cobwebs, and clearly had not been opened for many years. I believed that I could raise it, and reach the roof; had there been more furniture within the room, I might have climbed to it; the bedstead would not reach half-way, and by its rottenness would crash under my weight. p. 92 But the inmates of the Stone House were now astir. I heard the working and splash of a pump, the sound of an axe, the clatter of heavy boots on the cobbles. I heard muttering and movement in the room below me. Hungry and impatient, and less afraid now that the day was come, I waited until, at last, Mother Mag and a young man climbed the stairs and entered the room. The fellow seemed of gipsy blood,—black, towsled hair poking about his ears, his eyes dark and furtive, his skin copper-red,—as ill-looking a rogue as Martin. He wore leather breeches, leggings, and hobnails, a fustian jacket over a ragged shirt; he had silver rings in his ears. He was clearly of a lithe strength; he carried a blackthorn, and he eyed me with a surly and vengeful look, as if he would use his cudgel on me for any pretext I might afford him. Mother Mag, poking her skinny fingers at me, p. 93croaked, “You can come downstairs, young master. You can wash you at the pump, if you will wash. When you’ve fed, you’ll be free to walk the court, if you will. But don’t try to run away! Don’t try,”—and laughed shrilly, and pointed at the young man. p. 93 He grinned at me, flourished his blackthorn suggestively, and gripped my wrist as if to demonstrate his strength; his fingers clasped on my flesh like a steel trap. But he said not a word, as, nodding, I followed the woman down the stairs; he came after, pressing my heels. As we reached the hall, Martin appeared in the doorway of the long room; seeing him, yellow-skinned and malevolent, I detected still a resemblance in build and feature to the gipsy lad; and believed them kinsmen, though Martin aped the appearance of a gentleman, and the rustic was rough and ragged, and reeked of the stable. Martin gave me no greeting; I followed Mother Mag through the hall into a great kitchen, damp, close, and cheerless, but for the peat smouldering on the hearth. Rashers were frying in a pan; provision of bacon, smoked fish and ropes of onions hung from the sooty rafters. “Would ye wash?” Mother Mag asked, leering at me. “To be sure, I’d wash, thank ’ee,” said I.
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