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The wolf shall find her grave, and scrape it up; Not to devour the corse, but to discover The horrid murther.

Webster.

“Bravo! capital!” cried Turpin, laughing loud and long as an Olympian deity; “has this simple wench outwitted you all; turned the tables upon the whole gang of plotters, eh? Excellent! ha, ha, ha! The next time you wed, Sir Luke, let me advise you not to choose a wife in the dark. A man should have all his senses about him on these occasions. Make love when the liquor’s in; marry when it’s out, and, above all, with your eyes open. This beats cock-fighting — ha, ha, ha! — you must excuse me; but, upon my soul, I can’t help it.” And his laughter seemed inextinguishable.

“Take your men without,” whispered Alan Rookwood; “keep watch as before, and let the discharge of a pistol bespeak the approach of danger as agreed upon; much yet remains to be done here.”

“How so?” asked Dick; “it seems to me the job’s entirely settled — if not to your satisfaction. I’m always ready to oblige my friend, Sir Luke; but curse me if I’d lend my help to any underhand work. Steer clear of foul play, or Dick Turpin holds no hand with you. As to that poor wench, if you mean her any harm, curse me if I will ——”

“No harm is intended her,” replied Alan. “I applaud your magnanimity,” added he, sarcastically; “such sentiments are, it must be owned, in excellent keeping with your conduct.”

“In keeping or not,” replied Turpin, gravely, “cold-blooded murder is altogether out of my line, and I wash my hands of it. A shot or two in self defence is another matter; and when ——”

“A truce to this,” interrupted Alan; “the girl is safe. Will you mount guard again?”

“If that be the case, certainly,” replied Dick. “I shall be glad to get back to Bess. I couldn’t bring her with me into this black hole. A couple of shots will tell you ’tis Ranulph Rookwood. But mind, no harm to the gipsy girl — to Lady Rookwood, I should say. She’s a jewel, take my word for it, which Sir Luke must be mad to throw away.” And calling his companions, he departed.

Alan Rookwood bent his steps towards the gipsy queen. Dark thoughts gathered quickly o’er his brow. He smiled as he drew nigh to Barbara — a smile it was

That wrinkled up his skin even to the hair.

Barbara looked at him at first with distrust; but as he developed his secret purposes, that smile became reflected upon her own features. Their conference took place apart. We willingly leave them to return to the altar.

Mrs. Mowbray and the priest were still there. Both were occupied in ineffectual endeavors to restore Eleanor to consciousness. She recovered from her swoon; but it was evident her senses still wandered; and vainly did Mrs. Mowbray lavish her tenderest caresses upon her child. Eleanor returned them not.

Luke, meanwhile, had given vent to the wildest fury. He shook away Sybil’s grasp; he dashed her from him; he regarded her with withering glances; he loaded her with reproaches. She bore his violence with meekest submission; she looked imploringly — but she replied not to his taunts. Again she clung to the hem of his garment when cast aside. Luke appeared unmoved; what passed within we pause not to examine. He grew calmer; his calmness was more terrible to Sybil than his previous wrath had been.

“You are my wife,” said he; “what then? By fraud, by stratagem, you have obtained that title, and, perforce, must keep it. But the title only shall you retain. No rights of wife shall ever be yours. It will be in your power to call yourself Lady Rookwood — you will be so in name — in nothing else.”

“I shall not bear it long,” murmured Sybil.

Luke laughed scornfully, “So you said before,” replied he; “and yet I see not why you are likely to abandon it. The event will show. Thus far you have deceived me, and I place no further faith in your assertions. My hand was yours; you refused it. When I would give it to another, you grasp it clandestinely. Am I to believe you now? The wind will change — the vane veer with it.”

“It will not veer from you,” she meekly answered.

“Why did you step between me and my bride?”

“To save her life; to lay down mine for hers.”

“An idle subterfuge. You know well that you run no risk of being called upon to do so. Your life is in no danger. The sacrifice was unnecessary. I could have dispensed with your assistance; my own arm would have sufficed to protect Eleanor.”

“Your single arm would not have prevailed against numbers: they would have killed you likewise.”

“Tush!” said Luke, fiercely. “Not only have you snatched from me my bride, you have robbed me of my fair estates, of all, save of my barren title, and that, even that, you have tarnished.”

“True, true,” sighed Sybil. “I knew not that the lands were hers, else had I never done it.”

