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I see a column of slow-rising smoke O’ertop the lofty wood, that skirts the wild.

Cowper: The Task.

“The top of the morning to you, gem’men,” said Turpin, as he rode up at an easy canter. “Did you not hear my halloo? I caught a glimpse of you on the hill yonder. I knew you both, two miles off; and so, having a word or two to say to you, Luke Bradley, before I leave this part of the country, I put Bess to it, and she soon brought me within hail. Bless her black skin,” added he, affectionately patting his horse’s neck, “there’s not her match in these parts, or in any other; she wants no coaxing to do her work — no bleeders for her. I should have been up with you before this had I not taken a cross cut to look at poor Ben.

One night, when mounted on my mare.

To Bagshot Heath I did repair,

And saw Will Davies hanging there,

Upon the gibbet bleak and bare,

With a rustified, fustified, mustified air.

Excuse my singing. The sight of a gibbet always puts me in mind of the Golden Farmer. May I ask whither you are bound, comrades?”

“Comrades!” whispered the sexton to Luke; “you see he does not so easily forget his old friends.”

“I have business that will not admit of delay,” rejoined Luke; “and to speak plainly ——”

“You want not my society,” returned Turpin; “I guessed as much. Natural enough! You have got an inkling of your good fortune. You have found out you are a rich man’s heir, not a poor wench’s bastard. No offence; I’m a plain spoken man, as you will find, if you know it not already. I have no objection to your playing these fine tricks on others, though it won’t answer your turn to do so with me.”

“Sir!” exclaimed Luke, sharply.

“Sir to you,” replied Turpin —“Sir Luke — as I suppose you would now choose to be addressed. I am aware of all. A nod is as good as a wink to me. Last night I learned the fact of Sir Piers’s marriage from Lady Rookwood — ay, from her ladyship. You stare — and old Peter, there, opens his ogles now. She let it out by accident; and I am in possession of what can alone substantiate your father’s first marriage, and establish your claims to the property.”

“The devil!” cried the sexton; adding, in a whisper to Luke, “You had better not be precipitate in dropping so obliging an acquaintance.”

“You are jesting,” said Luke to Turpin.

“It is ill jesting before breakfast,” returned Dick: “I am seldom in the mood for a joke so early. What if a certain marriage certificate had fallen into my hand?”

“A marriage certificate!” echoed Luke and the sexton simultaneously.

“The only existing proof of the union of Sir Piers Rookwood with Susan Bradley,” continued Turpin. “What if I had stumbled upon such a document — nay more, if I knew where to direct you to it?”

“Peace!” cried Luke to his tormentor; and then addressing Turpin, “if what you say be true, my quest is at an end. All that I need, you appear to possess. Other proofs are secondary to this. I know with whom I have to deal. What do you demand for that certificate?”

“We will talk about the matter after breakfast,” said Turpin. “I wish to treat with you as friend with friend. Meet me on those terms, and I am your man; reject my offer, and I turn my mare’s head, and ride back to Rookwood. With me now rest all your hopes. I have dealt fairly with you, and I expect to be fairly dealt with in return. It were idle to say, now I have an opportunity, that I should not turn this luck to my account. I were a fool to do otherwise. You cannot expect it. And then I have Rust and Wilder to settle with. Though I have left them behind, they know my destination. We have been old associates. I like your spirit — I care not for your haughtiness; but I will not help you up the ladder to be kicked down myself. Now you understand me. Whither are you bound?”

“To Davenham Priory, the gipsy camp.”

“The gipsies are your friends?”

“They are.”

“I am alone.”

“You are safe.”

“You pledge your word that all shall be on the square. You will not mention to one of that canting crew what I have told you?”

“With one exception, you may rely upon my secrecy.”

“Whom do you except?”

“A woman.”

“Bad! never trust a petticoat.”

“I will answer for her with my life.”

“And for your granddad there?”

“He will answer for himself,” said Peter. “You need not fear treachery in me. Honor among thieves, you know.”

“Or where else should you seek it?” rejoined Turpin; “for it has left all other classes of society. Your highwayman is your only man of honor. I will trust you both; and you shall find you may trust me. After breakfast, as I said before, we will bring the matter to a conclusion. Tip us your daddle, Sir Luke, and I am satisfied. You shall rule in Rookwood, I’ll engage, ere a week be flown; and then —— But so much parleying is dull work; let’s make the best of our way to breakfast.”

And away they cantered.

A narrow bridle-road conducted them singly through the defiles of a thick wood. Their route lay in the shade, and the air felt chilly amidst the trees, the sun not having attained sufficient altitude to penetrate its depths, while overhead all was warmth and light. Quivering on the tops of the timber, the horizontal sunbeams created, in their refraction, brilliant prismatic colorings, and filled the air with motes like golden dust. Our horsemen heeded not the sunshine or the shade. Occupied each with his own train of thought, they silently rode on.

