His father's reputation for gallantry, thus alluded to, brought the blood into York's cheeks; forgetful of what import his words bore, he replied lastly, "Sleep King Edward's faults with him, mother; it is neither wise nor well to speak irreverently of those gone to their doom—may God assoilzie him!"
"What voice is that?" cried the old woman; "if I boast, Heaven forgive me, of his grace's slight favour, your mother may take shame——"
"Your words are naught," cried York, interrupting her, "my mother's is a sacred name—yet, tell me in very truth, and give me some sign that, indeed, you knew my father."
The word passed his lips before he was aware, but being spoken, he felt that it were best not to recede. Seizing the old woman's shrivelled hand, he said, "Look—use thy art—read my palm: read rather my features, and learn indeed who I am: I am in danger; you may betray, or you may save me: choose which you will—I am the duke of York."
An exclamation checked, a look of boundless surprise changed into a cautious glance around, attested the gipsy's wish to serve the venturous youth. "Rash boy," she answered, in a low voice, "what idle, or what mortal words are these! How art thou here? With what hope—what aid?"
"Frankly, none but what I derive from your bounty. I have escaped worse peril, so do not fear but that God will protect me, and even turn to profit my parent's sin, if his kiss purchase his son's life."
"Young sir," said the gipsy, with great seriousness, "the flower of love is gay—its fruit too often bitter. So does she know on whose account I wickedly and shamelessly did the foul fiend's bidding, and ruined a sinless soul to gratify the pleasure-loving king. But thou hast paid the penalty: thou and thine, who have been called by the ill-word, thrust from thy place by thy crook-back uncle; and now art nearer a dungeon than a throne through thy father's fault. I will serve and save thee; tell me quickly, who are thy companions—whither thou wouldst go—that I may judge the best to be done."
It is to be observed, that at the very beginning of this colloquy, the young girl, whom York had first addressed, had stolen away. Now he replied by mentioning the lameness of his elder friend, and his resolve not to be divided from the other. He spoke of the Adalid, and of his further wish to be awhile concealed in England. The old woman continued silent, wrapped in thought. At length she raised her head—"It can be done, and it shall," she said, half to herself. "Come now, they are serving our homely fare. You, who are young, and ill-apt for penance, must eat before you go."
The savoury steams of the well-filled and rustic marmite, gave force to her words, and to Richard's appetite. The repast was plentiful and gay, and even too long. Evening was far advanced, the fire grew light in the dusk, and threw its fitful rays upon the strange and incongruous feasters. Monina had cowered close to Richard; the cup went round; scarcely did she put it to her lips; a rude companion of the crew made some rough jest on her sobriety. Richard's face lighted up with anger: his watchful old friend stepped forward, in her own jargon she made some communication to her associates, which caused a universal pause, and then a stir: it was evident some movement was intended. She meanwhile drew the three fugitives aside:
"In a few minutes," she said, "we shall all be on our way hence; listen how I would provide for your safeties." She then proposed that Desmond should assume the disguise of one of the horde, and so be conveyed in safety to the banks of the Thames, and on board the Adalid. She promised herself to conduct the prince and his young friend to a secure refuge. The earl, accustomed to find fidelity and rags near mates, readily acceded to this proposal. In the solitary unknown spot to which, chance had directed them, environed by every danger, no step was more perilous than the remaining where they were. York and Monina were familiar with the reports of the gipsy character—its savage honour and untractable constancy. The season was such, though the day had been unusually sunny and warm, as to make a night in the open air no agreeable anticipation; and Richard had a thousand fears on his lovely friend's account. They all readily acceded to the old woman's plan. Desmond was quickly disguised, his visage stained deep brown, his whole person transformed; he was placed in the caravan, and the horde was speedily in movement; the sound of their departing steps died away. They had left a rude cart, to which York's horse, a strong hack, was harnessed. The sibyl undertook to guide it. Richard and Monina ascended the jumbling fabric. Soon they were on their journey, none but their conductress knew in what direction; but they submitted to her, and through copse and over field they wound their darkling way.