wood. A fragment of a Spanish gipsy song it warbled: Luke knew it well. LA GITANILLA.* By the Guadalquivir, By the stream doth linger, Will her lover bring her. II. See, the sun is sinking? All grows dim, and dies; See, the waves are drinking His long-looked-for bark. Still the Gitanilla By the stream doth linger, Will her lover bring her. The tender trembling of a guitar was heard in accompaniment of the ravishing melodist. The song ceased. "Where is the bird ?" asked Turpin. "Move on in silence and you shall see," said Luke; and, keeping upon the turf, so that his horse's tread became inaudible, he presently arrived at a spot where, through the boughs, the object of his investigation could plainly be distinguished, though he himself was concealed from view. Upon a platform of rock, rising to the height of the trees, nearly perpendicularly from the river's bed, appeared the figure of the gipsy maid. Her footstep rested on the extreme edge of the abrupt cliff, at whose base the water boiled in a deep whirlpool, and the bounding chamois could not have been more * Set to music by Mr. F. Romer. lightly poised. One small hand rested upon her guitar, the other pressed her brow. Braided hair, of the jettiest die and sleekest texture, was twined around her brow, in endless twisted folds. Rowled it was in many a curious fret, And so exuberant was this rarest feminine ornament, that, after encompassing her brow, it was passed behind, and hung down in long thick plaits, almost to her feet. Sparkling as the sun-beams that played upon her dark yet radiant features, were the large, black, oriental eyes of the maiden, and shaded with lashes long and silken. Hers was a Moorish countenance, in which the magnificence of the eyes eclipses the face, be it ever so beautiful (an effect to be observed in many of the paintings of Murillo), and the lovely contour is scarcely noticed in the gaze which those large, languid, luminous orbs attract. Sybil's features were exquisite, yet you looked only at her eyes -they were the load-stars of her countenance. Her costume was singular, and partook, like herself, of other climes. Like the Andalusian dame, her choice of colour inclined towards black, as the inaterial of most of her dress was of that sombre hue. A bodice of embroidered velvet restrained her delicate bosom's swell; a rich girdle, from which depended a silver chain, sustaining a short poniard, bound her waist; around her slender throat was twined a costly kerchief; and the rest of her dress was calculated to display her slight, yet faultless, figure, to the fullest advantage. Unconscious that she was the object of regard, she raised her guitar, and essayed to touch the chords. She struck a few notes, and resumed her romance:— Her song died away. Her hand was needed to brush off the tears that were gathering in her large dark eyes. At once her attitude was changed. The hare could not have started *Brown's Pastorals. more suddenly from her form. She heard accents, well known, concluding the melody : Lips an oar-plash-hark! - On the Guadalquivir. Her own name she catches, Stays not by the water, Hath her lover brought her. It was her lover's voice. She caught the sound at once and, starting, as the roe would arouse herself at the hunter's approach, bounded down the crag, and ere he had finished the refrain, was by his side. Flinging the bridle to Turpin, Luke sprang to her, and caught her in his arms. Disengaging herself from his ardent embrace, Sybil drew back, abashed at the sight of the highwayman. "Heed him not," said Luke, "it is a friend." "He is welcome here then," replied Sybil. "But where have you tarried so long, dear Luke?" continued she, as they walked to a little distance from the highwayman. "What hath detained you? The hours have passed wearily since you departed. You bring good news?" "Good news, my girl; so good that I falter even in the telling of it. You shall know all anon. And see, our friend yonder grows impatient. Are there any stirring? We must bestow a meal upon him, and that forthwith: he is one of those who brook not much delay." "I came not to spoil a love meeting," said Turpin, who had good-humouredly witnessed the scene; "but, in sober seriousness, if there is a stray capon to be met with in the land of Egypt, I shall be glad to make his acquaintance. Methinks I scent a stew afar off." "Follow me," said Sybil; "your wants shall be supplied." 