Davenham Wood, through which they urged their course, had, in the olden time, been a forest of some extent. It was then an appendage to the domains of Rookwood, but had passed from the hands of that family to those of a wealthy adjoining landowner and lawyer, Sir Edward Davenham, in the keeping of whose descendants it had ever after continued. A noble wood it was, and numbered many patriarchal trees. Ancient oaks, with broad, gnarled limbs, which the storms of five hundred years had vainly striven to uproot, and which were now sternly decaying; gigantic beech trees, with silvery stems shooting smoothly upwards, sustaining branches of such size, that each, dissevered, would in itself have formed a tree, populous with leaves, and variegated with rich autumnal tints; the sprightly sycamore, the dark chestnut, the weird wych-elm, the majestic elm itself, festooned with ivy, every variety of wood, dark, dense, and intricate, composed the forest through which they rode; and so multitudinous was the timber, so closely planted, so entirely filled up with a thick, matted vegetation, which had been allowed to collect beneath, that little view was afforded, had any been desired by the parties, into the labyrinth of the grove. Tree after tree, clad in the glowing livery of the season, was passed, and as rapidly succeeded by others. Occasionally a bough projected over their path, compelling the riders to incline their heads as they passed; but, heedless of such difficulties, they pressed on. Now the road grew lighter, and they became at once sensible of the genial influence of the sun. The transition was as agreeable as instantaneous. They had opened upon an extensive plantation of full-grown pines, whose tall, branchless stems grew up like a forest of masts, and freely admitted the pleasant sunshine. Beneath those trees, the soil was sandy and destitute of all undergrowth, though covered with brown, hair-like fibres and dry cones, shed by the pines. The agile squirrel, that freest denizen of the grove, starting from the ground as the horsemen galloped on, sprang up the nearest tree, and might be seen angrily gazing at the disturbers of his haunts, beating the branches with his fore feet, in expression of displeasure; the rabbit darted across their path; the jays flew screaming amongst the foliage; the blue cushat, scared at the clatter of the horses’ hoofs, sped on swift wing into quarters secure from their approach; while the parti-colored pies, like curious village gossips, congregated to peer at the strangers, expressing their astonishment by loud and continuous chattering. Though so gentle of ascent as to be almost imperceptible, it was still evident that the path they were pursuing gradually mounted a hill-side; and when at length they reached an opening, the view disclosed the eminence they had insensibly won. Pausing for a moment upon the brow of the hill, Luke pointed to a stream that wound through the valley, and, tracing its course, indicated a particular spot amongst the trees. There was no appearance of a dwelling house — no cottage roof, no white canvas shed, to point out the tents of the wandering tribe whose abode they were seeking. The only circumstance betokening that it had once been the haunt of man were a few gray monastic ruins, scarce distinguishable from the stony barrier by which they were surrounded; and the sole evidence that it was still frequented by human beings was a thin column of pale blue smoke, that arose in curling wreaths from out the brake, the light-colored vapor beautifully contrasting with the green umbrage whence it issued.

“Our destination is yonder,” exclaimed Luke, pointing in the direction of the vapor.

“I am glad to hear it,” cried Turpin, “as well as to perceive there is some one awake. That smoke holds out a prospect of breakfast. No smoke without fire, as old Lady Scanmag said; and I’ll wager a trifle that fire was not lighted for the fayter fellows to count their fingers by. We shall find three sticks, and a black pot with a kid seething in it, I’ll engage. These gipsies have picked out a prettyish spot to quarter in — quite picturesque, as one may say — and but for that tell-tale smoke, which looks for all the world like a Dutch skipper blowing his morning cloud, no one need know of their vicinity. A pretty place, upon my soul.”

The spot, in sooth, merited Turpin’s eulogium. It was a little valley, in the midst of wooded hills, so secluded, that not a single habitation appeared in view. Clothed with timber to the very summits, excepting on the side where the party stood, which verged upon the declivity, these mountainous ridges presented a broken outline of foliage, variegated with tinted masses of bright orange, timber, and deepest green. Four hills hemmed in the valley. Here and there a gray slab of rock might be discerned amongst the wood, and a mountain-ash figured conspicuously upon a jutting crag immediately below them. Deep sunken in the ravine, and concealed in part from view by the wild herbage and dwarf shrubs, ran a range of precipitous rocks, severed, it would seem, by some diluvial convulsion, from the opposite mountain side, as a corresponding rift was there visible, in which the same dip of strata might be observed, together with certain ribbed cavities, matching huge bolts of rock which had once locked these stony walls together. Washing this cliff, swept a clear stream, well known and well regarded, as it waxed in width, by the honest brethren of the angle, who seldom, however, tracked it to its rise amongst these hills. The stream found its way into the valley through a chasm far to the left, and rushed thundering down the mountain side in a boiling cascade. The valley was approached in this direction from Rookwood by an unfrequented carriage-road, which Luke had, from prudential reasons, avoided. All seemed consecrated to silence — to solitude — to the hush of nature; yet this quiet scene was the chosen retreat of lawless depredators, and had erstwhile been the theatre of feudal oppression. We have said that no habitation was visible; that no dwelling tenanted by man could be seen; but following the spur of the furthest mountain hill, some traces of a stone wall might be discovered; and upon a natural platform of rock stood a stern square tower, 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: