 Chapter 2, 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 2, a Gypsy encampment. I see a column of slow rising smoke, all top the lofty wood that skirts the wild. Cowper, the task. The top of the mornin' to you, German, said Terpin, as he rode up at an easy canter. Did you not hear my halloo? I caught a glimpse of you on the hill yonder. I knew you both, two miles off, and so, having a word or two to say to you, Luke Bradley, before I leave this part of the country, I put best to it. And she soon brought me with inhale, bless her black skin, added he, affectionately patting his horse's neck. There's not a match in these parts, nor in any other. She wants no coaxing to do her work, no bleeders for her. I should have been up with you before this, had I not taken a crosscut to look at poor Ben. One night, when mounted on my mare, to Bagshot Heath, I did repair, and saw Will Davis hanging there, upon the jibbit bleak and bare, with a rustified, fussified, mustified air. Excuse my singing. The sight of a jibbit always puts me in mind of the golden farmer. May I ask whether you abound, comrades? Comrades, whispered the sexton to Luke. You see, he does not so easily forget his old friends. I have business that will not admit of delay, rejoined Luke. And to speak plainly. You are not my society, returned Terpin. I guessed as much, natural enough. You have got an inkling of your good fortune. You have found out you are a rich man's heir, not a poor wench's bastard. No offence. I'm a plain spoken man, as you will find, if you know it not already. I have no objection to your playing these fine tricks on others, though it won't answer your turn to do so with me. Sir, exclaimed Luke sharply. Sir to you, replied Terpin. Sir Luke, as I suppose you would now choose to be addressed. I'm aware of all. An odd day's as good as a wink to me. Last night I learned the fact of Sir Peer's marriage from Lady Rookwood. Aye, from her ladyship. You stare, and old Peter there opens his ogles now. She lets it out by accident. And I'm in possession of what can alone substantiate your father's first marriage and establish your claims to the property. The devil, cried the sexton, adding in a whisper to Luke, you had better not be precipitate in dropping so obliging an acquaintance. You are jesting, said Luke to Terpin. It is ill jesting before breakfast return, Dick. I am seldom in the mood for a joke so early. What if a certain marriage certificate had fallen into my hand? A marriage certificate, echoed Luke and the sexton simultaneously. The only existing proof of the union of Sir Peer's Rookwood with Susan Bradley, continued Terpin. What if I had stumbled upon such a document? Nay more, if I knew where to direct you to it. Peace! Cried Luke to his tormentor. And then, addressing Terpin, if what you say be true, my quest is at an end. All that I need you appear to possess. Other proofs are secondary to this. I know with whom I have to deal. What do you demand for that certificate? We will talk about the matter after breakfast, said Terpin. I wish to treat with you as friend with friend. Meet me on those terms and I am your man. Reject my offer and I turn my mare's head and ride back to Rookwood. With me now rest all your hopes. I have dealt fairly with you and I expect to be fairly dealt with in return. It were idle to say, now I have an opportunity, that I should not turn this look to my account. I were a fool to do otherwise. You cannot expect it. And then I have rust and wild at a settle with. Though I have left them behind, they know my destination. We have been old associates. I like your spirit. I care not for your partiness. But I will not help you up the ladder to be kicked down myself. Now you understand me? Wither are you bound? To Davenham Priory, the Gypsy camp. The Gypsies are your friends? They are. I'm alone. You are safe. You pledge your word that all shall be on the square. You will not mention to one of that canting crew what I have told you. With one exception, you may rely upon my secrecy. Whom do you accept? A woman. Bad! Never trust a petticoat. I will answer for her with my life. And for your grandad there? He will answer for himself, said Peter. You need not fear treachery me. Honor among thieves, you know. Or where else should you seek it? Rejoined Turpin. For it has left all other classes of society. Your highwaymen is your only man of honour. I will trust you both, and you shall find you may trust me. After breakfast, as I said before, we will bring the matter to a conclusion. Tip us your saddle, Salook. And I'm satisfied. You shall rule in Rookwood. I'll engage ere a week be flown, and then... But so much parleying is dull work. Let's make the best of our way to breakfast. And away they cantered. A narrow bridle road conducted them singly through the defiles of a thick wood. Their root lay in the shade, and the air felt chilly amidst the trees, the sun not having attained sufficient altitude to penetrate its depths. While overhead was all warmth and light, quivering on the tops of the timber, the horizontal sunbeams created in their refraction brilliant prismatic colourings and filled the air with motes like golden dust. Our horseman he did not the sunshine or the shade. Occupied each with his own train of thought, they silently rode on. Davenham wood, through which they urged their course, had, in the olden time, been a forest of some extent. It was then an appendage to the domains of Rookwood, but had passed from the hands of that family to those of a wealthy, adjoining landowner and lawyer Sir Edward Davenham. In the keeping of whose descendants it had ever after continued. A noble wood it was, and numbered with many patriarchal trees, ancient oaks with broad, nailed limbs, which the storms of five hundred years had vainly striven to uproot, and which were now sternly decaying, gigantic beech trees with silvery stems shooting smoothly upwards, sustaining branches of such size that each, disevered, would itself have formed a tree, populous with leaves, and variegated with rich autumnal tints. The sprightly sycamore, the dark chestnut, the weird witch-elm, the majestic elm itself festooned with ivy, every variety of wood, dark, dense, and intricate, composed the forest through which they rode. And so multitudinous was the timber, so closely planted, tightly filled up with a thick matted vegetation which had been allowed to collect beneath, that little view was afforded had any been desired by the parties into the labyrinth of the grove. Tree after tree clad in the glowing livery of the season was passed, and as rapidly succeeded by others, occasionally a bow projected over their path, compelling the riders to incline their heads as they passed, but heedless of such difficulties they pressed on. Now the road grew lighter, and they became at once sensible of the genial influence of the sun. The transition was as agreeable as instantaneous. They had opened upon an extensive plantation of full-grown pines, whose tall, branchless stems grew up like a forest of masts, and freely admitted the pleasant sunshine. Beneath those trees, the soil was sandy and destitute of all undergrowth, though covered with brown, hair-like fibres and dry cones shed by the pines. The agile squirrel, that freest denizen of the grove starting from the ground as the horsemen galloped on, sprang up the nearest tree, and might be seen angrily gazing at the disturbers of his haunts, beating the branches with his forefeet in expression of displeasure. The rabbit darted across their path. The jays flew screaming amongst the foliage. The blue kushat, scared at the clatter of the horses who've sped on swift wing into quarters secure from their approach. While the party-colored pies, like curious village gossips, congregated to peer at the strangers, expressing their astonishment by loud and continuous chattering. Though so gentle of a sentence to be almost imperceptible, it was still evident that the path they were pursuing gradually mounted a hillside, and when at length they reached an opening, the view disclosed the eminence they had insensibly won. Pausing for a moment upon the brow of the hill, Luke pointed to a stream that wound through the valley, and tracing its course, indicated a particular spot amongst the trees. There was no appearance of a dwelling-house, no cottage-roof, no white canvas shed to point out the tents of the wandering tribe whose abode they were