Cuthbert made no direct reply. He would have liked to tell Culverhouse of the incident of the lonely house on the river, and the dark cellar in which Catesby and others had been at work; but his tongue was bound by his promise. Moreover, the hour for sleep was at hand, and the travellers, wrapping themselves in their cloaks and stretching their limbs upon their soft couch, were soon lost in the land of dreams.

The following morning dawned as fair and clear and bright as heart could wish. It was just such a May Day as one pictures in reading of those old-time festivities incident to that joyous season. And the forest that day was alive with holiday makers and rustic folks, enjoying themselves to the full in all the green glades and bosky dells. Culverhouse and Cuthbert found it hard to push along upon their way into the heart of the forest, so attractive were the scenes enacted in every little clearing that had become the site of a tiny hamlet or village, so full of hospitality to wayfarers was every house they passed, and so merry were the dances being footed on the greensward, in which every passer by was expected to take a part.

Culverhouse, in his green forester's dress, daintily faced with silver, a silver hunting horn slung round his neck, was an object of universal admiration, and the fact that he was plainly some wealthy gentleman masquerading and playing a part did not in any way detract from the interest his appearance excited. His merry, courteous ways and well-turned compliments won the hearts of maidens and matrons alike, whilst his deft and elegant dancing was the admiration of all who watched; and he was besought on all hands to stay, and found no small difficulty in pursuing his way into the forest itself.

However, they had made an early start, and as they drew near to the denser part of the wood interruptions became less frequent, and presently ceased altogether. Cuthbert found a track he knew which led straight to the trysting place with Kate; and though from time to time the travellers heard distant sounds of mirth and revelry proceeding from the right hand or the left, they did not come upon any groups of gipsies or freebooters, who were doubtless enjoying the day after their own fashion, and the two pursued their way rapidly and without molestation.

"This is the place," said Cuthbert at length, as the underwood grew thick and tangled and the path became almost lost. "And see, yonder is a lady's palfrey tethered to a tree. Mistress Kate is the first at the tryst. Go down thither to her, and I will wait here and guard her steed; for there be many afoot in the forest this day, and all may not be so bent on pleasure taking that they will not wander about in search of gain, and a fair palfrey like yon would be no small prize."

Culverhouse readily consented to this arrangement, and for some time Cuthbert was left to a solitary enjoyment of the forest. He caressed the horse, which responded with great gentleness and goodwill; and then he lay down in luxurious ease, his hands crossed behind his head, his face turned upwards towards the clear blue of the sunny sky, seen through the delicate tracery of the bursting buds of elm and beech. It was a perfect feast for eye and ear to lie thus in the forest, listening to the songs of the birds, and watching the play of light and shadow. Fresh from the roar and the bustle of the city, Cuthbert enjoyed it as a thirsty traveller in the desert enjoys a draught of clear cold water from a spring. He was almost sorry when at last the sound of voices warned him that the lovers' stolen interview was at an end, and that they were approaching him at last.

Kate's bright face was all alight with happiness and joy as she appeared, holding fast to her lover's arm. She greeted Cuthbert with the prettiest air of cousinly affection, asked of himself and his welfare with undisguised interest, and then told them of some rustic sports being held at a village only three miles distant, and begged Culverhouse to take her to see the spectacle. She had set her heart upon it all day, and there would be no danger of her being seen in the crowd sure to be assembled there to witness the sights. Her sisters had no love for such shows, and nobody would be greatly troubled at her hardihood in escaping from the escort of her servants. She was always doing the like, and no harm had ever befallen her. Her father was wont to call her his Madcap, and her mother sometimes chided, and feared she would come to ill by her wild freaks; but she had always turned up safe and sound, and her independent ways had almost ceased to excite comment or uneasiness. On May Day, when all the world was abroad and in good humour, they would trouble still less on her account. Kate had no fear of being overtaken and brought back, and had set her heart on going with Culverhouse to this village fete and fair. She had heard much of it, yet had never seen it. Sure this was the very day on which to go.

Culverhouse would have gone to the moon with her had she asked it—or would at least have striven to do so—and his assent was cordially given. Cuthbert knew the place well; and Kate was quickly mounted on the palfrey, Culverhouse walking at her bridle-rein, whilst Cuthbert walked on ahead to choose the safest paths, and warn them of any peril in the road. He could hear scraps of lover-like dialogue, that sent his heart back to Cherry, and made him long to have her beside him; but that being impossible, he gave himself up to the enjoyment of the present, and found pleasure in everything about him.

He had been before to this gay fair, held every May Day, to which all the rustic folks from far and near flocked with one accord. He knew well the look of the tents and booths, the bright dresses of the women, the feats of skill and strength carried on between the younger men, the noise, the merriment, the revelry that towards sundown became almost an orgie.

But in the bright noon-day light all was at its best. Kate was delighted with everything, especially with the May Queen upon her throne, surrounded by her attendant maidens in their white holiday dresses, with their huge posies in their hands. This was the place for love making, and it attracted the lovers not a little. Cuthbert, who undertook to tie up the horse in some safe place, and then wandered alone through the shifting throng, found them still upon the green when he rejoined them after his ramble. Plainly there was something of interest greater than before going on in this quarter. People were flocking to the green, laughing, chattering, and questioning. Blushing girls were being led along by their ardent swains; some were protesting, others laughing. Cuthbert could not make out what it was all about, and presently asked a countryman why the folks were all in such a coil.

"Why? because the priest has come, and all who will may be wed by him. He comes like this every May Day, and he stands in the church porch, and he weds all who come to him for a silver sixpence, and asks no questions. Half our folks are so wed year by year, for there be no priest or parson here this many years, not since the last one was hunted to death by good Queen Bess—Heaven rest her soul! The church is well nigh falling to pieces as it stands; but the porch is the best part of it, and the priest who comes says it is consecrated ground, and so he can use it for his weddings. That is what the coil is about, young sir. You be a stranger in these parts, I take it?"

Cuthbert was not quite a stranger, but he had never heard before of these weddings.

"Are they lawfully wed whom he marries?" he asked; but the man only shook his head.

"Nay, as for that I know naught, nor do any of the folks hereabouts neither. But he is a priest, and he says the right words, and joins their hands and calls them man and wife. No man can do more so far as my poor wits tell me. Most of our young folks—ay, and some of the old ones too—have been married that fashion, and I can't see that there is aught amiss with them. They be as happy and comfortable as other folks."

Cuthbert moved on with the interested crowd to see these haphazard weddings. It was plain that the marrying of a number of young couples was looked upon as part of the May Day sports. It was a pretty enough sight to see some of the flower-crowned blushing girls in their festal white, led along by their gaily-bedecked swains in the direction of the church, which was hard by the open village green. Some other importunate youths were eagerly pleading their cause, and striving to drag their mistresses to the nuptial altar amid the laughter and encouragement of the bystanders. Cuthbert moved along in search of his companions, greatly amused by all he saw and heard; and presently he caught sight of Kate and Culverhouse standing together close beside the church, half hidden within a small embrasure enclosed between two buttresses. Her face was covered with brilliant blushes, whilst he had hold of her hand, and seemed to be pleading with her with impassioned earnestness. As Cuthbert approached he heard these words:

"Nay, sweetest Kate, why hold back? Have we not loved each other faithfully and long? Why dost thou fear?"

"O Culverhouse, methinks it would be wrong. How can we know that such wedlock would be lawful? Methinks my mother would break her heart did she think the knot had been thus loosely tied."

"Nay, but, Kate, thou scarce takest my meaning as yet. This pledge given betwixt us before yon priest would be to us but the betrothal troth plight. I doubt myself whether such wedlock would be lawful; nor would I dare to call thee my wife did none but he tie the knot. But listen, sweet coz: if we go before him and thus plight our troth and join our hands together, none will dare to bid us wed another. It will be too solemn a pledge to be lightly broken. Men think gravely of such matters as solemn betrothal, and in days to come if they should urge upon thee or me to wed with another, we have but to tell of what was done this day, and they will cease to strive to come between us more.

"O sweetest mistress, fairest Kate, let us not part today without some pledge of mutual faith and constancy! Let me hold this little hand and place my token on thy finger; then be the time of waiting never so long, I shall know that at last I may call thee mine before all the world!"

Kate was quivering, blushing, trembling with excitement, though not with fear; for she loved Culverhouse too completely to feel aught but the most perfect confidence in him and his honour and faith.

"If only I could be sure it was not wrong!" she faltered.

"Wrong to plight thy hand, when thy heart is long since given?" he asked, with tender playfulness. "Where can the wrong be there?"

"I know not. I would fain be altogether thine. But what would my father and mother say?"

It was plain already that she was yielding. Culverhouse drew her tenderly towards him.

"Nay, sweet coz, there be times when the claim of the parent must give place to the closer claim of the lover, the husband. Does not Scripture itself tell us as much? Trust me, I speak for our best good. Let us but go together before this priest and speak the words that, said in church, would make us man and wife, and none will dare to keep us apart for ever, or bid us wed with another. Such words must be binding upon the soul, be the legal bond little or much. It is hard to say what the force of such a pledge may be; but well I know that neither my father nor thine would dare to try to break it, once they were told how and when it had been made. Thou wilt be mine for ever, Kate, an thou wilt do this thing."

