which had once been the donjon of the castle, the lords of which had called the four hills their own. A watch-tower then had crowned each eminence, every vestige of which had, however, long since disappeared. Sequestered in the vale stood the Priory before alluded to — a Monastery of Gray Friars, of the Order of St. Francis — some of the venerable walls of which were still remaining; and if they had not reverted to the bat and the owl, as is wont to be the fate of such sacred structures, their cloistered shrines were devoted to beings whose natures partook, in some measure, of the instincts of those creatures of the night — a people whose deeds were of darkness, and whose eyes shunned the light. Here the gipsies had pitched their tent; and though the place was often, in part, deserted by the vagrant horde, yet certain of the tribe, who had grown into years — over whom Barbara Lovel held queenly sway — made it their haunt, and were suffered by the authorities of the neighborhood to remain unmolested — a lenient piece of policy, which, in our infinite regard for the weal of the tawny tribe, we recommend to the adoption of all other justices and knights of the shire.
Bidding his grandsire have regard to his seat, Luke leaped a high bank; and, followed by Turpin, began to descend the hill. Peter, however, took care to provide for himself. The descent was so perilous, and the footing so insecure, that he chose rather to trust to such conveyance as nature had furnished him with, than to hazard his neck by any false step of the horse. He contrived, therefore, to slide off from behind, shaping his own course in a more secure direction.
He who has wandered amidst the Alps must have often had occasion to witness the wonderful surefootedness of that mountain pilot, the mule. He must have remarked how, with tenacious hoof, he will claw the rock, and drag himself from one impending fragment to another, with perfect security to his rider; how he will breast the roaring currents of air, and stand unshrinking at the verge of almost unfathomable ravines. But it is not so with the horse: fleet on the plain, careful over rugged ground, he is timid and uncertain on the hill-side, and the risk incurred by Luke and Turpin, in their descent of the almost perpendicular sides of the cliff, was tremendous. Peter watched them in their descent with some admiration, and with much contempt.
“He will break his neck, of a surety,” said he; “but what matters it? As well now as hereafter.”
So saying, he approached the verge of the precipice, where he could see them more distinctly.
The passage along which Luke rode had never before been traversed by horse’s hoof. Cut in the rock, it presented a steep zigzag path amongst the cliffs, without any defence for the foot traveller, except such as was afforded by a casual clinging shrub, and no protection whatever existed for a horseman; the possibility of any one attempting the passage not having, in all probability, entered into the calculation of those who framed it. Added to this, the steps were of such unequal heights, and withal so narrow, that the danger was proportionately increased.
“Ten thousand devils!” cried Turpin, staring downwards, “is this the best road you have got?”
“You will find one more easy,” replied Luke, “if you ride for a quarter of a mile down the wood, and then return by the brook side. You will meet me at the priory.”
“No,” answered the highwayman, boldly; “if you go, I go too. It shall never be said that Dick Turpin was afraid to follow where another would lead. Proceed.”
Luke gave his horse the bridle, and the animal slowly and steadily commenced the descent, fixing his fore legs upon the steps, and drawing his hinder limbs carefully after him. Here it was that the lightness and steadiness of Turpin’s mare was completely shown. No Alpine mule could have borne its rider with more apparent ease and safety. Turpin encouraged her by hand and word; but she needed it not. The sexton saw them, and, tracking their giddy descent, he became more interested than he anticipated. His attention was suddenly drawn towards Luke.
“He is gone,” cried Peter. “He falls — he sinks — my plans are all defeated — the last link is snapped. No,” added he, recovering his wonted composure, “his end is not so fated.”
Rook had missed his footing. He rolled stumbling down the precipice a few yards. Luke’s fate seemed inevitable. His feet were entangled in the stirrup, he could not free himself. A birch tree, growing in a chink of the precipice, arrested his further fall. But for this timely aid all had been over. Here Luke was enabled to extricate himself from the stirrup and to regain his feet; seizing the bridle, he dragged his faulty steed back again to the road.
“You have had a narrow escape, by Jove,” said Turpin, who had been thunderstruck with the whole proceeding. “Those big cattle are always clumsy; devilish lucky it’s no worse.”
It was now comparatively smooth travelling; but they had not as yet reached the valley, and it seemed to be Luke’s object to take a circuitous path. This was so evident that Turpin could not help commenting upon it.
Luke evaded the question. “The crag is steep there,” said he; “besides, to tell you the truth, I want to surprise them.”
“Ho, ho!” laughed Dick. “Surprise them, eh? What a pity the birch tree was in the way; you would have done it properly then. Egad, here’s another surprise.”
Dick’s last exclamation was caused by his having suddenly come upon a wide gully in the rock, through which dashed a headlong torrent, crossed by a single plank.
“You must be mad to have taken this road,” cried Turpin, gazing down into the roaring depths in which the waterfall raged, and measuring the distance of the pass with his eye. “So, so, Bess! — Ay, look at it, wench. Curse me, Luke, if I think your horse will do it, and, therefore, turn him loose.”
But Dick might as well have bidden the cataract to flow backwards. Luke struck his heels into his horse’s sides. The steed galloped to the brink, snorted, and refused the leap.
“I told you so — he can’t do it,” said Turpin. “Well, if you are obstinate, a wilful man must have his way. Stand aside, while I try it for you.” Patting Bess, he put her to a gallop. She cleared the gulf bravely, landing her rider safely upon the opposite rock.
“Now then,” cried Turpin, from the other side of the chasm.
Luke again urged his steed. Encouraged by what he had seen, this time the horse sprang across without hesitation. The next instant they were in the valley.
For some time they rode along the banks of the stream in silence. A sound at length caught the quick ears of the highwayman.
“Hist!” cried he; “some one sings. Do you hear it?”
“I do,” replied Luke, the blood rushing to his cheeks.
“And could give a guess at the singer, no doubt,” said Turpin, with a knowing look. “Was it to hear yon woodlark that you nearly broke your own neck, and put mine in jeopardy?”
“Prithee be silent,” whispered Luke.
“I am dumb,” replied Turpin; “I like a sweet voice as well as another.”
Clear as the note of a bird, yet melancholy as the distant dole of a vesper-bell, arose the sound of that sweet voice from the wood. A fragment of a Spanish gipsy song it warbled: Luke knew it well. Thus ran the romance:
LA GITANILLA
By the Guadalquivir,
Ere the sun be flown,
