We entered Scotland, travelling rapidly till we reached the mountains. I do not speak of the scenes through which we passed, because this memoir is already too long, and my hands are getting weary of the task. At a little town in the highlands we found two gipsies that I had seen twice on the way, evidently waiting for us. After an earnest conversation with these men, Chaleco came to me, apparently somewhat elated.
“Well, child, we have found them out at last! Our people are used to this kind of work, and a few gold-pieces from Papita’s box kept them on the track.”
“And have you found them?” I inquired, rejoiced, and yet with a strange aching pain at the heart, for Cora once found my promise of joining the Spanish tribes must be redeemed.
“Behold,” he said, drawing me to a window of the public house, which overlooked one of those pretty sheets of water that lie like mirrors in the rugged frame-work of the Scottish mountains. “Look yonder on the opposite hill.”
I saw a small dwelling perched above the lake, and sheltered by a vast cedar tree.
“Well,” I said, “I see nothing but a farm-house, and some sheep in a hollow of the mountains.”
“You will find the Gitanilla up yonder, I think,” he answered.
“What, Cora—my Cora? Come—come, it is but a walk, and we are with her.”
“Better than that,” he answered. “The distance is more than it looks; we will be rowed across the lake by our people. Get your plaid and let us be off.”
I went for the Tartan shawl which Chaleco had bought as we approached the chilly north, and we descended to the lake.