“I have wronged you, Chaleco, but now”—she turned her eyes steadily toward the cairns, and added, “all will be atoned for.”
“I want no atonement—I am sick of revenge,” was the impetuous answer. “Give me your child.”
“Chaleco, one promise—take her back to England. You will find plenty of gold sewed up in her dress. I was out of my mind—mad to bring her here. Take her back; she is bright beyond her years, and will tell him all better than any one else. Will you promise this, Chaleco, for the sake of old times?”
She smiled a pale, miserable smile, as she made the request.
“Give me your child; I will take her to England!” answered Chaleco, in a hoarse voice.
“That is all,” answered my mother, gently, “I am ready now.”
She turned away her face, and forcing my arms from her neck, held me toward the gipsy chief.
I shrieked, and struggled to get back, but he folded my face to his bosom, and thus smothering my cries, walked rapidly away.
Notwithstanding the close pressure of his arms, I heard a shriek, then the sound of dull, heavy blows, as if stone or iron were falling against some yielding substance. A groan burst from Chaleco. He shuddered from head to foot, and throwing himself forward, forced my face down into the snow, and buried his own there also, moaning and trembling.
The blows grew duller, heavier, and a soft, smothered noise mingled with them. No other sound was in the glen, not a hum, not a footfall, nothing but these muffled sounds, and the groans of Chaleco. Then a hush, like that of midnight, fell over us. Chaleco held his breath, and I struggled no longer; it seemed as if the cold snow had struck to my heart.