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.
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.
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-humouredly 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 earth-worm, 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 favourable 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.
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