The gipsy smiled. He understood. But Bess did not, and she tugged the girl’s hair with sufficient roughness to break the spell.
“Up!” she cried. “Up when I speak! Don’t dream you’re a fine lady any longer! Wait till I get your bed candlestick—eh, lads?—and you’ll be wiser to-morrow, and tamer, too. See, my lass, that’s for you!” And she held up a small dark-lanthorn, and opening it, kindled the wick from one of the candles. “Now come! And do you—no, not you!” to the gipsy, who had stepped forward—“you!” to Giles, “come with me and see her safely into her bedroom!”
Lunt growled a word or two.
“Stow it!” Bess answered, as she darkened the lanthorn. “It’s to be as I say. Here, give me your wrist, girl.”
But at that, fear gripped Henrietta. She hung back with a white face.
“What are you going to do with me?” she cried. “What are you——”
“In two minutes you’ll see!” Bess retorted. And with a quick movement she grasped the girl’s arm. “And be as wise as I am. Lay hold of her other arm,” she continued to Giles. “It’s no use to struggle, my lady!—and if she cries out down her at once. You hear, do you?” she continued, addressing Henrietta, who with terror found herself as helpless as a doe in the hound’s fangs. “Then mum, and it’ll be the better for you. Here, do you take the lanthorn,” she went on, handing it to Giles, “and I’ll carry the victuals. You can hold her?”
“I’ll break her wrist if she budges,” the man replied. “But, after all, isn’t she as well here?”
“No, she’s not!” Bess answered, with decision. “Do you”—to Lunt—“open the yard door for us, and stand by till we come in again. No, not you,” to the gipsy, who had again stepped forward. “You’re too ready, my lad, and I don’t trust you.”
Fortunately for Henrietta, the sight of the plate of food relieved her of her worst fears. She was not to be done to death, but in all probability to be consigned to the hiding place which held the boy. And though the prospect was not cheerful, and Bess’s manner was cruel and menacing, Henrietta felt that if this were the worst she could face it. She could bear even what the child bore, and by sharing its hardships she might do something to comfort it. Always, too, there was the chance of escape; and from the place, be it out-house or stable, in which they held the boy confined, escape must be more feasible than from the house, with its bolts and bars.