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.