The temptation was too great to be resisted. To plight her troth thus to Culverhouse, in a fashion which might not be wholly ignored or set aside, was a thing but too congenial to the daring and ardent temperament of the girl. With but a few more quivers of hesitation she let herself be persuaded; and Culverhouse, turning round with a radiant smile of triumph, saw that Cuthbert was standing beside them, sympathy and interest written upon his face.

"Thou wilt be witness to our espousals, good cousin," he said gaily, as he led his betrothed to the porch, where the crowd made way for them right and left, seeing well the purpose for which these gentlefolks had come. It pleased them mightily that this fine young forester with his air of noble birth, and this high-born maiden in her costly riding dress, should condescend to come before the priest here in their own little church porch, and plight their troth as their own young folks were doing.

A hush of eager expectation fell upon the crowd as Culverhouse led his betrothed love before the priest; and when the ring, bought from an old peddler who always attended at such times and found ready sale for his wares, was placed on Kate's slim finger, a murmur of applause and sympathy ran through the crowd, and Kate quivered from head to foot at the thought of her own daring.

The thing was done. She and Culverhouse had plighted themselves in a fashion solemn enough to hinder any person from trying to make light of their betrothal. Right or wrong, the deed was done, and neither looked as though he or she wished the words unsaid.

But Kate dared not linger longer. Cuthbert fetched her palfrey, and Culverhouse lifted her to the saddle; and hiring a steed from a farmer for a brief hour, promising to bring it back in time for the good man to jog home again at dusk, the newly-plighted pair rode off into the forest together, he promising to see her to within sight of her own home before taking a last adieu.

Cuthbert stood looking after them with a smile on his lips.

"Now, if Heaven will but speed my quest and give me happy success, I trow those twain may yet be wed again, no man saying them nay; for if sweet Mistress Kate can but bring with her the dower the treasure will afford, none will forbid the union: she will be welcomed by Lord Andover as a fitting wife for his son and heir!"



Chapter 13: The Gipsy's Tryst.

"This is surely the spot. Methinks she will not fail me. Moonrise was the hour she named. I will wait with what patience I may till she comes to keep the tryst."

So said Cuthbert to himself as, at the close of that long and varied day, he stood at the mouth of a natural cave, half hidden by tangled undergrowth, which had been appointed months ago by Joanna the gipsy as the place where on May Day evening she would meet him, and tell him more of the matter so near to his heart.

Culverhouse and he had parted company when the former had escorted towards her home the lady of his choice, to whom his troth had been so solemnly plighted a short while before. The young Viscount was going to make his way rapidly to London again; but Cuthbert purposed a long stay in the forest. The search for the lost treasure might be a matter of weeks, possibly of months. But he was very well resolved not to give it up until the search had been pursued with unabated zeal to the last extremity, and he himself was fully satisfied as to its fate. Nothing but actual knowledge that it had been dissipated and dispersed should induce him to abandon the quest.

Standing at the mouth of the cave, leaning against the rocky wall, and enjoying the deep solitude of the forest and its tranquil stillness, Cuthbert revolved many matters in his mind, and it seemed more certain than ever that the finding of the treasure alone could save him and many that he loved from manifold difficulties and perplexities. How that treasure would smooth the path and bring happiness and ease to the Trevlyn family! Surely it was well worth a more vigorous search than had long been made! Cuthbert took from his pocket the bit of parchment containing the mystic words of the wise woman, or her familiar spirit, and perused them again and again, albeit he knew them well nigh by heart.

"Thou art here! It is well."

Cuthbert started at the sound of the rich, deep tones, and found himself confronted by the queenly-looking gipsy. He had not heard her approach. She seemed to have risen from the very ground at his feet. But he was scarcely surprised. She had the air of one who could come and go at will even upon the wings of the wind.

"I am here," answered Cuthbert, making a courteous salutation. "I thank thee that thou hast not forgotten the tryst."

"I never forget aught, least of all a promise," answered Joanna, with her queenly air of dignity. "I come to strive to do my share to atone a wrong and render restitution where it is due. What paper is that, boy, that thou studiest with such care?"

Cuthbert handed her the scrap of parchment. He did not know if she would have learning to decipher it; but the writing appeared to have no difficulties for her. She read the words in the clear light of the May evening, albeit the sun had set and the crescent moon was hanging like a silver lamp in the sky; and as she did so she started slightly, and fixed a keenly penetrating glance upon Cuthbert.

"Where didst thou get these lines, boy?"

"They were given me by a wise woman, whom I consulted to see if she could aid me in this matter."

"A wise woman! And where didst thou find her?"

"In London town, where she practises her arts, and many come unto her by secret. She is veritably that which she professes, for she told me the object of my quest ere I had told mine errand to her."

"But thou hadst told her thy name?"

"Yes, verily, I had done that."

"And knowing that, she divined all. Verily thou hast seen Esther the witch! And this was all she knew—this was all she knew!"

Joanna's head was bent over the parchment. Her eyes were full of fire. Her words seemed addressed rather to herself than to Cuthbert, and they excited his ardent curiosity.

"And who is Esther? and dost thou know her? thou speakest as if thou didst."

"All of us forest gipsies know Esther well. She is one of us, though she has left the forest to dwell in cities. According to the language of men, she is my aunt. She is sister to old Miriam, whom thou sawest in the forest mill, and who would have done thee to death an I had not interposed to save thee. And Miriam is my mother, albeit I am her queen, and may impose my will on her."

"And does she know aught of the lost treasure?" asked Cuthbert, with eager impatience.

"I had hoped she did," answered Joanna slowly, her eyes still bent on the paper. "I have seen her myself since I saw thee last. I have spoken with her on this same matter. I could not draw from her what I strove to do; but I see now that I prepared the way, and that when thou didst go by chance to her, she was ready for thee. But if this is all she knows, it goes not far. Still it may help—it may help. In a tangled web, no one may say which will be the thread which patiently followed may unravel the skein."

"Belike she knows more than she would say," suggested Cuthbert quickly. "If she can look into the future, sure she may look into the past likewise—"

But Joanna stopped him by a strange gesture.

"Peace, foolish boy! Thinkest thou if gipsy lore could unravel the riddle, that it had not long ago become known to me? We have our gifts, our powers, our arts, and well we know how to use them be it for good or ill. But we know full well what the limits are. And if men know it not, it is more their blindness than our skill that keeps them in ignorance. And if they give us more praise and wonder than we merit, do they not also give us hatred and enmity in like meed? Have we not gone through fire and sword when men have risen up against us and called us sorcerers? Have we not suffered for our reputation; and do we not therefore deserve to wear it with what honour we may?"

The woman spoke with a strange mixture of bitterness, earnestness, and scorn—scorn, as it seemed, almost of herself and of her tribe, yet a scorn so proudly worn that it scarce seemed other than a mark of distinction to the wearer. Cuthbert listened in amaze and bewilderment. It was all so different from what he had looked for. He had hoped to consult an oracle, to learn hidden secrets of which the gipsies had cognizance through their mysterious gifts; and, behold, he was almost told that these same gifts were little more than the idle imagining of superstitious and ignorant men.

"Then canst thou tell me nothing?" he asked.

"I can tell thee much," was the steady answer, "albeit not all that thou wouldst know; that will still be thine to track out with patience and care. But these lines may help; they may contain a clue. I wonder how and where Esther learned them! But come within the cave. The evening air grows chill, and I and thou have both walked far, and stand in need of refreshment. All is ready for us within. Come; I will lead the way."

Joanna stepped on before, and Cuthbert followed. He had thought the cave a small and shallow place before, but now he discovered that this shallow cavity in the rock was but the antechamber, as it were, to a larger cavern, where twenty men might sit or lie at ease; and the entrance to this larger place was through a passage so narrow and low that none who did not know the secret would think it possible to traverse it.

Cuthbert wondered if he were letting himself be taken in a trap as he followed the gipsy through this narrow way; but he trusted Joanna with the confidence of instinct which is seldom deceived, and presently felt that they had emerged into some larger and wider place. In a few moments the gipsy had produced a light, and the proportions of the larger cavern became visible. It was a vaulted place that had been hollowed out of the ruddy sandstone either by some freak of nature or by the device of men, and had plainly been adapted by the wandering gipsy tribes as a place of refuge and resort. There were several rude pieces of furniture about—a few pallet beds, some benches, and a table. On this table was now spread the wherewithal for a modest repast—some cold venison, some wheaten bread, a piece of cheese, and a flagon of wine. Cuthbert, who had fared but scantily all that day, was ready enough to obey the gipsy's hospitable invitation, and seated himself at the board. She helped him liberally to all that was there, but appeared to want nothing herself; and whilst Cuthbert satisfied his hunger she commenced the tale, part of which in its bare outline was already known to him.

"Thou knowest the story of the witch burned on the village common, nigh to Trevlyn Chase, by the order of the knight then ruling in that house? Dost know too that that woman was my grandam, the mother of Miriam and of Esther?"

"I knew that not," answered Cuthbert.

