'
'I knowed the cuss 'ud ha' to ha' its way in the blood, like the bite
of a sap' [snake], she murmured to herself. 'And yit the dukkeripen
on Snowdon said, clear and plain enough, as they'd surely marry at
last. What's become o' the stolen trushul, brother--the cross?' she
inquired aloud. 'That trushul will ha' to be given to the dead man
agin, an' it'll ha' to be given back by his chavo [child] as swore to
keep watch over it. But what's it all to me?' she said in a tone of
suppressed anger that startled me. 'I ain't a Gorgie,'
'But, Sinfi, the cross cannot be buried again. The reason I have not
replaced it in the tomb,--the reason I never will replace it
there,--is that the people along the coast know now of the existence
of the jewel, and know also of my father's wishes. If it was unsafe
in the tomb when only Winnie's father knew of it, it would be a
thousandfold more unsafe now.'
'P'raps that's all the better for her an' you: the new thief takes
the cuss.'
'This is all folly,' I replied, with the anger of one struggling
against an unwelcome half-belief that refuses to be dismissed.
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