 Chapter 9, Book 3 of Rookwood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Paul Curran. Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth. Book 3, Chapter 9, The Filterer. Thou hast practised on her with foul charms, abused her delicate youth with drugs and minerals. Shakespeare, Othello. To return to Eleanor Mowbray, in a state of mind bordering upon distraction, she rushed to her mother and, flinging her arms wildly around her neck, be sought to protect her. Mrs. Mowbray gazed anxiously upon the altered countenance of her daughter, but a few moments relieved her from much of her uneasiness. The expression of pain gradually subsided, and the look of fecuity was succeeded by one of frenzied excitement. A film had, for an instant or two, dimmed her eyes. They now gleamed with unnatural luster. She smiled. The smile was singular. It was not the playful, pleasurable lighting up at the face that it used to be, but it was a smile, and the mother's heart was satisfied. Mrs. Mowbray knew not to what circumstance she could attribute this wondrous change. She looked at the priest. He was more apt in divining the probable cause of the sudden alteration in Eleanor's manner. She has swallowed a love powder, said he, approaching Mrs. Mowbray and speaking in a whisper. I have heard of such abominable mixtures. Indeed, the Holy Saint Jerome himself relates an instance of similar sorcery in his life of hilarious, and these people are said to compound them. It may be so, replied Mrs. Mowbray in the same tone. I think that the peculiar softness in the eye is more than natural. I will at least hazard an experiment to attest the truth or fallacy of my supposition, returned the father. Do you see your destined bridegroom yonder? Continued he, addressing Eleanor. She followed with her eyes in the direction which Father Ambrose pointed. She beheld Luke. We know not how to describe the sensations which now possessed her. She thought not of Randolph, or, if she did, it was with vague indifference. Wrapped in a kind of mental trance, she yielded to the pleasurable impulse that directed her unsettled fancies towards Luke. For some moments she did not take her eyes from him. The priest at Mrs. Mowbray watched her in silence. Nothing passed between the party till Luke joined them. Eleanor continued gazing at him, and the seeming tenderness of her glance emboldened Luke to advance towards her. The soft fire that dwelt in those orbs was, however, cold as the shining wing of the luciola. Luke approached her. He took her hand. She withdrew it not. He kissed it. Still she withdrew it not, but gazed at him with gently glimmering eyes. My daughter is yours, Sir Luke Rookwood, exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray. What says the maid herself? asked Luke. Eleanor answered not. Her eyes were still fixed upon him. She will not refuse me her hand, said Luke. The victim resisted not. To the subterranean sign, cried Barbara, and she gave the pre-conserted signal to the band. The signal was repeated by the gypsy crew. We may here casually note that the crew had been by no means uninterested or silent spectators of passing events, but had, on the contrary, indulged themselves in a variety of conjectures as to their probable issue. Several bets were pending as to whether it would be a match or not, after all. Zoroasta took long odds that the match was off, offering a bean to half a quid. In other words, a guinea to half a guinea, that Sibyl would be the bride. His offer was taken at once by Jerry Juniper and backed by the Knight of Malta. Ah, here's the signal, cried the Knight. I'll trouble you for the bean. And I, said Jerry Juniper, for another. See him fairly spliced first, replied the Magus. That's what I betted. Well, well, a few minutes will settle that, compiles to the autumn ken, of ay, mind and obey orders. Ay, ay, answered the crew. Here's a torch for the altar of Hyman, said the Knight, flashing his torch in the eyes of the Pachico as he passed him. For the altar of Hyman, you might say, returned Balthazar, succantly. It's well if some of us don't swing for it. You don't say, rejoined the perplexed Magus. Swing? Ay, God, I fear it's a ticklish business, but there's no fighting shy I fear with Barbara present. And then there's that infernal autumn baller. It will be so cursively regular. If you had done the job, Balti, it would not have signified a brass fadden. Luckily, there will be no witnesses to snitch upon us. There will be no one in the vault besides ourselves. There will be a silent and a solemn witness, returned Balthazar, and one whom you expect not. Eh, what's that you say, a spy? But the Pachico was gone. Make way there, make way, pals, for the bride and bridegroom, cried the Knight of Malta, drawing Excalibur and preparing to lead the way to the vault. The train began to move. Eleanor leaned upon the arm of her mother, beside them stalked Barbara with an aspect of triumph. Luke followed with the priest. One by one the assemblage quitted the apartment. The sexton alone lingered. The moment is at hand, said he musingly, when all shall be consummated. A few steps brought him into the court. The crowd was there still. A brief delay had taken place. The Knight of Malta then entered the mouth of the vault. He held his torch so as to reveal a broken flight of steps, conducting it would seem to regions of perpetual night. So thought Eleanor as she shudderingly gazed into the abyss. She hesitated. She trembled. She refused. But her mother's entreaties and Barbara's threatening looks induced in the end reluctant compliance. At length the place was empty. Peter was about to follow when the sound of a horse's hoofs broke upon his ear. He tarried for an instant, and the mounted figure of the highwayman burst within the limits of the court. Ha-ha, my old earthworm! cried Dick. My nester of the churchyard alone! Where the devil are all the folks gone? Where's Salook and his newfound cousin, eh? Peter hastily explained. A wedding on the ground famous! The thing of all others I should like to see. I'll hang best to this ivy-ton and grub my way with you, did the old mole. You must stay here and keep guard, returned Peter. May I be hanged if I do? When such fun is going on. Hanged in all probability you will be, returned Peter. But I should not, where I you, desire to anticipate my destiny. Stay here you must and shall. That's peremptory. You will be the gainer by it. Salook will reward you nobly. I will answer for him. You can serve him most effectually. Ran off Rookwood and made your mobreaer expected here. The devil they are. But how or why? I have not time to explain. In case of a surprise discharge your pistol, they must not enter the vault. Have you a whistle? For you must play a double part, and we may need your assistance below. Salook may command me. Here's a pipe of shrill as the devil's own cat-call. If it will summon you to our assistance below, it is all I need. May we rely on you? When did Dick Turpin desert his friends? Anywhere on this side of the sticks the sound of that whistle will reach me, I'll ride about the court and stand sentry. Enough replied the sexton as he dived underground. Take care of your shins, shouted Dick. That's a cursed ugly turn, but he's used to the dark. A surprise, eh? I'll just give a look to my snappers. Flint's all safe. Now I'm ready for them. Come when they like. And, having made the circuit of the place, he halted near the mouth of the subterranean chapel to be within hearing of Peter's whistle, and throwing his right leg lazily over his saddle proceeded coolly to light a short pipe, the luxury of the cigar being then unknown, humming the wile snatches of a ballad, the theme of which was his own calling. The Scampsman. Kisferre Rex. Seneca. There is not a king should you search the world round, so blithe is the king of the road to be found. His pistols his scepter, his saddles his throne, whence he levies supplies or enforces alone, dairy down. To this monarch the highway presents a wide field, where each passing subject a tribute must yield. The palace, the tavern, receives him at night, where sweet lips and sound lick a crown all with delight, dairy down. The soldier and sailor both robbers by trade, full soon on the shelf if disabled are laid. The one gets a patch and the other a peg, but while luck lasts the highwayman shakes loose a leg, dairy down. Most foul rise at dawn, but the owl wakes at in, and the jollier bird can then nowhere be seen, like the owl last snuck Scampsman his snooze takes by day, and when night draws a curtain scuds after his prey, dairy down. As the highwayman's life is the fullest of zest, so the highwayman's death is the briefest and best. He dies not as other men die by degrees, but at once without wincing, and quite at his ease, dairy down. And thus, for the present, we leave him, O rare dipterpin. End of Chapter 9, Book 3 Chapter 10, Book 3 of Rookwood This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Paul Curran. Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth. Book 3, Chapter 10, St. Cyprian's Cell. Laskyate o'ne speranza voicentrati. Dante. Cyprian de Mulverton. Fifth prior of the monastery of St. Francis, a prelate of singular sanctity being afflicted in his latter days, with a despondency so deep that neither penance nor fasting could remove it, vowed never again to behold, with earthly eyes, the blessed light of heaven, knotted well longer with his fellow men, but relinquishing his spiritual dignity, the world forgetting by the world forgot, to emure himself while living within the tomb. He kept his vow. Out of the living rock that sustained the saintly structure beneath the chapel of the monastery, was another chapel wrought, and thither, after bidding an eternal farewell to the world and bestowing his benediction upon his flock, whom he committed to the care of his successor, the holy man retired. He never, save at midnight, and only then during the performance of masses for his soul's repose, did he ascend from his cell. And just the sole light allowed within the dismal dungeon of his choice was that of a sepulchral lamp. As none spoke with him when in his retreat, saving muttered syllables, what effect must a luster emanating from a thousand tapers, the warm and pungent odours of the incense-breathing shrine, contrasted with the earthly vapours of his prison-house, and the solemn swell of the sanctus have had upon his excited senses. Surely they must have seemed like a foretaste of the heaven he sought to gain. Ascetic to the severest point to which nature's endurance could be stretched, Cyprian even denied himself repose, he sought not sleep, and knew it only when it stole on him unawares. His couch was the flinty rock, and long afterwards, when the zealous resorted to the sainted priors cell, and were shown those sharp and jagged stones, they marvelled how one like unto themselves could rest, or even recline upon their points without anguish, until it was explained to them that, doubtless, he who tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb had made that flinty couch soft to the holy sufferer as a bed of down. His limbs were clothed in a garb of horsehair of the coarsest fabric. His drink was the dank drops that oozed from the porous walls of his cell, and his sustenance such morsels as were bestowed upon him by the poor, the only strangers permitted to approach him. No fire was suffered, where perpetual winter reigned, none were admitted to his nightly vigils, none witnessed any act of penance, nor were any groans heard to issue from that dreary cave, but the knotted, blood-stained thong, discovered near his couch, too plainly betrayed in what manner those long, lone nights were spent. Thus did a year roll on. Traces of his sufferings were visible in his failing strength. He could scarcely crawl, but he meekly denied assistance. He appeared not as had been his want at the midnight mass. The door of his cell was thrown open at that hour, the light streamed down like a glory upon his reverent head. He heard the distant reverberations of the deep mizzer-air, and breathed odours as if wafted from paradise. One morn it chanced that they who sought his cell found him with his head upon his bosom, kneeling before the image of the virgin patroness of his shrine. Fearing to disturb his devotions, they stood reverently looking on, and thus silently did they tarry for an hour, but in that space he had shown no signs of motion, fearing the worst they ventured to approach him. He was cold as the marble before which he knelt. In the act of humblest intercession it may be, in the hope of grace, had Cyprian spirit fled. Blessed are they who die in the Lord, exclaimed his brethren, regarding his remains with deepest awe. On being touched the body fell to the ground. It was little more than a skeleton. Under the cloisters of the holy pile were his bones interred, with a degree of pomp and ostentation that little accorded with the lowliness and self-abasement of this man of many sorrows. This chapel, at the time of which we treat, was pretty much in the same condition as it existed in the days of its holy inmate. Hewn out of the entrails of the rock, the roof, the vaults, the floor, were of solid granite. Three huge cylindrical pillars carved out of the native rock, rough as the stems of gnarled oak trees, lent support to the ceiling. Support, however, was unneeded. An earthquake would scarce have shaken down those solid rafters. Only in one corner where the water welled through a crevice of the rock, in drops that fell like tears, was decay manifest. Here the stone, worn by the constant dripping, had in some places given way. In shape, the vault was circular. The integral between each massive pillar formed a pointed arch. Again, from each pillar sprang other arches, which, crossed by diagonal ogive branches, weaving one into the other and radiating from the centre, formed those beautifully intricate combinations upon which the eye of the architectural enthusiast loves to linger. Within the ring formed by these triple columns, in which again the pillars had their own web of arches, was placed an altar of stone, and beside it a crucifix of the same rude material. Here also stood the sainted image of her who had filled the prior with holy aspirations, now a shapeless stone. The dim lamp that, like a star, struggling with the thick loom of a wintry cell, had shed its slender radiance over the brow of the virgin Thecla who was gone. But around the keystone of the central arches whence a chain had once depended, might be traced in ancient characters half effaced by time, the inscription Star Thecla Ora Pro Nobis. One outlet only was there from the chapel, that which led by winding steps to the monastery. One only recess, the priors cell. The former faced the altar, the latter yawned like the mouth of a tomb at its back. Altogether it was a dreary place. Dumb were its walls as when they refused to return the murmured horizons of the anchorite. One uniform's sad colouring prevailed throughout. The grey granite was grown whore with age and had a ghostly look. The columns were ponderous and projected heavy shadows. Sorrow and superstition had their tail, and the moral gloom deepened the darkness of the spot. Despair which had inspired its construction seemed to brood therein. Hope shunned its inexorable recesses. Alone within this dismal sanctuary, with hands outstretched towards the desecrated image of its tutelor saint, Nelt Sibyl. All was darkness. Neither the heavy vapours that surrounded her, nor the shrine before which she bent were visible. But, familiar with the dreary spot, she knew that she had placed herself aright. Her touch had satisfied her that she bowed before the altar of stone, that her benighted vision was turned towards the broken image of the saint, though now involved in gloom the most profound, and with clasped hands and streaming eyes in low and mournful tones, she addressed herself in the following hymn to the tutelor saint of the spot. Hymn to Saint Thecla. In my trouble, in my anguish, in the depths of my despair, as in grief and pain I languish, unto thee I raise my prayer. Sainted Virgin, martyred maiden, let thy countenance incline, upon one with woes or laden, kneeling lonely at dry strine, that in agony, in terror, in her blind perplexity, wandering weak in doubt and error, calleth feebly upon thee. Sinful thoughts, sweet saint oppress me, thoughts that will not be dismissed, patient's dark possess me, which my strength may not resist. I am full of pain and weary of my life I feign would die, unto me the world is dreary, to the grave for rest I fly. For rest, oh could I borrow thy bright wings celestial dove, they should waft me from my sorrow, where peace dwells in bowers above, upon one with woes or laden. Kneeling lonely at dry strine, Sainted Virgin, martyred maiden, let thy countenance incline, may ye messare vergo, requiem or turnam dona. By thy loveliness, thy purity, unpolluted and defiled, that in serene security upon earth's temptation smiled, by the fetters that constrained thee, by thy flame attested faith, by the further that sustained thee, by thy angel-ushered death, by thy soul's divination mid-dine agonies assuring of thy sanctified translation to beatitude enduring, by the mystic interfusion of thy spirit with the rays that in ever bright profusion round the throne eternal blaze, by thy portion now partaken with the pain perfected just, look on one of hope forsaken from the gates of mercy thrust, upon one with woes or laden, kneeling lonely at dry strine, Sainted Virgin, martyred maiden, let thy countenance incline, ora pro mi mortis ora, sancta vergo orote, quiri eleison. The sweet, sad voice of the singer died faintly away. The sharpness of her sorrow was assuaged. Seldom indeed is it that fervent supplication fails to call down solace to the afflicted. Sibyl became more composed. She still, however, trembled at the thoughts of what remained to be done. They will be here, ere my prayer is finished, murmured she, ere the end is accomplished, for which I came hither alone, let me, oh, let me make peace with my creator, ere I surrender my being to his hands, and then let them deal with me as they will. And she bowed her head in lowly prayer. Again raising her hands and casting her eyes towards the black ceiling, she implored in song the intercession of the saintly man who had bequeathed his name to the cell. Him to Saint Cyprian. Here, oh hear me, sufferer holy, who didst make thine habitation, mid these rocks devoting holy, life to one long expiation of thy guiltiness and solely by severe mortification didst deliver thee, oh hear me, in my dying moments cheer me, by thy penance self-denial, aid me in the hour of trial, may through thee my prayers prevailing on the majesty of heaven, or the hosts of hell, assailing my soul in this dark hour be driven. So my spirit, when exhaling, may of sinfulness be shriven, and his gift unto the giver may be rendered pure as ever by thy own dark dread possession, aid me with thine intercession. Scarcely had she concluded this hymn when the torch of the night of Malta in part dissipated the gloom that hung around the chapel. End of Chapter 10, Book 3 Chapter 11, Book 3 of Rookwood. This is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org. This reading by Paul Curran. Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth. Book 3, Chapter 11, The Bridal. Carrie. I will not die. I must not. I am contracted to a young gentleman. Executioner. Here's your wedding ring. Duchess of Malfi. Slowly did the train descend, solemnly and in silence, as if the rites at which they were about to assist had been those of funereal and not of nuptial solemnization. Indeed, to look upon those wild and fierce faces by the rudderly flashing torchlight which lent to each a stern and savage expression to see those scowling visages surrounding a bride from whose pallid cheeks every vestige of colour and almost of animation had fled and a bridegroom with a countenance yet more haggard and demeanour yet more distracted. The beholder must have imagined that the spectacle was some horrible ceremonial practised by demons rather than human beings. The arched vaults, the pillars, the torchlight, the deep shadows and the wild figures formed a picture worthy of Rembrandt or Salvatore. Is Sibyl within the chapel? asked Barbara. I am here. returned a voice from the altar. Why do we tarry? said the gypsy queen. We are all assembled. To the altar! To the altar! streaked Eleanor. Oh, no! No! Remember my threat and obey, muttered Barbara. You are in my power now. A convulsive sob was all the answer Eleanor could make. Our number is not complete, said the priest, who had looked in vain for the sexton. Peter Bradley is not with us. Ha! exclaimed Barbara. Let him be sought for instantly. Their search need not extend beyond this spot, said Peter, stepping forward. The night of Malta advanced towards the altar. The torchlight reddened upon the huge stone pillars. It fell upon the shrine and upon the ghastly countenance of Sibyl who stood beside it. Suddenly, as the light approached her, an object hitherto hidden from view was revealed. Sibyl uttered a prolonged and fearful shriek. The night recoiled likewise in horror and a simultaneous cry of astonishment burst from the lips of the foremost of the group. All crowded forwards and universal consternation prevailed amongst the assemblage. Each one gazed at his neighbour anxious to learn the occasion of this tumult and vague fears were communicated to those behind from the terrible glances which were the only answers returned by their comrades in front. Who has dared to bring that body here? Demanded Barbara in a tone in which anger struggled with apprehension pointing at the same time to the ghastly corpse of a female with streaming hair at the altar's feet. Who has dared do this, I say? Quick, remove it! What do you stare at? Cravens, is this the first time you have looked upon a corpse that you should shrink a ghast, that you tremble before it? It is a clod. Aye, less than a clod. Away with it, oh, away I say! Touch it not! cried Luke, lifting a cloud of black hair from off the features. It is my mother's body. My daughter! exclaimed the sexton. What? versiferated Barbara, is that your daughter? Is that the first Lady Lookwood? Are the deader isn't to do honour to these nuptials? Speak, you can't perchance, explain how she came hither. I know not. Returned Peter, glancing fiercely at Barbara. I may anon demand that question of you. How came this body here? Ask of Richard Jekli, said Barbara, turning to the priest. He can't perchance, inform you, priest! Added she in a low voice. This is your handiwork. Jekli, screamed Peter. Is that Richard Jekli? Is that... peace! Thundered Barbara. Will none remove the body? Once more I ask you, do you fear the dead? A murmur arose. Bathasar alone ventured to approach the corpse. Luke started to his feet as he advanced. His eyes glaring with tiger fury. Back, old man! cried he. And dare not, any of you, to lay a sacrilegious finger on her corpse. Or I will stretch him that advances as lowly as lies my mother's head. When or how it came hither matters not. Here at the altar has it been placed, and none shall move it hence. The dead shall witness my nuptials. Fate has ordained it, my fate, o' which the dead preside. Her ring shall link me to my bride. I knew not when I snatched it from her death-cold finger, to what end I preserved it. I learn it now. It is here. And he held forth a ring. It is a fatal boon that twice you'd ring, cried Sybil. Such a ring, my mother, on her deathbed. Said should be mine. Such a ring, she said, should wed me. Unto whom? fiercely demanded Luke. Unto death! She solemnly rejoined. Luke's countenance fell. He turned aside, deeply abashed, unable further to brook her gaze. While in accents of such wildly touching pathos sank into the hearts of each who heard her, hearts, few of them framed of penetrable stuff, the despairing maid, and burst into the following strain. The twice-used ring! Beware, thy bridal day, on her deathbed side, my mother. Beware, beware, I say. Death shall wed thee, and no other. Cold the hand shall grasp thee. Cold the arm shall clasp thee. Cold the lips thy kiss shall smother. Beware, thy bridal kiss. Thy wedding ring shall be from a clay-cold finger taken. From one that, like to thee, was by her love forsaken. For a twice-used ring is a fatal thing. Her griefs who wore it up are taken. Beware, that fatal ring! The altar and the grave. Many steps are not asunder. Bright banners o'er the wave. Shrouded horror lyeth under. Blythe made sound the bell. Yet twill tall thy knell. Skaid thy chaplet by the thunder. Beware, that blighteth wreath! Beware, my bridal day! Dying lips thy doom have spoken. Deep tones call me away. From the grave is sent a token. Cold, cold fingers bring. That ill omen ring. Soon will a second heart be broken. This is my bridal day. There was a deep, profound silence as the last melancholy cadence died away and many a rugged heart was melted, even to tears. Eleanor, meanwhile, remained in a state of passive stupefaction, vacantly gazing at Sibyl upon whom alone her eyes were fixed and appearing indistinctly to apprehend the meaning of her song. This is my bridal day, murmured she in a low tone when Sibyl had finished. Said not that sweet voice so. I notice my bridal day. What a church you have chosen, mother! A tomb, a sepulcher, put his meat for such nuptials as mine. And what wedding guests! Was that pale woman in her shroud-like dress invited here by you? Tell me that, mother! My God, her senses are gone! cried Mrs. Mulberry. Why did I venture into this horrible place? Ask not why now, madam, rejoined the priest. The hour for consideration is past. We must act. Let the marriage proceed at all hazards. We will then take means to extricate ourselves from this accursed place. Remove that horrible object, said Mrs. Mulberry. It fascinates the vision of my child. Let me your hand, Richard Checkley, said Peter, sternly regarding the priest. No, no, replied the priest, shuddering. I will not. Cannot touch it. Do you alone remove it? Peter approached Luke. The latter now offered no further opposition and the body was taken away. Isabella followed it into the dark recesses of the vault and when she should no longer distinguish the white flutter of the circlodes, her laboring bosom seemed torn asunder with the profound sigh that burst from it and her head declined upon her shoulder. Let me see that ring, said the priest, addressing Luke, who still held the wedding ring between his fingers. I am not, naturally superstitious, said Mrs. Mulberry, whether my mind be affected with the horrors of this place, I know not, but I have a dread of that ring. She shall not use it. Where no other can be found, said the priest, with a significant and peculiar look at Mrs. Mulberry, I see no reason why this should be rejected. I should not have suspected you, madam, of such weakness. Grant there were evil spell or charm attached to it, which, trust me, there is not. Should there be to a harmless piece of gold, my benediction and dispersion with holy lymph will have sufficient power to exercise and expel it, to remove your fears it shall be done at once. A cup containing water was brought, together with a plate of salt, which condiment the devil is said to abhor and which is held to be a symbol of immortality in the eternity, in that, being itself incorruptible, it preserves all else from corruption. And with the customary rommage formula of prayer and exorcism, the priest thrice mingled the crystal particles with the pure fluid, after which, taking the ring in his hand with much solemnity, he sprinkled it with a few drops of the water which he had blessed, made the sign of the cross upon the golden circle it, but at another a more potent exorcism to eradicate and expel every device of Satan and delivered it back to Luke. She may wear it now in safety, said the sexton, with strong contempt, where the snake himself coiled round that consecrated bobble, the prayers of the devout father, chequely would unclasp his lie this folds. But wherefore do we tarry now? Nought lies between us and the altar, the path is clear, the bridegroom grows impatient, and the bride, past Barbara, is ready, replied the priest. Madam, delay not longer. Daughter, your hand. Eleanor gave her hand. It was clammy and cold, supported by her mother she moved slowly towards the altar, which was but a few steps from where she stood. She offered no resistance, but did not raise her head. Luke was by her side. Then for the first time did the enormity of the cruel, dishonourable act he was about to commit, strike him with its full force. He saw it in its darkest colours. It was one of those terrible moments when the headlong wheel of passion suddenly stands still. There is yet time, groan he. Oh, let me not dam myself perpetually. Let me save her, save Sybil, save myself. They were at the altar, that wild wedding train. High over the head the torch was raised, the red light flashed on bridegroom and on bride, giving to the pale features of each an almost livid look. It fell upon the gaunt aspect of the sexton and lit up the smile of triumphant malice that played upon his face. It fell upon the fantastical habiliments of Barbara and upon the haughty but perturbed physiognomy of Mrs. Mulberry. It fell upon the salient points of the Gothic arches, upon one moulded pillar, upon the marble image of the Virgin Thecla and on the scarcely less marble countenance of Sybil who stood beside the altar, silent, statue-like, immovable. The effect of light and shade on other parts of the scene upon the wild drapery and harsh lineaments of many of the group was also eminently striking. Just as the priest was about to commence the marriage service, a yelling chorus which the gypsies were accustomed to sing at the celebration of the nuptials of one of their own tribe burst forth, nothing could be more horribly discordant than their song. Wedding chorus of the gypsies Scrape the cat-gut past the liquor. Let your quick feet move the quicker. Taralar! Dance and sing in jolly chorus. Bride and bridegroom are before us and the pachyco stanzoros. Taralar! To unite their hands he's ready. For a moment pals, he's steady. Sees your quaffing, dancing, laughing. Leave off riot and be quiet while tis doing. Tis begun. All is over. Two are one. The pachyco has linked him. Daddy Hyman's torched has blinked him. Amen! To it again! Now for quaffing, now for laughing. Stocking, throwing, liquor flowing. For our bridles are no bridles and our altars never alter. From the flagon we never flinch. In the jig we never falter. No, that's not our way. For we are staunch lads of Romany. For our wedding then hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! This uncouth chorus ended. The marriage proceeded. Sybil had disappeared. Had she fled? No, she was by the bride. Eleanor mechanically took her place. A faint voice syllableed the responses. You could scarcely have seen Mrs. Moebrae's lips move, but the answers were given and the priests satisfied. He took the ring and sprinkled it once again with the holy water in the form of the cross. He pronounced the