'Stay," said Luke; "there is one other of our party, whose coming we must abide." "He is here," said Sybil, observing the sexton at a dis"Who is that old man ?" tance. "My grandsire, Peter Bradley." "Is that Peter Bradley?" asked Sybil. Ay, you may well ask, whether that old dried-up otomy, who ought to grin in a glass case for folks to stare at, be kith and kin of such a bang-up cove as your fancy man, Luke," said Turpin, laughing—“But i'faith he is." "Though he is your grandsire, Luke," said Sybil, “I like him not. His glance resembles that of the evil eye." And, in fact, the look which Peter fixed upon her was such as the rattle-snake casts upon its victim, and Sybil felt like a poor fluttering bird under the fascination of that venomous reptile. She could not remove her eyes from his, though she trembled as she gazed. We have said that Peter's orbs were like those of the toad. Age had not dimmed their brilliancy. In his harsh features you could only read bitter scorn, or withering hate; but in his eyes resided a magnetic influence of attraction or repulsion. Sybil underwent the former feeling in a disagreeable degree. She was drawn to him as by the motion of a whirlpool, and involuntarily clung to her lover. "It is the evil eye, dear Luke." "Tut, tut, dear Sybil ; I tell you it is my grandsire." "The girl says rightly, however," rejoined Turpin; "Peter has a confounded ugly look about the ogles, and stares enough to put a modest wench out of countenance. Come, come, my old earth-worm, crawl along, we have waited for you long enough. Is this the first time you have seen a pretty lass, eh?" "It is the first time I have seen one so beautiful," said Peter; " and I crave her pardon, if my freedom has offended her. I wonder not at your enchantment, grandson Luke, now I behold the object of it. But there is one piece of counsel I would give to this fair maid. The next time she trusts you from her sight, I would advise her to await you at the hill top, otherwise the chances are shrewdly against your reaching the ground with neck unbroken." There was something, notwithstanding the satirical manner in which Peter delivered this speech, calculated to make a more favourable impression upon Sybil than his previous conduct had inspired her with; and, having ascertained from Luke to what his speech referred, she extended her hand to him, yet not without a shudder, as it was enclosed in his skinny grasp. It was like the fingers of Venus in the grasp of a skeleton. "This is a little hand," said Peter, " and I have some skill myself in palmistry. Shall I peruse its lines?" "Not now, in the devil's name," said Turpin, stamping impatiently. "We shall have old Ruffin himself amongst us presently, if Peter Bradley grows gallant.” Leading their horses, the party took their way through the trees. A few minutes' walking brought them in sight of the gipsy encampment, the spot selected for which might be termed the Eden of the valley. It was a small green plain, smooth as a well-shorn lawn, kept ever verdant (save in such places as the frequent fires had scorched its surface), by the flowing stream that rushed past it, and surrounded by an amphitheatre of wooded hills. Here might be seen the canvass tent with its patches of varied colouring; the rude-fashioned hut of primitive construction; the kettle slung Between two poles, upon a stick transverse; COWPER. the tethered beasts of burden, the horses, asses, dogs, carts, caravans, wains, blocks, and other movables and immovables belonging to the wandering tribe. Glimmering through the trees, at the extremity of the plain, appeared the ivy-mantled walls of Davenham Priory. Though much had gone to decay, enough remained to recall the pristine state of this once majestic pile; and the long, though broken line of Saxon arches, that still marked the cloister wall; the piers that yet supported the dormitory; the enormous horse-shoe arch that spanned the court; and, above all, the great marigold, or circular window, which terminated the chapel, and which, though now despoiled of its painted honours, retained, like the skeleton leaf, its fibrous intricacies entire,—all eloquently spake of the glories of the past, while they awakened reverence and admiration for the still-enduring beauty of the present. Towards these ruins Sybil conducted the party. "Do you dwell therein?" asked Peter, pointing towards the Priory. "That is my dwelling," said Sybil. "It is one I should covet more than a modern mansion," returned the sexton. "I love those old walls better than any house that was ever fashioned," replied Sybil. |