Myself.—“Old Will Faa!”
Woman.—“Yes. Old Will Faa, the Gypsy king, smuggler, and innkeeper; he lived in that inn.”
Myself.—“Oh, then that house has been an inn?”
Woman.—“It still is an inn, and has always been an inn; and though it has such an eerie look it is sometimes lively enough, more especially after the Gypsies have returned from their summer excursions in the country. It’s a roaring place then. They spend most of their sleight-o’-hand gains in that house.”
Myself.—“Is the house still kept by a Faa?”
Woman.—“No, sir; there are no Faas to keep it. The name is clean dead in the land, though there is still some of the blood remaining.”
Myself.—“I really should like to see some of the blood.”
Woman.—“Weel, sir, you can do that without much difficulty; there are not many Gypsies just now in Kirk Yetholm; but the one who they say has more of his blood than any one else happens to be here. I mean his grandbairn—his daughter’s daughter; she whom they ca’ the ‘Gypsy Queen o’ Yetholm,’ and whom they lead about the toon once a year, mounted on a cuddy, with a tin crown on her head, with much shouting, and with mony a barbaric ceremony.”
Myself.—“I really should like to see her.”
Woman.—“Weel, sir, there’s a woman behind you, seated at the doorway, who can get your honour not only the sight of her, but the speech of her, for she is one of the race, and a relation of hers; and, to tell ye the truth, she has had her eye upon your honour for some time past, expecting to be asked about the qeeen, for scarcely anybody comes to Yetholm but goes to see the queen; and some gae so far as to say that they merely crowned her queen in hopes of bringing grist to the Gypsy mill.”