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Well, go thy ways, old Nick Machiavel, there will never be the peer of thee for wholesome policy and good counsel: thou took’st pains to chalk men out the dark paths and hidden plots of murther and deceit, and no man has the grace to follow thee. The age is unthankful, thy principles are quite forsaken, and worn out of memory.

Shakerley Marmion’s Antiquary.

Sybil’s sudden entrance filled the group that surrounded Miss Mowbray with new dismay. But she saw them not. Her soul seemed riveted by Eleanor, towards whom she rushed; and while her eye wandered over her beauty, she raised the braided hair from her brow, revealing the clear, polished forehead. Wonder, awe, devotion, pity, usurped the place of hatred. The fierce expression that had lit up her dark orbs was succeeded by tender commiseration. She looked an imploring appeal at Barbara.

“Ay, ay,” returned the old gipsy, extending at the same time the phial; “I understand. Here is that will bring the blood once more into her pallid cheeks, and kindle the fire within her eyes. Give her of this.”

The effect of the potion was almost instantaneous, amply attesting Barbara’s skill in its concoction. Stifled respiration first proclaimed Eleanor’s recovery. She opened her large and languid eyes; her bosom heaved almost to bursting; her pulses throbbed quickly and feverishly; and as the stimulant operated, the wild lustre of excitement blazed in her eyes.

Sybil took her hand to chafe it. The eyes of the two maidens met. They gazed upon each other steadfastly and in silence. Eleanor knew not whom she regarded, but she could not mistake that look of sympathy; she could not mistake the tremulous pressure of her hand; she felt the silent trickling tears. She returned the sympathizing glance, and gazed with equal wonder upon the ministering fairy, for such she almost seemed, that knelt before her. As her looks wandered from the kindly glance of Sybil to the withered and inauspicious aspect of the gipsy queen, and shifted thence to the dusky figures of her attendants, filled with renewed apprehension, she exclaimed, “Who are these, and where am I?”

“You are in safety,” replied Luke. “This is the ruined priory of St. Francis; and those strange personages are a horde of gipsies. You need fear no injury from them.”

“My deliverer!” murmured Eleanor; when all at once the recollection that he had avowed himself a Rookwood, and the elder brother of Ranulph, flashed across her memory. “Gipsies! did you not say these people were gipsies? Your own attire is the same as theirs. You are not, cannot be, the brother of Ranulph.”

“I do not boast the same mother,” returned Luke, proudly, “but my father was Sir Piers Rookwood, and I am his elder born.”

He turned away. Dark thoughts swept across his brain. Maddened by the beauty of Eleanor, stung by her slights, and insensible to the silent agony of Sybil, who sought in vain to catch his eye, he thought of nothing but of revenge, and the accomplishment of his purposes. All within was a wild and fearful turmoil. His better principles were stifled by the promptings of evil. “Methinks,” cried he, half aloud, “if the Tempter were near to offer the maiden to me, even at the peril of my soul’s welfare, I could not resist it.”

The Tempter was at hand. He is seldom absent on occasions like the present. The sexton stood beside his grandson. Luke started. He eyed Peter from head to foot, almost expecting to find the cloven foot, supposed to be proper to the fiend. Peter grinned in ghastly derision.

“Soh! you would summon hell to your aid; and lo! the devil is at your elbow. Well, she is yours.”

“Make good your words,” cried Luke, impatiently.

“Softly — softly,” returned Peter. “Moderate yourself, and your wishes shall be accomplished. Your own desires chime with those of others; nay, with those of Barbara. She would wed you to Miss Mowbray. You stare. But it is so. This is a cover for some deeper plot; no matter. It shall go hard, despite her cunning, if I foil her not at her own weapons. There is more mischief in that old woman’s brain than was ever hatched within the crocodile’s egg; yet she shall find her match. Do not thwart her; leave all to me. She is about it now,” added he, noticing Barbara and Mrs. Mowbray in conference together. “Be patient — I will watch her.” And he quitted his grandson for the purpose of scanning more closely the manœuvres of the old gipsy.

Barbara, meanwhile, had not remained inactive.

“You need fear no relapse in your daughter; I will answer for that,” said the old gipsy to Mrs. Mowbray; “Sybil will tend her. Quit not the maiden’s side,” continued she, addressing her grandchild, adding, in a whisper, “Be cautious — alarm her not — mine eye will be upon you — drop not a word.”

So saying, she shuffled to a little distance with Mrs. Mowbray, keeping Sybil in view, and watching every motion, as the panther watches the gambols of a fawn.

“Know you who speaks to you?” said the old crone, in the peculiar low and confidential tone assumed by her tribe to strangers. “Have you forgotten the name of Barbara Lovel?”

