one of those rogues of the road,
cutpurses or highwaymen, of whom one bears so many a long tale. But
these travel in companies, and it behoves wise travellers to do
likewise. How comes it that a stripling like you are out alone in
this lone place? Is it a hardy courage or stern necessity?"
"I know not that it is one or the other," answered Cuthbert. "But I
have not far to go this night, and I have not much to lose, though
as that little is my all I shall make a fight ere I part with it.
But by what I hear there is little danger of molestation till one
reaches Hammerton Heath. And I propose to halt on the edge of that
place, and sleep at the hostelry there."
"If you follow my counsel, my young friend," said the stranger as
he paced along beside Cuthbert, "you will not adventure yourself in
that den of thieves. Not long ago it was a safe place for a
traveller, but now it is more perilous to enter those doors than to
spend the darkest night upon the road. The new landlord is in
league with the worst of the rogues and foot pads who frequent the
heath, and no traveller who dares to ask a night's shelter there is
allowed to depart without suffering injury either in person or
pocket. Whither are you bound, my young friend, if I may ask the
question?"
"For London, sir. I have an uncle there whom I am about to seek.
But the way is something strange to me when the heath be passed,
and I know not if I can find it in the dark."
"I also am bound for London," answered the stranger, "and in these
days it is better to travel two than one, and four than two. But
being no more than two, we must e'en hope for the best if we fall
not in with other belated travellers. My business brooked not
delay; wherefore I came alone. I mislike the fetter of a retinue of
servants, and I have had wonderful good hap on the roads; but there
be others who tell a different tale, and I often join company when
I find a traveller to my liking going my way."
Cuthbert was glad enough to have a companion. This man was many
years his senior, so that he was somewhat flattered by the
proposition of riding in his company; moreover, he was plainly a
gentleman of some condition, whose fancy it was (not his necessity)
to travel thus unattended. Also he was speedily conscious of a
strange sense of fascination which this stranger exercised upon
him, for which he could not in the least account; and he quickly
found himself answering the questions carelessly addressed to him
with a freedom that surprised himself; for why should there be such
pleasure in talking of himself and his prospects to one whose name
he did not even know?
When first he had pronounced his name, he observed that the
stranger gave him a quick, keen glance; and after they had been
some time in conversation, he spoke with a sudden gravity and
earnestness that was decidedly impressive.
"Young man, I trust that you are loyal and true to the faith of
those forefathers of yours who have been one of England's brightest
ornaments. In these latter days there has been a falling away. Men
have let slip the ancient truths. Love of the world has been
stronger within them than love of the truth. They have let
themselves be corrupted by heresy; they have lost their first love.
I trust it is not so with you. I trust you are one of the faithful
who are yet looking for brighter days for England, when she shall
be gathered again to the arms of the true Church. But a few minutes
ago I saw you make the holy sign, and my heart went out to you as
to a brother. These Protestants deny and contemn that symbol, as
they despise and contemn in their wantonness the ordinances of God
and the authority of His Vicar. I trust you have not fallen into
like error; I trust that you are a true son of the old stock of
Trevlyn?"
"I know little of such disputed matters," answered Cuthbert, made a
little nervous by the ardent glance bent upon him from the bright
eyes of the speaker. He had a dark, narrow face, pale and eager, a
small, pointed beard trimmed after the fashion of the times, and
the wide-brimmed sugar-loaf hat drawn down upon his brows cast a
deep shadow over his features. But his voice was peculiarly
melodious and persuasive, and there was a nameless attraction about
him that Cuthbert was quick to feel. Others in the days to follow
felt it to their own undoing, but of that the lad knew nothing. He
only wished to retain the good opinion this stranger seemed to have
formed of him.
"I have led but a hermit's life, as I have told you. I have been
bred up in the faith of my forefathers, and that faith I believe.
What perplexes me is that those who hold the Established or
Reformed faith, as men term it, have the same creeds, the same
doctrines as we ourselves. I have from time to time conformed to
the law, and gone to the services, and I have not heard aught
spoken within their walls that our good priest in old days used not
to tell me was sound doctrine. There be things he taught me that
these men say naught about; but no man may in one discourse touch
upon every point of doctrine. I freely own that I have been sorely
perplexed to know whence comes all this strife, all these heart
burnings."
