The gypsy was singing a song often heard in the tents of his people on boshy nights of nautering and chant, when the sky is splendid with stars and the glee of the open air is wine in the blood; a thousand times have the tune of flute and fiddle and the ringing thud of tambourine gone dashingly to the time and rhyme of his song. Yet the listening yeoman winced; what the name o' patience had the fellow chosen that ballat for, of all others? Yet she went every day To the prison door, She went every day, She could do nothin' more; An' sweetly she sung Smalilou, Smalilou ! Lou, lou, Smalilou! Smalilou, lou, lou! The yeoman humped his shoulders to his ears, and a shiver took him as he listened. The last mornin' come An' she see'd him depart, She wept like the rain While she run by the cart; An' sweetly she sung Tyburn, the cart, Smalilou! Was that to be the happening for Dahlia? Ah, if Aldo would only die, die, die! the hoofs beat out again, more loud and swift as the road reached the level. But no such luck, he grumbled; no such luck, though it would save the Old Bailey, Newgate, the gallows and the disgrace; and set Dahlia free all the same. But it would rob Matt of his revenge. No, no, the fellow should hang; once get the girl away home, and the yeoman would turn thief-catcher himself, on purpose. Once get the girl home! But how to persuade her away? Aldo badly and in peril, she was like to cleave to him all the more; that was her nature, silly wench! though she'd given the go-by to a better man. But then, why should she have sent for the better man to the Stone? Had she sent for him, by-the-bye? The messenger had never said that much, the closejawed fellow! But who else would be like to send? It was Dahlia who had sent, of course-to get him to help her husband out of the hobble-a thing that only a woman would ever think of asking a jilted sweetheart to do. Help him out of a hobble?-he should be helped to a noose! Dahlia, at any rate, must be got away to Whinyat -even Aldo himself would wish that. She hindered the flight, her presence betrayed it,-half an eye could tell that she was no Rommany chi. They were fleeing to Kirk Yetholm, the messenger had saidto the Rommany sanctuary over the border-to Kirk Yetholm where the descendants of Johnny Faw were masters, and even the county fencibles daren't venture to execute the King's warrant. Never would the fugitives reach Kirk Yetholm so long as Dahlia travelled with them, a mark for every eye, a remembered trace for the Bow Street runners to follow by; never, not though they made for the Border by the heather road, the drover's path to Scotland by moor and fell. Aldo would know the danger of her presence with them well enough-he would wish to be rid of her, of course. To be rid of her altogether, was it, though-or only for a time? Ah, that was the wheedler's fancy scheme, was it! Matt Scargil to be made a Jack-at-a-pinch, Aldo's ninny-nonny, to coax the girl away a bit, and then to escort her beauty back to her husband's famished clasp! "Never, by Jud!" he swore, to the mare, and he reined-up short as that sour suspicion stung him. Never, by the blest!" He pulled the mare round sharply: "Hi! Stop, dom yer!" he shouted, and threateningly he barred the gypsy's path. 51 CHAPTER VI. TELLS OF THE STRUGGLE BY THE WAY. He turned him right and roundabout Upon the Irish shore, And gave his bridle-reins a shake, With "Adieu for evermore, my dear, Adieu for evermore!" -A's for Our Rightfu' King. Now, were I a grave-digger, or even a hangman, there are some people I could work for with a great deal of enjoyment. -Ugly Trades. "Sirrah," says he, "I have you at a lift, -Guy and Amarant. Ah, had I then but viewed things in I never should have knowed the grief -A Copy of Verses, xiii. We seek and offer ourselves to be gulled. -Of Cripples. I was so free with him as not to mince the matter. -The Author's Preface to Don Quixote. Till morning fair Came forth with pilgrim steps in amice gray. -Paradise Regained, iv., 42 b. VI. THE gypsy stopped his singing, and pulled up his horse in a stride. "Split my eyes an' limbs! what's the lay?" said he. "Yer close as wax, aren't yer?" Matt Scargil growled. "But I wants a plain answer to a plain question, an' I'm going to have it, too! What I wants to know is, who sent yer? Who sent yer to the Stone? Did Dahlia send yer, or were it only that Aldo o' yourn?" "Tsh-sh!" the gypsy cautioned. "No names, mo rov yer jaw!" and he looked around him in a frightened way. Matt lowered his voice. "Who sent yer, I say?" "To fetch yer to fetch her, yer mean?" "O' course." "Why, him, yer know-him an' Flamenca." "Flamenca? Who the name o' patience is Flamenca ? " The gypsy grinned. "Nay, yer'll know that soon enow, by Jiminy yer will. A flash pretty juva, but a tongue-Lor!" He laughed. "A tongue like the divvle." Seems like yer've found yourn a bit," the yeoman |