seeking. The only circumstance betokening that he'd have once been the haunt of man were a few grey monastic ruins. Scarce distinguishable from the stony barrier by which they were surrounded, and the sole evidence that it was still frequented by human beings was a thin column of pale blue smoke that arose in curling wreaths from out the break, the light-coloured vapour beautifully contrasting with the green umbrage wents it issued. Our destination is yonder, exclaimed Luke, pointing in the direction of the vapour. I'm glad to hear it, cried Turpin, as well as to perceive there is someone awake. That smoke holds out a prospect of breakfast, no smoke without fire, as old lady Scanmag said, and I'll wager a trifle that fire was not lighted for the fater fellows to count their fingers by. We shall find three sticks and a black pot with the kids seething in it, I'll engage. These gypsies have picked out a prettyish spot to quarter in, quite picturesque as one may say, and but for that tell-tale smoke which looks for all the world like a Dutch skipper blowing his morning cloud, no one need know of their vicinity, a pretty place upon my soul. The spot in Soothe merited Turpin's eulogium. It was a little valley in the midst of wooded hills, so secluded that not a single habitation appeared in view. Clothed with timber to the very summits, accepting on the side where the party stood, which verged upon the declivity, these mountainous ridges presented a broken outline of foliage, variegated with tinted masses of bright orange, timber, and deepest green. Four hills hemmed in the valley, here and there a grey slab of rock might be discerned amongst the wood, and a mountain ash figured conspicuously upon a jutting crag immediately below them. Deep sunken in the ravine and concealed in part from view by the wild herbage and dwarf shrubs, ran a range of precipitous rocks, severed it was seen by some diluvial convulsion, from the opposite mountainside, as a corresponding rift was there visible, in which the same dip of strata might be observed, together with certain ribbed cavities matching huge bolts of rock which had once locked these stony walls together. Washing this cliff swept a clear stream, well known and well regarded, as it waxed in width by the honest brethren of the angle, who seldom, however, tracked it to its rise amongst these hills. The stream found its way into the valley through a chasm far to the left and rushed thundering down the mountainside in a boiling cascade. The valley was approached in this direction from Rookwood by an unfrequented carriage-road which Luke had, from prudential reasons, avoided, all seemed consecrated to silence, to solitude, to the hush of nature. Yet this quiet scene was the chosen retreat of lawless depreditors and had erstwhile been the theatre of feudal oppression. We have said that no habitation was visible, that no dwelling tenanted by man could be seen, but following the spur of the furthest mountain hill, some traces of a stone wall might be discovered, and upon a natural platform of rock stood a stern, square tower which had once been the donjon of the castle, the lords of which had called the four hills their own. A watchtower had then crowned each eminence. Every vestige of which had, however, long since disappeared. Sequestered in the veils stood the priory before alluded to, a monastery of grey friars of the order of St. Francis, some of the venerable walls of which were still remaining, and if they had not reverted to the bat and the owl, as is want to be the fate of such sacred structures, their cloistered shrines were devoted to beings whose natures partook in some measure of the instincts of those creatures of the night. A people whose deeds were of darkness and whose eyes shunned the light. Here the gypsies had pitched their tent. And though the place was often, in part, deserted by the vagrant horde, yet certain of the tribe, who had grown into years over whom Barbara Lovell held queenly sway, made it their haunt, and was suffered by the authorities of the neighbourhood to remain unmolested. A lenient piece of policy which, in our infinite regard for the wheel of the Tawny tribe, we recommend to the adoption of all other justices and knights of the Shire. Bidding his grandsire have regard to his seat, Luke leapt a high bank, and, followed by Turpin, began to descend the hill. Peter, however, took care to provide for himself. The descent was so perilous, and the footing so insecure that he chose rather to trust as such conveyance as nature had furnished him with than to hazard his neck by any false step of the horse. He contrived, therefore, to slide off from behind, shaping his own course in a more secure direction. He who has wandered amidst the Alps must have often had occasion to witness the wonderful sure-footedness of the mountain pilot, the mule. He must have remarked how, with tenacious hoof, he will claw the rock and drag himself from one impending fragment to another with perfect security to his rider. How he will breast the roaring currents of air and stand on shrinking at the verge of almost unfathomable ravines. But it is not so with the horse. Fleet on the plain, careful over rugged ground, he is timid and uncertain on the hillside, and the risk incurred by Luke and Turpin in their descent of the almost perpendicular sides of the cliff was tremendous. Peter watched them in their descent with some admiration, and with much contempt. He will break his neck of assurity, said he, but what matters it, as well now as hereafter. So saying, he approached the verge of the precipice, where he could see them more distinctly. The passage along which Luke rode had never before been traversed by horse's hoof. Cut in the rock, it presented a steep zigzag path amongst the hills, without any defence for the foot traveller, except such as was afforded by a casual clinging shrub and no protection whatever existed for a horseman. The possibility of anyone attempting the passage not having, in all probability, entered into the calculation of those who framed it. Added to this, the steps were of such unequal heights and with all so narrow that the danger was proportionately increased. Ten thousand devils, cried Turpin, staring downwards, is this the best road you've got? You will find one more easy, replied Luke, if you ride for a quarter of a mile down the wood and then return by the Brookside, you will meet me at the priory. No, answered the highwayman boldly, if you go, I go too. It shall never be said that Dick Turpin was afraid to follow where another would lead. Proceed. Luke gave his horse the bridle and the animal slowly and steadily commenced the descent, fixing his forelegs upon the steps and drawing his hinder limbs carefully after him. Here it was that the lightness and steadiness of Turpin's mare was completely shown. No Alpine mule could have borne its rider with more apparent ease and safety. Turpin encouraged her by hand and word, but she needed it not. The sexton saw them and, tracking their giddy descent, he became more interested than he anticipated. His attention was suddenly drawn towards Luke. He's gone! cried Peter. He falls! He sinks! My plans are all defeated. The last link is snapped. No, added he, recovering his wanted composure. His end is not so fated. Rook had missed his footing. He rolled stumbling down the precipice a few yards. Luke's fate seemed inevitable. His feet were entangled in the stirrup. He could not free himself. A birch tree, growing in a chink of the precipice, arrested his further fall. But for this timely aid all had been over. Here Luke was unable to extricate himself from the stirrup and to regain his feet. Seizing the bridle, he dragged his faulty steed back again to the road. You've had a narrow escape by Jove! said Turpin, who had been thunderstruck with the whole proceeding. Those big cattle are always clumsy. Devilish look eats no worse. It was now comparatively smooth travelling, but they had not as yet reached the valley, and it seemed to be Luke's object to take a circuitous path. This was so evident that Turpin could not help commenting upon it. Luke evaded the question. The craggy steep there, said he. Besides, to tell you the truth, I want to surprise them. Laughed Dick. Surprise them, eh? What a pity the birch tree was in the way. You would have done it properly then. Gad, there's another surprise. Dick's last exclamation was caused by