prayer. Benedict, domine, annulum hunk, chemnos intuul nomine, Benedictimus ut corium gesta verit. Fidelitatem integram sua sponso tenens, Impece et volontate tua permaneat At que imutua charitate sempre vivat. He was about to return the ring to Luke when the torch held by the knight of Malta was dashed to the ground by some unseen hand and instantly extinguished. The wild pageant vanished as suddenly as the figures cast by a magic lantern upon a wall disappear when the glass is removed. A wild hubbub succeeded. Horsely above the clamour arose the voice of Barbara. To the door! Quickly! To the door! Let no one pass! I will find out the author of this mithapanon! Away! She was obeyed. Several of the crew stationed themselves at the door. Proceed now with the ceremony, continued Barbara. By darkness or by light, the match shall be completed. The ring was then placed upon the finger of the bride and as Luke touched it, he shuddered. It was as cold as that of the corpse which he had clasped but now. The prayer was said, the blessing given. The marriage was complete. Suddenly there issued from the darkness deep dirge-like tones and the voice solemnly chanted a strain which all knew to be the death song of their race. Hymned by wailing women over an expiring sister the music seemed to float in the air. The soul bell! Fast the sand of life is falling. Fast her latest sigh exhaling. Fast fast is she dying. With death's chills her limbs are shivering. With death's gasp her lips are quivering. Fast her soul away is flying. O'er the mountain-top it fleeteth and the skyy wonders greeteth, singing loud as stars it meeteth on its way. Hack the sullen soul bell tolling. Hollowly and echoes rolling. Seems to say she will open her eyes or never quenched their dark light. Gone forever, she is dead. The marriage-group yet lingered near the altar awaiting it would seem permission from the gypsy queen to quit the cell. Luke stirred not. Clasped in his own the cold hand of his bride detained him and when he would have moved her tightened grass prevented his departure. Mrs. Mobre's patience was exhausted by the delay. She was not altogether free from apprehension. Why do we linger here? She whispered to the priest. Do you father lead the way? The crowd is dense. Replied checkily. They resist my effort. Are we prisoners here? Asked Mrs. Mobre in alarm. Let me make the attempt. Cried Luke with fiery impatience. I will force a passage out. Quit not your bride! Whispered Peter as you value her safety. Not art else. She alone is in danger. Suffer her not to be withdrawn from your hand. If you would not lose her. Remain here. I will bring the matter to a speedy issue. Enough, replied Luke. I stir not hence. And he drew his bride closer towards him. He stooped to imprint a kiss upon her lips. A cold shudder ran through her frame as she touched them. But she resisted not his embrace. Peter's attempt to effect an egress was as unsuccessful as that of the priest. Presenting Excalibur at his bosom, the Knight of Malta challenged him to stand. You cannot pass, exclaimed the Knight. Our orders are peremptory. What am I to understand by this? Said Peter angrily. Why are we detained? You will learn all and none. Returned Barbara. In the meantime you are my prisoners. Or, if you like not the phrase, my wedding guests. The wedding is complete. Returned the sexton. The bride and bridegroom are impatient to depart. And we, the guests, albeit some of us may be no foes to darkness, desire not to hold our nuptial revels here. Sybil's wedding has not taken place. Said Barbara. You must tarry for that. Ha! Now it comes. Thought Peter. And who may I ask? Amongst this goodly company is to be her bridegroom. The best amongst them, returned Barbara. Sir Luke Ruckwood. He has a bride already, replied Peter. She may be removed, said Barbara, with bitter and peculiar emphasis. Dost understand my meaning now. I will not understand it, said Peter. You cannot mean to destroy her. She who now stands at the altar must make way for the successor. She who grasps the bridegroom's hand shall die. I swear it by the oath of my tribe. And think you. You will be allowed to execute your murderous intention with impunity, shrieked Mrs. Mulbray in an agony of terror. Think you that I will stand by and see my child slaughter before my face, that my friends will suffer it. Think you that even your own tribe will dare to execute your horrible purpose. Look outside with us. Even now they murmur, what can you hope to gain by an act so wild and dreadful? What object can you have. The same as your own, reiterated Barbara. The advancement of my child. Sebel is as dear to me as Eleanor is to you. She's my child's child. take to tell your daughter from the man she loved, to give her to the man she hated, and for what? For gold, for power, for rank. I have the same motive. I love my child, and she loves Saluk, has loved him long and truly. Therefore, shall she have him? What do means your child, or your feelings, except that they are subservient to my wishes? She stands in my way. I remove her. Who placed her in your path? asked the sexton. Did you not lend a helping hand to create that obstacle yourself? I did, replied Barbara. Would you know wherefore? I will tell you, I had a double motive for it. There is a curse upon the house of Rukwud that kills the first fair bride each generation leads to the altar. Have you never heard of it? I have. I did that idle legend sway you. I do you call it idle? You? Well, I had another motive. A prophecy. By yourself uttered, replied Peter. Even so, replied Barbara, the prophecy is fulfilled. The stray Ruk is found. The Rukhath with Ruk mated. Lukhath wedded Eleanor. He will hold possession of his lands. The prophecy is fulfilled. But how? asked Peter. Will your art tell you how and why she shall now hold possession? Can you tell me that? My art goes not so far. I have predicted the event. It has come to pass. I am satisfied. He has wedded her. Be it mine to free him from that yoke. And Barbara laughed exultingly. The sexton approached the old crone and laid his hand with violence upon her shoulder. Hear me! cried he. And I will tell you that which your juggling art refuses to reveal. Eleanor Mobri's heir to the lands of Rukwud, the estates of hers. They were bequeathed to her by her grandsire, Sir Reginald. She was unborn when he died, cried Mrs. Mobri. True! replied Peter. But the lands were left to your issue. Female! Should such issue be borne. And did, so appears my brother, know of this? Did he see this will? asked Mrs. Mobri with trembling impatience. He did, and withheld the knowledge of it from you and yours. And why knew I not this before? Why did you not tell me? And that was done which cannot be undone. I have sacrificed my child. Because it did not chime with my purposes to tell you, replied Peter coldly. It is false! It is false! cried Mrs. Mobri, her anger and vexation getting the better of her fears. I will not believe it! Who are you that pretend to know the secrets of our house? One of that house! replied the sexton. Your name? Would you know my name? answered Peter sternly. The time is come when I will no longer conceal it. I am Alan Rukwud. My father's brother! exclaimed Mrs. Mobri. I, Alan Rukwud, the sworn enemy of your father, of you, of all of ye, your fate, your destiny, your curse. I am that Alan Rukwud whose name you breathed in the vault. I am he, the avenger, the avenged. I saw your father die. I heard his groans. His groans! I saw his sons die. One fell in battle. I was with him there. The other expired in his bed. I was with Sapares when he breathed his last, and listened to his death agonies. To his eye who counseled him to keep the lands from you and from your child, and he would held them. One only amongst the race, whose name I have cast off, have I loved. And him, because, added he, with something like emotion. Because he was my daughter's child, Luke Rukwud, and even he shall minister to my vengeance. He will be your curse, your daughter's curse, for he loves her not, yet he is her husband and hath her land. And he left till he became convulsed with the paroxysm of fiendish exultation. Mine is stunned! cried Mrs. Mobri. The bride is mine. Relinquish her to me, said Barbara. Advance and cease her, my children! Alan Rukwud, for so we shall henceforth denominate the sexton, suddenly grew calm. He raised the whittle to his lips, and blew a call so loud and shrill that those who were advancing hung back, he resolute. There was a rush at the door of the vault. The sentinels were struck down, and with pistols in each hand, followed by two assistants, Dick Turpin sprang into the thick of the crew. Here we are, cried he, ready for action. Where is Sir Luke Rukwud? Where my churchyard, pal, Peter? Here, cried the sexton and looped simultaneously. Then stand aside, cried Dick, pushing in the direction of the sounds, and bearing down all a position. Have a care there. The east triggers a ticklish. Friend or foe? He who touches me shall have a bullet in his gizzard. Here I am, pal, Peter, and here are my two chums, rust and wilder. Cut the wood! Have we licensed to pass skateless now? asked the sexton. Or shall we make good our way? You shall not pass! cried Barbara, furiously. Think you to rob me of my prey? What cowards, do you hesitate? Kendall the Torches, cried several voices. We fight not in the dark. A pistol was flashed. The torch, the game blazed. Its light fell upon a tumultuous group. Seize the bride! cried Barbara. Hold! exclaimed a voice from the altar. The voice was that of Sybil. Her hand was clasped in that of Luke. Eleanor had fainted into the arms of the gypsy girl, Handasa. Are you my bride? ejaculated Luke in dismay. Behold the ring upon my finger. Your own hand placed it there. Betrayed! screamed Eleanor in a voice of anguish. My schemes annihilated. My self undone. My enemy's triumphant lost. Lost all is destroyed. All! Joy! joy! exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray. My child is saved and mine destroyed, groaned Barbara. I have sworn by the cross to slay the bride. And Sybil is that bride. End of chapter 11 book 3. Chapter 12 book 3 of Rookwood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Paul Curran. Rookwood by William Harrison Ainsworth. Book 3 chapter 12 Alan Rookwood. The wolf shall find her grave and scrape it up. Not to devour the corpse, but to discover the horrid murder. Webster. Bravo! Capital! cried Turpin, laughing loud and long as an Olympian deity. As this simple wench outwitted you all, turned the tables upon the whole gang of plotters, eh? Excellent! The next time you went, Sir Luke, let me advise you not to choose a wife in the dark. And mansion up 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 beat cock fighting, 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 mind, and I wash my hands of it. A shot or two in self-defence is another matter, and when I 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 best. I couldn't bring her with me into this black hole. A couple of shots will tell you to his ran off Rookwood, but mind no harm to the gypsy 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 gypsy 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 Sibyl'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 Sibyl 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 Sibyl. 