Joyce raised her voice in a clear, ringing tone, and called her brothers by name.
"They have gone on so far in front," she said; "but I feel sure this is the right track." She called again, but there was no reply.
"We had better walk faster," she said, "or we shall be left behind;" then she stopped.
"I see a man lying in that dip under the gorse-bushes. I hope he will not beg."
She had scarcely spoken the words when a huge form rose before them, and stood in the narrow track between the heather and gorse, filling up the path.
"You are Squire Falconer's lass, ain't you?" he said, defiantly.
"Yes," Gilbert answered, "yes; this is Miss Falconer, of Fair Acres. How long are you going to stand there and prevent us from passing you?"
"Till I've settled my score. Your gov'nor was hard on me t'other day; he tried to get me sent to gaol. I'll smash his head for 'im next time I come across 'im, sure as my name is Bob Priday!"
The broad, Somersetshire lingo made the man all but unintelligible to Gilbert; but Joyce understood him well enough.
"Ye hand me out a guinea, now, or a trinket, and I'll let bygones be bygones, specially"—with a horrid leer—"if you'll give me a kiss with 'em; eh?"