This is a modern-English version of Rookwood, originally written by Ainsworth, William Harrison. It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling, and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.

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"The immortal Ainsworth."     Thackeray.

"The immortal Ainsworth." Thackeray.

NOVELS

BOOKS

BY

WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH

ROOKWOOD

"Gives a vivid picture of the times
"and the places he interacted with."
The New York Herald.

THE RITTENHOUSE PRESS
PHILADELPHIA

THE RITTENHOUSE PRESS
PHILADELPHIA


DICK TURPIN CLEARS HORNSEY TOLL-GATE

PRINTED IN U.S.A. BY ARRANGEMENT WITH
GEORGE BARRIE'S SONS

PRINTED IN U.S.A. BY ARRANGEMENT WITH
GEORGE BARRIE'S SONS


Transcriber's Note

Transcriber's Note

Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Archaic and dialect spellings have been retained. Greek text appears as originally printed, but with a mouse-hover transliteration, ταφος.

Minor typos have been fixed without mention. Old-fashioned and regional spellings have been kept. Greek text is displayed as it was originally published, but with a mouse-hover transliteration, grave.

A table of contents, though not present in the original publication, has been provided below:

A table of contents, even though it wasn't included in the original publication, is provided below:


MEMOIR

William Harrison Ainsworth was born in King Street, Manchester, February 4, 1805, in a house that has long since been demolished. His father was a solicitor in good practice, and the son had all the advantages that educational facilities could afford. He was sent to the Manchester grammar-school, and in one of his early novels has left an interesting and accurate picture of its then condition, which may be contrasted with that of an earlier period left by the "English opium-eater." At sixteen, a brilliant, handsome youth, with more taste for romance and the drama than for the dry details of the law, he was articled to a leading solicitor of Manchester. The closest friend of his youth was a Mr. James Crossley, who was some years older, but shared his intellectual taste and literary enthusiasm. A drama written for private theatricals, in his father's house was printed in Arliss's Magazine, and he also contributed to the Manchester Iris, the Edinburgh Magazine, and the London Magazine. He even started a periodical, which received the name of The Bœotian, and died at the sixth number. Many of the fugitive pieces of these early days were collected in volumes now exceedingly rare: "December Tales" (London, 1823), which is not wholly from his pen; the "Works of Cheviot Tichburn"[viii] (London, 1822; Manchester, 1825), dedicated to Charles Lamb; and "A Summer Evening Tale" (London, 1825).

William Harrison Ainsworth was born on King Street in Manchester on February 4, 1805, in a house that has since been torn down. His father was a successful solicitor, and the son benefited from all the educational opportunities available. He attended Manchester Grammar School, where he captured an interesting and accurate portrayal of its condition in one of his early novels, which can be compared to an earlier depiction by the "English opium-eater." At sixteen, he was a charming and attractive young man with a stronger interest in romance and drama than in the tedious details of law, so he became an apprentice at a leading Manchester solicitor’s office. His closest friend in his youth was Mr. James Crossley, who was a few years older but shared Ainsworth's passion for literature and intellectual pursuits. A drama he wrote for private performances at his father's house was published in Arliss's Magazine, and he also contributed to the Manchester Iris, Edinburgh Magazine, and London Magazine. He even launched a periodical called The Bœotian, which unfortunately ended after just six issues. Many of the short pieces from these early years were compiled into volumes that are now very rare: "December Tales" (London, 1823), which he did not entirely write; the "Works of Cheviot Tichburn" [viii] (London, 1822; Manchester, 1825), dedicated to Charles Lamb; and "A Summer Evening Tale" (London, 1825).