"Thou wilt know and understand full soon, when once thou hast seen
the life of the great city and the strife of faction there,"
answered his companion, lapsing into the familiar "thou" as he
spoke with increased earnestness. "In thy hermit's life thou hast
had no knowledge of the robbery, the desecration, the pollution
which our Holy Mother Church has undergone from these pestilent
heretics, who have thought to denude her of her beauty and her
glory, whilst striving to retain such things as jump with their
crabbed humours, and may be pared down to please their poisoned and
vicious minds. Ah! it makes the blood boil in the veins of the true
sons of the Church, as thou wilt find, my youthful friend, when
thou gettest amongst them. But it will not always last. The day of
reckoning will come--nay, is already coming when men shall find
that the Blessed and Holy Church may not be defiled and downtrodden
with impunity for ever. Ah yes! the day will come--it is even at
the door--when God shall arise and his enemies be scattered.
Scattered--scattered! verily that is the word. And the sons of the
true faith throughout the length and breadth of the land shall
arise and rejoice, and the heretics shall stand amazed and
confounded!"
As he spoke these words his figure seemed to expand, and he raised
his right hand to heaven with a peculiar gesture of mingled menace
and appeal. Cuthbert was silent and amazed. He did not understand
in the least the tenor of these wild words, but he was awed and
impressed, and felt at once that the strife and stress of the great
world into which he was faring was something very different from
anything he had conceived of before.
By this time the travellers had reached the dreary waste called by
the inhabitants Hammerton Heath. At some seasons of the year it was
golden with gorse or purple with ling, but in this drear winter
season it was bare and colourless, and utterly desolate. The
outline of dark forests could be seen all around on the horizon;
but the road led over the exposed ground, where not a tree broke
the monotony of the way. Cuthbert was glad enough to have a
companion to ride by his side over the lonely waste, which looked
its loneliest in the cold radiance of the moon. He did not reply to
the strange words he had just heard, and his companion, after a
brief pause, resumed his discourse in a different tone, telling the
lad more about London and the life there than ever he had heard in
his life before. But the moral of his discourse was always the
sufferings, the wrongs, the troubles of the Roman Catholics, who
had looked for better times under Mary Stuart's son; and gradually
raising within the breast of the youth a feeling of warm sympathy
with those of his own faith, and a distrust and abhorrence of the
laws that made life well nigh impossible for the true sons of the
Church.
"Ruined in estate, too often injured in body, hated, despised,
hunted to death like beasts of the earth, what is left for us but
some great struggle after our lives and liberties?" concluded the
speaker, in his half melancholy, half ardent way. "Verily, when
things be so bad that they cannot well be worse, then truly men
begin to think that the hour of action is at hand. Be the night
never so long, the dawn comes at last. And so will our day dawn for
us--though it may dawn in clouds of smoke and vapour, and with a
terrible sound of destruction."
But these last words were hardly heard by Cuthbert, whose attention
had been attracted by the regular beat of horse hoofs upon the road
behind. Although the track was but a sandy path full of ruts and
holes, the sound travelled clearly through the still night air.
Whoever these new travellers were, they were coming along at a
brisk pace, and Cuthbert drew rein to look behind him.
"There be horsemen coming this way!" he said.
"Ay, verily there be; and moreover I mislike their looks. Honest
folks do not gallop over these bad roads in yon headlong fashion. I
doubt not they be robbers, eager to overtake and despoil us. We
must make shift to press on at the top of our speed. This is an ill
place to be overtaken. We have no chance against such numbers.
Luckily our steeds are not way worn; they have but jogged
comfortably along these many miles. Push your beast to a gallop, my
lad; there is no time to lose."
Cuthbert essayed to do this; but honest old Dobbin had no notion of
a pace faster than a leisurely amble. Most of his work had been
done in the plough, and he had no liking for the rapid gallop
demanded by his rider.