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 grasped it clandestinely. I might believe you now. The wind will change. The vein 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 me from 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 Sibyl. 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 Ranoff's. She will be Ranoff's. I shall still be an outcast, while Ranoff will riot in my halls, will press her to his bosom. Cling not to me. Hence, or else spurn you from me. I am undone. Undone by you, a cursed one. Ah, curse me not. Your words could deep enough. Would they could kill you, cried Luke with savage bitterness. You have placed a bar between me and my prospects, which nothing now can remove. Nothing but, ha! And his countenance assumed a deadly hue and a fearful expression. By heaven, you almost roused 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 Sibyl. 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 Sibyl. Sadly, but firmly. Never, cried Luke. You shall not, ha! exclaimed he, as he found his arms suddenly pinion 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 and none. In the meantime, you must be content to remain my prisoner. Quit not your hold, added he, addressing the gypsies 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. Mobre'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 Sibyl. You are Lady Rookwood, whispered she. But she, as your domains, I give her to you. She's 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. Hey, wait, tempt her! cried Sibyl, 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 Sibyl. Let none approaches. A clapping of hands will let you know when all is over. And she dragged her passive victim deeper into the vault. Sibyl! Sibyl! cried Luke, struggling with frantic violence to liberate himself. Hurt her not! I was rush! I was mad! I'm 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'm the cause of all! Release me, villains! Would that I had died ere I'd seen this day! At a signal from the sexton, Luke was also 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 Mulberry, 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 murderous trembling efforts? Whose pressure stifled her thrilling screams, and choked her cries for mercy? Yours! Yours! And now you break to me of pity! You, the slayer of the sleeping and the innocent! It is false! exclaimed the priest, in extremity of terror. False! exclaimed Alan. I had sepears, own confession. He told me all. You had designs upon sepears, 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 all mastered all his better feelings. False! He told me of your hellish machinations. Your jazuitical plots, your schemes. He was too weak. Too female 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 Saluk Rookwood's legitimacy. He meant to take his own terms about it. It has come hither to proclaim his guilt, to be a fearful witness against him. Then, turning to checkly, she added, You have called heaven to witness your innocence. You shall detest it by oath upon that body, and should art 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, and addressing Zoroaster on the night of Malta, and lead him to the cause. 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 checkly. Lead on. We will now return to Sibyl. 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. Sibyl gazed upon her for some minutes with sorrow and surprise. She comprehends not her perilous situation, murmured Sibyl. She knows not that she stands upon the brink of the grave. All that she could pray, shall I, her murderous prey for her. My prayers would not be heard, and yet to kill her and shriven 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 Sibyl's feet. Spare me! Spare me! cried she. Oh, what a dream I have had! And to awaken thus with the dagger's point at my breast. You will not kill me, you gentle maid, who promised to preserve me. Oh no, I am sure you will not. Appeal no more to me, said Sibyl, firstly. 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. Oh, let me go. If you stir, said Sibyl, I will 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 bejew them with my tears. Those tears will not sully them like my blood. Maiden, said Sibyl, endeavouring 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 them. 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 Sibyl, with a passionate outburst of grief. Take your life, on one condition. Name it. That you wed, Sir Lucroquod. 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. Handasa, you will bear this maiden's oath in mind and witness its fulfilment. I will, replied the gypsy 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 Sibyl. 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 Lucroquod. 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. Farewell. Remember your oath. And you too, the Umbrit Handasa. Remember also, ha, that groan. All started as a deep groan knelt in their ears. Wedge comes that sound, cried Sibyl, hissed 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 Sibyl. Pray fervently. Avert your face. Down on your knees. Down, down. Farewell, Handasa. 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. Checkly had been brought before the body of Susan Rookwood. Even in the gloom, the shimmer of the white sea clothes and the pallid features of the corpse were ghastly enough. The torchlight made them terrible. Neil, 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 foresworn 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 those were glued by blood. Tear me away. I have not forced 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 are you 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 around 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 nonlend help? I never pressed so hard. Your daughter never suffered this torture. I never, never, I joke, joke. Ah. And the priest rolled heavily backwards. There was a deep groan, a convulsive rattle in the throat. And all was still. He's 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 grip. His hair was erect with horror. It was a ghastly sight. A murmur arose amongst the gypsies. Barbara deemed it prudent to appease them. He was guilty, cried she. He was the murderer of Suton 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 reconnoiter. Do your posts, cried Barbara. Several of the crew flocked to the entrance. Unbind the prisoners, shouted Alan. Mrs. Moe Bray and Luke were accordingly set free. Two almost simultaneous reports of a pistol were now heard. "'Tis Randolph Rookwood,' said Alan. That was a pre-concerted signal. Randolph Rookwood!' echoed Eleanor, who caught the exclamation. "'He comes to save me. They remember your oath,' gasped the 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. exclaimed Alan Rookwood, with a frightened look. "'Is it done?' Barbara motioned him towards the further end of the vault. End of Chapter 12, Book 3. Chapter 13, Book 3 of Rookwood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Paul Curran. Rookwood, by William Harrison Ainsworth. Book 3, Chapter 13, Mr. Coates. Grim. "'Look, Captain, here comes one of the bloodhounds of justice.' Shwer. "'Down with him. Don't let him utter a word. More. Silence. I will hear him.' Grim. Shiller. The robbers. Gladly do we now exchange the dank atmosphere of St. Cyprian's cell, and the horrors which have detained us there so long, for barmy air, genial sunshine, and the boon companionship of Dick Turpin. Upon regaining the verdant ruins of the ancient priory, all appeared pretty much as our highwaymen had left it. Dick wended towards his mare. Blackbess uttered an affectionate whinnying sound as he approached her, yielded her sleek neck to his caresses. No Bedouin Arab ever loved his horse more tenderly than Turpin. "'Twill be a hard day when thou and I part,' muttered he, affectionately patting her soft and silky cheeks. Best thrust her nose into his hand, biting him playfully, as much as to say, that day will never arrive.' Turpin, at least, understood the appeal in that sense. He was skilled in the language of the Hoianoms. "'I would rather lose my right hand than that should happen,' sighed he. But there's no saying, the best of friends must part, and now and I may be one day separated. Thy destination is the knacker, mine perhaps, the gibbet. We are neither of us cut out for old age, that's certain. Curse me if I can tell how it is. Since I've been in that vault, I've got some queer crotchet into my head. I can't help likening thee to that poor gypsy wench-sibble, but I may be scraggt if I'd use thee as her lover has used her.' "'Ha!' exclaimed he, drawing a pistol with a suddenness that made his companions rust and wilder start. We are watched. See you not how Yon's shadow falls from behind the wall.' "'I do,' replied rust. That vomit shall be speedily unearthed,' said Wilder, rushing to the spot. In another instant, the shadow manifested itself in a substantial little personage, booted, spurred, and mud bespattered. He was brought before our highwayman, who had meanwhile, vaulted into his saddle. "'Mr. Coates!' cried Dick, bursting into a loud laugh at the ridiculous figure presented to his view. "'Oh, the mud deceives me!' "'It does not deceive you, Captain Turpin,' replied the attorney. "'You do indeed behold that twice unfortunate person.' "'What brings you here?' asked Dick. "'Ah, I see you come to pay me my wager.' "'I thought you gave me a discharge for that,' rejoined Coates, unable, even in his distress, to resist the