CHAPTER XXXI.
It was on the tenth of the month, in a very beautiful valley, between bare hills, which, carrying their bold heads high above the rich cloak of vegetation that clothed both sides of the dell, seemed to cool them in the calm blue sky. Just above a waterfall, the same which has been before described, two large irregular masses of stone, differing in size, but both enormous, reared themselves up as gigantic door-posts, to the entrance of a small amphitheatre of cliff, not less than two hundred feet in height. The one rock had somewhat the appearance of a chair of colossal size, the other, fancy might shape into a reading-desk; and thus, amongst the people of the neighbouring districts, the former had acquired the name of "the Pope's Throne;" while the other was called "the Puritan's Pulpit." Between them there was a narrow pass, of not more than ten feet in width, and on either side was piled up a mound of loose shingly fragments, forty or fifty feet high, with a tree or a shrub here and there, where some vegetable earth had accumulated, forming a sort of natural wall, which joined the rocky portal to the spurs of the amphitheatre of crag. At several points, it is true, a man might easily climb over the mound, either to enter or issue forth from the space within; but the only smooth way was between the two great masses of stone, where was a carpeting of soft mountain-turf, with not a blade of grass more than an inch long in anyplace, while in one appeared the evident marks of often-treading feet, in a narrow line worn nearly bare.
With his back leaning against the base of the Pope's Throne, and the sunshine and shadow of a spring day chasing each other across his brow, was seated a stout gipsey, of four or five and twenty. Half-way up the mound, on the right, reclining upon the shingle, might be perceived another, somewhat older than the former, in such a position that his eyes could rest from time to time, upon his companion below. The mound on the left hand had also its man; but he could not be seen from without the natural enclosure, for he had stationed himself just over the top of the heap, obtaining a view into the little enclosure; and there he sat from six o'clock in the morning until eight, with a number of green osier twigs beside him, and a half-finished basket between his knees, at which he worked away like on honest, industrious man.
From within the circle, came forth at times the sounds of merry voices; and at one period of the morning there curled up a quantity of light bluish smoke. Shortly after, there trudged forth from the entrance an elderly man, with a pair of bellows slung over his shoulders, and an old spoutless tin kettle in his hand. Then all seemed quiet, and the man who had been making baskets, without changing his position, changed his attitude, and suffered himself to drop quietly back upon some mossy turf which had gathered round the root of a tree, planted, Heaven knows how, amongst the stones.
About half-past eight o'clock, the figure of a tall stout man appeared, close beside the basket-maker. His step was slow and cautious; and the gipsey man did not move. He was sound asleep. The other stood and looked at him for an instant, with a look not altogether friendly: but the moment after he moved quietly on again, passed behind the tree and began to climb the ridge of the mound, towards the spur of the cliff. He took a step higher, and another, and another, with great care and precaution, often looking back at the man he had passed, often looking down into the little amphitheatre: but still he advanced steadily towards a part where there was not a space of more than ten or twelve feet between the summit of the cliff and the top of the shingly mound, with an ash-tree waving its branches under the shelter of the bank. He was within half-a-dozen paces of the top, when some of the loose stones giving way beneath him, rolled down, and startled the sleeper from his slumbers.
In an instant he was upon his feet. The next, he gazed up and gave a loud shout. The scene of confusion that followed was wild and strange. From a number of gipsey tents which had been pitched in the circle below, issued forth some twenty or thirty persons, men, women, and children, all in a state of great excitement, and all looking in the direction from which the shout had proceeded. The basket-maker sprang up after the climber of the hill, half-a-dozen young men followed from below; and one of the other watchers joined in what was evidently a pursuit.
But the fugitive had gained too much upon them; the shout warned him to quicken his pace; in an instant he was under the ash-tree; and in another, by the aid of its stout branches, he was at the top of the cliff. There he paused for but one instant, then turned and hurried on. His departing figure lessened rapidly to the eyes of those who followed him, and at length he disappeared.