his having suddenly come upon a wide gully in the rock, through which dashed a headlong torrent crossed by a single plank. You must be mad to have taken this road, cried Turpin, gazing down into the roaring depths in which the waterfall raged, measuring the distance of the pass with his eye. So-so, Bess, aye. Look at it, Wench. Curse me, Luke, if you think your horse will do it, and therefore turn him loose. But Dick might as well have bidden the cataract to flow backwards. Luke struck his heels into his horse's sides. The steed galloped to the brink, snorted and refused the leap. I told you so, he can't do it, said Turpin. Well, if you're obstinate, a willful man must have his way. Stand aside while I try it for you. Patting Bess, he put her to the gallop. She cleared the gulf bravely, landing her rider safely upon the opposite rock. Now, then, cried Turpin from the other side of the chasm. Luke again urged his steed, encouraged by what he had seen this time the horse sprang across without hesitation. The next instant, they were in the valley. For some time they rolled along the banks of the stream in silence. A sound at length caught the quick ears of the highwayman. HIST! cried he. Someone sings! Do you hear it? I do, replied Luke, the blood rushing to his cheeks. I could give a guess at the singer, no doubt, said Turpin, with a knowing look. Was it to hear Yon would like that you nearly broke your own neck and put mine in jeopardy? Pretty be silent, whispered Luke. I am dumb, replied Turpin. I like a sweet voice, as well as another. Clear as the note of a bird, yet melancholy as the distant dole of a Vesper bell arose the sound of that sweet voice from the wood. A fragment of a Spanish gypsy song it wobbled. Luke knew it well. Thus ran the romance. La jitanía. By the guadalquivir, ere the sun be flown, by that glorious river, sits a maid alone. Like the sunset splendour of that current bright, shone her dark eyes tender as its witching light. Like the ripple flowing, tinged with purple sheen, darkly richly glowing is her warm cheek scene. Tis a jitanía. By the stream doth linger, in the hope that Eve will her lover bring her. See the sun is sinking, all grows dim and dies. See the waves are drinking glories of the skies, day's last luster playeth on that current dark, yet no speck betrayeth his long look for a bark. Tis the hour of meeting, nay the hour is past. Swift the time is fleeting, fleeteth hope is fast. Still the jitanía. By the stream doth linger, in the hope that night will her lover bring her. The tender trembling of a guitar was heard in accompaniment of the ravishing melodist. The song ceased. Where is the bird? Asked Turpin. Move on in silence, and you shall see. Said Luke, and keeping upon the turf, so that his horses' tread became inaudible, he presently arrived at a spot where, through the boughs, the object of his investigation could plainly be distinguished, though he himself was concealed from view. Upon a platform of rock, rising to the height of the trees, nearly perpendicular from the river's bed, appeared the figure of the gypsy maid. Her footstep rested on the extreme edge of the abrupt cliff, at whose base the water boiled in a deep whirlpool, and the bounding chamois could not have been more lightly poised. One hand rested upon her guitar, the other pressed her brow. Braided hair of the jettiest dye and sleekest texture was twined around her brow in endless twisted folds, rolled as it was in many a curious fret, much like a rich and curious coronet, upon whose arches twenty cupids lay, and were as tied, or loth, to fly away. And so exuberant was this rarest of feminine ornament that, after encompassing her brow, it was passed behind, and hung down in long, thick plaits almost to her feet, sparkling as the sunbeams that played upon her dark yet radiant features, with the large, black, oriental eyes of the maiden, and shaded with lashes long and silken. Hers was a moorish countenance, in which the magnificence of the eyes eclipses the face beat ever so beautiful, an effect to be observed in the angelic pictures of Murillo. And the lovely contour is scarcely noticed in the gaze which those long, languid, luminous orbs attract. Sibyl's features were exquisite, yet you looked only at her eyes. They were the load-stars of her countenance. Her costume was singular, and partook like herself of other climes. Like the Andalusian dame, her choice of colour inclined toward black, as the material of most of her dress was of that sombre hue. Her bodies of embroidered velvet restrained her delicate bosom swell, a rich girdle from which depended a silver chain sustaining a short ponyard bound her waist. Around her slender throat was twined a costlicker chief, and the rest of her dress was calculated to display her slight, yet faultless figure to the fullest advantage. Unconscious that she was the object of regard, she raised her guitar and essayed to touch the chords, she struck a few notes and resumed her romance. Swift that stream flows on, Swift the night is wearing, yet she is not gone, though with heart despairing. Her song died away, her hand was needed to brush off the tears that were gathering in her large dark eyes. At once, her attitude was changed, the hair could not have started more suddenly from her form, she heard accents well known concluding the melody. Dips an oar splash Hark, gently on the river, tits her lover's bark, on the guadalquivir, Hark a song she hears, every note she snatches as the singer nears, her own name she catches, now the giantia stays not by the water, for the midnight hour hath her lover brought her. It was her lover's voice. Cutting as the roe would arouse herself at the hunter's approach, bounded down the crag, and there he had finished the riff-rain, was by his side. Flinging the bridle to Turpin, Luke sprang to her and caught her in his arms, disengaging herself from his ardent embrace, Sibyl drew back, abashed at the sight of the highwayman. He'd him not, said Luke, it is a friend. He is welcome here, then, replied Sibyl. But where have you tarried so long, dear Luke? continued she, as they walked to a little distance from the highwayman. What hath detained you? The hours have passed weirdly since you departed. You bring good news? Good news, my girl, so good, that I falter even in the telling of it, you shall know all and on, and see our friend Yonder grows impatient. Are there any stirring? We must bestow a meal upon him, he's one of those who would brook not much delay. I came not to spoil a love-meeting, said Turpin, who had good-humidly witnessed the scene, but in sober seriousness, if there is a stray cape on to me wet within the land of Egypt, I shall be glad to make his acquaintance. Me thinks I sent a stew afar off. Follow me, said Sibyl, your wants shall be supplied. Stay, said Luke, there is one other of our party who's coming we must abide. He is here, said Sibyl, observing the sexton at a distance. Who is that old man? My grand-sire, Peter Bradley. Is that Peter Bradley? asked Sibyl. Aye, you may well ask whether that old dried up otter me, who ought to grin in the glass case for folks to stare at, be kith and kin of such a bang up cove as your fancy man Luke, said Turpin laughing, but if faith is... Though he is your grand-sire, Luke, said Sibyl, I like him not, his glance resembles that of the evil eye. And, in fact, the look which Peter fixed upon her was such as the rattlesnake casts upon its victim, and Sibyl felt like a poor, fluttering bird under the fascination of that venomous reptile. She could not remove her eyes from his, though she trembled as she gazed. We have said that Peter's arms were like those of the Toad. Age had not dimmed their brilliancy. In his harsh features you could only read bitter scorn or withering hate, but in his eyes resided a magnetic influence of attraction or repulsion. Sibyl underwent the former feeling in a disagreeable degree. She was drawn to him as by the motion of a whirlpool and involuntarily clung to her lover. It is the evil eye, dear Luke. Tut, tut, dear Sibyl. I'll tell you it is my grand sire. The girl says it rightly, however, rejoined Turpin. Peter has a confounded ugly look about the Ogles and stares enough to put a modest wench out of countenance. Come, come, my old earthworm, crawl along, we've waited for you long enough. Is this the first time you've seen a pretty lass, eh? It's the first time I've seen one so beautiful, said Peter, and I crave her to pardon if my freedom has offended her. I wonder not at your enchantment, grandson Luke. Now I behold the object of it. But there is one piece of council I would give to this fair maid. The next time she trusts you from her sight I would advise her to await you at the hilltop. Otherwise the chances are strudely against you reaching the ground with neck unbroken. There was something notwithstanding the satirical manner in which Peter delivered this speech, calculated to make a more favourable impression upon Sibyl than his previous conduct had inspired her with, and having ascertained from Luke to what his speech referred, she extended her hand to him, yet not without a shudder as it was enclosed in his skinny grasp. It was like the fingers of Venus in the grasp of a skeleton. This is a little hand, said Peter, and I have some skill myself in palmistry. Shall I peruse its lines? Not now, in the devil's name, said Terpin, stamping impatiently. We shall have all ruffian himself amongst us presently if Peter Bradley grows gallant. Leading their horses the party took their way through the trees. A few minutes walking brought them in sight of the gypsy encampment, the spot selected for which might be termed the Eden of the valley. It was a small green plain smooth as a well-sure lawn, kept ever verdant, saving the spots where the frequent fires had scorched its surface by the flowing stream that rushed past it, and surrounded by an amphitheatre of wooded hills. Here might be seen the canvas tent with its patches of varied colouring, the rude-fashioned hut of primitive construction, the kettle slung between two poles upon a stick transverse, the tethered beasts of burden, the horses, asses, dogs, carts, caravans, wanes, blocks, and other movables and immovables belonging to the wandering tribe. Glimmering through the trees at the extremity of the plain appeared the ivy-mantled walls of Davenham Priory. Though much had gone to decay, enough remained to recall the pristine state of this one's majestic pile and the long broken line of Saxon arches that still marked the cloister wall. The piers that yet supported the dormitory, Glimmer's horseshoe arch that spanned the court, and above all the great marigold or circular window which terminated the chapel and which, though now despoiled of its painted honours, retained like the skeleton leaf its fibrous intricacies entire. All eloquently spoke of the glories of the past while they awakened reverence and admiration for the still-enduring beauty of the present. Towards these ruins, Sybil conducted a party. Do you dwell therein?" asked Peter, pointing towards the Priory. That is my dwelling, said Sybil. It is one I should covet more than a modern mansion, returned the Saxon. I love those old walls better than any house that was ever fashioned, replied Sybil. As they entered the priors close, as it was called, several swarthy figures made their appearance from the tents. Many a greeting was bestowed upon Luke in the wild jargon of the tribe, at length, an uncouth, dwarfish figure with a shock head of black hair hopped towards them. He seemed to acknowledge Luke as his master. "'What's all, Grasshopper?' said Luke. "'Take these horses and see that they lack neither dressing nor provinder.' "'And Hark ye, Grasshopper?' added Turpin. "'I give you a special charge about this mare. Neither dress nor feed her till I see both of myself. Just walk her for ten minutes, and if you have a glass of ale in the place, let her sip it.' "'Your bidding shall be done,' chirped the human insect as he fluttered away with his charges.' A motley assemblage of tawny-skinned violets, dark-eyed women and children whose dusky limbs betrayed their lineage in strange costume and of wild deportment checked the path, muttering welcome upon welcome into the year that he passed. As it was evident that he was ennomed for converse, simple, who seemed to exercise considerable authority over the crew, with a word disperse them, and they hurried back to their respective habitations. A low door admitted Luke and his companions into what had once been the garden, in which some old, moss-encrusted apple and walnut trees were still standing, bearing a look of antiquity almost as venerable as that door gave them entrance to a spacious chamber, formerly the eating-room or refectory of the Holy Brotherhood, and the goodly room it had been, though now its slender, lancelated windows were stuffed with hate to keep out the air. Large holes told where huge oak and rafters had once crossed the roof, and a yawning aperture marked the place where a cheering fire had formally blazed. As regarded this latter spot, the good old custom was not, totally abrogated. An iron plate, covered with crackling wood, sustained a ponderous black cauldron, the rich steam from which gratefully affected the olfactory organs of the highwaymen. That arg as well, said he, rubbing his hands. Still hungering after the flesh-pots of Egypt, said the sexton with a ghastly smile. We will see what that kettle contains, said Luke. And that's our grace, exclaimed Sybil, calling. Her summons was answered by two maidens, habited not unbecomingly in gypsy gear. Bring the best our larder can furnish, said Sybil, and use dispatch you have appetites to provide for, sharpened by a long ride in the open air. And by night's fasting, said Luke, and solitary confinement to boot, and the night of business, I deterred him, and plaguey perplexing business into the bargain. And the night of a funeral, too, doled Peter. And that funeral of fathers, let us have breakfast speedily by all means, we have rare appetites. An all-locan table, it might have been the self-same upon which the holy friars had broken their mourning-fast, stood in the middle of the room. The ample board soon groaned beneath the weight of the savoury cauldron, the punctuous contents of which proved to be a couple of dismembered pheasants, an equal proportion of poultry, great gouts of ham, mushrooms, onions, and other pecan condiments. So satisfactory to Dick Turpin that, upon tasting a mouthful, he absolutely shed tears of delight. The dish was indeed the triumph of gypsy cookery, and so sedulously did Dick apply himself to his mess, and so complete was his abstraction, that he could not, he was left alone. It was only when about to wash down the last drumstick of the last fowl with a can of excellent ale that he made his discovery. What? Oh God! And Peter Bradley too? What the devil does this mean, mused he. I must not muddle my brain with any more pharaoh, though I have feces like a king of Egypt, that will never do. Caution, Dick, caution. Suppose I shift yon brick from the wall, and place this precious stone beneath it. Ah, Luke will never play me false. And now for best, bless her black skin. She'll wonder where I've been so long. It's not my way to leave her to shift for herself, though she can do that on a pinch. So little aquising thus he arose and walked towards the door. End of Chapter 2, Book 3 Chapter 3, 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 3 Sybil The whiving vine that round the friendly elm, twines her soft limbs and weaves a leafy mantle. For her supporting lover dares not venture to mix her humble boughs with the embraces of the more lofty cedar. Galapthorn, Albertus Wallenstein Beneath a mouldering wall, wither they had strayed to be free from interruption, and upon a carpet of the greenest moss sat Sybil and her lover. With eager curiosity she listened to his tale. He recounted all that had befallen him since his departure. He told her of the awful revelations of the tomb, of the ring that, like a talisman, had conjured up a thousand brilliant prospects, of his subsequent perils, his escapes, his recont with Lady Rookwood, his visit to his father's body, and his meeting with his brother. All that she heard with a cheek now flushed with expectation, now made pale with apprehension, with palpitating bosom and suppressed breath. But when taking a softer tone, love, affection, happiness inspired the theme, and Rook sought to paint the bliss that should be theirs in his new estate, when he would throw his fortune into her lap, his titles at her feet, and bid her wear them with him, when with a noble hand and unchanged heart, he would fulfil the troth plighted in his outcast days. In lieu of tender, grateful acquiescence, the features of Sible became overcast, the