Something in the voice made Alastair shake off his torpor. The gypsy, as he first remembered him, had been a mischievous sneering fellow, and he had longed to wring his neck when he rode off grinning that day at the Flambury Hunt. In the hut he had been almost friendly, protesting that he bore no malice but only obeyed orders. But now—there was something bright and mad about those dark dancing eyes, something ghoulish in the soft gloating voice. Had his orders been changed? What plan of his foes was served by bringing him thus into this no-man’s-land of the hills?
“Why am I here?” he asked, and his tongue so stumbled between his dry lips that the gypsy passed him a jug of ale that was being kept warm by the fire.
“Orders, kind precious sir. Them that I obeys has changed their mind about you, and thinks you are too dear and good for this wicked, wicked world. Therefore they hands you over to Gypsy Ben, who brings you the straight way to Journeyman John.”
The other looked puzzled, and the gypsy rose and, dancing to a far end of the room, opened a large rough door like a partition in a cowshed. Instantly a great gust swept the place, driving clouds of fine dust from the hearth. A noise came from that darkness beyond the door, a steady rumbling and grinding which had been a mere undercurrent of sound when the door was shut, but now dominated the place—a sound like millstones working under a full press of water, joined with a curious shuddering like wind in an old garret. The gypsy stood entranced, one hand to his ear, his eyes glittering.
“That’s him we call Journeyman John. Hark to him grinding his old teeth! Ah, John, hungry again! But cheer up, there’s a fine supper a-coming.”
He shut the door as a showman shuts a cage. The light died out of his eyes, leaving only smouldering fires.
“That’s the deepest pothole in all the land,” he said, “and John like a scaly serpent lies coiled at the foot of it. Nothing that goes in there comes out—leastways only in threads and buttons by way of Eldingill, and that long after. There’s your bed made for you, master, and it’s Ben’s duty to tuck you in. Oh, Ben’s a kind mammy.”
The young man’s brain had been slow to grasp the fate prepared for him, but the crazy leer which accompanied the last words brought a hideous illumination, and at the same time the faintest ray of hope. The man was clearly a madman, and therefore incalculable. With a great effort Alastair steeled his heart and composed his voice.
“What of supper?” he asked. “That comes before bed in a hospitable house.”
The gypsy laughed like a magpie, high and harsh. “Supper be it!” he cried, “and a good one, for John is a generous host. Hey, Bobadilla!”
An old woman answered his cry and proceeded to lay on the table plates and glasses, a platter of bread and the end of a cheese. Presently she came back with a great dish of frizzling eggs and fried ham. The gypsy lifted the jug of ale from the fireside, and drew in a chair to the board.
“Mammy will feed her pretty chick,” he said, “for the chick’s claws are too dangerous to loose.”
Alastair’s heart had ceased fluttering, and an immense composure had settled upon him. He had even an appetite, and was able to swallow the portion of eggs and ham which the gypsy conveyed to his mouth on the end of his knife. The ale was most welcome, for his thirst was fierce, and the warmth and the spice of it recalled his bodily strength. By now he was recovering a manlier resolution. He was a soldier and had faced death often, though never in so gruesome a form. If it were the end, so let it be, but he would not abandon hope while breath was in his body. He even forced himself to a laugh.
“Tell me of this Journeyman John,” he asked. “What house is this that he lurks behind?”
“A poor farm called Pennycross, with no neighbour nearer than six miles. Goody Lugg is the farmer, a worthy widow who looks after a cow and a dozen wethers and leaves the care of John to Ben and his friends. Mighty convenient fellow is John to keep in a neighbourhood. If a girl would be quit of a love-child or a wife of a stepson they come to Ben to do their business. Ay, pretty sir, and John has had dainty meat. Listen,” and he thrust his face close to Alastair. “I have done a job or two for Lord Dash and Lord Mash—naming no names, as being against my sworn oath—when they were in trouble with petticoats no longer wanted. And before my time there was the young heir of Crokover—you’ve heard that tale. Ay, ay, the Journeyman does his work swift and clean and lasting and keeps mum!”
“Who paid you to bring me here?”
The gypsy grinned cunningly. “Since I swore no oaths and you’ll never live to peach, you shall hear. Down in Brightwell live two grey she-corbies. ’Twas them gave Ben the office.”
“No other?”
“No other except a red-faced Scot that rides the roads like a packman. Him I have not seen for weeks, but the corbies in Brightwell work to his bidding. All three love the bright yellow gold.”
“Sir John Norreys had a part in it?”
“Nay, nay, pretty sir. Sir John, brave gentleman, was privy to your capture and imprisonment, but he knows nothing of this night’s work. He is too young and raw for so rare a thing as my John.”
“You are paid well, I fancy. What if I were to pay you better to let me go?”
“What you have is already mine,” said the gypsy.
“A large sum will be brought you in twelve hours if you will let me send a message, and as proof of
