“Why, she’s looking for her rascal of a Renaud, of course!” said the hunchback. “That fellow isn’t used to being tied like a goat to a stake, and the little one will have a hard time to keep him true to her, for all her fine dot!—The other day, Rampal—you know, the drover, a good fellow—saw him at a distance on the beach talking with a gipsy who wasn’t dressed for winter!”
“Not dressed for winter? what do you mean?”
“She wore no furs, nor cloak, nor anything else, poor me! She was taking a bath as God made her. The plain isn’t a safe place for that sort of thing. You think you can’t be seen because you think you can see a long distance yourself, but a tuft of heather is enough for the lizard to hide his two eyes behind while he looks.”
Again the women began to chuckle and laugh, but for a moment only.
Meanwhile, Livette’s friends were saying to her:
“No, we haven’t seen your sweetheart, my dear; but they are already putting the benches in place against the church for the branding, and he can’t fail to be here soon.”
At that moment, a strain of weird music arose not far away. It was produced by a flute, and the notes, softly modulated at first, were abruptly changed to heart-rending shrieks. A strange, dull, monotonous accompaniment seemed to encourage the sick heart, that called for help with piercing cries.
“Hark! there are the gipsies and their devil’s music, Livette. Just go and look—it is such an amusing sight. We will join you in a little while.”
“What about my horse?” said Livette.
“If you haven’t come to stay, there’s a heavy iron bracelet just set into the wall of the church to hold the bars of the enclosure for the branding. Tie your horse to that, and don’t be afraid that he will disappear. Every one will know he’s yours by those pretty letters in copper nails you have had put on your saddle-bow.”