'Winifred,' I cried, 'it's Henry.'
'I thought as much.' said the voice of the Gypsy girl I had met at
the wayside inn, and she seized me by the throat with a fearful grip.
'You've been to the cottage and skeared her away, and now she's seed
you there she'll never come back; she'll wander about the hills till
she drops down dead, or falls over the brinks.'
'O God!' I cried, as I struggled away from her. 'Winifred! Winifred!
There was silence between us then.
'You seem mighty fond on her, young man,' said the Gypsy at length,
in a softened voice, 'and you don't strike out at me for grabbin'
your throat.'
'Winifred! Winifred!' I said, as I thought of her on the hills on a
night like this.
'You seem mighty fond on her, young man,' repeated the girl's voice
in the darkness.
But I could afford no words for her, so cruelly was misery lacerating
me.
'Reia,' said the Gypsy, 'did I hurt your throat just now? I hope I
didn't; but you see she was the only one of 'em ever I liked, Gorgio
or Gorgie, 'cept Mrs. Davies, lad or wench.
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