[An old English poem reprinted in Hazlitt's Remains of Early Popular Poetry of England.]
While he was tracing the “letters blake” of the ditty so congenial to his own situation, Quentin was interrupted by a touch on the shoulder, and, looking up, beheld the Bohemian standing by him.
Hayraddin, never a welcome sight, was odious from his late treachery, and Quentin sternly asked him why he dared take the freedom to touch a Christian and a gentleman?
“Simply,” answered the Bohemian, “because I wished to know if the Christian gentleman had lost his feeling as well as his eyes and ears. I have stood speaking to you these five minutes, and you have stared on that scrap of yellow paper, as if it were a spell to turn you into a statue, and had already wrought half its purpose.”
“Well, what dost thou want? Speak, and begone!”
“I want what all men want, though few are satisfied with it,” said Hayraddin, “I want my due, ten crowns of gold for guiding the ladies hither.”
“With what face darest thou ask any guerdon beyond my sparing thy worthless life?” said Durward, fiercely, “thou knowest that it was thy purpose to have betrayed them on the road.”
“But I did not betray them,” said Hayraddin, “if I had, I would have asked no guerdon from you or from them, but from him whom their keeping on the right hand side of the river might have benefited. The party that I have served is the party who must pay me.”
“Thy guerdon perish with thee, then, traitor,” said Quentin, telling out the money. “Get thee to the Boar of Ardennes, or to the devil! but keep hereafter out of my sight, lest I send thee thither before thy time.”
“The Boar of Ardennes!” repeated the Bohemian, with a stronger emotion of surprise than his features usually expressed—“it was then no vague guess—no general suspicion—which made you insist on changing the road?—Can it be—are there really in other lands arts of prophecy more sure than those of our wandering tribes? The willow tree under which we spoke could tell no tales. But no—no—no—dolt that I was!—I have it—I have it!—the willow by the brook near yonder convent—I saw you look towards it as you passed it, about half a mile from yon hive of drones—that could not indeed speak, but it might hide one who could hear! I will hold my councils in an open plain henceforth, not a bunch of thistles shall be near me for a Scot to shroud amongst.—Ha! ha! the Scot hath beat the Zingaro at his own subtle weapons. But know, Quentin Durward, that you have foiled me to the marring of thine own fortune.—Yes! the fortune I have told thee of, from the lines on thy hand, had been richly accomplished but for thine own obstinacy.”