“Long Robin—­who is he?” questioned Cuthbert eagerly.

“He is Miriam’s husband—­my father,” answered Joanna, a strange shadow passing across her face.

“And does he yet live?”

The gipsy paused and hesitated.

“Ask any other member of the tribe, and they will tell thee that he does; but for me, I do not know, I cannot tell.”

Cuthbert looked at her in amaze.

“Not know, and he thy father!”

A curious smile crossed her face.

“We think little of such ties amongst the gipsy folk.  The tie betwixt us all is stronger than the simple one of blood.  We are all of one race—­of one stock; that is enough for us.  The lesser is swallowed up of the greater.”

“But thy mother lives; she must know?”

Joanna’s dark eyes glowed strangely.

“Ay, she verily must know; but will she tell what she knows?  If it be as I suspect, she must be in the plot.”

“What plot?” asked Cuthbert, beginning to feel bewildered with all this intricacy of mystery.

“Thou hadst better hear my story to the end,” answered Joanna with a slight smile; “then thou wilt better comprehend.  Listen to me, and ask thy questions when I have done.”

“Speak on, then,” said Cuthbert, glad enough to hold his peace; “I will give good heed to all thou sayest.”

And Joanna continued her tale.

“Sir Richard, wedded to Isabel Wyvern, might no longer be the mark for the gipsy’s curse.  Esther was then queen of the tribe, and with her, love for the Wyverns far outweighed hatred towards the Trevlyns.  She gave it out that no hair of his head should be hurt; the vengeance must wait.  If it were to be carried out, it must be upon another generation.  So said the queen, and none dared openly lift the voice against her; but there were angry mutterings and murmurings in the tribe, and none were more wroth at this decree than Miriam and Long Robin.”

“Her sister and that sister’s husband.”

“Ay.  Long Robin was the head of the tribe, and loved not to yield to the sway of a woman; but amongst us there has always been a queen, and he was powerless to hinder the rest from owning Esther’s rule.  But he and Miriam withdrew in wrathful indignation for a time from the rest of the tribe, and brooded over schemes of vengeance, and delighted themselves in every misfortune that befell the house of Trevlyn.  It was whispered by many that these two had a hand in the death of more than one fair child.  If their beasts sickened, or any mischance happened, men laid it to the door of Miriam and Long Robin.  But for mine own part, I trow that they had little to do with any of these matters.  Trouble is the lot of many born into this world.  The Trevlyns had no more than their fair share of troubles that I can see.  One fine stalwart son grew up to manhood, and in time he too wedded into the house of Wyvern—­married thy grandam the fair Mistress Gertrude, whose eyes thou hast, albeit in many points a Trevlyn.”