soft smile faded away, and the spring sunshine is succeeded by the sudden shower, the light that dwelt in her sunny arms grew dim with tears. Why, why is this, dear Sible? said Rook, gazing upon her in astonishment, not unmingled with displeasure. To what am I to attribute these tears, you do not surely regret my good fortune? Not on your account, your account, dear Rook, returned she, sadly. The tears I shed were for myself, the first, the only tears I have ever shed for such a cause, and added she, raising her head like a flower surcharged with moisture, they shall be the last. This is inexplicable, dear Sible, why should you lament for yourself, if not for me? Does not the sunshine of prosperity that now shines upon me guild you with the same beam? Did I not even now affirm that the day that you saw me enter the hall of my forefathers should dawn upon our espousals? True, but the sun that shines upon you to me wears a threatening aspect. The day of those espousals will never dawn. You cannot make me the lady of Rookwood. What do I hear? exclaimed Luke, surprised at this avowal of his mistress, sadly and deliberately delivered. Not wed you, and wherefore not? Is it the rank I have acquired, a hope to acquire that displeases you, speak, that I may waste no further time in thus pursuing the shadows of happiness, while the reality fleets from me? And are they shadows? And is this the reality, dear Luke? Question your secret soul, and you will find it otherwise. You could not forgo your triumph. It is not likely. You have dwelt too much upon the proud title which will be yours to yield it to another when it may be won so easily. And above all, when your mother's reputation and your own stained name may be cleared by one word, breathed aloud, would you fail to utter it? No, dear Luke. I read your heart. You would not. And if I could not forgo this, wherefore you refuse to be a share in my triumph, why will you render my honors valueless when I have acquired them? You love me not. Not love you, Luke. Approve it, then. I do approve it. Bear witness to the sacrifice I am about to make of all my hopes, at the shrine of my idolatry to you. Bear witness the agony of this hour. Bear witness the horror of the avowal that I can never be yours. As Luke Bradley I would joyfully, oh, how joyfully have been your bride, a Salute Rookwood, and she shoulded as she pronounced the name. I can never be so. Then by heaven, Luke Bradley will I remain, but wherefore wherefore not a Salute Rookwood? Because, replied Sybil, with reluctance. Because I am no longer your equal. The gypsy's low-born daughter is no mate for Sir Luke Rookwood. Love cannot blind me, dear Luke. It cannot make me other than I am. It cannot exalt me in my own esteem, nor in that of the world which you, alas, too soon will mingle, and which will regard me even as, no matter what, it shall not scorn me as your bride. I will not bring shame and reproach upon you. Oh, if for me, dear Luke, the proud ones of the earth were to treat you with consumely this heart would break with agony. For myself I have pride sufficient. Perchance too much. Perchance dis-pride that actuates me now. I know not, but for you I am all weakness as you were here too for. I would have been to you the tenderest and truest wife that ever breathed. As you are now. Hear me, Sybil. Hear me out, dear Luke. One other motive there is that determines my present conduct, which, were all else surmounted, would in itself suffice. Ask me not what it is. I cannot explain it. For your own sake, I implore you, be satisfied with my refusal. What a destiny is mine! exclaimed Luke, striking his forehead with his clenched hand. No choices left me. Either way, I destroy my own happiness on the one hand stands love. On the other, ambition, yet neither will conjoin. Pursue then, ambition said Sybil, energetically. If you can hesitate, forget that I have ever existed, forget you have ever loved, forget that such a passion dwells within the human heart, and you may still be happy, though you are great. And do you deem, replied Luke, with frantic impatience, that I can accomplish this, that I can forget that I have loved you, that I can forget you? Cost what it will, the effort shall be made, yet by our far more love I charge you to tell me what has wrought this change in you. Why do you now refuse me? I have said you are, Sir Luke Rookwood, returned Sybil with painful emotion. Does that name import nothing? Imports it ought of ill? To me, everything of ill, it is a fated house, its line are all predestined. To what, demanded Luke, to murder, replied Sybil, with solemn emphasis, to the murder of their wives. Forgive me, Luke, if I have dared to utter this, yourself compelled me to it. Amazement, horror, wrath kept Luke silent for a few moments, starting to his feet, he cried. And can you suspect me of a crime so foul? Think you, because I shall assume the name that I shall put on the nature likewise of my race? Do you believe me capable of art so horrible? Oh no, I believe it not. I am sure you would not do it. Your soul would reject with horror such a deed. But if fate should guide your hand, if the avenging spirit of your murdered ancestors should point to the steel, you could not shun it then. In Heaven's name, to what do you allude? To a tradition of your house, replied Sybil, listen to me, and you shall hear the legend. And with a pathos that produced a thrilling effect upon Luke, she sang the following ballad. The legend of the Lady of Rookwood. Grimranoth home, hath at midnight come, from the long wars of their oses, and the squire who waits at his ancient gates, at secret dark discloses, to that valet's words no response accords his lord but his visage stern, grows ghastly white in the one moonlight, and his eyes like the lean wolf's burn. To his lady's bower, at that lonesome hour, unannounced is Syranoth gone. Through the dim corridor, through the hidden door he glides, she's all alone. Full of holy zeal doth his young dame kneel at the meek Madonna's feet. Her hands are pressed on her gentle breast and upturned is her aspect sweet. Beats Rannoth's heart with a joyful start as he looks on her guiltless face and the raging fire of his jealousire is subdued by the words of grace. His own name shares her mammoth prayers more freely can he breathe but ah, that look, why doth he pluck his poneyard from his sheath on a footstool throne lies a costly gown of sey and of minevere, a mantle fair for the dainty wear of a mineard cavalier and on it flung to a bracelet hung a picture meets his eye. By my father's head Grim Rannoth said, false wife, thy end draws nigh from off its chain at the fierce night tame that fond and fatal pledge his dark eyes blaze no word he says thrice gleams his dagger's edge her bloody drinks and as she sinks his victim hears his cry for kissed impure of paramour adulterous dost thou die silent he stood with hands in brooding gore and a glance of fame and thus her plaint made his ill-fated dame kind heaven can tell that all too well I've loved thee cruel lord hate, commensurate, assassin, thou art abhorred I've loved thee long through doubt and wrong I've loved thee and no other and my love was pure for my paramour for alas he was my brother the red red rose on thy banner glows on his pen and gleams the white and the bitter feud that ye both have rude forbid ye to re-night my bower he sought thy jealous vassals slept of joy we dreamed and never deemed that watch those vassals kept and hour flew by too speedily that picture was his boon ah little thrift to me that gift he left me all too soon well worth the hour doubt fate did lower when our hands were first united for my heart's firm truth mid-tears and rooth with death has thou requited my prayer sincere for many a year of my wretched life I've spent but to hell's control what I give my soul to work thy chastisement these wild words said looked root to head and ranoff's life-blood froze for the earth did gape as an awful shape from out its death to rose thy prayer is heard hell hath concurred cried the fiend thy soul is mine did ranoff awe his line within the tomb to wait her doom is that the hapless lady sleeping and another bride by ranoff's side through the live-long night is weeping this dame declines a third repines and fades like the rest away her lurchy ruse whom a rockered woose cursed is her wedding day and this is the legend of my ancestors said Luke as civil