The lad soon saw how it stood with him, and called out to his
well-mounted companion not to tarry for him, but to leave him to
chance and kind fortune.
"I have so little to lose that they may not think me worth the
robbing, belike. But you, sir, must not linger. Your good steed is
equal to theirs, I doubt not, and will carry you safe across the
heath."
"Ay, verily he will. I purchased him for that same speed, and it
has never failed me yet. I fear not pursuit. My only peril lies in
the chance of meeting a second band watching the road farther on. I
like not thus to leave you, boy; but I have no choice. I may not
risk being robbed of my papers. There be more in them than must be
suffered to be scanned by any eyes for which they were not meant.
My gold might go, and welcome, but I must save my papers. And if
thou hast any small valuables about thee, I will charge myself with
the care of them, and thou canst call at my lodging in London when
thou gettest there to claim thine own again. 'Twill be the better
chance than leaving yon gentlemen to rid thee of them."
The smile with which the stranger uttered these words was so
winning and frank, that Cuthbert placed his purse in the
outstretched hand without a qualm.
"When thou wantest thine own again, go to the Cat and Fiddle in the
thoroughfare of Holborn, and ask news there of Master Robert
Catesby. It is an eating house and tavern where I am constantly to
be met with. If I be not lodging there at that very time, thou wilt
have news of me there. Farewell; and keep up a brave heart. These
fellows are less harsh with poor travellers than rich. Let them see
you have small fear, and it will be the better for all."
These last words were faintly borne back to Cuthbert on the wings
of the wind, as his companion galloped with long easy strides
across the heath. A little dip in the ground hid for a moment their
pursuers from sight, and before they emerged upon the crest of the
undulation, Master Robert Catesby was practically out of sight; for
a cloud had obscured the brightness of the moon, and only a short
distance off objects became invisible.
Cuthbert rode slowly on his way, trying to compose himself to the
state of coolness and courage that he would like to show in the
hour of danger. He felt the beatings of his heart, but they were
due as much to excitement as to fear. In truth he was more excited
than afraid; for he had absolutely nothing to lose save a suit of
old clothes and his horse, and both of these were in sorry enough
plight to be little tempting to those hardy ruffians, who were
accustomed to have travellers to rob of a far superior stamp.
Nearer and nearer came the galloping horse hoofs, and a loud, rough
voice ordered him to stop.
Cuthbert obeyed, and wheeled round on his placid steed, who showed
no sign of disquietude or excitement, but at once commenced to
nibble the short grass that grew beside the sandy track.
"And what do you want of me, gentlemen?" asked Cuthbert, as he
found himself confronted by half-a-dozen stalwart fellows, with
swarthy faces and vigorous frames. They were all armed and well
mounted, and would have been formidable enough to a wealthy
traveller with his stuff or valuables about him.
"Your money--or your life!" was the concise reply and Cuthbert was
able to smile as he replied:
"Marry then, it must be my life, for money I have none. I have
naught but an old suit of clothes and a breviary in yon bag. You
are welcome to both an ye will condescend to wear such habiliments;
but I trow ye would find them sorry garments after those ye now
display."
"Tut, tut! we will see to that. There be many cunning fashions of
hiding money, and we are used to such tales as yours. Where is your
companion, young man?"
"Nay, I have no companion," answered Cuthbert, who was sufficiently
imbued with the spirit of his father's creed not to hesitate for a
moment to utter an untruth in a good cause, and think no shame of
it; "I am journeying forth to London alone, to seek a relative
there, who methinks will help me to earn an honest livelihood. I
would I were the rich man you take me for. But even the dress I
wear is mine through the charity of a kinsman, as is also the nag I
ride. And I misdoubt me if you would find him of much use to you in
your occupation."
One or two of the men laughed. They looked at Dobbin and then at
his rider, and seemed to give credence to this tale. Cuthbert's
boyish face and fearless manner seemed to work in his favour, and
one of the band remarked that he was a bold young blade, and if in
search of a fortune, might do worse than cast in his lot with them.
