Rowled it was in many a curious fret,
Much like a rich and curious coronet,
Upon whose arches twenty Cupids lay,
And were as tied, or loth to fly away.24
And so exuberant was this rarest feminine ornament, that, after encompassing her brow, it was passed behind, and hung down in long thick plaits almost to her feet. Sparkling, as the sunbeams that played upon her dark yet radiant features, were the large, black, Oriental eyes of the maiden, and shaded with lashes long and silken. Hers was a Moorish countenance, in which the magnificence of the eyes eclipses the face, be it ever so beautiful — an effect to be observed in the angelic pictures of Murillo — and the lovely contour is scarcely noticed in the gaze which those long, languid, luminous orbs attract. Sybil’s features were exquisite, yet you looked only at her eyes — they were the loadstars of her countenance. Her costume was singular, and partook, like herself, of other climes. Like the Andalusian dame, her choice of color inclined towards black, as the material of most of her dress was of that sombre hue. A bodice of embroidered velvet restrained her delicate bosom’s swell; a rich girdle, from which depended a silver chain, sustaining a short poniard, bound her waist; around her slender throat was twined a costly kerchief; and the rest of her dress was calculated to display her slight, yet faultless, figure to the fullest advantage.
Unconscious that she was the object of regard, she raised her guitar, and essayed to touch the chords. She struck a few notes, and resumed her romance:
Swift that stream flows on,
Swift the night is wearing —
Yet she is not gone,
Though with heart despairing.
Her song died away. Her hand was needed to brush off the tears that were gathering in her large dark eyes. At once her attitude was changed. The hare could not have started more suddenly from her form. She heard accents well known concluding the melody:
Dips an oar-plash — hark! —
Gently on the river;
’Tis her lover’s bark.
On the Guadalquivir.
Hark! a song she hears!
Every note she snatches;
As the singer nears,
Her own name she catches.
Now the Gitanilla
Stays not by the water,
For the midnight hour
Hath her lover brought her.
It was her lover’s voice. She caught the sound at once, and, starting, as the roe would arouse herself at the hunter’s approach, bounded down the crag, and ere he had finished the refrain, was by his side.
Flinging the bridle to Turpin, Luke sprang to her, and caught her in his arms. Disengaging herself from his ardent embrace, Sybil drew back, abashed at the sight of the highwayman.
“Heed him not,” said Luke; “it is a friend.”
“He is welcome here then,” replied Sybil. “But where have you tarried so long, dear Luke?” continued she, as they walked to a little distance from the highwayman. “What hath detained you? The hours have passed wearily since you departed. You bring good news?”
“Good news, my girl; so good, that I falter even in the telling of it. You shall know all anon. And see, our friend yonder grows impatient. Are there any stirring? We must bestow a meal upon him, and that forthwith: he is one of those who brook not much delay.”
“I came not to spoil a love meeting,” said Turpin, who had good-humoredly witnessed the scene; “but, in sober seriousness, if there is a stray capon to be met with in the land of Egypt, I shall be glad to make his acquaintance. Methinks I scent a stew afar off.”
“Follow me,” said Sybil; “your wants shall be supplied.”
“Stay,” said Luke; “there is one other of our party whose coming we must abide.”
“He is here,” said Sybil, observing the sexton at a distance. “Who is that old man?”
“My grandsire, Peter Bradley.”
“Is that Peter Bradley?” asked Sybil.
“Ay, you may well ask whether that old dried-up otomy, who ought to grin in a glass case for folks to stare at, be kith and kin of such a bang-up cove as your fancy man, Luke,” said Turpin, laughing —“but i’ faith he is.”
“Though he is your grandsire, Luke,” said Sybil, “I like him not. His glance resembles that of the Evil Eye.”
And, in fact, the look which Peter fixed upon her was such as the rattlesnake casts upon its victim, and Sybil felt like a poor fluttering bird under the fascination of that venomous reptile. She could not remove her eyes from his, though she trembled as she gazed. We have said that Peter’s orbs were like those of the toad. Age had not dimmed their brilliancy. In his harsh features you could only read bitter scorn or withering hate; but in his eyes resided a magnetic influence of attraction or repulsion. Sybil underwent the former feeling in a disagreeable degree. She was drawn to him as by the motion of a whirlpool, and involuntarily clung to her lover.
“It is the Evil Eye, dear Luke.”
“Tut, tut, dear Sybil; I tell you it is my grandsire.”
“The girl says rightly, however,” rejoined Turpin; “Peter has a confounded ugly look about the ogles, and stares enough to put a modest wench out of countenance. Come, come, my old earthworm, crawl along, we have waited for you long enough. Is this the first time you have seen a pretty lass, eh?”
“It is the first time I have seen one so beautiful,” said Peter; “and I crave her pardon if my freedom has offended her. I wonder not at your enchantment, grandson Luke, now I behold the object of it. But there is one piece of counsel I would give to this fair maid. The next time she trusts you from her sight, I would advise her to await you at the hill-top, otherwise the chances are shrewdly against your reaching the ground with neck unbroken.”
There was something, notwithstanding the satirical manner in which Peter delivered this speech, calculated to make a more favorable impression upon Sybil than his previous conduct had inspired her with; and, having ascertained from Luke to what his speech referred, she extended her hand to him, yet not without a shudder, as it was enclosed in his skinny grasp. It was like the fingers of Venus in the grasp of a skeleton.
“This is a little hand,” said Peter, “and I have some skill myself in palmistry. Shall I peruse its lines?”
“Not now, in the devil’s name!” said Turpin, stamping impatiently. “We shall have Old Ruffin himself amongst us presently, if Peter Bradley grows gallant.”
Leading their horses, the party took their way through the trees. A few minutes’ walking brought them in sight of the gipsy encampment, the spot selected for which might be termed the Eden of the valley. It was a small green plain, smooth as a well-shorn lawn, kept ever verdant — save in the spots where the frequent fires had scorched its surface — by the flowing stream that rushed past it, and surrounded by an amphitheatre of wooded hills. Here might be seen the canvas tent with its patches of varied coloring; the rude-fashioned hut of primitive construction; the kettle slung
Between two poles, upon a stick transverse;
the tethered beasts of burden, the horses, asses, dogs, carts, caravans, wains, blocks, and other movables and immovables belonging to the wandering tribe. Glimmering through the trees, at the extremity of the plain, appeared the ivy-mantled walls of Davenham Priory. Though much had gone to decay, enough remained to recall the pristine state of this once majestic pile, and the long, though broken line of Saxon arches, that still marked the cloister wall; the piers that yet supported the