two-tempting quibble. "'True.' "'But it was in blank,' replied Turpin readily. "'And that don't hold good in law, you know. You have thrown away a second chance. Play or pay all the world over. I shan't let you off so easily this time. Depend upon it. Come, post the pony, or take your measure on that sod. No more replications or rejoinders, sir. Down with the dust. Fake his clies piles. Let us see what he has about him.' "'In the twinkling of a bedpost,' replied Rust. "'We'll turn him inside out. What's here?' cried he, searching the attorney's pockets. "'A brace of barkers,' handing a pair of pistols to Turpin. "'A haddock stuffed with nothing, I'm thinking. One quid, two coach wheels, half a ball, three hocks and a kick, and a damn dicky concern, Captain. Three hocks and a kick,' muttered Coates. The knave says, true enough. "'Is there nothing else?' demanded Dick. Only an old snuffy fogal and a pewter sneezer. "'No reader. Try his hoxter.' "'Here's a pit-man, Captain.' "'Give it to me. Ah, this will do,' cried Dick, examining the contents of the pocketbook. "'This is a glorious windfall, indeed. A bill of exchange for five hundred. Payable on demand, eh, Mr. Coates? "'Quick, endorse it, sir. "'Here's a pen and ink. Rascal. "'If you attempt to tear the bill, I'll blow your brains out. "'Steady, sir, sign.' "'Good,' added he, as Coates most reluctantly endorsed the bill. "'Good, good. "'I'll be off with this bill to London tonight "'before you can stop it. "'No courier can beat best. "'Ha-ha, eh? "'What's this?' continued Dick, as, unfolding another leaf of the pocketbook. He chanced upon a letter. "'My Lady Rookwood's superscription. "'Excuse me, Mr. Coates. "'I must have a peep at her ladyship's billy-doo, "'all safe with me, man of honour. "'I must detain your reader a moment longer.' "'You should take charge of yourself, then,' replied Coates succulently. "'You appear to be my reader.' "'Bravo!' cried Turpin. "'You may jest now with impunity, Mr. Coates. "'You have paid dear enough for your jokes, "'and when should a man be allowed to be pleasant, "'if not at his own expense? "'Ha-ha, what's this?' exclaimed he, opening the letter. "'A ring? "'As I'm awake. "'And from her ladyship's own fair finger I'll be sworn, "'for it bears her cipher, "'in a faceably impressed as your image upon her heart, "'eh, Mr. Coates? "'Ey, God, you are a lucky dog, "'after all, to receive such a favour from such a lady. "'Ha, meantime, I'll take care of it for you,' continued Dick, slipping the ring on his little finger. "'Turpin,' we have before remarked, "'had a turn for mimicry, "'and it was with an irresistible feeling "'of deferential awe creeping over him, "'that Coates heard the contents "'of Lady Rookwood's epistle delivered, "'with an enunciation as peremptory "'and imperious of that of her ladyship's self.' "'The letter was hastily indicted "'in a clear firm hand, "'and partook of its writer's decision of character. "'Dick found no difficulty in deciphering it. "'Thus ran the missive. "'Assured of your devotion and secrecy, "'I commit my own honour, "'and that of my son to your charge. "'Time will not permit me to see you, "'or I would not write, "'but I place myself entirely in your hands. "'You will not dare to betray my confidence.' "'To the point, "'a major mobri has just arrived here "'with intelligence that the body of Susan Bradley, "'you will know to whom I allude, "'has been removed from our family vault "'by a Romish priest and his assistants. "'How came it there, "'or why it has been removed? "'I know not. "'It is not my present purpose to inquire. "'Suffice it that it now lies in a vault "'beneath the ruins of Davenham Priory. "'My son, Sir Randolph, "'who has lent a credulous ear "'to the artful tales of the imposter "'who calls this woman mother, "'is at present engaged in arming certain "'of the household and of the tenantry "'to seize upon and bring away this body.' "'As resistance is apprehended "'from a horde of gypsies who infest the ruins. "'Now, mark me, that body must not be found. "'Beat your business to prevent its discovery. "'Take the flitest horse you can procure, "'spare neither whip nor spur, haste to the priory, "'procure by any means, "'and at any expense, the assistance of the gypsies. "'Find out the body, conceal it, destroy it. "'Do what you will, so my son find it not.' "'Fear not, his resentment. "'I will bear you harmless of the consequences with him. "'You will act upon my responsibility. "'I pledge my honour for your safety. "'Use all dispatch, "'and calculate upon dueriquital from Maud Rookwood. "'Haste, and Godspeed you.' "'Godspeed you!' echoed Dick "'in his own voice contemptuously. "'The devil drive you would have been a fitter post-script, "'and it was upon this precious errand you came, Mr. Coats.' "'Precisely,' replied the attorney. "'But I find the premises preoccupied, "'fast as I have ridden you are here before me.' "'And what do you now propose to do?' asked Turpin. "'Bag him with you for the body,' replied Coats, "'in an insinuating tone.' "'With me?' said Dick. "'Do you take me for a resurrection cove? "'For a dealer in Deadstock, eh, sir?' "'I take you for one sufficiently alive in a general way "'to his own interests,' returned Coats. "'These gentlemen may not perhaps be quite so scrupulous "'when they hear my proposals.' "'Be silent, sir,' interrupted Turpin. "'Haste, I hear the Trump of horses hoops without. "'Hark, that shout!' "'Make your own terms before they come,' said Coats. "'Leave all to me. I put them on a wrong scent.' "'To the devil with your terms,' cried Turpin. "'The signal!' And he pulled the trigger "'of one of Coats' pistols, "'the shot of which rang the ears of the astounded attorney "'as it whizzed past him.' "'Drag him into the mouth of the vault,' thundered Turpin. "'He will be a capital-covering case of attack. "'Look to your sticks and be on the alert. Away!' "'Vainly did the unfortunate attorney kick and struggle, "'swear and scream. "'His hat was pushed over his eyes, "'his bobbwig thrust into his mouth "'and his legs tripped from under him. "'Thus blind, dumb, and half suffocated, "'he was hurried into the entrance of the cell. "'Dick, meanwhile, dashed to the arched outlet of the ruin. "'He there drew in the rain, "'and Black Bess stood motionless as a statue.'" All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Many a fine fellow with a genius extensive enough to have affected universal reformation has been doomed to perish by the halter. But does not such a man's renown extend through centuries and tens of centuries, while many a prince would be overlooked in history, were it not the historian's interest to increase the number of his pages? Nay, when the traveller sees a gibbet, does he not exclaim, "'That fellow was no fool,' and lament the hardship of the times. "'Shiller, the robbers.'" Terpin's quick eye ranged over the spreading swad in front of the ancient priory, and his brow became contracted. The feeling, however, was transient. The next instant saw him the same easy, reckless being he had been before. There was a little more paleness in his cheek than usual, but his look was keener, and his knees involuntarily clasped the saddle more firmly. No other symptom of anxiety was perceptible. It would be no impeachment to Dick's valour were it necessary to admit that a slight tremor crossed him as he scanned the formidable array of his opponents. The admission is needless. Dick himself would have been the last man to own it, nor shall we do the memory of our undaunted highwayman any such injustice. Terpin was intrepid to a fault. He was rash, apt to run risks, for the mere pleasure of getting out of them. Danger was his delight, and the degree of excitement was always in proportion to the peril incurred. After the first glance, he became to use his own expressive phrase as cool as a cucumber, and continued as long as they permitted him like a skilful commander, calmly to calculate the numerical strength of his adversaries and to arrange his own plan of resistance. This troop of horsemen, for such it was, might probably amount in the aggregate to 20 men, and presented an appearance like that for strong muster at a rustic fox chase, due allowance being made for the various weapons of offence, to it, naked sabers, firelocks, and the world of huge horse pistols, which the present field carried along with them. This resemblance was heightened by the presence of an old huntsman and a gamekeeper or two in scarlet and green jackets, and a few yelping hounds that have followed after them. The majority of the crew consisted of sturdy yeoman, some of which mounted upon wild unbroken cults, had pretty lives of it to maintain their seats, and converted about in most admired disorder. Others were seated upon more docile, but quite as provoking specimens of the cat-horse breed, whose sluggish sides, reckless alike of hobnailed heel or ash sapling, refused to obey their rider's intimations to move. While others again brought stiff, wrong-headed ponies to the charge, obstinate, impracticable little brutes who seemed to prefer revolving on their own axis and describing absurd rotatory motions to proceeding in the direct and proper course pointed out to them. Dick could scarcely forbear laughing at these ridiculous manoeuvres, but his attention was chiefly attracted towards three individuals who were evidently the leaders of this warlike expedition. In the thin, tall figure of the first of these he recognised Ranolf Rookwood. With the features and person of the second of the group, he was not entirely unacquainted, nor incorrectly fancied, that his military bearing, or as he would have expressed it, the soldier-like cut of his jib, could belong to no other than Major Mulberry, whom he had once eased of a purse on Finchley Common. In the round, rosy countens and robustious person of the last of the trio, he discovered his ancient ally, Titus Tirconel. Ah, Titus, my jewel, are you there? exclaimed Dick as he distinguished the Irishman. Come, I have one friend among them who I may welcome, so they see me now. Off they come, Pelmel, back best back, slowly went, slowly there, stand. And best again remained motionless. The report of Terpins pistol reached the ears of the troop, and as all were upon the alert, he had scarcely presented himself at the gateway when a loud shout was raised, and the whole cavalcade galloped towards him, creating, as maybe imagined, the