“I have no distinct remembrance of it,” returned Mrs. Mowbray.

“Think again,” said Barbara; “and though years are flown, you may perchance recall the black gipsy woman, who, when you were surrounded with gay gallants, with dancing plumes, perused your palm, and whispered in your ear the favored suitor’s name. Bide with me a moment, madam,” said Barbara, seeing that Mrs. Mowbray shrank from the recollection thus conjured up; “I am old — very old; I have survived the shows of flattery, and being vested with a power over my people, am apt, perchance, to take too much upon myself with others.” The old gipsy paused here, and then, assuming a more familiar tone, exclaimed, “The estates of Rookwood are ample ——”

“Woman, what mean you?”

“They should have been yours, lady, and would have been, but for that marriage. You would have beseemed them bravely. Sir Reginald was wilful, and erased the daughter’s name to substitute that of his son. Pity it is that so fair a creature as Miss Mowbray should lack the dower her beauty and her birth entitle her to expect. Pity that Ranulph Rookwood should lose his title, at the moment when he deemed it was dropping into his possession. Pity that those broad lands should pass away from you and your children, as they will do, if Ranulph and Eleanor are united.”

“They never shall be united,” replied Mrs. Mowbray, hastily.

“’Twere indeed to wed your child to beggary,” said Barbara.

Mrs. Mowbray sighed deeply.

“There is a way,” continued the old crone, in a deep whisper, “by which the estates might still be hers and yours.”

“Indeed!” said Mrs. Mowbray, eagerly.

“Sir Piers Rookwood had two sons.”

“Ha!”

“The elder is here.”

“Luke — Sir Luke. He brought us hither.”

“He loves your daughter. I saw his gaze of passion just now. I am old now, but I have some skill in lovers’ glances. Why not wed her to him? I read hands — read hearts, you know. They were born for each other. Now, madam, do you understand me?”

“But,” returned Mrs. Mowbray, with hesitation, “though I might wish for — though I might sanction this, Eleanor is betrothed to Ranulph — she loves him.”

“Think not of her, if you are satisfied. She cannot judge so well for herself as you can for her. She is a child, and knows not what she loves. Her affection will soon be Luke’s. He is a noble youth — the image of his grandfather, your father, Sir Reginald; and if your daughter be betrothed to any one, ’twas to the heir of Rookwood. That was an essential part of the contract. Why should the marriage not take place at once, and here?”

“Here! How were that possible?”

“You are within sacred walls. I will take you where an altar stands. There is no lack of holy priest to join their hands together. Your companion, Father Ambrose, as you call him, will do the office fittingly. He has essayed his clerkly skill already on others of your house.”

“To what do you allude, mysterious woman?” asked Mrs. Mowbray, with anxiety.

“To Sir Piers and Susan Bradley,” returned Barbara. “That priest united them.”

“Indeed! He never told me this.”

“He dared not do so; he had an oath which bound him to concealment. The time is coming when greater mysteries will be revealed.”

“’Tis strange I should not have heard of this before,” said Mrs. Mowbray, musingly; “and yet I might have guessed as much from his obscure hints respecting Ranulph. I see it all now. I see the gulf into which I might have been plunged; but I am warned in time. Father Ambrose,” continued she, to the priest, who was pacing the chamber at some little distance from them, “is it true that my brother was wedded by you to Susan Bradley?”

Ere the priest could reply the sexton presented himself.

“Ha, the very father of the girl!” said Mrs. Mowbray, “whom I met within our family vault, and who was so strangely moved when I spoke to him of Alan Rookwood. Is he here likewise?”

“Alan Rookwood!” echoed Barbara, upon whom a light seemed suddenly to break; “ha! what said he of him?”

“Ill-boding raven,” interposed Peter, fiercely, “be content with what thou knowest of the living, and trouble not the repose of the dead. Let them rest in their infamy.”

“The dead!” echoed Barbara, with a chuckling laugh; “ha! ha! he is dead, then; and what became of his fair wife — his brother’s minion? ’Twas a foul deed, I grant, and yet there was expiation. Blood flowed — blood ——”

“Silence, thou night hag!” thundered Peter, “or I will have thee burned at the stake for the sorcery thou practisest. Beware,” added he, in a deep tone —“I am thy friend.”

Barbara’s withered countenance exhibited for an instant the deepest indignation at the sexton’s threat. The malediction trembled on her tongue; she raised her staff to smite him, but she checked the action. In the same tone, and with a sharp, suspicious look, she replied, “My friend, sayest thou? See that it prove so, or beware of me.”

And, with a malignant scowl, the gipsy queen slowly shuffled towards her satellites, who were stationed at the door.