There was somebody behind him after all, somebody who went softly and stopped when he did. It was as he had suspicioned; the tumbler had come to and was trailing him home to get his revenge—to fire stacks or rip a cow, an old gypsy trick. John swung the mare into a cattle track, tied her to a blackthorn, pulled a heavy stone out of the mud and waited, crouched against the bank, hidden in the furze. He would settle this rogue once and for all. Every yeoman instinct aroused, he would have faced forty such in defense of his stock, his place.
Dawn was lifting her golden head over the long arm of the Lizard. A chain of little pink clouds floated above her like adoring cherubs. Morning mists drifted up from the switch-backed hills to the north, white as steam. Over St. Gwithian tower the moon hung, haggard and deathly pale, an old siren giving place to a rosy débutante. In the bushes birds twittered and cheeped, tuning their voices against the day. John Penhale waited, bent double, the heavy stone ready in his hands. The footpad was a long time coming. John wondered if he had taken the wrong turning—but that was improbable; the mare’s tracks were plain. Some one might have come out of the cottage and forced the fellow into hiding—or he might have sensed the ambush. John was just straightening his back to peer over the furze when he heard the soft thud of bare feet on the road, heard them hesitate and then turn towards him, following the hoof prints. He held his breath, judged the time and distance and sprang up, the stone poised in both hands above his head. He lowered it slowly and let it drop in the mud. It was the girl!
She looked at the stone, then at John and her mouth twitched with the flicker of a smile. John felt foolish and consequently angry. He stepped out of the bushes.
“Why are you following me?” he demanded.
She looked down at her bare feet, then up at him out of the corners of her deep dark eyes, but made no answer.
John grasped her by an arm and shook her. “Can’t you speak? Why are you following me?”
She did not reply, but winced slightly, and John saw that he was gripping one of the cruel bruises. He released her, instantly contrite.
“I did not mean to do that,” he said. Then, hardening again: “But, look you, I’ll have no more of this. I’ll have none of your kind round here, burning ricks. If I catch you near my farm I’ll hand you over to the law for . . . for what you are and you’ll be whipped. Do you hear me?”
The girl remained silent, leaning up against the bank, pouting, looking up at John under her long lashes. She was handsome in a sulky, outlandish way, he admitted. She had a short nose, high cheekbones and very dark eyes with odd lights in them; her bare head was covered with crisp black curls and she wore big brass earrings; a little guitar was tucked under one arm. The tattered cloak was drawn tight about her, showing the thin but graceful lines of her figure—a handsome trollop.
“If you won’t speak you won’t . . . but, remember, I have warned you,” said John, but with less heat, as he untied his horse and mounted. As he turned the corner he glanced furtively back and met the girl’s eyes full. He put spurs to the mare, flushing hotly.