strains were ended it is replied she an idle tale observed Luke moodily not so uncivil has not the curse of blood clung to all your line has it not attached to your father to Sir Reginald, Sir Ralph, Sir Ranoff to all which of them has escaped it and when I tell you this dear Luke when I find you bear the name of this accursed race can you wonder if I should add to the list of victims of that rootless spirit and that I tremble for you I would die for you willingly but not by your hand I would not by that blood which I would now pour out for you as freely as water should rise up in judgments against you for myself I have no tears for you a thousand my mother upon her deathbed told me I should never be yours I believed her not for I was happy then she said that we should never be united or if united what in heaven's name that you would be my destroyer how could I credit her words then how can I doubt them now when I find you at our Rookwood and think not dear Luke that I am ruled by selfish fears in this resolution to renounce you may cost me my life but the deed will be my own you may call me superstitious credulous I have been nurtured in credulity this is the faith of my fathers there are those me things who have an insight into futurity and such boring words have been spoken that they may be true or false I will not risk their fulfillment in my person I may be credulous I may be weak I may be airing but I am steadfast in this bid me perish at your feet and I will do it I will not be your fate I will not be the wretched instruments of your perdition serve, worship, watch, serve perish for you but I will not wed you exhausted by the vehemence of her emotion she would have sunk upon the ground had not Luke caught her in his arms pressing her to his bosom he renewed his passionate protestations every argument was unavailing Sybil appeared inflexible you love me as you have ever loved me said she at length a thousand fold more fervently replied Luke put it to the test how if I dare to do so consider well I may ask too much name it if it be not to surrender to you by my mother's body I will obey you I would propose an oath ha a solemn binding oath that if you wed me not you will not wed another do you start have I appalled you I start I will take it hear me by hold exclaimed a voice behind them do not forswear yourself and immediately afterwards the sexton made his appearance there was a malignant smile upon his countenance the lovers started at the ominous interruption begun cried Luke take not that oath said Peter and I leave you remember the council I gave you on our way hither what council did he give you Luke inquired Sibyl eagerly of her lover we spoke of you fond girl replied Peter I cautioned him against the match I knew not your sentiments or I had spared myself the trouble you have judged wisely were he to wed you ill would come of it but he must wed another must cried Sibyl her eyes absolutely emitting sparkles of indignation from their night like debts and unsheathing as she spoke the short Ponyard which she wore at her girdle she rushed towards Peter raising her hand to strike must wed another and dare you counsel this but up your dagger fair maiden said Peter calmly had I been younger your eyes might have had more terrors for me than your weapon as it is I am proof against both you would not strike an old man like myself and of your lovers kin Sibyl's uplifted hand fell to her side it is true continued the sexton I dared to give him this advice and when you have heard me out you will not I am persuaded think me so unreasonable as at first I may appear to be I have been an unseen listener to your converse not that I desire to pry into your secrets far from it I overheard you by accident I applaud your resolution but if you are inclined to sacrifice all your lover's wheel do not let the work be incomplete bind him not by oaths which he will regard as spider's webs to be burst through at pleasure you see as well as I do that he's bent on being lord of rookwood and in truth to an aspiring mind such a desire is natural is praise worthy it will be pleasant as well as honourable to efface the stain cast upon his birth it will be an act of filial duty in him to restore his mother's good name her father lord his anxiety on that score though to speak the truth fair made I am not so rigid as your nice moralists in my view of human nature and can allow a latitude to love which their nicer scruples will not admit it will be a proud thing to triumph over his implacable foe and this he may accomplish without marriage interrupted civil angrily true returned Peter yet not maintain it may win it but not wear it you have said truly the house of rookwood is a fated house and it hath been said likewise that if he wed not one of his own kindred if that rook mate not with the rook his possessions shall pass away from his hands listen to this prophetic quatrain when the stray rook shall perch on the topmost bow there shall be clamour and screeching I try but of right to a rule of the ancient nest the rook that with rook mate shall hold him possessed you hear what these quaint rhymes say Luke is doubtless the stray rook and a fledgling hath flown hither from a distant country he must take her to his mate or relinquish her and the ancient nest to his brother for my own part I disregard such sayings I have little faith in prophecy and divination I know not what Elinom Obri for she is so called can have to do with the tenure of the estates of rookwood but if Luke rookwood after he has lorded it for a while in splendour be cast forth again in rags and wretchedness let him not blame his grandsire for his own want of caution Luke I implore you tell me said Sybil who had listened horror-stricken to the sexton shuddering as it were beneath the chilly influence of his malevolent glance is it true does your fate depend upon Elinom Obri who is she what has she to do with rookwood have you seen her do you love her I've never seen her replied Luke thank heaven for that cried Sybil then you love her not how were that possible returned Luke do I not say I have not seen her who is she then this old man tells me she's my cousin she's betrothed to my brother Randolph how ejaculated Sybil and would you snatch his betrothed from your brother's arms would you do him this grievous wrong is it not enough that you much rest from him that which he has long deemed his own and if he has falsely deemed it so it will not make his lost a less bitter if you do thus wrong your brother do not look for happiness do not look for respect for neither will be your portion even this stony hearted old man shrinks a gas at such a deed his snake eyes are buried on the ground see I have moved even him and in truth Peter did appear for an instant strangely moved it is nothing returned he mastering his emotion by a strong effort what is all this to me I never had a brother I never had a wife child or relative that loved me and I love not the world nor the things of the world nor those that inhabit the world but I know what sways the world and its inhabitants and that is self and self-interest let Luke reflect on this the key to Rookwood is Eleanor Moebury the hand that grasps hers grasps those lands thus saith the prophecy it is a lying prophecy it was uttered by one of your race by whom by Barbara lovell said Peter with a snare of triumph ha he did not exclaimed Luke as Sibyl recoiled at this intelligence I'm yours not mine not mine shriek she but oh not hers with a go you cried Luke as Sibyl half bewildered tore herself from him to Barbara Lovell I will go with you no let me go alone I have much to ask her yet tarry not with this old man dear Luke or close your ears to his crafty talk avoid him oh I'm sick at heart follow me not I implore you follow me not and with distracted air she departed amongst the mouldering cloisters leaving Luke stupefied with anguish and surprise the sexton maintained a stern and stoical composure she is a woman after all muttered he all her high-flown resolves melt like snow in the sunshine at the thought of a rival I congratulate you grandson Luke you are free from your fetters free echoed Luke quit my sight I loathe to look upon you you have broken the truest heart that ever beat in woman's bosom tut tut returned Peter it is not broken yet wait till he hear what all Barbara has got to say and meanwhile we must arrange with Dick Turbin the price of that certificate