"Sir John Chiverton" appeared in 1826, and for forty years was regarded as one of his early works; but Mr. John Partington Aston has also claimed to be its author. In all probability, both of these young men joined in the production of the novel which attracted the attention of Sir Walter Scott. On the death of his father, in 1824, Ainsworth went to London to finish his legal education, but whatever intentions he may have formed of humdrum study and determined attention to the details of a profession in which he had no interest, were dissipated by contact with the literary world of the metropolis. He made the acquaintance of Mr. John Ebers, who at that time combined the duties of manager of the Opera House with the business of a publisher. He it was who issued "Sir John Chiverton," and the verses forming its dedication are understood to have been addressed to Anne Frances ("Fanny") Ebers, whom Ainsworth married October 11, 1826. Ainsworth had then to decide upon a career, and, acting upon the suggestion of Ebers, his father-in-law, he began business as a publisher; but after an experience of about eighteen months he abandoned it. In this brief interval he introduced the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and Ude, the cook, to the discerning though unequal admiration of the British public. He was introduced to Sir Walter Scott, who wrote the "Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee" for an annual issued by him. Ainsworth gave him twenty guineas for it, which Sir Walter accepted, but laughingly handed over to the little daughter of Lockhart, in whose London house they had met. Ainsworth's literary aspirations still burned with undiminished[ix] ardor, and several plans were formed only to be abandoned, and when, in the summer of 1830, he visited Switzerland and Italy, he was as far as ever from the fulfilment of his desires. In 1831 he visited Chesterfield and began the novel of "Rookwood," in which he successfully applied the method of Mrs. Radcliffe to English scenes and characters. The finest passage is that relating Turpin's ride to York, which is a marvel of descriptive writing. It was written, apparently in a glow of inspiration, in less than a day and a half. "The feat," he says, "for feat it was, being the composition of a hundred novel pages in less than twenty-four hours, was achieved at 'The Elms,' a house I then occupied at Kilburn." The success of "Rookwood" was marked and immediate. Ainsworth at a bound reached popularity. This was in 1834, and in 1837 he published "Crichton," which is a fine piece of historical romance. The critics who had objected to the romantic glamor cast over the career of Dick Turpin were still further horrified at the manner in which that vulgar rascal, Jack Sheppard, was elevated into a hero of romance. The outcry was not entirely without justification, nor was it without effect on the novelist, who thenceforward avoided this perilous ground. "Jack Sheppard" appeared in Bentley's Miscellany, of which Ainsworth became editor in March, 1840, at a monthly salary of £51. The story is powerfully written. In 1841 he received £1000 from the Sunday Times for "Old St. Paul's," and he, in 1848, had from the same source another £1000 for the "Lancashire Witches." In 1841 he began the publication of Ainsworth's Magazine, which came to an end in 1853, when he acquired the New Monthly Magazine, which he edited for many years. This[x] was the heyday of Ainsworth's reputation alike in literature and in society. His home at Kensal Manor House became famous for its hospitality, and Dickens, Thackeray, Landseer, Clarkson Stanfield, Talfourd, Jerrold, and Cruikshank were among his guests. The list of his principal historical novels, with their dates of issue, may now be given: "Rookwood," 1834; "Crichton," 1837; "Jack Sheppard," 1839; "Tower of London," 1840; "Guy Fawkes," 1841; "Old St. Paul's, a Tale of the Plague and the Fire of London," 1841; "Windsor Castle," 1843; "St. James, or the Court of Queene Anne," 1844; "Star Chamber," 1854; "Constable of the Tower," 1861; "The Lord Mayor of London," 1862; "Cardinal Pole," 1863; "John Law, the Projector," 1864; "The Constable de Bourbon," 1866; "Talbot Harland," 1870; "Boscobel," 1872; "The Manchester Rebels, or the Fatal '45," 1873; and "The Goldsmith's Wife," 1874. These novels all met with a certain amount of success, but those of later years did not attain the striking popularity of his earlier efforts. Many have been translated into various modern languages, and the editions of his various works are so numerous that some twenty-three pages of the British Museum catalogue are devoted to his works. The scenery and history of his native country had a perennial interest for him, and a certain group of his novels—that is, the "Lancashire Witches," "Guy Fawkes," "The Manchester Rebels," etc.—may almost be said to form a novelist's history of Lancashire from the pilgrimage of grace until the early part of the present century.