wildest disorder. Each horseman yelling as he neared the arch, and got involved in the press, occasioned by the unexpected concentration of forces at that point. While odes and blows, kicks and cuffs, were reciprocated with such hearty goodwill that, had Terpin ever read Ariosto or Cervantes, or heard of the discord of King Agramente's camp, this melee must have struck him as its realisation. As it was, entertaining little apprehension of the result, he shouted encouragement to them, scarcely however had the foremost horseman disentangled himself from the crowd, and struggling to the door was in the act of levelling his pistol at Terpins head when a well-directed ball pierced the brain of his charger, and horse and man rolled to the ground. Vowing vengeance, a second succeeded, and was in like manner compelled to bite the dust. That will let old Peter know that Ranoff Rookwood is at hand, exclaimed Dick. I shan't throw away another shot. The scene at the archway was now one of complete confusion. Terrified by the shots, some of the bores would have drawn back, while others in mid-career advanced and propelled them forwards. It was like the meeting of two tides. Here and there, regardless of the bit, and scared by the firing, a wild colt broke all bounds, and hurling his rider in the air darted off into the green, or, in another case, rushed forward, and encountering the prostrate cattle cumbering the entrance to the priory hall, stumbled, and precipitated his master neck over heels at the very feet of his enemy. During all this tumult, a few shots were fired at the highwayman, which, without doing him a jot of mischief, tended materially to increase their own confusion. The voice of Terpin was now heard above the din and turmoil to sound a parley, and as he appeared disposed to offer no opposition, some of his antagonists ventured to raise themselves from the ground, and to approach him. I demand to be led to Sir Ranoff Rookwood, said Terpin. He is here, said Ranoff, riding up. Villain, you are my prisoner. As you list Sir Ranoff, returned Dick Cooley, but let me have a word in private with you, ere you do art you may repent hereafter. No words, sir, deliver up your arms, or my pistols are at your service, replied Dick. I have just discharged them. You may have others, we must search you. Hold! cried Dick. If you will not listen to me, read that paper. And he handed Ranoff his mother's letter to Mr. Coates. It was without the superscription which he had thrown aside. My mother's hand! exclaimed Ranoff, reddening with anger as he hastily perused its contents. And she sent this to you. You lie, Villain, it is a forgery. Let this speak for me, returned Dick, holding out the finger upon which Lady Rookwood's ring was placed. Know you that cipher? You have stolen it! retorted Ranoff. My mother, added he, in a deep stern whisper, articulated only for Turpin's hearing, would never have entrusted her honour to a highwayman's keeping. She has entrusted more. Her life! replied Dick, in a careless tone. She would have bribed me to do murder. Murder! echoed Ranoff aghast. Aye, to murder your brother, returned Dick. But let that pass. You have read that note. I have acted solely upon your mother's responsibility. Lady Rookwood's honour is pledged for my safety. Of course, her son will set me free. Never. Well, as you please. Your mother is in my power, betray me, and you betray her. No more! returned Ranoff sternly. Go your ways. You are free. Pledge me your word of honour. I am safe. Ranoff had scarcely given his pledge, when Major Mulberry rode furiously up. A deep flush of anger burnt upon his cheeks. His sword was drawn in his hand. He glanced at Turpin, as if he would have felled him from his saddle. This is the Ruffian! cried the Major fiercely, by whom I was attacked some months ago, and for whose apprehension the reward of three hundred pounds is offered by his Majesty's proclamation, with a free pardon to his accomplices. This is Richard Turpin. He has just added another crime to his many offences. He has robbed my mother and sister. The postboy knew him the moment he came up. Where are they, villain? Where have they gone? Answer! I know not, replied Turpin calmly. Did not the lad tell you they were rescued? Rescued? By whom? asked Ranoff, with great emotion. By one who calls himself Sir Luke Rookwood, answered Turpin with a meaning smile. By him? ejaculated Ranoff. Where are they now? I have already answered that question, said Dick. I repeat, I know not. You are my prisoner! cried the Major, seizing Turpin's bridle. I have Sir Ranoff's word for my safety, rejoined Turpin. Let go my reign! How is this? asked Major Moebrae incredulously. Asked me not. Release him, replied Ranoff. Ranoff, said the Major. You ask an impossibility, my honour! My duty is implicated in this man's capture. The honour of all of us is involved in his deliverance. Returned Ranoff in a whisper. Let him go. I will explain all hereafter. Let us search for them, for Eleanor. Surely after this you will help us to find them, how did he, addressing Turpin? I wish, with all my soul, I could do so, replied the Highwomen. I see the ladies cross the brook and enter these old ruins, interposed the post-boy, who would now join the party. I see them from where I stood on the hillside, and as I kept a pretty sharp lookout, and have a tolerably bright eye on my own, I don't think it's how they ever come out again. Someone is hidden within Yon Fisher in the wall, exclaimed Ranoff. I see a figure move, and he flung himself from his horse, rushing towards the mouth of the cell. Imitating his example, Major Mulberry followed his friend, soared in hand. The game begins now in right earnest, said Dick to himself. The old fox will be soon unearthed. I must look to my snappers, and he thrust his hand quietly into his pocket in search of a pistol. Just as Ranoff and the Major reached the recess, they were startled by the sudden apparition of the ill-fated attorney. Mr. Coats, exclaimed Ranoff in surprise. What do you hear, sir? I... I... that is... Sir Ranoff, you must excuse me, sir. Particular business, can't say. Returned the trembling attorney. For at this instant his eye caught that of Turpin, and the ominous reflection of a polished steel barrel held carelessly towards him. He was aware also that on the other hand he was, in like manner, the mark of rust and wilder. Those polite gentlemen having threatened him with a brace of slugs in his brain if he dared to betray their hiding place. It is necessary that I should be guarded in my answers, murmured he. Is there anyone within that place besides yourself? Said the Major, making a movement thither. No, sir, nobody at all, answered Coats. He's stilly fancying at the same time that he heard the click of a pistol that was to be his death warrant. How came you here, sir? Demanded Ranoff. Do you mean in this identical spot? Replied Coats, evasively. You can have no difficulty in answering that question, said the Major sternly. Pardon me, sir. I find considerable difficulty in answering any question situated as I am. Have you seen Mrs. Mulbray? Asked Ranoff eagerly. Oh, my mother, said the Major in the same breath. Neither, replied Coats. Rather, relieved by these questions. I suspect you are deceiving us, sir, said the Major. Your manner is confused. I am convinced you know more of this matter than you choose to explain. And if you do not satisfy me at once, fully and explicitly, I vow to heaven. And the Major's sword described a glittering circle around his head. Are you privy to their concealment? Asked Ranoff. Have you seen all of them? Or of Luke Bradley? Speak, or this moment is your last, said the Major. If it is my last, I cannot speak, returned Coats. I can neither make head nor tail of your questions, gentlemen. And you positively assure me you have not seen Mrs. Mulbray and her daughter, said Ranoff. Turpin here winked at Coats. The Attorney understood him. I don't positively assert that. Faulted he. How? You have seen them, shouted Ranoff. Where are they? In safety? Speak, added the Major. Another expressive gesture from the Highwayman communicated to the Attorney the nature of his reply. Without, sir, without. Yonder, he replied, I will show you myself. Follow, gentlemen, follow. And the waist-scampered Coats, without once venturing to look behind him. In an instant the ruined hall was deserted, and Turpin alone left behind. In the excitement of the moment his presence had been forgotten. In an instant afterwards the arena was again occupied by a company equally numerous. Rust and Wilder issued from their hiding places, followed by a throng of the gypsy crew. Where is Sir Luke Rookwood? asked Turpin. He remains below, was the answer returned. And Peter Bradley stays there likewise. No matter. Now make ready, pals. Give them one shout. Hurrah! Hurrah! replied the crowd, at the top of their voices. Ranoff Rookwood and his companions heard this shout. Mr. Coats had already explained the strategy and practiced upon them by the wily Highwayman, as well as the perilous situation in which he himself had been placed. And they were in the act of returning to make good his capture when the loud shouts of the crew arrested them. From the clamour it was evidence that considerable reinforcement must have arrived from some unlooked for quarter. And although burning to be avenged upon the audacious Highwayman, the Major felt it would be a task of difficulty, and that extreme caution could alone ensure success. With difficulty restraining the impatience of Ranoff, who could scarcely brook these few minutes of needful delay, Major Mowbray gave particular instructions to each of the men in detail, and caused several of them to dismount. By this arrangement, Mr. Coats found himself accommodated with a steed and a pair of pistols, with which latter he vowed to wreak his vengeance upon some of his recent tormentors. After a short space of time occupied in this manner, the troops slowly advanced towards the postern, in much better order than upon the previous occasion. But the stoutest of them quailed as they caught sight of the numerous gypsy gang drawn out in battle array within the Abbey walls. Each party scanned the other's movements in silence and wonder, anxiously waiting yet in a measure dreading their leader's signal to begin. That signal was not long delayed. A shot from the ranks of Rookwood did instant and bitter execution. Rob