"But so it was," pursued Joanna, her big dark eyes fixed upon the flickering flame of the lamp she had kindled. "I never saw my grandam myself; she had met her doom before I saw the light. Yet I have heard the tale so ofttimes told that methinks I see myself the threatening crowd hooting the old woman to her fiery death, the stern knight and his servants watching that the cruel law was carried out, and the gipsy tribe hanging on the outskirts of the wood, yet not daring to adventure themselves into the midst of the infuriated villagers, watching all, and treasuring up the curses and maledictions poured upon the proud head of Sir Richard as the old woman went to her death."

"A cruel death, in all truth," said Cuthbert. "Yet why hold Sir Richard in fault? He was not the maker of that law; he was but the instrument used for its enforcement, the magistrate bound to see the will of the sovereign performed. Most like he could not help himself, were his heart never so pitiful. I trow the Trevlyns have always done their duty; yet I misdoubt me if by nature they have been sterner or more cruel than other men."

A faint smile flickered round the lips of the gipsy. She went on with her story without heeding this plea.

"They had made shift to see her once before her death—my mother, my father, and Esther with them. Upon those three she had laid a solemn charge—a charge to be handed down to their children, and passed throughout all the tribe—a charge of deadly hatred to all that bore the name of Trevlyn—a charge to deal them one day some terrible blow in vengeance for her death, a vengeance that should be felt to the third and fourth generation."

"I have heard somewhat of that," said Cuthbert.

"Ay, the old woman raved out her curses in the hearing of all as she was fastened to the stake and the flames leaped about her. All heard and many treasured up those words, and hence the tradition always in men's mouths that the treasure of Trevlyn was filched by the gipsy folks in fulfilment of that curse. But now another word. My grandam laid another charge upon the tribe and all who claimed kindred with her; and that charge was that all should give loving and watchful care and tender service to the house of Wyvern; that all bearing that name should be the especial care of the gipsies—they and their children after them, whether bearing the old name or not. The Wyverns had been true friends to the gipsy folk, had protected them in many an hour of peril, had spoken them gently and kindly when all men else spoke ill of them, had given them food and shelter and a place to live in; and to my grandam had given a home and sanctuary one bitter winter's night, when, pursued by foes who strove then to get her into their hands and do her to death, she flung herself upon their charity, and received a welcome and a home in her hour of peril and sore need. It was beneath the roof of the Wyverns that Esther first saw the light; and in gratitude for their many acts of charity and kindness my grandam, ere she died, laid instructions on all who owned her sway that the Wyverns and all descended from them should be sacred to the gipsies—watched over and guarded from all ill."

"Ah!" said Cuthbert, drawing a long breath; "and shortly after that a Wyvern wedded with this same Sir Richard."

"Ay, and that but just one short month before his house was to have been burned about his head, and he himself slain had he come forth alive. All the plans were laid, and it was to be done so soon as he should return to the Chase after long absence. Long Robin had planned it all, and he had a head as clever and a will as firm as any man that ever lived. He had thought of all—he had everything in order; and then came the news that the knight had wed with Isabel Wyvern, the tenderest, the sweetest, the gentlest maiden that ever drew breath; and when they knew that, even Long Robin knew that no hand could thenceforward be raised against the knight."

"Long Robin—who is he?" questioned Cuthbert eagerly.

"He is Miriam's husband—my father," answered Joanna, a strange shadow passing across her face.

"And does he yet live?"

The gipsy paused and hesitated.

"Ask any other member of the tribe, and they will tell thee that he does; but for me, I do not know, I cannot tell."

Cuthbert looked at her in amaze.

"Not know, and he thy father!"

A curious smile crossed her face.

"We think little of such ties amongst the gipsy folk. The tie betwixt us all is stronger than the simple one of blood. We are all of one race—of one stock; that is enough for us. The lesser is swallowed up of the greater."

"But thy mother lives; she must know?"

Joanna's dark eyes glowed strangely.

"Ay, she verily must know; but will she tell what she knows? If it be as I suspect, she must be in the plot."

"What plot?" asked Cuthbert, beginning to feel bewildered with all this intricacy of mystery.

"Thou hadst better hear my story to the end," answered Joanna with a slight smile; "then thou wilt better comprehend. Listen to me, and ask thy questions when I have done."

"Speak on, then," said Cuthbert, glad enough to hold his peace; "I will give good heed to all thou sayest."

And Joanna continued her tale.

"Sir Richard, wedded to Isabel Wyvern, might no longer be the mark for the gipsy's curse. Esther was then queen of the tribe, and with her, love for the Wyverns far outweighed hatred towards the Trevlyns. She gave it out that no hair of his head should be hurt; the vengeance must wait. If it were to be carried out, it must be upon another generation. So said the queen, and none dared openly lift the voice against her; but there were angry mutterings and murmurings in the tribe, and none were more wroth at this decree than Miriam and Long Robin."

"Her sister and that sister's husband."

"Ay. Long Robin was the head of the tribe, and loved not to yield to the sway of a woman; but amongst us there has always been a queen, and he was powerless to hinder the rest from owning Esther's rule. But he and Miriam withdrew in wrathful indignation for a time from the rest of the tribe, and brooded over schemes of vengeance, and delighted themselves in every misfortune that befell the house of Trevlyn. It was whispered by many that these two had a hand in the death of more than one fair child. If their beasts sickened, or any mischance happened, men laid it to the door of Miriam and Long Robin. But for mine own part, I trow that they had little to do with any of these matters. Trouble is the lot of many born into this world. The Trevlyns had no more than their fair share of troubles that I can see. One fine stalwart son grew up to manhood, and in time he too wedded into the house of Wyvern—married thy grandam the fair Mistress Gertrude, whose eyes thou hast, albeit in many points a Trevlyn."

"And what said Miriam then?"

"She liked it not well. Sullen, brooding hatred had gained possession of her and of Long Robin. As Esther and some of the tribe had learned to forgive Trevlyn for the sake of Wyvern, those twain and a few others had come to hate Wyvern for their alliance with Trevlyn.

"All this I have been told by Esther. I was not born till after the treasure had been stolen—born when my mother had long ceased to look for offspring, and had no love for the infant thrust upon her care. I was taken from my infancy by Esther, who trained me up, with the consent of all the tribe, to take her place as their queen when I should have grown to womanhood. Esther loved not the roving life of the forest; she had other wishes for herself. She practised divination and astrology and many dark arts, and wished a settled place of abode for herself when she could leave the tribe. She brought me up and taught me all I knew; and she has told me all she knows about that strange night on which the treasure of Trevlyn was taken—and lost!"

"Lost—lost by the Trevlyns truly; but surely thou dost not mean that they who stole it lost it likewise!"

Joanna's dark eyes were fixed. She seemed to be looking backwards to a far-distant time. Her voice was low and monotonous as she proceeded with her tale.

"The years had flown by since Miriam and Long Robin had divided themselves from the tribe; and they had long since returned, though still keeping aloof in part from the rest—still forming, as it were, a separate party of their own. Long Robin had dealings with the robbers of the King's highway; he often accompanied them on their raids, he and some of the men with him. The tribe began to have regular dealings with the freebooters, as thou hast seen. They come to us for shelter and for food. They divide their spoil with us from time to time. Since the hand of all men has been against us, our hands have been raised freely against the world. Our younger men all go out to join the highwaymen. We are friends and brothers, and the wronged and needy resort to us, and are made welcome."

Joanna threw back her proud head as though rejoicing in this lawless freedom; and then giving herself a little moment for recollection, she returned to the main course of her narrative.

"It was easy for us gipsies, roving hither and thither and picking up the news from travellers on the road, to know all that was going on about us and in the world beyond. We had scouts all over the forest. We knew everything that passed; and when the treasure was borne in the dead of night from Trevlyn Chase, and hidden beneath the giant oak in the forest, we knew where and wherefore it was so hidden, and the flame of vengeance long deferred leaped into Miriam's eyes.

"'This is our hour!' she cried; 'this the day for which we have had long patience! Thus can we smite the false Trevlyns, yet do them no bodily hurt; thus can we smite them, and lay no hand upon the house of Wyvern. It is the Trevlyns that love the red gold; the grasping, covetous Trevlyns who will feel most keenly this blow! Upon the gentler spirits of the ladies the loss of wealth will fall less keenly. The proud men will feel it. They will gnash their teeth in impotent fury. Our vow of vengeance will be accomplished. We shall smite the foe by taking away from him the desire of his heart, and yet lay no hand upon any who is loved by a Wyvern.'

"And this desire after vengeance took hold of all those gathered in the ruined mill that night, whilst into Long Robin's eyes there crept a gleam which Esther liked not to see; for it spoke of a lust after gold for its own sake which she had striven to quench amongst her children, and she wished not to see them enriched beyond what was needful for their daily wants, knowing that the possession of gold and treasure would bring about the slackening of those bonds which had hitherto bound them together."

Joanna paused, and looked long into Cuthbert's attentive face. He asked no question, and presently she continued:

"Esther laid this charge upon those who were to go forth after the treasure: They might move it from its present resting place, and hide it somewhere in the forest, as securely as they would; but no man should lay hands upon the spoil. It should be hidden away intact as it was found. It should belong to none, but be guarded by all; so that if the day should come when the Trevlyns should have won the love and trust of their whilom foes, we should have the power to make restitution to them in full."

