THE light proved to be a fire which had been made by a band of gypsies in a corner of a field. As Gervase and Anne approached, hope revived them again, since a most exquisite scent of food began to pervade their nostrils. Suspended above the fire was an enormous cauldron from which this most delicious savor proceeded.
Gervase staggered toward a very ancient crone who was stirring the contents of the cauldron with a long-handled iron spoon. “For love of God, good mother,” he said, “give us leave to lie by your fire a bit. And if we may have a share of your supper, by my soul we will remember you in our prayers.”
The old woman looked at them both very doubtfully. “Who be ye?” she asked suspiciously. “Whence come ye?”
“That I cannot tell you, mother,” said Gervase, and his tone was pleading hard. “But we are a-cold and we are famishing. Do but grant us this and you shall never have cause to rue your kindness.”
“Ye have the trick of fair speaking at any rate,” said the crone. “I like the sound of your voice, young chal. Yes, you shall eat and lie by the fire a bit.”
The contents of the pot proved to be not less delectable than the smell that came out of it. The crone made free use of the large iron spoon and gave Gervase and Anne each a huge platterful. They did not inquire of what the savory mess consisted. It was enough that it was good.
While they ate thus dim figures emerged continually from the shadows beyond the fire. Soon these were stretched before the pot and fell to eating also. They were a rough, ill-kempt company. Their table manners were none of the nicest. But they were a hearty, friendly, genial people. They asked no questions of the guests who lay before their fire, but rather seemed glad to find them there. Moreover they handed about freely a flagon of excellent ale.
A dozen or more of these cheerful, dark-visaged wanderers were soon about the fire. And after supper, as the night was still young, one of their number produced a flageolet and began to play upon it not unpleasantly. It was a well-toned instrument, far superior to the one out of which the draggle-tailed wanderer of the village street had wrung such doubtful music. Indeed Gervase, who had the ear of the true amateur, was delighted with the whole performance.
He was fain to compliment the musician upon his melody. And in such a wonderful manner had warmth and good cheer revived the young man’s spirits, which less than an hour ago were at their lowest ebb, that now he begged to be allowed to discourse a little on the gypsy’s pipe—a request that was readily granted.
Now it chanced that Gervase, for all that he had a very humble estimate of his own powers, had a certain skill in this, the most charming of the arts. Upon a natural and refined taste was grafted years of delighted study. Moreover the instrument was rather a choice one.
The gypsies had a real love of music; and when cunning strains began to rise from their midst as they lay round the warm fire, they were spell-bound. First Gervase played a soft, refined piece he had learned in Italy. Its delicacy composed the ear even while it ravished it. Then followed bolder harmonies, less exquisite perhaps, but none the less delightful. Finally he passed into a couple of ranting pieces known and admired over all the countryside.
When they heard these famous tunes some began to sing and others rose and danced round the fire. They would not hear of Gervase ceasing to play. For long enough was he kept at his task; all kinds of revelry accompanied the cheerful strains of the pipe, and when at last the accomplished musician was so weary that he could play no more it was gravely whispered about the fire that this soft-spoken wanderer with the wonderful gift was none other than Tat Barcey, the gentleman prig.
All went well that evening with Gervase and Anne. An almost superstitious respect was paid to them. The old woman gave them a good place beside the fire in which to pass the night, and when the morning came they had another good meal.
The gypsies showed them so much kindness that they were in no hurry to go forth. And before they left these friends, so heedful were they of present opportunity, that two things of consequence befell. In the first place a great desire had been kindled in Gervase to get possession of the gypsy’s flute. Again was the dagger with the silver hilt produced. Devoutly he hoped it would be deemed a full equivalent for the thing he coveted.
The owner of the flute examined the weapon closely. Gervase’s heart began to beat excitedly. At that moment he desired the flute beyond anything else in the world. The value of the dagger tempted the gypsy to make the exchange. “Why, yes,” said he, “certainly I will.”
When Gervase was given the pipe he felt a thrill of joy, for here was a means of life.
But this was not the end of their good luck.
It was most necessary that Anne should disguise her sex at the first opportunity. The hawking-breeches and long boots of untanned leather surmounted by a woman’s bodice and feminine canopy of curls had already excited remark. Therefore was the crone persuaded to cut off the long tresses with a pair of shears, and out of the gypsies’ wardrobe she provided a boy’s leather jerkin and a cap to match it in exchange for the woman’s gear that Anne was wearing.
A great change was wrought thereby in her appearance. She was no more a maid. Her thin, tall figure, graceful as a willow, did remarkably well for that of a very slender boy. Charming she looked; her form was of a singular delicacy, but it passed very well for that of a boy. Awkward questions need no longer be feared along the road. Both were now unmistakably of the sterner sex in the sight of all men.
They went forth in good heart. Armed with this blessed pipe no longer need they fear for a modest sustenance by the way, unless they should fall in with a singularly barren land or one notoriously averse from music.
All the same they must use great caution. It had been proved to them already that the chase was like to be hot at their heels. Still if they kept to little frequented places, there was for the present a chance of eluding their pursuers. But beyond that they did not dare to hope.