“We rob not the poor; we only rob the rich—­those arrogant, purse-proud rogues who batten and fatten on what they wring from the poor,” answered, in quick, scornful accents, the man who appeared to be the leader of this little band.  “On them we have scant pity.  They have but stolen, in cunning though lawful fashion, what we wrest from them, lawlessly it may be, yet with as good a right in the sight of the free heavens as any they practise.  But we filch not gold nor goods from the poor, the thrifty, the sons of toil; nay, there be times when we restore to these what has been drained from them by injustice and tyranny.  We be not the common freebooters of the road, who set on all alike, and take human life for pure love of killing.  We have our own laws, our own ways, our own code of right and wrong; and we recruit our ranks from bold lads like you, upon whom fortune has not smiled, and who come to us to see if we can help them to better things.”

Cuthbert was greatly interested in this adventure.  He looked into the dark, handsome face of the man who rode beside him, and wondered if some gipsy blood might not run in his veins.  The gipsy people of whom Kate had spoken were well known in all this region, and despite the roving life they led, appeared to be rooted to a certain extent to this wild and wooded tract.  He had seen dark faces like this before in the woods; he had often heard stories of the doings of the gipsies around.  Before, he had not thought much of this; but now, his interest was keenly excited, and he was delighted to have this opportunity of studying them at close quarters.

“Where are we going, Tyrrel?” asked one of the followers.  “It is a bitter cold night, now the wind has shifted, and we are far enough away from Dead Man’s Hole.”

“I am not bound for Dead Man’s Hole.  We will to the ruined mill, and ask Miriam to give us shelter for the night.  We have ridden far, and our steeds are weary.  I trow she will give us a welcome.”

This proposition seemed to give general satisfaction.  The men plodded on after their leader, who kept Cuthbert close beside him, and they all moved across the heath in an irregular fashion, following some path known only to themselves, until they reached the wooded track to the left, and plunged into the brushwood again, picking their way carefully as they went, and all the while descending lower and lower into the hollow, till the rush of water became more and more distinctly audible, and Cuthbert knew by the sound that they must be approaching a waterfall of some kind.

One of the men had ridden forward to give notice of their approach, and soon in the flickering moonlight the gray walls of an ancient mill, now greatly fallen to decay, became visible to the travellers’ eyes.  From the open door streamed out a flood of ruddy light, cheering indeed to cold and weary men; whilst framed in this ruddy glow was a tall and picturesque figure—­the figure of an old woman, a scarlet kerchief tied over her white hair, whilst her dress displayed that picturesque medley of colours that has always been the prevailing characteristic of the gipsy race.