Cuthbert started, and his eyes gleamed beneath their dark brows; but Joanna lifted her hand and continued:

"Remember I am telling the tale as I learned it from Esther. As she spoke those words she saw a dark gleam shine in Robin's eyes—saw a glitter of rage and wrath that told her he would defy her if he dared. The rest opposed her not. The wild, free life of the forest had not bred in them any covetous lust after gold. So long as the day brought food and raiment sufficient for their needs they asked no more. Men called them robbers, murderers, freebooters; but though they might deserve these names, there was yet much good in them. They robbed the rich alone; to the poor they showed themselves kindly and generous. They were eager to find and secrete this treasure, but agreed by acclamation that it should not be touched. Only Robin answered not, but looked askance with evil eye; and him alone of the eight men intrusted with the task did she distrust."

"Then why was he sent?"

"Verily because he was too powerful to be refused. It would have made a split in the camp, and the end of that might no man see. She was forced to send him in charge of the expedition; and he alone of the eight that went forth ever returned to the mill."

"What!" cried Cuthbert, "did some mischance befall them?"

"That is a thing that no man knows," answered Joanna darkly. "It is as I have said: Long Robin, and he alone, ever came back to the mill. He was five days gone, and men said he looked ten years older in those days. He told a strange tale. He said that the treasure had been found and secreted, but that the sight of the gold had acted like strong drink upon his seven comrades: that they had vowed to carry it away and convert it into money, that they might be rich for the rest of their days; and that when he had opposed them, bidding them remember the words of the queen, they had set upon him, had bound him hand and foot, and had left him to perish in a cave, whence he had only been released by the charity of a passer by, when he was well-nigh starved with hunger and cold. He said that he had gone at once to the place where the treasure had been hid, and had found all of it gone. The seven covetous men had plainly carried it off, and he prophesied that they would never be seen again."

"And they never were?"

"Never!" answered Joanna, in that same dark way; "for they were all dead men!"

"Dead! how came they so?"

"Listen, and I will tell thee. I cannot prove my words. The fate of the seven lies wrapped in mystery; but Esther vows that they were all slain in the heart of the forest by Long Robin. She is as certain of it as though she saw the deed. She knows that as the men were carrying their last loads to the hiding place, wherever that might be, Long Robin lay in wait and slew them one by one, taking them unawares and plunging his knife into the neck of each, so that they fell with never a cry. She knows it from strange words uttered by him in sleep; knows it from the finding in the forest not many years since of a number of human bones and seven skulls, all lying near together in one place. Some woodmen found the ghastly remains; and from that day forward none has cared to pass that way. It was whispered that it was the work of fairies or gnomes, and the dell is shunned by all who have ever heard the tale."

"As the lines say!" cried Cuthbert, in great excitement. "Thinkest thou that it is in that dell that the treasure lies hid?"

"Esther thinks so, but she knows not; and I have hunted and hunted in vain for traces of digging and signs of disturbance in the ground, but I have sought in vain. Long Robin keeps his secret well. If he knows the place, no living soul shares his knowledge. It may be that long since all has been removed. It may be he has vast wealth stored up in some other country, awaiting the moment when he shall go forth to claim it."

A puzzled look crossed Cuthbert's face. He put his hand to his head.

"Thou speakest of Robin as though he were yet alive, and yet thou hast said thou thinkest him dead. And there is Miriam—surely she knows all. I am yet more than half in the dark."

"None may wholly know what all this means," answered Joanna; "but upon me has Esther laid the charge to strive that restitution be done, since now the house of Trevlyn has become the friend and champion of the poor and oppressed, and the present knight is a very proper gentleman, well worthy of being the son and the grandson of the house of Wyvern. This charge she laid upon me five long years agone, when she bid the tribe own me their queen, for that her age and infirmities hindered her from acting longer as such. Ever since then I have been pondering and wondering how this thing may be done; but I have had to hold my peace, for if but a whisper got abroad and so came to Miriam's ears, I trow that the treasure, if still it lies hidden in the forest, would forthwith be spirited away once more."

"Then Miriam knows the hiding place?"

"I say not that, I think not that. I have watched, and used every art to discover all I may; and I well believe that Miriam herself knows not the spot, but that she knows it lies yet in the forest, and that when the hour is come she and Robin together will bear it away, and keep it for ever from the house of Trevlyn."

"But sure if they are ever to enjoy their ill-gotten gains it should be soon," said Cuthbert. "Miriam is old, and Long Robin can scarce be younger—"

"Hold! I have not done. Long Robin, her husband, was older by far than she. If the old man who goes by that name be indeed he, he must be nigh upon fourscore and ten. But I have long doubted what no man else doubts. I believe not that yon gray-beard is Robin; I believe that it is another who masquerades in old man's garb, but has the strength and hardihood of youth beneath that garb and that air of age."

"Marry! yet how can that be?"

"It might not be so hard as thou deemest. In our tribe our men resemble each other closely, and have the same tricks of voice and speech. Nay, it was whispered that many of the youths were in very truth sons to Robin; and one of these so far favoured him that they were ever together, and he was treated in all ways like a son. Miriam loved him as though he had been her own. Where Long Robin went there went this other Robin, too. He was as the shadow of the other. And a day came when they went forth together to roam in foreign lands, and Miriam with them. They were gone for full three years. We gave up the hope of seeing them more. But suddenly they came amongst us again—two of them, not three. They said the younger Robin had died of the plague in foreign lands, and all men gave heed to the tale. But from the first I noted that Long Robin's step was firmer than when he went forth, that there was more power in his voice, more strength in his arm. True, he goes about with bowed back; but I have seen him lift himself up when he thought there was none to see him, and stretch his long arms with a strength and ease that are seldom seen in the very aged. He can accomplish long rides and rambles, strange in one so old; and our people begin to regard him with awe, as a man whom death has passed by. But I verily believe that it was old Robin who passed away, and that this man is none other but young Robin; and that in him and him alone is reposed the secret of the lost treasure, that he may one day have it for his own."

"And why to him?" questioned Cuthbert, drawing his brows together in the effort to understand; "why to him rather than to Miriam or any other of the tribe?"

"Verily because he was the one being in the world beloved of Long Robin. Miriam he trusted not, for that she was a woman, and he held that no woman, however faithful, might be trusted with a secret. I have heard him say so a hundred times, and have seen her flinch beneath the words, whilst her eyes flashed fire. Methinks that Long Robin loved gold with the miser's greed—loved to hoard and not to spend—loved to feel it in his power, but desired not to touch it. Miriam was content so long as vengeance on the Trevlyns had been taken. She wanted not the gold herself so long as it was hidden from them. But the secret was one that must not die, and to young Robin it has been intrusted. And if I mistake me not, he has other notions regarding it, and will not let it lie in its hiding place for ever. He is sharp and shrewd as Lucifer. He knows by some instinct that I suspect and that I watch him, and never has he betrayed aught to me. But sure am I that the secret rests with him; and if thou wouldst find it out, it is Long Robin's steps that thou must dog and watch."

"I will watch him till I have tracked him to his lair!" cried Cuthbert, springing to his feet in great excitement. "I will never rest, day nor night, until the golden secret is mine!"



Chapter 14: Long Robin.

The gipsy had left him, gliding away in the moonlight like a veritable shadow; and Cuthbert, left alone in the dim cave, buried his face in his hands and sank into a deep reverie.

This, then, was the meaning of it all: the long-deferred vengeance of the gipsy tribe; the avaricious greed of one amongst their number, who had committed dastardly crimes so as to keep the secret hiding place in his own power alone; the secret passed on (as it seemed) to one who feigned to be what he was not, and was cunningly awaiting time and opportunity to remove the gold, and amass to himself this vast hoard; none beside himself of all the tribe heeding or caring for it, all holding to the story told long ago of the seven men who had disappeared bearing away to foreign lands the stolen treasure. A generation had well-nigh passed since that treasure had been filched from the grasp of the Trevlyns. The stalwart fellows who had been bred up amongst the gipsies, or had joined the bands of freebooters with whom they were so closely connected, knew little of and cared nothing for the tradition of the hidden hoard. They found gold enough in the pockets of the travellers they waylaid to supply their daily needs; the free life of the forest was dear to them, and left them no lingering longings after wealth that might prove a burden instead of a joy to its possessor.

Out of those who had been living when the treasure was stolen and lost, only Miriam and Long Robin (if indeed it were he) and Esther remained alive. Esther had retired to London, and was lost to her people. Miriam had done everything to encourage the belief that the treasure had been made away with by the seven helpers who had gone forth, but had never returned to tell the tale. Esther, who had thought very differently, had confined her suspicious for a time to her own bosom, and later on had spoken of them only to Joanna. Upon her had she laid the charge to strive to make restitution, now that vengeance had been inflicted and the curse of the old witch fulfilled. To Joanna it belonged to restore prosperity to the house of Wyvern through the daughters' sons, and it was for her to strive to learn where the treasure lay, and give notice of the spot to the Trevlyns.

The queen had done all that she could. She had watched with close attention the pair with whom Esther believed the secret to lie. Miriam, her mother, knew not the spot, of that she was convinced; but she did know that the treasure had been hidden somewhere in the forest by her husband, and that the exact place was known to the white-bearded man whom she and others called Long Robin.

