"Come, come!" he said, "you speak in riddles. The warning. Is it the same for this gentle lady as for my rough self?"
"Aye, aye, for both—both." She bent down, and laid a dark hand on the shoulder of each, and peering into one face after another, she muttered:
"Beware of Wild Jack Barnstaple!"
Both started. John Johnstone flushed angrily: he rose to his feet.
"We have had enough of this fooling," he said. "The day is advancing, madam," turning to Betty. "Will you vouchsafe me the extreme pleasure of being your escort home?"
As Betty was about to answer, she was arrested by the sound of singing outside, in a voice so wild, loud, and sweet, it seemed the very embodiment of the music of Nature.
"Who is singing like that?" asked Betty. "How beautiful! and how marvellously sad."
"It is Nora Ray, only our Nora, dear heart. Her voice is sweet as the lark, and she sings old songs she gathers in the villages round."
"Hush, hush, listen!" cried Betty, and she stood with upraised hand listening.
The air was in the minor key, the voice of the singer thrilled to the very nerves, every word came distinctly to their ears.