There was a deep pause of some duration, which Quentin at length broke by resuming his queries.
“Yours is a wandering race, unknown to the nations of Europe.—Whence do they derive their origin?”
“I may not tell you,” answered the Bohemian.
“When will they relieve this kingdom from their presence, and return to the land from whence they came?” said the Scot.
“When the day of their pilgrimage shall be accomplished,” replied his vagrant guide.
“Are you not sprung from those tribes of Israel which were carried into captivity beyond the great river Euphrates?” said Quentin, who had not forgotten the lore which had been taught him at Aberbrothick.
“Had we been so,” answered the Bohemian, “we had followed their faith and practised their rites.”
“What is thine own name?” said Durward.
“My proper name is only known to my brethren. The men beyond our tents call me Hayraddin Maugrabin—that is, Hayraddin the African Moor.”
“Thou speakest too well for one who hath lived always in thy filthy horde,” said the Scot.