She rode a fine sorrel, with the easy seat of a skilled
horsewoman. She was trimly clad in a green riding-coat, and over the
lace collar of it her hair fell in dark, clustering curls. Her face was
grave, like a determined child's; but the winds of the morning had
whipped it to a rosy colour, so that into that clan of tatterdemalions
she rode like Proserpine descending among the gloomy Shades. In her
hand she carried a light riding-whip.
A scream from the women brought Muckle John out of his rhapsodies. He
stared blankly at the slim girl who confronted him with hand on hip.
"What seekest thou here, thou shameless woman?" he roared.
"I am come," said she, "for my tirewoman, Janet Somerville, who left me
three days back without a reason. Word was brought me that she had
joined a mad company called the Sweet-Singers, that lay at the
Cauldstaneslap. Janet's a silly body, but she means no ill, and her
mother is demented at the loss of her. So I have come for Janet."
Her cool eyes ran over the assembly till they lighted on the one I had
already noted as more decent-like than the rest. At the sight of the
girl the woman bobbed a curtsy.
"Come out of it, silly Janet," said she on the horse; "you'll never
make a Sweet-Singer, for there's not a notion of a tune in your head.
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