“I will.”
“Have mules in readiness, and a disguise for the Gitanilla; something that our people may not fathom readily.”
“It will be easy,” said Clare, after a moment’s thought; “my page died on the coast—Turner must have his garments somewhere among my luggage—I will speak with him.”
“Gold will be wanted,” said the gipsy, fixing her hungry glance on the young man with a meaning he could not possibly misunderstand. He stepped to a desk that lay in its leather case in a corner of the room, and took out several rolls of English guineas, enough to fill one hand.
“When you want more, here is an address; ask freely. Would to God all else were as easy as this,” he said, muttering the latter words in his own language, and placing a strip of paper, on which he had hastily written, in her hand.
The Sibyl’s eyes gleamed, and for the first time he saw a smile of genuine satisfaction flash over her face.
“Oh! this is something like: the Busne is magnificent,” she exclaimed, eagerly concealing the gold in her dress. “Now they cannot starve old Papita like a sick hound in its kennel—this is power, and she can defy them. Let them question her if they dare—let them revile her if they have the courage, and say her grandchild had the death of shame. What does Papita care while she has gold and the drao secret.”
The young man smiled faintly. He could not comprehend this fierce passion for gain in a creature left tottering upon the brink of her grave so long, with all her bad passions still retaining their keen edge. He, to whom wealth came freely as the air, could little understand how want and penury, from which in this world gold alone can save us, grinds down the most generous nature. He despised the old gipsy woman in his soul; but had he suffered as she had done, in what might he have been superior? It is easy to scorn the sin to which we have no temptation.
Eager to count over her gold—more than satisfied with her morning’s success, my great grandame left the Fonde chuckling to herself, and hugging her treasure with both arms fondly as a mother caresses her child. On her way down the hill she met Turner, who eyed her like an angry mastiff, and muttered to himself in English something that she did not understand. He stood looking after her as she disappeared among the trees, but she was busy with her gold, and cared nothing for his scrutiny.
“Turner,” said Lord Clare, as that functionary entered the Fonde.