“I seem to know thy features. When my younger brother was stolen, the woman who did carry him was like thee.”
The noble seemed to be thinking aloud, rather than addressing the gipsey. “Fifteen years—fifteen long years since I lost my younger brother.”
“Thou art, then, the Count di Luna?”
She saw she had spoken hastily, as soon as she had uttered the words, so she prepared to fence with them.
“How knowest thou that?”
“They say the gipsies know all things, master. But let me go; I may trace him for thee.”
Suddenly the old soldier, Ferrando, cried out, as he peered towards the gipsey, “By our Lady, ’tis she herself!”
“She! who?” cried the count.
“May I never be absolved, general, if ’tis not the gipsey who stole your brother! Did I not see her carrying the child away, hid in her rags? Aye, marry, did I. Did I not tremble when I saw her but just now, as though I knew her? Aye, marry, twice did I.”
“She trembles; her lips betray her,” said the count. “Bind her—till the cords cut deep into her flesh. Ah! scream—scream; there is no help.”