“I’ll tie up her foot with my hankercher,” he said, producing the little twelve-inch square of linen, which for a wonder he found in his pocket, on the whole much cleaner than could have been expected.  And though he grew white and sick with the sight of the streaming blood, he managed without any opposition from his sister to strap it up after a fashion, the gipsy looking on in silence.

“You can go now, thank you,” said Duke, his voice trembling in spite of himself.  “Us don’t mind about the bowl—­it’s too far to go.  Us will tell Grandmamma all about it—­Oh how I do wish us had told her at first,” he broke off suddenly.  “Please go,” he went on again to the pedlar; “sister’s frightened.  I’ll stay here with her till her foot’s better, and then us’ll go home.”

“And how will ye do that, I’d like to know, my young master?” said the pedlar, and there was a mocking tone in his voice that made the boy look up at him with fresh alarm.  “Ye’re furder from ‘home’ than ye think for.  No, no; here ye’ll have to stay till I fetch the donkey to carry you both.  And to think of all that trouble and time lost for nothing.”

“They’ll give you something at home for bringing us back; they will indeed,” said Duke.  “Grandpapa and Grandmamma will be so pleased to see us safe again, I know they’ll give you something,” he repeated, while a sob rose in his throat at the thought that already perhaps dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma—­never had they seemed so dear!—­were wondering and troubled about their absence.  And somehow he quite forgot that he himself could reward the gipsy, for in attending to Pamela’s wounded foot he had laid down the money-box, and no longer remembered that he had it with him.

The gipsy grunted, and muttered something about “making sure” that Duke scarcely heard.  Then he turned to go.

“I’m off for the donkey then.  But mind you the stiller you stays in this here wood the better,” he added impressively.  “That’s why I didn’t like missy crying out so loud.  It’s a queer place—­a very queer place.  I’se warrant your Nurse never brought you this way when you were out a-walking.”

“No, never,” said Duke, startled, and even Pamela left off sobbing to stare up at him with her tearful blue eyes, as if fascinated by these mysterious hints.

“Ah, I thought not,” he said, nodding his head.  “Well, stay where you are, and make no sound whatsumnever, and no harm’ll come to ye.  But if you stir or speak even above a whisper,” and he lowered his own voice, “there’s no saying.  There’s beasts you never heard tell of in this wood—­worsest of all, snakes, that think nothing of twisting round a child and off with it for their supper afore one could cry out.  But if you stop quite still they’ll not find you out before I’m back with the donkey.  It’s about their time o’ day for sleeping just now, I’m thinking,” and with this crumb of consolation the cruel-hearted gipsy turned on his heel.