About that weird old man, said to be well-nigh a hundred years old, a flavour of romance existed. Men looked upon him as bearing a charmed existence. He went his lonely way unheeded by all. He was said to have dealings with the fairies and the pixies of the forest. All regarded him with a species of awe. He had drawn, as it were, a charmed circle about himself and his ways. None desired to interfere with him; none questioned his coming or going. All brought to him a share of the spoil taken on the roads as a matter of right and due, but none looked to receive aught in return from him. He and Miriam, from their great age, lived as it were apart. They took the place of patriarchal heads of the tribe, and were treated with reverence and filial respect by all.

The question Cuthbert had pressed home on Joanna was why, this being so, the treasure had not been moved away before this, so that Miriam should end her days in peace and luxury, instead of growing old in the wilds of the forest.

Joanna's reply had been that she did not think Miriam had ever really wished to leave the free forest life; that with her, vengeance upon the Trevlyns had been the leading impulse of her life; and that she had no covetous desires herself after the gold. Old Robin had loved it with the miser's love; but doubtless the younger Robin (if indeed the long-bearded man were he) was waiting till such time as Miriam should be dead, and he alone in full possession of the golden secret. Then he would without doubt bear it away and live like a prince the rest of his days; but for the present he made no move, and Joanna was very certain that he suspected her of watching him, as indeed she did, and he had shown himself as cunning as any fox in baffling her when she had sought to discover any of his haunts. Her watching had been in vain, because she was suspected of a too great knowledge, and was looked upon as dangerous. But where she failed Cuthbert might succeed, for he was absolutely unknown to Robin, and if the two were to meet face to face in the forest, it would be impossible that the wily old man (if old he were) should suspect him of any ulterior purpose.

Robin had not been at the mill the night that Cuthbert had been brought there by Tyrrel and his companions. Joanna had described him so graphically that the lad was certain of knowing him were he to come across him in the forest. She had also indicated to him the region in which she suspected him most generally to lurk when he spent days and sometimes weeks alone in the forest. She believed that during the summer months, when the forest became the resort of many wandering bands of gipsies or of robbers and outlaws, he kept a pretty close and constant watch upon the spot where his treasure lay hid. The dell, at the head of which the bones of the seven murdered men had been found, was certainly a favourite spot of his; and she believed it was owing to some trickery of his that men still declared it haunted by evil or troubled spirits. Travellers passing that way had been scared almost out of their senses by the sight of a ghostly white figure gliding about, or by the sound of hollow moans and the rattling of chains. None but the ignorant stranger ever ventured within half-a-mile of that ill-omened spot. Cuthbert, as he sat thinking over the gipsy's words and charge, saw clearly that there was ample room for suspicion that here the treasure might lie, since Robin took such pains to scare away all men from the spot.

The light burned dim; but Cuthbert still sat on beside the rude table where he had supped. Before him lay the scrap of parchment with the doggerel lines of the wise woman inscribed upon them. It had been something of a shock to his faith to find that the wise woman knew all his story beforehand, and had had no need to dive into the spirit world to ask the nature of his errand. He felt slightly aggrieved, as though he had been tricked and imposed upon. He was very nearly burning the parchment in despite; but Joanna had bidden him keep it, and had added, with a slight significant smile:

"Keep it, boy; and think not too hardly of those who juggle with men's fears and fancies, to obtain the greater sway upon them. It is not always used amiss. As for those lines, there may be more in them yet than thou or I can see at this moment. For there may be words in them that have been spoken by Long Robin in his dreams. Esther has told me such before now. She knew not their meaning, nor do I; but that they have a meaning she is very sure. 'Three times three'—that was what he was muttering ever. It was the burden of his thought, even as she made it the burden of her song. Keep the lines; they may serve thy turn yet. Esther is a wise woman. She did not give thee that paper for naught."

The day had well-nigh dawned before Cuthbert flung himself upon one of the pallet beds in the cave, and fell asleep from sheer weariness of mind and body; but he was young, and sleep came quickly and held him in a fast embrace. The silence and darkness of this underground place were favourable to a long spell of repose. The youth did not open his eyes till the sun had passed its meridian many hours, though no ray of daylight glinted into that dim abode.

It might have been the middle of the night for all he knew when he opened his eyes once again; and when he did so he lay perfectly still, for he was convinced that he was yet in the midst of some strange dream. He was in the cave of red sandstone where he had fallen asleep, lying in the darkest corner of all upon a straw pallet, with his sad-coloured cloak over him; but the cave itself was lighter than it had been when he had fallen asleep. Two torches flamed upon the table, and by the bright flame they cast upon the objects near to them, Cuthbert saw a strange and weird-looking figure.

This figure was that of a man, who was seated at table, and had evidently been partaking of some refreshment. He was dressed in outlandish garb, and in a fashion which was only affected now by very old men, who had worn such garments all their lives, and were averse to change. Cuthbert had occasionally seen such a dress amongst the aged folks about his home, but this was more fanciful than any assumed by a mere rustic, and gave to the tall thin figure a certain air of distinction. A soft felt hat with a high crown lay upon the table; and the light shone full upon a face that was seamed by tiny wrinkles, and upon a thick head of hair that was either flaxen or white, Cuthbert could scarcely say which. The face was almost entirely hidden by a tangled growth of beard as white as snow, which beard descended almost to the man's waist, and was of wonderful fineness and bushiness. At the first glance the impression produced by this strange apparition was that he was a man immensely old; but a closer examination might well raise doubts. The air and bearing of the man were strangely alert for an octogenarian, and the way in which he tackled the hard bread and cheese which still stood before him was scarcely like the fashion in which the aged generally eat.

Cuthbert held his breath as he gazed. Was this a dream—the outcome of his talk with the gipsy? No, he was awake; he became more and more sure of it. But lying perfectly still, and not betraying his presence by so much as a deeply-drawn breath, he gazed and gazed as if fascinated upon the face of this strange being, and in his heart he said:

"Long Robin himself!"

He was certain of it; there could be no manner of mistake. Dress, air, everything corresponded with Joanna's description. For a moment a sick fear crossed his mind lest he should have left upon the table the fragment of parchment with the mystic words upon it, for he had had no idea that the cave would be invaded that night. But no; the habit of caution had been strong within him, and he had put the paper away before retiring to his corner. Plainly the man before him had no suspicion that any living soul was near. The deep shadows of the cave hid Cuthbert completely from view, and the secret entrance to the inner cave was doubtless known to very few. None would suspect the presence of a hidden stranger there.

As Cuthbert watched as if fascinated, Robin ceased eating, and pushed back his stool, rising to his feet quickly, and showing the grand proportions of his tall figure, which certainly deserved the epithet of "long." He stretched his arms, and swung them backwards and forwards with a gesture strangely unlike that of age; and throwing back his broad shoulders, he began pacing to and fro in the cave with a firm, elastic tread seldom seen after the meridian of life is passed.

"Joanna is right," thought Cuthbert, crouching closer against the wall and into the shadows; for he had no wish to be discovered by this giant, who would probably have scant mercy upon an observer who might have taken his measure and discovered his secret now that he was off his guard. "In all truth this man is not old; he can scarce be above forty years. It is by some clever artifice that he whitens his beard to that snow-like hue. He himself is young and strong. He shows it in every movement."

He certainly did, pacing to and fro with rapid strides; and presently he began to mutter words and phrases to himself, Cuthbert listening with all his ears.

"A curse upon the women!" he said more than once; "they are the very plague of my life! Miriam's besotted love, Joanna's suspicions and her accursed watch upon me, both hinder my plans. If the twain were in league together, it could not be worse. Miriam implores me with tears and lamentations to wait till she be laid in the tomb for the fulfilment of my cherished dream. And if I thwart her too far, there is no telling what she may not say or do. Love and hate in jealous natures such as hers are terribly near akin, and the love may change to burning hatred if once I provoke her too far. She knows not all, but she knows too much. She could spoil my hand full well if she did but tell all she knows. And that jade Joanna, how I hate her! She has been well drilled by that witch Esther, who ought long ere this to have been hanged or burned. I would I could set the King's officers on her now, but if I did I should have the whole tribe at my throat like bloodhounds, and not even my great age would serve to save me from their fury.

"Ha, ha! ha, ha!" and a sardonic laugh rang through the cave. "Would that I could wed Joanna to Tyrrel, who would give his soul to call her his. Once the wife of a member of the band, and some of her power would go. I misdoubt me if any would long call her queen; and when she had babes to fill her mind and her thoughts, she would soon cease to watch me with those suspicions eyes of hers, and to make me fear continually for my secret. Would that they were both dead! Would that I could kill them even as he killed the other seven who had a share in the golden secret! I would strangle them with my own hands if I did but dare. Once those two removed from my path and my way would be plain. I could remove it all, bit by bit and piece by piece, away from this accursed forest, of which I am sick to the death. Then in some far-off foreign land of perpetual sunshine, I could reign a prince and a king, and life would be one long dream of ease and delight; no more toil, no more privation, no more scorching summer heat or biting winter cold. I have seen what the life of the East is like—the kneeling slaves, the harem of beauteous dark-eyed women, the dream-like indolence and ease. That is the life for me. That is whither I and my treasure will go. A plague upon old Miriam, that she clings to these cold forests and the sordid life we live here! But for her insane jealousy and love I would defy Joanna and go. But the pair of them are too much for me. I must find a way of ridding myself of one or both. I will not be bound like this for ever!"