“False, false,” cried Luke; “false as the rest. They will be Ranulph’s. She will be Ranulph’s. I shall still be an outcast, while Ranulph will riot in my halls — will press her to his bosom. Cling not to me. Hence! or I will spurn you from me. I am undone, undone by you, accursed one.”

“Oh, curse me not! your words cut deep enough.”

“Would they could kill you,” cried Luke, with savage bitterness. “You have placed a bar between me and my prospects, which nothing can now remove — nothing but — ha!” and his countenance assumed a deadly hue and fearful expression. “By Heaven, you almost rouse the fell spirit which it is said dwells within the breast of my devoted race. I feel as if I could stab thee.”

“No, no!” shrieked Sybil; “for mercy’s sake, for your own sake, do not stab me. It is not too late. I will repair my wrong!”

“Ever deceiving! you would again delude me. You cannot repair it. One way alone remains, and that ——”

“I will pursue,” responded Sybil, sadly, but firmly.

“Never!” cried Luke; “you shall not. Ha!” exclaimed he, as he found his arms suddenly pinioned behind him. “What new treachery is this? By whose orders am I thus fettered?”

“By mine,” said Alan Rookwood, stepping forward.

“By yours?” echoed Luke. “And wherefore? Release me.”

“Be patient,” replied Alan. “You will hear all anon. In the meantime you must be content to remain my prisoner. Quit not your hold,” added he, addressing the gipsies, who kept charge of Luke.

“Their lives shall answer for their obedience,” said Barbara.

Upon a further signal from Alan, Eleanor was torn from her mother’s arms, and a bandage passed so suddenly over Mrs. Mowbray’s face, that, before she could raise a cry of alarm, all possibility of utterance was effectually prevented. The priest alone was left at liberty.

Barbara snatched the hand of Eleanor. She dragged her to Sybil.

“You are Lady Rookwood,” whispered she; “but she has your domains. I give her to you.”

“She is the only bar between thy husband and his rights,” whispered Alan Rookwood, in a tone of horrible irony; “it is not too late to repair your wrong.”

“Away, tempter!” cried Sybil, horror-stricken. “I know you well. Yet,” continued she, in an altered tone, “I will risk all for him. I have done him wrong. One mode of atonement remains; and, horrible though it be, I will embrace it. Let me not pause. Give her to me.” And she seized upon the unresisting hand of Eleanor.

“Do you need my aid?” asked Barbara.

“No,” replied Sybil; “let none approach us. A clapping of hands will let you know when all is over.” And she dragged her passive victim deeper into the vault.

“Sybil, Sybil!” cried Luke, struggling with frantic violence to liberate himself; “hurt her not. I was rash. I was mad. I am calmer now. She hears me not — she will not turn. God of heaven! she will murder her. It will be done while I speak. I am the cause of all. Release me, villains! Would that I had died ere I had seen this day.”

At a signal from the sexton, Luke also was blindfolded. He ceased to struggle. But his laboring breast told of the strife within.

“Miscreants!” exclaimed the priest, who had hitherto witnessed the proceedings in horror. “Why do not these rocks fall in, and crush you and your iniquities? Save her! oh, save her! Have you no pity for the innocent?”

“Such pity have we,” replied Alan Rookwood, “as you showed my daughter. She was as innocent as Eleanor Mowbray, and yet you did not pity her.”

“Heaven is my witness,” exclaimed the priest, “that I never injured her.”

“Take not Heaven’s name in vain,” cried Alan. “Who stood by while it was doing? Whose firmer hand lent aid to the murderer’s trembling efforts? Whose pressure stifled her thrilling screams, and choked her cries for mercy? Yours — yours; and now you prate to me of pity — you, the slayer of the sleeping and the innocent!”

“’Tis false!” exclaimed the priest, in extremity of terror.

“False!” echoed Alan. “I had Sir Piers’s own confession. He told me all. You had designs upon Sir Piers, which his wife opposed; you hated her; you were in the confidence of both — how did you keep that confidence? He told me how, by awakening a spirit of jealousy and pride, that o’ermastered all his better feelings. False! He told me of your hellish machinations; your Jesuitical plots; your schemes. He was too weak, too feeble an instrument to serve you. You left him, but not before she had left him. False! ha, I have that shall instantly convict you. The corpse is here, within this cell. Who brought it hither?”

The priest was silent: he seemed confounded by Alan’s violence.