Three of the pursuers climbed up by the aid of the ash-tree, as he had done; but as a fourth was mounting, he happened to turn his eyes below, and beheld the object of the chase down in the valley, and in the act of crossing the river, which rose to his arm-pits. By a bold manœuvre he had put the hounds at fault, and by the time the men were called down from above, was out of sight.
A short consultation was held amongst the tribe; and then they all quietly returned to their usual habits. The women and the children betook themselves again to their tents, the basket-maker came down and plied his trade more wakefully below; the young man who had been sitting with his back against the huge rock abandoned his post, and remained talking, within the little basin, to another of the tribe; and his fellow-watcher on the outside, lay down at the back of the encampment, and went to sleep.
About five minutes after, coming at great speed, the gipsey woman, Sally Stanley, approached the place from the lower part of the valley. There was anxiety in her look, and she gazed eagerly over the two shingly mounds, as if in search of what she did not see, and then with a step quickened almost to a run, she entered the little amphitheatre of cliff, advancing straight to the youth who had been stationed at the pass between the two rocks.
"Is he gone?" she asked, in breathless eagerness, "Is he gone?"
"Yes, Sally; he is gone," replied the young man; "but it was not my fault, for he--"
"Fault!" cried the woman, "it might be no one's fault; for what right have I to command? what need have you to obey? But cursed be he who let him go; for he has done a bad act; he has killed one who has always been kind to us; and the blood of the gipsey's friend be upon his head;" and without waiting for reply, she ran out of the circle of rock; and, with the speed of lightning, hurried down the valley. Cutting off every angle, finding paths where none appeared, and footing on places which a goat could hardly have trod, she darted on till she reached the spot where, opening out with an ever-gentle descent to the plain, the hill-valley was lost in other sweeps of the ground, and the common foot-path entered into the cultivated grounds, taking its onward course between two close hedges in the form of a lane. She looked upon the somewhat moist sand beneath her feet with eagerness, and examined it carefully for several yards. Then, murmuring to herself, "He has not passed!--he cannot have passed!" she placed herself behind the decayed trunk of an old willow, and, waiting, watched with an attentive ear.
Two minutes had not elapsed when a step was heard; and then Lockwood was seen coming along the lane at a rapid pace, with a thick newly-cut stick in his hand. The woman instantly darted forth and threw herself before him.
"Get out of my way!" he said, in a stern tone, as soon as he saw her. "I am angry, and I would not do anything unbecoming. You may have done mischief enough already. Do not do more by making me forget myself."
But she persevered in her attempts to stop him.
"I am a woman, and alone;" she answered, "you would not do anything unmanly, I am sure. But hear me, Lockwood," she continued, more vehemently; "hear me, and I will tell you what you are going to do. You wish to save him, and you are going to ruin him. If you set your foot in that court, he is lost. Nay, hear me! hear me!" she repeated, as he strove to push his way past her; "you must, you shall--for your own sake--for his sake--for my sake. I will beseech you--I will kneel to you, to hear me but a few words;" and casting herself down before him, she clasped his knees with her arms.
"I will not hear you," he answered, bitterly; "every moment is precious. You have detained me shamefully two days, and there is nothing to be told me that I could not tell you. I know all, girl--I know you, Susan Grey--I know your motives--I know that you are fool enough still to love him who ruined, betrayed, abandoned you--who left you to misery, starvation, and death, for aught he knew; and I know that to save him from the punishment of his crimes, you would sacrifice one who was kind and good to you, when there was none other to befriend you. Let me go, girl! for I will pass!" and, forcing himself from her grasp, he walked hastily onward towards S----.
"Oh God! Oh God!" cried the woman, "he will destroy him he seeks to save!"
This took place, let the reader remember, on the tenth of the month; the second day of the trial of Chandos Winslow; and to that trial and the court in which it was taking place, we must now return.