With a start of surprise, and a quick glance of his fiery eyes toward the place, he called out rudely:
“Who’s there? and what do you want?”
There was no reply, only a further crouching among the foliage.
With hasty steps the squire reached the arbor, parted the branches at the entrance, and gazed within.
A woman in soiled and ragged garments slowly turned her face, scornful and defiant, full upon him!
For a moment she gazed thus upon him, then silently arose.
She must have been beautiful once; but her cheeks were hollow and livid, the large and brilliant black eyes sunken in their sockets. The mouth was distorted with the play of evil passion and suffering; while her long raven hair, streaked with silver, hung in tangled masses from beneath her soiled and misshapen hat.
“What do you want here?” again demanded the squire. “I do not allow beggars about my premises.”
“I am no beggar,” she replied, lifting her head with a sudden, haughty grace, and her voice possessed a certain musical cadence, despite its sharpness.
What was there in her movement and tone that made the proud squire start and gaze so fixedly at her, while a white fear settled over his face?