The man raised his right hand and shook it with a vehement, threatening gesture; and then relapsing into sudden moody silence, continued his pacing to and fro, wrapped in gloomy thought.

Cuthbert held his breath as this monologue proceeded, and a sense of unlooked-for triumph made his heart swell within him. Here was proof positive that the treasure lay still in the forest; that it had not been taken thence and dissipated; that it still remained to be found by his unremitting endeavours. The youth felt almost as though the victory were already his. What might not a few weeks of patient perseverance bring? He would dog Robin's' steps like a bloodhound. He had not been brought up to hardship and forest life for nothing. To sleep in the open, to live scantily on such fare as might be picked up at the huts of the woodmen or in the camps of the gipsies, was nothing to him. He would live on roots and wild fruits sooner than abandon his quest. Nothing should come between him and his overmastering resolve to win back for the house of Trevlyn the long-lost treasure.

But as he mused and Robin impatiently paced the floor of the cavern, the torches burned slowly down, till one flickered and went out and the other showed signs of speedy extinction. Robin, with a start and an oath, stopped in his walk and muttered that he must be gone. He placed upon his head the slouched hat, that at once concealed his features, and gave a different expression to his face. As he donned his hat and took up a heavy oaken staff that lay upon the table, his whole aspect changed. He seemed to don likewise a new action, a new outward appearance altogether. His straight back bent and assumed a stoop such as one sees in men who have long grown old. There came a feebleness into his gait, a slight uncertainty into his movements. And all this was done so naturally, so cleverly, that Cuthbert, as he gazed fascinated at the figure before him, could scarcely believe that his eyes had not played him some strange trick—could scarcely credit that this could be the same being as the upright, stalwart man, whose movements he had been watching during the past half hour. But all this only went to show how shrewd Joanna's surmise had been, and every corroborating fact increased Cuthbert's confidence in all that she had told him.

Leaving the last torch to die into obscurity by itself, Long Robin made for the opening in the wall which led to the outer cave, and Cuthbert rose swiftly and silently and crept after him, gaining the opening in time to see the tall figure slouching across the moorland track in the direction of the westering sun.

Afraid of following too closely, and so of being seen, Cuthbert retreated once more into the cave, and had the forethought to fill his wallet with the remains of the meal of which both he and Long Robin had partaken. He did not know exactly what was his best course to pursue, but it seemed a pity to let Long Robin out of his sight without tracking him to some one of his lairs or hiding places.

Cuthbert now knew that he had slept during the greater part of the day, and taking a draught of mead, and rapidly munching some bread and cheese, he fortified himself for his evening stroll, and then, before the torch actually expired, found his way to the opening again, and so out upon the moor.

Far away, but still distinctly visible against the bright sky, was the tall figure of the gipsy. Cuthbert was not afraid of being seen at so great a distance, but he still took the precaution of keeping all the tallest bushes and clumps of flowering gorse between him and the quarry he was following; and when at length the trees of the wooded tracts rose up before his eyes, he quickened his pace slightly, and gained decidedly upon Robin before he glided into the dark pine forest.

Before doing this, the gipsy turned back and looked carefully round; but Cuthbert was already crouching behind a bush, and escaped observation. As soon as Robin had fairly disappeared, the youth rose and ran quickly after him, and soon caught glimpses of the tall, stooping figure wending its way amongst the ruddy pine stems, now dyed golden and crimson in the glow of the bright sunset.

On and on he went in the fading light, and on and on went Cuthbert in steady pursuit. This part of the forest was strange to the youth, but it was familiar enough to the gipsy. From the mechanical way in which he chose his track, and the direct certainty with which he walked, it was plain that he knew every inch of the road, and could have found the path by night as well as by day.

"Sure it must lead to the haunted dell," thought Cuthbert, as the gloom deepened around him and the wood grew denser and denser. The pines began to be mingled with other trees. The undergrowth was thicker and more tangled. It was not always easy for Cuthbert to force his way along. He paused sometimes in fear lest his steps and the cracking of the boughs should be heard by the man in advance of him.

On and on they went, and now the track became more distinct, and it led downwards. An owl in a tree overhead hooted as Cuthbert passed by, and something of a cold shiver ran through the young man's frame; he stumbled over the outspread root of a gnarled old oak, and fell, making more noise than he liked.

The owl flew away, hooting ominously as it seemed to his strained nerves, and the hooting was answered as from the very heart of the dell, if dell it was, mingled with many other strange and fierce sounds. Cuthbert rose to his feet and crept forward with a beating heart, and as he did so he heard a shout of demoniacal laughter which chilled the very blood in his veins, and seemed to raise the hair upon his head, so unearthly was the sound.

But making the sign of the cross upon his brow, and striving to keep his presence of mind and his courage unimpaired by ghostly terrors, Cuthbert still pursued his way downwards into this dim, strange place. He felt more and more certain that this was the pixies' dell of which the verses spoke—the dell wherein some deed of darkness had been committed that caused it to be shunned of all; and it needed all his native stoutness of heart to enable him to conquer his fears and pursue his way, as he reflected on the foul murders that had been committed not far off, and wondered if indeed the restless souls of those to whom Christian burial had been denied hovered by night about the ill-omened spot, to fright away all travellers who strove to pass that way.

For a while the fearful sounds of hooting and laughter continued, under cover of which he crept nearer and nearer to the centre of the dell. Presently they ceased, and a death-like silence ensued. Cuthbert dared not move, and scarcely dared to breathe. This was the most trying experience he had yet had. He had felt far less fear on the darkly-flowing river and in that strange underground cellar, against both of which the wise woman had warned him.

But after a long pause of silence he heard another and a different laugh—a laugh in which he recognized the sardonic intonation he had recently heard from the lips of Long Robin.

"I trow that has been enow," spoke a voice nigh at hand, though the speaker was invisible owing to the thick growth of bushes. "If that sound were caused by aught but a rabbit or wildcat, I wager the hardy traveller has taken to his heels and fled. But I misdoubt me that it was anything human. There be sounds and to spare in the forest at night. It is long since I have been troubled by visitors to this lone spot. The pixies and I have the dell to ourselves. Ha, ha!"

"Robin's voice again!" whispered Cuthbert to himself, creeping forward with the cautious, snake-like movement that he had learned when snaring birds or rabbits to furnish the scanty larder at the Gate House. He advanced by slow degrees, and soon gained what he desired—a view of his quarry and of the heart of the dell.

In the fading light he could see both plainly. Long Robin was seated upon a low stone wall overgrown with moss, that seemed to be built around a well; for it was of circular construction, and to the listener was borne the faint sound of running water, though the sound seemed to come from the very heart of the earth. Round this well was a space of smooth greensward—sward that appeared to have been untouched for centuries. All around, the sides of the dell rose up, covered with a thick growth of wood and copse. It was a lovely spot in all truth, but lonely to the verge of desolation. Cuthbert dimly remembered having heard fragments of legends respecting a pixies' dell in the heart of the forest—a dell avoided by all, for that no man who ventured in came forth alive. Most likely this was the place; most likely the legend of fear surrounding it was due to some exaggerated version of old Robin's ghastly crime in bygone years.

Cuthbert gazed and gazed with a sense of weird fascination. He fully believed that in some spot not many yards from where he stood lay hidden the lost treasure of Trevlyn, and that the secret of that resting place remained known to one man only in the whole world; and that was the man before him!

A wild impulse seized Cuthbert to spring upon that bowed figure, and, holding a knife to the man's throat, to demand a full revelation of that secret as the price of life. Perhaps had he not seen but an hour before how upright, powerful, and stalwart that bending figure could be, he would have done it then and there. But with that memory clear in his mind, together with his knowledge of the perfectly unscrupulous character of the gipsy, he felt that such a step would be the sheerest madness; and after gazing his fill at the motionless figure, he softly crept away once more.

He lay hidden in the bushes till he heard Long Robin leave the dell and go crashing through the underwood with heavy steps, cursing as he went the two women who stood between him and his desire. It was plain from his muttered words that he was going back to the camp now. Plainly he had paid his visit to the hoard and found all safe and undisturbed. Cuthbert was more and more convinced that the treasure lay here, as Esther had always believed; and it would be strange indeed, being so near, if he could not find it in time.

But he would not search tonight; he had the whole summer before him. Plainly Long Robin was not going to take any immediate step for the removal of the treasure; and during the last hours a great longing had come upon Cuthbert to see Petronella again. He was within ten miles of his old home now, and the thoughts of his sister had been mingling with these other thoughts of the lost treasure. Surely he could find his way to the Gate House from this lonely dell, and once there, by making a signal at his sister's window, he could advise her of his presence and gain a stolen interview.

So taking his bearings from the moon, he struck boldly across the lonely waste of forest that lay between him and his former home, and soon found himself tramping over the ling and moss of the high ridge of common land with which the woody tracts of the forest were frequently interspersed.