the naive knows its value well come be a man this is worse than womanish and at length he succeeded half by force and half by persuasion in dragging Luke away with him end of chapter 3 book 3 chapter 4 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 4 Barbara Lovell Shetanos are enchanters divinos, magos, chromaticos that say for the rules of the hands of the future that they are the good adventure and generally are given to all superstitions Dr. Sancho de Moncada discusses about the expulsion of the shetanos like a dove escaped from the talons of the falcon Sibyl fled from the clutches of the sexton her brain was in a whirl her blood on fire she had no distinct perception of external objects no definite notion of what she herself was about to do and glided more like a flitting spirit than a living woman along the ruined ambulatory her hair had fallen in disorder over her face she stayed not to adjust it but tossed aside the blinding locks with frantic impatience Sibyl who tries to strain his nerves shattered by illness to the endurance of some dreadful yet necessary pain Sibyl loved her grandam old Barbara but it was more with her love tempered by fear Barbara was not a person to inspire esteem or to claim affection she was regarded by the wild tribe which she ruled as their queen elect with some such feeling of inexplicable awe as is entertained by the African slave they acknowledged her power unhesitatingly obeyed her commands and shrank with terror from her anathema which was indeed seldom pronounced but when uttered was considered as doom her tribe she looked upon as her flock and stretched her maternal hand over all ready alike to cherish or chastise and having already survived a generation that which succeeded having from infancy imbibed a superstitious veneration for the cunning woman as she was called the sentiment could never be wholly effaced winding her way she knew not how through roofless halls over disjointed fragments of fallen pillars Sibyl reached a flight of steps a door studied with iron nails stayed her progress it was an old strong oaken frame surmounted by a gothic arch in the keystone of which leared one of those grotesque demonical faces which the fathers of the church delighted to adorn their shrines Sibyl looked up her glance encountered the fantastical visage it recalled the features of the sexton and seemed to mock her to revile her her fortitude at once deserted her her fingers were upon the handle of the door she hesitated she even drew back with the intention of departing for she felt that then she dared not face Barbara it was too late she had moved the handle a deep voice from within called to her by name she dared not disobey that call she entered the room in which Sibyl found herself was the only entire apartment now existing in the priory it had survived the ravages of time it had escaped the devastation of man whose ravages outstripped those of time octagonal, lofty, yet narrow you saw at once that it formed the interior of a turret it was lighted by a small orial window commanding a lovely view of the scenery around and panelled with oak richly wrought in ribs and groins and from overhead depended a moulded ceiling of honeycomb plasterwork this room had something even now in the days of its desecration of monastic beauty about it where the odour of sanctity had breathed forth the fumes of idolatry prevailed but imagination ever on the wing drew back to that period and a tradition to that effect warranted the supposition when, perchance, it had been the sanctuary and the privacy of the priors self wrapped in a cloak composed of the skins of various animals upon a low pallet covered with stained scarlet cloth sat Barbara around her head was quaffed enfolded like those of an asiatic turban, a rich though faded shawl and her waist was encircled by the magical zodiacal zone proper to the sorceress the mago sineo of the zingara whence the name zingaro according to moncada which Barbara had brought from Spain from her ears depended long golden drops of curious antique fashioning and upon her withered fingers which looked like a coil of lizards were hooped a multitude of silver rings of the purest and simplest facture they seemed almost of massive unwrought metal her skin was yellow as the body of a toad corrugated as its back she might have been steeped in saffron from her fingertips the nails of which were of the same hue to such portions of her neck as were visible and which was puckered up like the throat of a turtle to look at her one might have thought the embalmer had experimented her art upon herself so dead so bloodless no blackened seemed the flesh where flesh remained leather could scarce be tougher than her skin she seemed like an animated mummy a frame so tanned appeared calculated to endure for ages and perhaps might have done so but alas the soul cannot be embalmed no oil can re-illumin that precious lamp and that Barbara's vital spark was fast waning was evident from her heavy bloodshot eyes once of a swimming black and lengthy as a witches which were now sinister and sunken the atmosphere of the room was as strongly impregnated as a museum with volatile odours emitted from the stores of drugs with which the shelves were loaded as well as from various stuffed specimens of birds and wild animals Barbara's only living companion was a monstrous owl which perched over the old gypsy's head hissed a token of recognition as symbol-advanced from a hook placed in the plaster roof was suspended a globe of crystal glass about the size and shape of a large gourd filled with a pure, perlucid liquid in which a small snake the Egyptian aspic described perpetual gyrations dim were the eyes of Barbara yet not altogether sightless the troubled demeanour of her grandchild struck her as she entered she felt the hot drops upon her hand a civil stoop to kiss it she heard her vainly stifled subs what ails you child said Barbara in a voice that rattled in her throat and hollow as the articulation of her phantom have you heard tidings of Luke Bradley as any ill befallen him I said you would either hear of him or see him this morning he's not returned I see what have you heard he is returned replied Sybil vainly and no ill has happened to him he is returned and you are here echoed Barbara no ill has happened to him thou sayest am I to understand there is to you Sybil answered not she could not answer I see I see said Barbara more gently and hand shaking with paralytic affection a quarrel a lovers quarrel all as I am I have not forgotten my feelings as a girl what woman ever does if she be woman and you like your poor mother are a true hearted wench she loved her husband as her husband should be loved Sybil and though she loved me well she loved him better as was right ah it was a bitter day when she left me for Spain I go to one of our wandering race all countries are alike yet the soil of our birth is dear to us and the presence of our kindred dearer well well I will not think of that she's gone nay take it not so too hard wench Luke has a hasty temper it's not the first time I have told you so he will not bear rebuke and you have questioned him too shrewdly touching his absence is it not so he did not ask me you will have him seek your forgiveness ere the shadow shot and meet the noon tide sun alas alas said Sybil sadly this is no lovers quarrel which may at once be forgotten and forgiven would it were so what is it then asked Barbara and without waiting Sybil's answer she continued with vehemence has he wronged you tell me girl in what way speak that I may avenge you inquires revenge are you blood of mine and think I will not do this for you girl none of the blood of Barbara lover were ever unrevenged when Richard Cooper stabbed my firstborn Francis he fled to Flanders to escape my wrath but he did not escape it I pursued him there I hunted him out drove him back to his own country and brought him to the gallows it took a power of gold what matter revenge is dearer than gold and as it was with Richard Cooper so shall it be with Luke Bradley I will catch him though he run I will trip him though he leap I will reach him though he flee afar I will drag him hither by the hair of his head added she with a livid smile and clutching at the air with her hands as if in the act of pulling someone towards her he shall wed you within the hour if you will have it or if your honour need that it should be so my power is not