Rust was stretched lifeless upon the ground. Nothing more was needed. The action now became general. Firearms were discharged on both sides, without much damage to either party, but a rush being made by detachment of horse, headed by Major Mowbray, the conflict soon became more serious. The gypsies, after the first fire, threw aside their pistols and fought with long knives, with which they inflicted desperate gashes both on men and horses. Major Mowbray was slightly wounded in the thigh, and his steed receiving the blow intended for himself stumbled and threw his rider. Luckily for the Major, Ranoff Rookwood was at the hand, and with the butt end of a heavy-handed pistol felled the ruffian to the earth, just as he was upon the point of repeating the thrust. Turpin, meanwhile, had taken comparatively a small share in the conflict. He seemed to content himself with acting upon the defensive, and except in the case of Titus Turkannal, whom, espying amidst the crowd, he had considerably alarmed by sending a bullet through his wig, he did not fire a single shot. He also succeeded in unhorsing coats by hurling with great dexterity the empty pistol at his head. Though apparently unconcerned in the skirmish, he did not flinch from it, but kept his ground unyieldingly. A charmed life he seemed to bear, for amid the shower of bullets, many of which were especially aimed at himself, he came off unhurt. He that's spawned to be hanged will never be drowned, that's certain, said Titus. It's no use trying to bring him down, but by Jesus, he's spoiled the best hat and wig anyhow, there's a hole in my beaver as big as a crownpiece. Your own crown's safe, and that's some satisfaction, said Coates, whereas mine has a bump on it as large as a swan's egg, ah, if we can only get behind him. The strife continued to rage without intermission, and though there were now several ghastly evidences of its fury in the shape of wounded men and slaughtered or disabled horses, whose gaping wounds flooded the turf with gore, it was still difficult to see upon which side victory would eventually declare itself. The gypsies, though by far the greatest sufferers of the two, firmly maintained their ground. Drenched in the blood of the horses they had wounded, and brandishing their long knives, they presented a formidable and terrific appearance, the effect of which was not at all diminished by their wild yells and savage gesticulations. On the other hand, headed by Major Mobri and Ranoff, the troop of Yeoman pressed on, undauntedly, and where the sturdy farmers could get a firm grip of their lithe antagonists, or deliver a blow with their ox-like fists, they seldom failed to make good the advantages which superior weight and strength gave them. It will thus be seen that as yet, they were pretty well matched. Numbers were in favour of the gypsies, but courage was equally distributed, and perhaps what is emphatically called bottom was in favour of the rustics. Be this as it may, from what had already occurred, there was every prospect of a very serious termination to the fray. From time to time, terping glance to the entrance of the cell, in the expectation of seeing Sir Luke Rook would make his appearance, and as he was constantly disappointed in his expectation, he could not conceal his chagrin. At length, he resolved to dispatch a messenger to him, and one of the crew accordingly departed upon this errand. He returned presently with a look of blank dismay. In our hasty narrative of the fight, we have not paused to particularise, neither have we enumerated the list of combatants. Amongst them, however, were Jerry Juniper, the Knight of Malta, and Zoroasta. Excalibur, as may be conceived, had not been idle, but that trenchant blade had been shivered by Ranoff-Rookwood in the early stage of the business, and the knight left weaponless. Zoroasta, who was not merely a worshipper of fire, but a thorough milling cove, had engaged to some purpose in a pugilistic encounter with the rustics, and having fought several rounds now bore his blushing honours thick upon him. Jerry, like Turpin, had remained tolerably quiescent. The proper moments, he said, had not arrived. A fatality seemed to attend Turpin's immediate companions. Rust was the first who fell, Wilder also was now among the slain. Things were precisely in this condition when the messenger returned. A marked change was instantly perceptible in Turpin's manner. He no longer looked on with indifference. He seemed angry and distrustful. He gnawed his lip, ever a sign with him of vexation. Addressing a few words to those about him, he then spoke more loudly to the rest of the crew. Being in the jargon of the Tawny tribe, his words were not intelligible to the opposite party, but their import was soon made known by the almost instant and total relinquishment of the field by the gypsies. They took to their heels at once, to a man, leaving only a few desperately wounded men behind them, and flying along the intricate ruins of the priory, baffled all pursuit, wherever it was attempted. Jerry Juniper was the last in the retreat, but upon receiving a hint from Dick, he vaulted like a row over the heads of his adversaries and made good his escape. Turpin alone remained. He stood like a lion at bay, quietly regarding the huntsman hurtling around him. Ranoff Rookwood rode up and bade him surrender. Detain me not, cried he, in a voice of thunder, if you would save her who is dear to you, descend into that vault, off I say. And Turpin shook away with ease the grasp that Ranoff had laid upon him. Villain, you do not escape me this time, said Major Mulbray, interposing himself between Turpin and the outlet. Major Mulbray, I would not have your blood upon my head, said Dick. Let me pass, and he leveled a pistol. Fire if you dare, said the Major raising his sword. You pass not. I will rather die than allow you to escape. Barricade the door, strike him down if he attempts to pass. Richard Turpin, I arrest you in the king's name. You hear my lads, in his majesty's name. I command you to assist me in this highwayman's capture. Two hundred pounds for his head. Two hundred devils, exclaimed Dick, with a laugh of disdain. Go, seek your mother and sister within yon vault, Major Mulbray. You will find employment enough there. Saying which, he suddenly forced best to back a few yards. Then, striking his heels sharply into her sides, ere his purpose could be defined by the spectators, charged, and cleared the lower part of the mouldering priory walls. This feat was apparently accomplished with no great effort by his admirable and unequalled mare. By the powers! cried Titus, and he's given us the slip after all, and just when we thought to make sure of him too. Why, Mr. Coats, that wall must be higher than a five-barred gate or any stone wall in my country. It's just the most extraordinary lip I ever set eyes on. The devils in the fellow certainly are in his mare, returned Coats. But if he escapes me, I'll forgive him. I know wither where he's bound. He's off to London with my bill of exchange. I'll be up with him. I'll track him like a bloodhound, slowly and surely, as my father, the thief-taker, used to follow a percent. Recollect the hair and the tortoise. The race is not always to the swift. What say you? It is a match for five hundred pounds. Nay, for five thousand, for there is a certain marriage certificate in the way, a glorious golden venture. You shall go halves if we win. We'll have him dead or alive. What say you, full London, Mr. Teconnell? Shall we start at once? With all my soul, replied Titus, I'm with you. And the way this par nobile scoured. Ran off, meantime, plunged into the vault. The floor was slippery, and he had nigh stumbled. Loud and deep lamentations and the wailing sound like that of a lament for the dead resounded in his ears. A light at the further extremity of the vault attracted his attention. He was filled with terrible forebodings, but the worst reality was not so terrible a suspense. He rushed towards the light. He passed the massive pillars, and there, by the ruddy torch flame, discovered two female figures. One was an old woman, fantastically attired, wringing her hands and moaning, or gibbering wild strains in broken, discordant, yet pathetic tones. The other was Mrs. Mowbray. Both were images of despair. Before them lay some motionless object. He noticed not that old woman. He scarcely saw Mrs. Mowbray. He beheld only that object of horror. It was the lifeless body of a female. The light fell imperfectly upon the face. He could not discern the features, but the veil in which it was swathed. That veil was Eleanor's. He asked no more. With a wild cry he rushed forward. Eleanor, my beloved! Shrieked he. Mrs. Mowbray started at his voice, but appeared stunned and helpless. She's dead, said Ranoff, stooping towards the body. Dead! Dead! I echoed the old woman in accents of equal anguish. Dead! Dead! But this is not Eleanor, exclaimed he, as he viewed the features more closely. This face, though beautiful, is not hers. This dishevelled hair is black. The long lashes that shade her cheek are of the same hue. She's scarce dead. The hand-eyed clasp is yet warm. The fingers are pliant. Yet she is dead, said the old woman in a broken voice. She is slain. Who hath slain her? asked Ranoff. I. I. Her mother slew her. You! exclaimed Ranoff, horror-stricken. And where is Eleanor? asked he. Was she not here? Better she were here now, even though she was that poor maid, groaned Mrs. Mowbray. Than where she is. Where is she then? asked Ranoff, with frantic eagerness. Fled with her, I know not. With whom? With Saluk Rookwood, with Alan Rookwood. They have borne her hence, Ranoff. You are too late. Gone! cried Ranoff, fiercely springing to his feet. How escape they? There appears to be but one entrance to this vault. I will search each nook and cranny. Tis vain, replied Mrs. Mowbray. There is another outlet through Yon's cell. By that passage they escaped. Too true! Too true! shouted Ranoff, who flew to examine the cell. And wherefore followed you not? The stone rolled to its mouth, and resisted my efforts. I could not follow. Torture and death! She is lost to me forever! cried Ranoff, bitterly. No! exclaimed Barbara, clutching his arm. Place your trust in me, and I will find her for you. You! ejaculated Ranoff. Even I! replied Barbara. Your wrongs shall be righted. My sible be avenged. End of Chapter 14, Book 3