As he thus tramped the words of the verses began singing in his head: "Three times three—o'er ling and moss." What was that three times three? The question mingled with his dreams of his sister, and suddenly the thought came to him, Could the three times three be miles—miles from the giant oak from beneath which the treasure had been taken? Three times three—it might well be so. The distance was surely about nine miles. The spot where the Trevlyns had hid their treasure lay directly in Cuthbert's way as he marched steadily towards the Gate House. He saw the giant oak rise up before him in the moonlight, and he hastened to the spot and stood beneath the overhanging branches.

Standing beneath it with the oak behind him, he looked straight along the way he had come across the bog and moss. Surely there were nine miles, and little more or less, between the one spot and the other. And again, with the oak behind there was a beech at his right hand, and straight before him the road to the pixies' dell. Well, it might not be much, yet it seemed like a link in the chain. Esther had perchance heard Robin mutter these numbers in his troubled sleep. Surely he had been thinking or dreaming of that long nine miles' tramp, and the words he had used to direct the men whom afterwards he had foully and treacherously murdered!

"I am on the track! I am on the track!" cried Cuthbert exultantly, as he pursued his way. "The secret lies hid in the pixies' dell. Surely if I have learned as much as that, I cannot be long in finding out the whole!"

And with thoughts of his sister, of Cherry, of Kate, warm in his heart, Cuthbert sped gaily along in the direction of his old home.

Midnight struck from the clock in the turret of Trevlyn Chase as the youth approached the gray walls of the old Gate House. How grim and hoary it looked in the white moonlight! Something of a faint shiver of repulsion ran through Cuthbert's frame as he looked upon the familiar outline of the building. Was it possible that all but the few last months of his life had been spent there? It seemed to him that the old life was already like a dim and distant dream, and that the fuller life he had enjoyed since leaving was the only one that had any reality about it.

But he well knew the habits and the sullen ferocity of the grim old man his father, and it was with cautious steps that he approached the walls. No light burned in any window. The inmates of the building were doubtless wrapped in sleep. He well knew his sister's window, and cutting himself a long hazel bough, he gently swept it to and fro across the glass. This had always been a signal between them in their childhood, and many had been their nocturnal rambles taken together when Cuthbert had contrived to escape from the house before it was locked up, and had then called Petronella and assisted her down by the tangled ivy that clung to the gray old walls. He knew she would recognize in a moment who was outside when she heard the tapping of that hazel wand; and it seemed indeed as if she did, for in a moment the window was opened, and a soft tremulous voice asked eagerly:

"Cuthbert, can it be thou?"

"It is indeed I, sweet sister. Canst thou come to me? Hast thou lost thy cunning or thy lightness of foot? I am here to help thee."

"I will come to thee anon; but the little postern door is seldom locked since thou art gone, and I can get out thus. Linger not beside the house, Cuthbert; speed to the chantry—I will meet thee there. He might hear or see thee here. Do not linger; go. I will be with thee anon; I will not keep thee but a few short minutes. But do not tarry; go!"

There was such earnestness in her soft whispers that Cuthbert did not attempt to reply save by a brief nod. He slid away in the darkness and took the familiar but now tangled path to the chantry, looking round the old ruin with loving eyes; for it was the one spot connected with his home not fraught with memories of pain and fear.

"Poor little timid Petronella!" he mused. "Was I right to leave her thus alone with our harsh father? Yet I could do nothing for her; and it seemed as though my presence in the house stirred him up to continual fury. I would I had a home to bring her to. I would I might carry her off with me now. But what could she do in the forest, away from the haunts of men? Nay, she must tarry here but a little while. Then will I come and claim her. Then will she have dowry worthy her name and state. Oh that lost treasure, that lost treasure! what happiness will there be in store for very many when that lost treasure is found!"

And then he paused and held out his arms, for light steps were speeding towards him through the dewy grass, and Petronella, with a little sobbing cry, flung herself upon him, to be enfolded in a strong embrace.



Chapter 15: Petronella.

"Cuthbert, is it—can it really be thou?"

"Petronella—sister! What happiness to see thee once more!"

She clung to him almost sobbing in the excitement of pure happiness. He could feel that she trembled in his arms, and he enfolded the slight frame ever closer and closer.

"Sweetest sister, fear not! Dost fear I could not protect thee from harm? Believe me, thou hast a wondrous different brother now from the cowed and timorous lad who went forth from these doors but six short months back. Fear not, my sister; look up, and let me see thy face. I would learn how it has fared with thee since we parted that night on this very spot, though it now seems so long ago."

Petronella heaved a long sigh, and her tremblings gradually ceased. It seemed as though the brotherly clasp of those strong arms stilled her fears and brought comfort and soothing. But as Cuthbert held her closely to him, it seemed to him almost as though he clasped a phantom form rather than one of solid flesh and blood. There seemed nothing of the girl but skin and bone; and looking anxiously into the small oval face, he noted how wistful and hollow the great dark eyes had grown, and how pinched and worn every feature. Had it always been so with her? He scarce knew, for we heed little the aspect of those about us when we are young and inexperienced.

Petronella had always been somewhat shadowy and wan, had always been slight and slim and small. But was she always as wan and slight as she now seemed? or did he observe it the more from the contrast it presented to Cherry's blooming beauty, to which his eyes had grown used? He asked the question anxiously of himself, but could not answer it.

Then drawing Petronella into the full light of the silver moon, he made her sit beside him on a fragment of mouldering wall, and holding her thin hands in a warm clasp, he scanned her face with glances of earnest scrutiny.

"My sister, hast thou been ill?"

She shook her head with a pathetic little smile.

"Alas, no! Methinks I am a true Trevlyn for that. Sickness passes me by and seizes upon others who might so much better be spared."

"Why dost thou say 'alas' to that, sweet sister?"

"Verily because there be times when I would so gladly lay down my head never to lift it more. For me death would be sweeter than life. The dead rest in God's peaceful keeping—my good aunt at the Chase has told me so, and I no longer fear the scorching fires of purgatory. I have a little New Testament now of my own, full of sweet promises and words of love and peace. When I read of the pearly gates and the streets of gold, and the city into which nothing unholy may enter, I long sorely to leave behind this world of sin and sorrow and find a refuge there.

"But I would know more of thee, Cuthbert, and of what thou hast seen and done since thou hast left the Gate House. For me I have naught to tell. Life here is ever the same. But thou must have done and seen so much. May I not hear thy tale? May I not learn how it has fared with thee?"

Cuthbert was willing enough to outpour his story to her, sitting beside her in the old chantry, where so many happy hours of their shadowed childhood had been spent. He told of his adventures by the way, of his night with the gipsies, of his timely rescue of Cherry and his admittance to his uncle's house. He told of his uncle's wonderful story of the gold that was to be all for his sister; told of the life at the bridge house, and his attachment to his cousin Cherry. The only matter he named not was that of his meeting with Master Robert Catesby, and all that had followed in which he was concerned. Petronella would only be bewildered by so many strange things. It was enough to tell her of his recent adventures in the forest, and his growing hopes of coming upon traces of the lost treasure.

Petronella listened to the whole of this tale with parted lips and wide-open eyes, as a child listens to a tale of fairy romance and wonder. She could scarce believe that all these strange things had befallen her own brother; but as she questioned and he answered, she gradually began to understand, to enter into his feelings, and to obtain a clearer comprehension of the situation of affairs. Her intercourse with the Trevlyns of the Chase had done something to widen her knowledge of life, and Cuthbert found that her mind had matured and expanded in a fashion he had hardly expected. He wondered where she had picked up some of the bits of experience that fell from her lips from time to time, and he looked somewhat searchingly into her face.

"Methinks, my sister, that time has not stood still with thee since I went away. Thou art wondrous wise for thy years. Who has been thy instructor?"

Even in the moonlight he could see the sudden flush that dyed her cheek and neck at the question.

"I have been to the Chase as much as our father would permit—indeed, I fear me I have been oftener; but I was very lonely, and they were all so kind. And Philip, he has been often here. He has been in very truth a—a—brother to me in thy place. Methinks but for him I should almost have died. But, O Cuthbert, it is hard, it is hard!"

The last words were spoken with such sudden passion and vehemence that the youth started and looked once again at his sister. Of old, Petronella had always been so gentle, so meek and yielding, that to hear such an outburst from her startled him not a little.

"What is hard, sweet sister?"

"To be the daughter of—of—such a father as ours," she answered, lowering her voice and speaking with infinite sadness now. "Heaven knows I have striven to love him, have striven to obey him, have striven to be all a daughter should!"

"Ay, verily thou hast!" answered Cuthbert warmly. "I have chidden thee many a time before this for the meekness that raised no protest let him be never so harsh. Thou hast done more than thy share, sweet Petronella. None can blame thee for rebellious thoughts or words. If he will none of our love or service, the fault is his, not ours—thine least of all, for thou wast ever gentle and meek."

"I have tried," repeated Petronella sadly; "and when thou hadst gone and the tempest had something subsided, I tried as never before to be a loving daughter, and make up to him for the loss of his son. But he would have none of my love. He drove me from his presence with bitter words. I had perforce to seek others, if I were to live at all; and though he hurled taunts and harsh speeches at me oftentimes, he did not forbid me that house, albeit he scarce knew perchance how oft I was there, since he shut himself up more and more, and sometimes saw me not from one week's end to the other."

"What a lone life for thee, my sister!"

"Yes, it was lone, save for the comradeship of our cousins. But that was better, far better, than what followed."

