“You are welcome, son Tyrrel,” quoth the mistress of this lone dwelling, as the little cavalcade drew up at the door.  “It is long since you favoured old Miriam with a visit.  Yet you come at no ill time, since Red Ronald brought us in a fat buck but yesternight, and I have made oaten cakes today, and pies of the best.  But who is that with you!  I like not new faces in my dwelling place.  It were well you should remember this ere you bring a stranger with you.”

The old woman’s face suddenly darkened as she spoke these last words, and her wonderful eyes, so large and dark as to resemble rather those of a deer than a human being, flashed fiercely, whilst she seemed about to close the door in Tyrrel’s face.  But he pushed in with a light laugh, leading Cuthbert with him, and saying as he did so: 

“Nay, nay, mother, be not so fierce.  He is an honest lad enough, I trow; if not, ’twill be the worse for him anon.  We have brought him hither to search him if he carries gold concealed.  If not, and he proves to have spoken sooth, he may go his way or join with us, whichever likes him best.  We could do with a few more bold lads, since death has been something busy of late; and he seems to have the grit in him one looks for in those who join with us.  Moreover, he has the dark eyes, and would soon have the swarth skin, that distinguish our merry men all.

“How now, mother!  Thou hast eyes for none but the lad!  Why lookst thou at him so?”

Cuthbert, too, gazed wonderingly at the handsome old gipsy, who continued to keep her eyes fixed upon him, as if by a species of fascination.  He could no more withdraw his gaze than can the bird whom the snake is luring to destruction.

“Boy, what is thy name?” she asked, in a quick, harsh whisper.

“Cuthbert Trevlyn,” he answered, without hesitation, and at the name a wild laugh rang out through the vaulted room, illumined by the glow of a huge fire of logs, whilst all present started and looked at one another.

“I knew it—­I knew it!” cried the old woman, with a wild gesture of her withered arms, which were bare to the elbow, as though she had been engaged in culinary tasks.  “I knew it—­I knew it!  I knew it the moment the light fell upon his face.  Trevlyn—­Trevlyn! one of that accursed brood!  Heaven be praised, the hour of vengeance has come!  We will do unto one of them even as they did unto us;” and she waved her arms again in the air, and glanced towards the glowing fire on the hearth with a look in her wild eyes that for a moment caused Cuthbert’s heart to stand still.  For he remembered the story of the witch burned by his grand sire’s mandate, and he felt he was not mistaken in the interpretation he had put upon the old woman’s words.

But Tyrrel roughly interposed.

“No more of that, mother,” he said.  “We have wiped out that old score long ago.  The lad is a bold lad, Trevlyn or no.  Let us to supper now, and forget those accursed beldam’s tales.  Where is Long Robin, and what is he doing? and where is Joanna tonight?”