“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 such places as 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 colouring; 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 dormitory; the enormous horse-shoe arch that spanned the court; and, above all, the great marigold, or circular window, which terminated the chapel, and which, though now despoiled of its painted honours, retained, like the skeleton leaf, its fibrous intricacies entire—all eloquently spoke of the glories of the past, while they awakened reverence and admiration for the still-enduring beauty of the present.
Towards these ruins Sybil conducted the party.
“Do you dwell therein?” asked Peter, pointing towards the priory.
“That is my dwelling,” said Sybil.
“It is one I should covet more than a modern mansion,” returned the sexton.
“I love those old walls better than any house that was ever fashioned,” replied Sybil.
As they entered the Prior’s Close, as it was called, several swarthy figures made their appearance from the tents. Many a greeting was bestowed upon Luke, in the wild jargon of the tribe. At length an uncouth dwarfish figure, with a shock head of black hair, hopped towards them. He seemed to acknowledge Luke as his master.
“What ho! Grasshopper,” said Luke, “take these horses, and see that they lack neither dressing nor provender.”
“And hark ye, Grasshopper,” added Turpin, “I give you a special charge about this mare. Neither dress nor feed her till I see both done myself. Just walk her for ten minutes, and if you have a glass of ale in the place, let her sip it.”
“Your bidding shall be done,” chirped the human insect, as he fluttered away with his charges.
A motley assemblage of tawny-skinned varlets, dark-eyed women and children, whose dusky limbs betrayed their lineage, in strange costume, and of wild deportment, checked the path, muttering welcome upon welcome into the ear of Luke as he passed. As it was evident he was in no mood for converse, Sybil, who seemed to exercise considerable authority over the crew, with a word dispersed them, and they herded back to their respective habitations.
A low door admitted Luke and his companions into what had once been the garden, in which some old moss-encrusted apple-and walnut-trees were still standing, bearing a look of antiquity almost as venerable as that of the adjoining fabric.
Another open door gave them entrance to a spacious chamber, formerly the eating-room, or refectory of the holy brotherhood; and a goodly room it had been, though now its slender lanceolated windows were stuffed with hay, to keep out the air. Large holes told where huge oaken rafters had once crossed the roof, and a yawning aperture marked the place where a cheering fire had formerly blazed. As regarded this latter spot, the good old custom was not, even now, totally abrogated. An iron plate, covered with crackling wood, sustained a ponderous black caldron, the rich steam from which gratefully affected the olfactory organs of the highwayman.
“That augurs well,” said he, rubbing his hands.