But this was not the end of their good luck.
It was most necessary that Anne should disguise her sex at the first opportunity. The hawking-breeches and long boots of untanned leather surmounted by a woman’s bodice and feminine canopy of curls had already excited remark. Therefore was the crone persuaded to cut off the long tresses with a pair of shears, and out of the gypsies’ wardrobe she provided a boy’s leather jerkin and a cap to match it in exchange for the woman’s gear that Anne was wearing.
A great change was wrought thereby in her appearance. She was no more a maid. Her thin, tall figure, graceful as a willow, did remarkably well for that of a very slender boy. Charming she looked; her form was of a singular delicacy, but it passed very well for that of a boy. Awkward questions need no longer be feared along the road. Both were now unmistakably of the sterner sex in the sight of all men.
They went forth in good heart. Armed with this blessed pipe no longer need they fear for a modest sustenance by the way, unless they should fall in with a singularly barren land or one notoriously averse from music.
All the same they must use great caution. It had been proved to them already that the chase was like to be hot at their heels. Still if they kept to little frequented places, there was for the present a chance of eluding their pursuers. But beyond that they did not dare to hope.
CHAPTER XIII
FROM this time forth, as far as it was possible, Gervase and Anne kept to the woods and the fields. For several weeks they yielded themselves to a free life in the open. Drenched by the rains, combed by the winds, baked by the sun, they soon became as brown as berries.
All day would they wander hand in hand. But this was a state of things that could not last. A clear conviction had grown up in the heart of Gervase that a term had been set to his days. At any moment he might be taken. Therefore would he have his taste of life.
He welcomed nature in all her moods. He basked in her sunlight, he turned his face to her winds, he rejoiced when her sudden plumps of rain drenched him to the skin. And the brave thing, ever beside him, to whom he owed the life which was still his, she too in her courage and devotion was in a mood of highest fortitude.
Come what might, they would live their hour. Already Anne had made a vow that when the call came to Gervase she would obey it too. When that dread hour came in which they could no longer put off their captors they were resolved to die together. Soon or late a tragic fate must overtake them. But in the meantime let them taste of life in its abundance, let them rejoice in the ever-mounting passion of their love.