“Walk gently,” she whispered, or rather hissed. “Hush, hush! do not speak. Granny is dying.”
She took Leonard’s half-unwilling hand as she spoke, and led them forward to the light.
There was silence for a little while, for all eyes were turned upon the new-comers.
Gipsies all undoubtedly, and of the very lowest caste, dark, swarthy, ragged, and wild-looking.
Lying with her head in the lap of a tall woman was an aged crone, her face almost as black as a negro’s with age and exposure.
The fire blazed higher, its gleams reaching to the highest pine trees, and lighting up the faces of all around.
It was a strange, a weird scene, almost awful in its impressiveness. Once again the voices rose and swelled on the night air. Even bold Leonard felt his heart beat faster, while Effie’s hand trembled in his.