“I will answer that question,” said Barbara. “It was brought hither by that false priest. His agent, Balthazar, has betrayed him. It was brought hither to prevent the discovery of Sir Luke Rookwood’s legitimacy. He meant to make his own terms about it. It has come hither to proclaim his guilt — to be a fearful witness against him.” Then, turning to Checkley, she added, “You have called Heaven to witness your innocence: you shall attest it by oath upon that body; and should aught indicate your guilt, I will hang you as I would a dog, and clear off one long score with justice. Do you shrink from this?”

“No,” replied the priest, in a voice hollow and broken. “Bring me to the body.”

“Seize each an arm,” said Barbara, addressing Zoroaster and the knight of Malta, “and lead him to the corse.”

“I will administer the oath,” said Alan Rookwood, sternly.

“No, not you,” stammered the priest.

“And wherefore not?” asked Alan. “If you are innocent, you need fear nothing from her.”

“I fear nothing from the dead,” replied Checkley; “lead on.”

We will now return to Sybil. She was alone with her victim. They were near the mouth of the cell which had been Prior Cyprian’s flinty dormitory, and were almost involved in darkness. A broken stream of light glanced through the pillars. Eleanor had not spoken. She suffered herself to be dragged thither without resistance, scarcely conscious, it would seem, of her danger. Sybil gazed upon her for some minutes with sorrow and surprise. “She comprehends not her perilous situation,” murmured Sybil. “She knows not that she stands upon the brink of the grave. Oh! would that she could pray. Shall I, her murderess, pray for her? My prayers would not be heard. And yet, to kill her unshriven will be a twofold crime. Let me not look on her. My hand trembles. I can scarce grasp the dagger. Let me think on all he has said. I have wronged him. I am his bane, his curse! I have robbed him of all: there is but one remedy —’tis this! — Oh, God! she recovers. I cannot do it now.”

It was a fearful moment for Eleanor’s revival, when the bright steel flashed before her eyes. Terror at once restored her. She cast herself at Sybil’s feet.

“Spare, spare me!” cried she. “Oh! what a dream I have had. And to waken thus, with the dagger’s point at my breast. You will not kill me — you, gentle maid, who promised to preserve me. Ah, no, I am sure you will not.”

“Appeal no more to me,” said Sybil, fiercely. “Make your peace with Heaven. Your minutes are numbered.”

“I cannot pray,” said Eleanor, “while you are near me.”

“Will you pray if I retire and leave you?”

“No, no. I dare not — cannot,” shrieked Eleanor, in extremity of terror. “Oh! do not leave me, or let me go.”

“If you stir,” said Sybil, “I stab you to the heart.”

“I will not stir. I will kneel here forever. Stab me as I kneel — as I pray to you. You cannot kill me while I cling to you thus — while I kiss your hands — while I bedew them with my tears. Those tears will not sully them like my blood.”

“Maiden,” said Sybil, endeavoring to withdraw her hand, “let go your hold — your sand is run.”

“Mercy!”

“It is in vain. Close your eyes.”

“No, I will fix them on you thus — you cannot strike then. I will cling to you — embrace you. Your nature is not cruel — your soul is full of pity. It melts — those tears — you will be merciful. You cannot deliberately kill me.”

“I cannot — I cannot!” said Sybil, with a passionate outburst of grief. “Take your life on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“That you wed Sir Luke Rookwood.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Eleanor, “all rushes back upon me at that name; the whole of that fearful scene passes in review before me.”

“Do you reject my proposal?”

“I dare not.”

“I must have your oath. Swear by every hope of eternity that you will wed none other than him.”

“By every hope, I swear it.”

“Handassah, you will bear this maiden’s oath in mind, and witness its fulfilment.”

“I will,” replied the gipsy girl, stepping forward from a recess, in which she had hitherto remained unnoticed.

“Enough. I am satisfied. Tarry with me. Stir not — scream not, whatever you may see or hear. Your life depends upon your firmness. When I am no more ——”

“No more?” echoed Eleanor, in horror.

“Be calm,” said Sybil. “When I am dead, clap your hands together. They will come to seek you — they will find me in your stead. Then rush to him — to Sir Luke Rookwood. He will protect you. Say to him hereafter that I died for the wrong I did him — that I died, and blessed him.”

“Can you not live, and save me?” sobbed Eleanor.

“Ask it not. While I live, your life is in danger. When I am gone, none will seek to harm you. Fare you well! Remember your oath, and you, too, remember it, Handassah. Remember also — ha! that groan!”

