The gypsy’s eye glittered with what was not greed.
“Though you filled my hat with guineas, my darling, I would not let you go. John is hungry, for it is long since he tasted proper meat, and I have promised him that tonight he shall sup. I have whispered it in his great ear, and he has purred happily like a cat. Think you I would disappoint John? Do not fear, pretty sir. It is midwinter and the world is cold, and full of hard folks and wan cheeks and pinched bellies. But down with John there is deep sleep and it is sunny and warm, for the fires of Hell burn next door. Nay, nay, John is not the Devil, but only a cousin on the spindle side.”
In spite of his resolution Alastair felt his blood chilling as the gypsy babbled. Hope had grown very faint, for what could he do, manacled as he was, in a struggle against a lithe and powerful madman, who could call in the other companions of the night to help him? The undercurrent of sound seemed to be growing louder, and the wooden partition shook a little with the reverberation. How many minutes would pass before he was falling into that pit of echoing darkness!
“When does John sup?” he asked.
“When he calls for supper,” was the answer. “At a certain hour each night the noise of his grinding becomes louder. Hark, it is beginning now. In less than half an hour he will speak. … You have a ring on your finger, a pretty ring—give it to Ben that it may remind him of a happy night and a sweet gentleman.”
“Why do you ask for it when I am in your power, and it is yours for the taking?”
“Because a thing gifted is better than a thing taken. Plunder a man must sell, but a gift he can wear. If I had a dead man’s hat on my head took from his body, it would be crying out in my ears, but if he had kindly given it me, it would fit well and hold its peace. I want that ring that I may wear it and kiss it and call to mind my darling dear.”
The gypsy seized the hand and peered at the ring, a heavy jasper cut with the crest of Morvern, a tower embattled.
“Set free my hands, then, and I will give it you,” said Alastair.
The gypsy grinned cunningly. “And risk your strong fingers at my throat, my pretty one. Nay, nay. Just say the words, ‘I gift my ring freely and lovingly to Gypsy Ben,’ and hark to the service I will do you. With my own hand I will cut your pretty throat, and save you the cruel fall down, down into the darkness. Most gentlemen fear that more than death. ’Tis unfair to the Journeyman, for he’s no raven that can put up with dead carrion, but a peregrine who kills what he eats. But for this once he will pardon his servant Ben. Say the words, gentleman dear. See, it is getting very close on supper time and John is crying out.”
He lifted his hand, an eldritch and evil figure, and sure enough the noise of the grinding had risen till it was like a storm in the night. The wooden partition and the windows at the far side of the room rattled violently and the whole place, roof, walls and rafters, shuddered. In a tumult a small sound pitched in a different key will sometimes make itself heard, and on Alastair’s ear there fell something like a human voice. It may have been fancy, but, though he had abandoned hope, it encouraged him to play for time.
“I do not fear the darkness,” he said, “or death in the darkness. But it is a notion of my family to die in the daylight. I will gladly speak the words which gift you the ring if you will let me live till dawn. It cannot be far distant.”
The gypsy took from his fob a vast old silver watch. “Nay, sir, not till daybreak, which is still four hours distant. But John shall wait for one half-hour on his supper, and he cannot complain, for he will have the killing of it himself. Take your pleasure, then, for thirty minutes by this clock which Ben had of the Miller of Bryston before he was hanged at Derby. What shall we do to make the moments go merrily? Shall Ben sing to you, who soon will be singing with angels?”
The gypsy was on his feet now, his face twitching with excitement and his eyes like two coals. He skipped on the table and cut a step.
“You shall see the Gallows Jig, darling mine, which goes to the tune of ‘Fairladies.’ ”
With grace and skill he threaded his way among the dishes on the stout oaken board, showing a lightness of foot amazing in one wearing heavy riding-boots.
“Bravo,” cried Alastair. “If I were unshackled I would give you the sword-dance as we dance it in the Highlands.” If the maniac could be absorbed in dance and song he might forget the passage of time. Somehow the young man believed that with daylight he would have a chance of salvation.
The gypsy leaped from the table, and took a long pull at the ale jug.
“Sing in turn or sing in chorus,” he cried. “Raise a ditty, precious gentleman.”
Alastair’s dry throat produced a stave of Desportes—a love song which he had last heard at a fête champêtre at Fontainebleau. The gypsy approved and bellowed a drinking catch. Then to Alastair’s surprise he lowered his voice and sang very sweetly and truly the song of “Diana.” The delicate air, with the fragrance of the wildwood in it, pierced Alastair like a sword. He remembered it as Midwinter had sung it—as Claudia Norreys had crooned it, one foot beating time by the hearth and the glow
