[CHAPTER XI.]
A PECULIAR PEOPLE.
It is only fair to state that Lord Bellinger writhed and struggled with a vigour not to have been expected from his attenuated frame, much to the delight of his captors, who were inclined to treat him more leniently than if he had submitted, like his footman, without show of resistance. This champion they kicked and belaboured to some purpose, while they pinioned his fellow-servant, from whose readier hands they had wrested the harmless blunderbuss, and threatened him in frightful language if he ventured to stir a finger. To my lady, though insisting that she should retain her seat in the carriage, they behaved with extreme politeness. She was afterwards heard, indeed, to protest that the robber-chief, as she called Fin Cooper, seemed a perfect gentleman; that he had a distinguished air, and for a black man—though, in a general way, she could not abide black men (Lord Bellinger being as black as a crow)—was by no means ill-looking.
Mistress Rachel, too, while frightened and hysterical, as behoved her station, clung persistently to the arm of a stout gipsy, who mounted guard over her person, entreating him, in piteous terms, to respect her youth, and, above all, to protect her from the insults of his comrades; lavishing on him tender glances, and contrasting his assured demeanour with the cowardice of her late admirer, whose very teeth chattered for dismay. My lord, in the meantime, with a swarthy fellow at each limb, lay helpless on his back, cursing volubly, but losing neither presence of mind nor temper. Indeed, when he had sufficiently relieved his feelings by such ebullitions, and perceived that no violence was offered to Lady Bellinger or her maid, the situation seemed to strike him as ludicrous, and, bursting into a laugh, he called on the gipsies to release him, promising, on his honour, that no further resistance should be offered by himself, or his servants, to the continuation of their frolic.
Fin Cooper took him at his word. Exchanging a few short sentences with Waif in his own Romany language, unintelligible to the captives, he raised Lord Bellinger to his feet and restored the rapier which had been wrested from that struggling nobleman.
"You are a Gorgio Raia," said he, "and I but a Romany Chal. Nevertheless, there is honour among thieves, and I'll trust yours if you'll trust mine." "I cannot speak your language," answered his lordship; "but your manners are those of a perfect gentleman. Pray select from my coach whatever articles you fancy, except her ladyship, my wife, whose health does not admit of her taking exercise on foot, and I would venture to suggest that, in rifling the sword case, no violence be used. It contains three bottles of excellent Chambertin, which it would be a pity to break. I can only regret that I am not better prepared to entertain so large a party."
"You're made of the right stuff," answered Fin Cooper; "and another time you'll know that a Romany Chal means a gipsy lad, and a Gorgio Raia a nobleman of the Gentiles. We'll drink your health, my lord, never fear, and give yourself and your lady a share, if you'll condescend to wet your lips on the same cup with us. Now, pals," he added, turning to the gang, "take what you want and let us be off. High Toby's a good game for the winner, but it's best to play it out before the moon gets up."
The gipsies then proceeded to appropriate the contents of the coach, exchanging grins and smiles and whispered congratulations in their own language on the value of their prize.
Only Waif stood aloof, gazing into the darkness, where the grey horse and his rider had long ago disappeared.