so departed from me my people are yet my command I am still their queen and woe to him that offended me mother mother cried Sibyl a frighted at the form she had unwittingly aroused he has not injured me it is I alone who am to blame not Luke you're speaking mysteries said Barbara Sapir's Rookwood is dead dead echoed Barbara letting fall her hazel rod Sapir's dead and Luke Bradley ha is his successor who told you that as Barbara with increased astonishment Luke himself all is disclosed and Sibyl hastily recounted Luke's adventures he is now Sir Luke Rookwood this is news in truth said Barbara yet not news to weep for choice not lament well well I foresaw it I shall live to see all accomplished to see my Agatha's child ennobled to see her wedded ah to see her well wedded dearest mother I can endow you and I will do it you shall bring your husband not alone beauty you shall bring him wealth but mother my Agatha's daughter shall be Lady Rookwood never it cannot be what cannot be the match you now propose what mean you silly wench I perceive the meaning of those tears the truth flashes upon me he has discarded you no by the heaven of heavens he is still the same unaltered in affection if so your tears are out of place mother it is not fitting that I a gypsy born should wed with him not fitting I knew my child get up or I will spurn you not fitting it is fitting you shall have a dower as ample as that of any lady in the land not fitting do you say so because you think that he derives himself from a proud and ancient line ancient and proud ha I tell you girl that for his one ancestor I can number twenty for the years in which his lineage has flourished my race can boast centuries and was a people a kingdom and a land in which he dwells was known what if by the curse of heaven we were driven forth the curse of hell rests upon his house I know it said simple a dreadful curse which if I wed him with a light on me no not on you you shall avoid that curse I know a means to satisfy the avenger lead that to me I dare not as he can never be yet tell me you saw the body of Luke's ill-fated mother was she poisoned hey you may speak Sapir's death releases you from your oath how did she by strangulation said the old gypsy raising her pulsed hand to her throat oh cried simple gasping with horror what did I ring upon her finger when you embalmed the body a ring a wedding ring the finger was crooked listen girl I could have told Luke the secret of his birth long ago was by Sapir sealed fast my lips his mother was wedded to Sapir's his mother was murdered by Sapir's Luke was entrusted to my care by his father I have brought him up with you I have a fianced you together and I shall live to see you united he is now Sir Luke he is your husband do not deceive yourself mother said Sibyl with a fearful earnestness he is not yet Sir Luke Rekwood would he had no claim to be so the fortune that has hitherto been so propitious may yet desert him be think you of a prophecy you uttered a prophecy and with slow enunciation Sibyl pronounced the mystic words which she had heard repeated by the sexton as she spoke a gloom like that of a thunder cloud began to gather over the brow of the old gypsy the orbs of her sunken eyes expanded and wrath supplied her frame with vigor she arose who told you that cried Barbara Luke's grand sire Peter Bradley how learned he it said Barbara it was to one who had long been in his grave I told it so long ago it had passed from my memory to strange old Sir Reginald had a brother I know but there is no other of the house there is a cousin Eleanor Mobre I see a daughter of that Eleanor Rookwood who fled from her father's roof fool fool am I caught in my own toils those words were words of truth and power and compelled a future and there will be with chains of brass they must be fulfilled yet not by runoff he shall never wed Eleanor whom then shall she wed his elder brother mother street Sibyl do you say so are recall your words I may not it is spoken Luke shall wed her oh god support me exclaimed Sibyl silly wench be firm it must be as I say he shall wed her yet shall he wed her not the nuptial taught shall be quenched as soon as lighted the curse of the avengers shall fall yet not on thee mother said Sibyl if sin must fall upon some innocent head let it be on mine not upon hers I love him I will gladly die for him she's young unoffending perhaps happy do not let her perish peace I say cried Barbara and mark me this is your birthday 18 summers have flown over your young head 80 winters have sown their snows on mine you have yet to learn years have brought wrinkles they have brought wisdom likewise to struggle with fate I tell you is to wrestle with omnipotence see but not avert your destiny what will be shall be this is your 18th birthday Sibyl it is a day of fate to you in it occurs your planetary hour an hour of good or ill according to your actions I have cast your horoscope I have watched your natal star it is under the baleful influence of scorpion and fiery satan sheds his lurid glance upon it let me see your hand the line of life is drawn out distinct clear it runs what means that intersection beware beware my Sibyl act as I tell you when you are safe I will make another trial by the crystal bowl attend muttering some strange words sounding like a spell Barbara with the bifurcate hazel staff which she used as a divining rod described a circle upon the floor within this circle she drew other lines from angle to angle forming seven triangles the bases of which constituted the signs of a septilateral figure this figure she stood intently for a few moments she then raised her wand and touched the owl with it the bird unfolded its wings under rows in flight then slowly circled around the pendulous globe each time it drew nearer until at length it touched the glassy bowl with its flapping pinions enough! ejaculated Barbara and at another motion from her rod the bird stayed its flight and returned to the perch Barbara arose she struck the globe with her staff the pure lymph became instantly tinged with crimson as if blood had been commingled with it the little serpent could be seen within coiled up and knotted as in the struggles of death again I say beware! ejaculated Barbara solemnly this is ominous of ill Sibyl had sunk from faintness on the pallet a knock was heard at the door Who is without? cried Barbara Desai, Balthazar! replied a voice Thou mayest enter! answered Barbara and an old man with a long beard whiter snow reaching to his girdle and a costume which might be said to resemble the raiment of a Jewish high priest made his appearance this venerable personage was no other patriarchal or herofront of the canting crew I come to tell you that there are strangers ladies within the priory said the patriarchal gravely I have searched for you in vain continued he addressing Sibyl the younger of them seems to need your assistance whence come they exclaimed Barbara they have ridden I understand from Rookwood answered the patriarchal having them when they were prevented from Rookwood echoed Sibyl the names did you hear the names Mobre is a name of both they are a mother and a daughter the younger is called Eleanor asked Sibyl with an acute foreboding of calamity Eleanor is the name assuredly replied the patrico somewhat surprised I heard the elder whom I guessed to be her mother so address her Grace is God she's here exclaimed Sibyl here Eleanor Mobre here cried Barbara within my power not a moment is to be lost Balthazar hasten round the tents not a man must leave this place above all Luke Bradley see that these Mobres are detained within the abbey let the bell be sounded quick quick lead this wench to me she's not well I have much to do away with the man and let me know when thou has done it and as Balthazar departed on his mission with a glance of triumph in her eyes Barbara exclaimed so no sooner hath the thought possessed me than the means of accomplishment appear it shall be done at once I will tie the knot I will untie and then retie it this weak wench must be nerve to the task added she regarding the senseless form of Sibyl here is what will stimulate her opening the cupboard and taking a small file this will fortify her and this continued she with a ghastly smile laying her hand upon another vessel this shall remove her rival when all is fulfilled this liquid shall constrain her lover to be her titled landed husband end of chapter 4 book 3