Cuthbert looked quickly at her, and his eyes darkened.

"And what did follow, Petronella?"

She bent her head a little, that he might not see the expression of her face. Her words were falteringly spoken.

"It was not many weeks since—it was when the days began to lengthen out, and the forest paths to grow decked with flowers—that some evil thoughts of suspicion came into his head, I know not how, and he dogged my steps as I wandered in the woods; and twice—nay, thrice—he came suddenly upon us as we walked together in the woodland dells."

"'We? who was with thee, sister?"

"Philip," she answered very softly, and there was something in the tender intonation with which she spoke the name that told a tale Cuthbert was not slow to read. He had guessed as much before, but this made assurance doubly sure; and with the sympathy of the ardent young lover, he put his hand on Petronella's and pressed it tenderly. She understood the meaning of that clasp, and looked gratefully at him, going on with more confidence afterwards.

"It was with Philip that he found me; and the sight filled him with a sullen fury—the fury that thou knowest, brother, which brooks no opposition, no words. He would not hear Philip speak. He struck him on the mouth—a cruel blow that caused the blood to spring forth; and he dragged me away by main force, and locked me up in the pillared chamber, vowing to keep me a prisoner all my life an I would not promise never to speak with Philip again."

"And thou?"

"I told him I would promise naught save to meet him no more in the forest. I was glad to promise that; for I feared our savage father might kill him in a fit of fury were he to find us again together. I should have been terrified to wander forth with him more. I promised that, but I would promise no more."

"And did that satisfy him?" asked Cuthbert breathlessly. "Tell me all, my sister. He did not dare lay hands on thee?"

Petronella smiled faintly.

"Methinks he would dare anything he wished; but he let himself be satisfied with that pledge. Only he kept me many days in that dim place of terror, and gave me but scant prisoner's fare the while. Cuthbert, as thou art free and thou art nigh, wilt thou to Trevlyn Chase for me ere thou goest back into the forest, and tell Philip what has befallen me, and that I may no more hope to meet him in our favourite haunts? Tell him all I have told to thee, and bid him keep himself from this house. It is an ill place! an ill place! Ah, Cuthbert, were I but a man like thee, I would fare forth as thou hast done. I would not stay beneath yon roof to be starved in soul and body and spirit. O father, father!"

The cry was one of exceeding bitterness, and yet in it spoke a patience that moved Cuthbert strangely.

"Sister, my sister!" he cried, in accents of suppressed agitation, "I know not how to leave thee here. Petronella, why not forth with me to the forest? Sure I could protect thee there and give thee a better home beneath the greenwood trees than our father does beneath yon grim walls. And, sister, I could take thee to our uncle, Martin Holt. Sure he would give thee asylum with him, as he gave to me. Thou wouldst have Cherry for a sister. Thou—"

But Petronella shrank away a little, and looked scared at the thought. Hers was one of those timid natures that find it easier to endure even a terrible wrong than to take a bold step to escape from it. The life of the forest might have attracted her, for she loved the freedom of the woodlands, and had no fears of loneliness or privation. But she had heard from Cuthbert of the bands of outlaws and gipsies, of Long Robin and his murderous hatred; and of other perils which she felt she had scarce courage to face. She feared that if she let Cuthbert carry her off she would but prove a burden and a care, whilst the thought of London and the strange relations there filled her with distaste and dread.

"Nay, nay, my brother; I have borne much—I will bear a little more. I love the old Gate House as thou hast never loved it; and perchance after this storm there may be a lull of quiet peace. I should but hamper thee, and hold thee back from that great purpose; and—"

"But Martin Holt, he would welcome thee; and once beneath his roof—"

"Nay, Cuthbert, it might well be that our father would guess whither I had fled, and would come and drag me back. I am not of an age to resist him. And I am a helpless woman, not a man. I have thought many times of flight, but I fear me it would but lead to worse."

"I know not that," answered Cuthbert thoughtfully. "Our uncle Martin is a good man; and, Petronella, remember that whether or no thy brother finds the lost treasure, he holds in his keeping a dowry for thee that will make thee no unworthy mate for Philip Trevlyn when the day comes for him to claim thee as his bride. Nay, hide not thy face, sister."

"Alas, alas, my brother! that day will never come! My father—"

"Nay, courage, sweetheart; our father's power lasts not for ever, and we will be happy yet in spite of him. And, sister mine, we must have kinsfolks somewhere of the house of Wyvern. Our father never speaks to us of any such matters; but hast thou heard aught at the Chase?"

Petronella looked quickly up at him.

"Ay, I have heard them speak of kinsfolk of that family, albeit I heeded not greatly what they said. Are they our kinsfolk likewise?"

"Ay, verily, inasmuch as our grandam was a Wyvern; and there have been Wyverns of two generations that have wed with the Trevlyns, as thou hast heard in the story of the lost treasure, which I have told to thee. Sister, it might be that thou mightest find a refuge with them safer than with mine uncle of the bridge, who might perchance think I asked too much were I to bring my sister to him, albeit he is a kind man and a just; but—"

"But I trust I may not have to flee," said Petronella, with the same air of shrinking that she had shown before. "I have borne so much; surely I can bear the rest, until thou hast found the treasure, and all is changed for us. When thou art rich and great, and high in favour with all, then perchance thou canst prevail even with our stern father, and win his leave to carry hence thy poor little sister. Till then I will strive to remain."

Cuthbert took her hand and held it between his.

"Petronella, I like it not—I like not to leave thee here; but it must be as thou desirest. Only, remember one thing, my sister. I am nigh at hand. I am in the forest, not many miles away; and if things should become worse with thee, thou canst fly to me thither; thou wilt find me, doubtless, in or about the pixies' dell, of which thou hast heard me speak, for it is there that my closest watch will be held. Thinkest thou that thou canst find the place?"

"I trow so; thou hast told me how to do so. Nine miles across the open forest, starting from the Trevlyn oak, with the great beech to the right. If I am forced to fly, I will fly thither by night, and the stars will be my guide. Brother, it is good to feel that thou art near."

"Ay, Petronella, I am glad indeed; for I fear me sometimes that our father—"

"What, Cuthbert?"

"That he must surely be going mad. It is hard to believe he could so persecute his children were it not so, and it is not fitting that thou shouldest dwell beneath the roof of a madman."

The girl shivered slightly, and her dark eyes dilated.

"Thinkest thou so, Cuthbert? Sure I had thought it was his wrath at finding that we loved not the faith in which he has brought us up; that first thou and then I have learned to find comfort in the holy Book he has denied to us, and to find that there be other holy things than our priests have taught us, and purer truths than methinks they know themselves. I thought that was why his anger burned so hotly against us. That was his quarrel with thee, and methinks he must have suspected me, else would he scarce have dogged my steps as he did."

"It may be so," answered Cuthbert; "but I fear me he has brooded over his wrongs and his sins until he is well-nigh beside himself. My sister, let not thy patience lead thee into peril. Remember what I have said, and whither I may be found. I will take thy message to Philip. He shall be bidden not to anger thy father further by seeking thee. After that it is for thee to decide whether thou canst still live in such solitude as must then be thine at the Gate House, or whether thou wilt fly to me in the forest."

"I will remember," answered Petronella, rising to her feet; for even here, and at this hour, and with her brother for her companion, she dared not linger long. "Tell my kind aunt that the Testament she gave me is the solace and happiness of my life. I think of her words every day, and they are written on my heart. Though I see her not, my blessing rests upon her. I would that she could know what peace and joy she has helped to bring into my lonely lot."

"I will tell her," answered Cuthbert, as he took the slight form into his arms. "She will be rejoiced to hear it, I doubt not. I too, my sister, have shared some of that peace myself. I have found that the faith in which we were reared, albeit it holds much of golden truth, has been so overlaid by artifice of man that the gold is sadly tarnished. I have some deep love for it yet, but I love better the purer faith that I have learned from the written Word of God, and have heard from the lips of godly men of the Established Church of the land. I have seen and heard much in yon great city, and methinks that all creeds have much that is true—much that is the same; but it seems the nature of man to fight and wrangle over the differences, instead of rejoicing in the unity of a common faith; wherefore there be misery and strife and jealousy abounding, and the adversaries may well blaspheme. But I came not to talk such matters with thee, sweet sister; they baffle the wisdom of the wisest. Keep fast hold of the peace thou hast found, and let no man take it from thee. I would I lived not in the midst of such weary war of words. There be times when the heart sickens at it, and one is fain to lay all aside sooner than have to own allegiance to any one party, when one sees the bad as well as the good of all."

Petronella's eyes were wide with astonishment and perplexity. She felt as though she had a very Solon for a brother when Cuthbert talked after this serious fashion. But she too had heard from the Trevlyns of the Chase somewhat of the burning questions of the day, and she was not wholly uninstructed in the matter.

"That is one boon granted to us weak women," she said, with a shadowy little smile. "We are not called upon to take part in the world's battlefield. We may think our own thoughts, and go our quiet way in the main unheeded and unmolested. But I am glad that thou dost see as I do, my brother. It is sweet to find accord in those we love. And now I must be gone; I dare not linger longer. Heaven bless and keep thee ever! I shall carry my daily load more lightly for this happy hour spent together."