All started, as a deep groan knelled in their ears.

“Whence comes that sound?” cried Sybil. “Hist! — a voice?”

“It is that of the priest,” cried Eleanor. “Hark! he groans. They have murdered him! Kind Heaven, receive his soul!”

“Pray for me,” cried Sybil: “pray fervently; avert your face; down on your knees — down — down! Farewell, Handassah!” And breaking from them, she rushed into the darkest recesses of the vault.

We must now quit this painful scene for another scarcely less painful, and return to the unfortunate priest.

Checkley had been brought before the body of Susan Rookwood. Even in the gloom, the shimmer of the white cereclothes, and the pallid features of the corpse, were ghastly enough. The torchlight made them terrible.

“Kneel!” said Alan Rookwood. The priest complied. Alan knelt beside him.

“Do you know these features?” demanded he. “Regard them well. Fix your eyes full upon them. Do you know them?”

“I do.”

“Place your hand upon her breast. Does not the flesh creep and shrink beneath your touch? Now raise your hand — make the cross of your faith upon her bosom. By that faith you swear you are innocent.”

“I do,” returned the priest; “are you now satisfied?”

“No,” replied Alan. “Let the torch be removed. Your innocence must be more deeply attested,” continued he, as the light was withdrawn. “This proof will not fail. Entwine your fingers round her throat.”

“Have I not done enough?”

“Your hesitation proves your guilt,” said Alan.

“That proof is wanting, then?” returned the priest; “my hand is upon her throat — what more?”

“As you hope for mercy in your hour of need, swear that you never conspired against her life, or refused her mercy.”

“I swear it.”

“May the dead convict you of perjury if you have forsworn yourself,” said Alan; “you are free. Take away your hand!”

“Ha! what is this?” exclaimed the priest. “You have put some jugglery upon me. I cannot withdraw my hand. It sticks to her throat, as though ’twere glued by blood. Tear me away. I have not force enough to liberate myself. Why do you grin at me? The corpse grins likewise. It is jugglery. I am innocent. You would take away my life. Tear me away, I say: the veins rise; they blacken; they are filling with new blood. I feel them swell; they coil like living things around my fingers. She is alive.”

“And you are innocent?”

“I am — I am. Let not my ravings convict me. For Jesu’s sake, release me.”

“Blaspheme not, but arise. I hold you not.”

“You do,” groaned the priest. “Your grasp tightens round my throat; your hard and skinny fingers are there — I strangle — help!”

“Your own fears strangle you. My hand is at my side,” returned Alan calmly.

“Villain, you lie. Your grasp is like a vice. The strength of a thousand devils is in your hand. Will none lend help? I never pressed so hard. Your daughter never suffered this torture — never — never. I choke — choke — oh!” And the priest rolled heavily backwards.

There was a deep groan; a convulsive rattle in the throat; and all was still.

“He is dead — strangled,” cried several voices, holding down the torch. The face of the priest was blackened and contorted; his eyeballs protruded from their sockets; his tongue was nearly bitten through in the desperate efforts he had made to release himself from Alan’s gripe; his hair was erect with horror. It was a ghastly sight.

A murmur arose amongst the gipsies. Barbara deemed it prudent to appease them.

“He was guilty,” cried she. “He was the murderer of Susan Rookwood.”

“And I, her father, have avenged her,” said Alan, sternly.

The dreadful silence that followed this speech was broken by the report of a pistol. The sound, though startling, was felt almost as a relief.

“We are beset,” cried Alan. “Some of you fly to reconnoitre.”

“To your posts,” cried Barbara.

Several of the crew flocked to the entrance.

“Unbind the prisoners,” shouted Alan.

Mrs. Mowbray and Luke were accordingly set free.

Two almost simultaneous reports of a pistol were now heard.

“’Tis Ranulph Rookwood,” said Alan; “that was the preconcerted signal.”

“Ranulph Rookwood,” echoed Eleanor, who caught the exclamation: “he comes to save me.”

“Remember your oath,” gasped a dying voice. “He is no longer yours.”

“Alas! alas!” sobbed Eleanor, tremblingly.

A moment afterwards a faint clapping of hands reached the ears of Barbara.

“All is over,” muttered she.

“Ha!” exclaimed Alan Rookwood, with a frightful look. “Is it done?”

Barbara motioned him towards the further end of the vault.