"Yet I verily thought there had been two," grumbled another of the
band; "I wonder if he speaks sooth."
"I warrant me he does, else where should the other be? It was a
trick of the moonlight; it often deceives us so.
"Come now, my young cockerel; you can crow lustily, it seems, and
keep a bold face where others shrink and tremble and flee. How say
you? will you follow us to our lodging place for the night? And if
we find no money concealed about you, and if your story of your
poverty be true, you can think well whether you will choose to cast
in your lot with us. Many a poor man has done so and become rich,
and the life is a better one than many."
All this was spoken in a careless, mocking way, and Cuthbert did
not know if the proposal were made in good faith or no. But it was
plain that no harm was meant to his life or person, and as he was
in no fear from any search of his clothes and bag, he was ready and
willing to accept the invitation offered, and by no means sorry to
think he should be relieved from spending the night in the saddle.
"I will gladly go with you," he answered. "I have spoken naught but
sooth, and I have no fear. My person and my goods are in your
hands. Do as you will with them; I have too little to lose to make
a moan were you to rob me of all."
"We rob not the poor; we only rob the rich--those arrogant,
purse-proud rogues who batten and fatten on what they wring from
the poor," answered, in quick, scornful accents, the man who
appeared to be the leader of this little band. "On them we have
scant pity. They have but stolen, in cunning though lawful fashion,
what we wrest from them, lawlessly it may be, yet with as good a
right in the sight of the free heavens as any they practise. But we
filch not gold nor goods from the poor, the thrifty, the sons of
toil; nay, there be times when we restore to these what has been
drained from them by injustice and tyranny. We be not the common
freebooters of the road, who set on all alike, and take human life
for pure love of killing. We have our own laws, our own ways, our
own code of right and wrong; and we recruit our ranks from bold
lads like you, upon whom fortune has not smiled, and who come to us
to see if we can help them to better things."
Cuthbert was greatly interested in this adventure. He looked into
the dark, handsome face of the man who rode beside him, and
wondered if some gipsy blood might not run in his veins. The gipsy
people of whom Kate had spoken were well known in all this region,
and despite the roving life they led, appeared to be rooted to a
certain extent to this wild and wooded tract. He had seen dark
faces like this before in the woods; he had often heard stories of
the doings of the gipsies around. Before, he had not thought much
of this; but now, his interest was keenly excited, and he was
delighted to have this opportunity of studying them at close
quarters.
"Where are we going, Tyrrel?" asked one of the followers. "It is a
bitter cold night, now the wind has shifted, and we are far enough
away from Dead Man's Hole."
"I am not bound for Dead Man's Hole. We will to the ruined mill,
and ask Miriam to give us shelter for the night. We have ridden
far, and our steeds are weary. I trow she will give us a welcome."
This proposition seemed to give general satisfaction. The men
plodded on after their leader, who kept Cuthbert close beside him,
and they all moved across the heath in an irregular fashion,
following some path known only to themselves, until they reached
the wooded track to the left, and plunged into the brushwood again,
picking their way carefully as they went, and all the while
descending lower and lower into the hollow, till the rush of water
became more and more distinctly audible, and Cuthbert knew by the
sound that they must be approaching a waterfall of some kind.
One of the men had ridden forward to give notice of their approach,
and soon in the flickering moonlight the gray walls of an ancient
mill, now greatly fallen to decay, became visible to the
travellers' eyes. From the open door streamed out a flood of ruddy
light, cheering indeed to cold and weary men; whilst framed in this
ruddy glow was a tall and picturesque figure--the figure of an old
woman, a scarlet kerchief tied over her white hair, whilst her
dress displayed that picturesque medley of colours that has always
been the prevailing characteristic of the gipsy race.
"You are welcome, son Tyrrel," quoth the mistress of this lone
dwelling, as the little cavalcade drew up at the door. "It is long
since you favoured old Miriam with a visit. Yet you come at no ill
time, since Red Ronald brought us in a fat buck but yesternight,
and I have made oaten cakes today, and pies of the best. But who is
that with you! I like not new faces in my dwelling place. It were
well you should remember this ere you bring a stranger with you."
The old woman's face suddenly darkened as she spoke these last
words, and her wonderful eyes, so large and dark as to resemble
rather those of a deer than a human being, flashed fiercely, whilst
she seemed about to close the door in Tyrrel's face. But he pushed
in with a light laugh, leading Cuthbert with him, and saying as he
did so:
"Nay, nay, mother, be not so fierce. He is an honest lad enough, I
trow; if not, 'twill be the worse for him anon. We have brought him
hither to search him if he carries gold concealed. If not, and he
proves to have spoken sooth, he may go his way or join with us,
whichever likes him best. We could do with a few more bold lads,
since death has been something busy of late; and he seems to have
the grit in him one looks for in those who join with us. Moreover,
he has the dark eyes, and would soon have the swarth skin, that
distinguish our merry men all.
"How now, mother! Thou hast eyes for none but the lad! Why lookst
thou at him so?"
Cuthbert, too, gazed wonderingly at the handsome old gipsy, who
continued to keep her eyes fixed upon him, as if by a species of
fascination. He could no more withdraw his gaze than can the bird
whom the snake is luring to destruction.
"Boy, what is thy name?" she asked, in a quick, harsh whisper.
"Cuthbert Trevlyn," he answered, without hesitation, and at the
name a wild laugh rang out through the vaulted room, illumined by
the glow of a huge fire of logs, whilst all present started and
looked at one another.
"I knew it--I knew it!" cried the old woman, with a wild gesture of
her withered arms, which were bare to the elbow, as though she had
been engaged in culinary tasks. "I knew it--I knew it! I knew it
the moment the light fell upon his face. Trevlyn--Trevlyn! one of
that accursed brood! Heaven be praised, the hour of vengeance has
come! We will do unto one of them even as they did unto us;" and
she waved her arms again in the air, and glanced towards the
glowing fire on the hearth with a look in her wild eyes that for a
moment caused Cuthbert's heart to stand still. For he remembered
the story of the witch burned by his grand sire's mandate, and he
felt he was not mistaken in the interpretation he had put upon the
old woman's words.
But Tyrrel roughly interposed.
"No more of that, mother," he said. "We have wiped out that old
score long ago. The lad is a bold lad, Trevlyn or no. Let us to
supper now, and forget those accursed beldam's tales. Where is Long
Robin, and what is he doing? and where is Joanna tonight?"
"Here," answered a clear, full voice from the shadows of the
inglenook, and forth there stepped a very queenly-looking woman, in
the prime of life, when youth's bloom has not been altogether left
behind, and yet all the grace of womanhood, with its dignity and
ease, has come to give an added charm. One glance from the old
woman's face to that of the young one showed them to be mother and
daughter, and it did not take a sharp eye to see that Tyrrel, as he
was always called, was deeply enamoured of the beautiful Joanna,
though treated by her with scant notice, and as though he were yet
a boy, scarce worthy of being looked at or spoken to.
She stood in the glow of the fire, a tall, graceful presence, to
the full as picturesque as her gipsy mother, and far more
attractive. Cuthbert's eyes turned upon her with an unconscious
appeal in them; for it suddenly dawned upon him that for a Trevlyn
to adventure himself amongst these wild gipsy folks was like
putting the head into a lion's mouth.
It almost seemed as though Joanna read this doubt and this fear;
for a flashing smile crossed her dark face, and she held out a
shapely hand to lead the guest to the table.
"Thou art welcome to our board, Cuthbert Trevlyn," she said, "as is
any hapless stranger in these wilds, be he Trevlyn or no. Thou
shalt eat our salt this night, and then woe betide the man who
dares to lay hand on thee;" and such a glance was flashed around
from her magnificent dark eyes as caused each one that met it to
resolve to take good heed to his ways. "Thou shalt come and go
unmolested; Joanna the Gipsy Queen has so decreed it!"
Every one present, the old woman included, bent the head at these
words, and Cuthbert felt by some instinct that his life was now
safe.