"Sir John Chiverton" was published in 1826 and was considered one of his early works for forty years; however, Mr. John Partington Aston also claimed authorship. It's likely both young men collaborated on the novel, which caught the attention of Sir Walter Scott. After his father's death in 1824, Ainsworth moved to London to complete his legal education, but any plans he had for a dull routine and focused study in a field he didn’t care about faded in the vibrant literary scene of the city. He met Mr. John Ebers, who was then managing the Opera House and working as a publisher. Ebers published "Sir John Chiverton," and the dedication was reportedly written for Anne Frances ("Fanny") Ebers, whom Ainsworth married on October 11, 1826. Ainsworth then needed to choose a career, and following Ebers' suggestion, his father-in-law, he started a publishing business, but after about eighteen months, he gave it up. During that time, he introduced the Hon. Mrs. Norton and the cook Ude to the discerning yet unevenly appreciative British public. He was introduced to Sir Walter Scott, who wrote "The Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee" for an annual he published. Ainsworth paid him twenty guineas for it, which Sir Walter cheerfully gave to Lockhart's young daughter, with whom they had met. Ainsworth's literary ambitions remained strong, and he came up with several plans that he eventually abandoned. When he traveled to Switzerland and Italy in the summer of 1830, he was still far from realizing his dreams. In 1831, he went to Chesterfield and began writing the novel "Rookwood," where he effectively used Mrs. Radcliffe's style in English settings and characters. The best part is Turpin's ride to York, a stunning piece of descriptive writing. He wrote it, apparently in a moment of inspiration, in under a day and a half. "The feat," he said, "for feat it was, being the composition of a hundred novel pages in less than twenty-four hours, was achieved at 'The Elms,' a house I then occupied at Kilburn." "Rookwood" achieved notable success immediately. Ainsworth quickly gained popularity. This was in 1834, and in 1837 he published "Crichton," a wonderful historical romance. Critics who had already been upset by the romanticized portrayal of Dick Turpin were even more horrified by Jack Sheppard being turned into a romantic hero. The backlash was somewhat justified and impacted the novelist, who then chose to steer clear of such risky themes. "Jack Sheppard" was published in Bentley's Miscellany, where Ainsworth became editor in March 1840 at a monthly salary of £51. The story was powerfully written. In 1841, he received £1000 from the Sunday Times for "Old St. Paul's," and in 1848, he got another £1000 from the same source for "The Lancashire Witches." In 1841, he started publishing Ainsworth's Magazine, which continued until 1853, when he took over the New Monthly Magazine, which he edited for many years. This was the peak of Ainsworth's reputation in both literature and society. His home at Kensal Manor House became known for its hospitality, hosting guests like Dickens, Thackeray, Landseer, Clarkson Stanfield, Talfourd, Jerrold, and Cruikshank. Here’s a list of his main historical novels and their publication dates: "Rookwood," 1834; "Crichton," 1837; "Jack Sheppard," 1839; "Tower of London," 1840; "Guy Fawkes," 1841; "Old St. Paul's, a Tale of the Plague and the Fire of London," 1841; "Windsor Castle," 1843; "St. James, or the Court of Queen Anne," 1844; "Star Chamber," 1854; "Constable of the Tower," 1861; "The Lord Mayor of London," 1862; "Cardinal Pole," 1863; "John Law, the Projector," 1864; "The Constable de Bourbon," 1866; "Talbot Harland," 1870; "Boscobel," 1872; "The Manchester Rebels, or the Fatal '45," 1873; and "The Goldsmith's Wife," 1874. These novels all achieved some level of success, but those published later didn't reach the remarkable popularity of his earlier works. Many have been translated into various modern languages, and the numerous editions of his works fill about twenty-three pages of the British Museum catalogue. The scenery and history of his homeland were always of great interest to him, and a group of his novels—such as "The Lancashire Witches," "Guy Fawkes," "The Manchester Rebels," etc.—can be seen as a novelist's account of Lancashire from the pilgrimage of grace until the early part of this century.

Probably no more vivid account has been written of the great fire and plague of London than that given in "Old[xi] St. Paul's." The charm of Ainsworth's novels is not at all dependent upon the analysis of motives or subtle description of character. Of this he has little or nothing, but he realizes vividly a scene or an incident, and conveys the impression with great force and directness to the reader's mind. Ainsworth came upon the reading world at a happy moment. People were weary of the inanities of the fashionable novel, and were ready to listen to one who had a power of vivacious narrative. In 1881, when he was in his seventy-seventh year, a pleasant tribute of respect and admiration was paid to him in his native town. The Mayor of Manchester entertained him at a banquet in the town hall September 15, 1881, "as an expression of the high esteem in which he is held by his fellow-townsmen and of his services to literature." In proposing Mr. Ainsworth's health, the mayor gave a curious instance of the popularity of his writings. "In our Manchester public free libraries there are two hundred and fifty volumes of Mr. Ainsworth's different works. During the last twelve months these volumes have been read seven thousand six hundred and sixty times, mostly by the artisan class of readers. And this means that twenty volumes of his works are being perused in Manchester by readers of the free libraries every day all the year through." It was well that this pleasant recognition was not longer delayed. The contrast was pathetically great between the tall, handsome, dandified figure presented in the portraits of him by Pickersgill and Maclise, and the bent and feeble old man who stood by and acknowledged the plaudits of those who had assembled to honor him. His last published work was "Stanley Brereton," which he dedicated to his hospitable entertainer. He[xii] died at Reigate January 3, 1882, leaving a widow and also three daughters by his first marriage. He was buried at Kensal Green Cemetery. With the exception of George Gleig, he was the last survivor of the brilliant group who wrote for the early numbers of Fraser's Magazine, and, though he died in harness, had outlived nearly all the associates of the days when he first achieved fame.

Probably no more vivid account has been written of the great fire and plague of London than that given in "Old[xi] St. Paul's." The appeal of Ainsworth's novels doesn't rely on analyzing motives or detailed character descriptions, which he provided little or none of; instead, he vividly brings scenes or incidents to life and conveys them powerfully and directly to the reader. Ainsworth entered the literary scene at a fortunate time. People were tired of the fluff of fashionable novels and were ready for someone who could deliver lively storytelling. In 1881, when he was 77 years old, he received a warm tribute of respect and admiration in his hometown. The Mayor of Manchester hosted him at a banquet in the town hall on September 15, 1881, "to express the high regard in which he is held by his fellow citizens and his contributions to literature." In proposing a toast to Mr. Ainsworth, the mayor shared a notable example of the popularity of his works. "In our Manchester public free libraries, there are 250 volumes of Mr. Ainsworth's various works. Over the past year, these volumes have been borrowed 7,660 times, mostly by working-class readers. This means that twenty volumes of his works are being read in Manchester's free libraries every single day throughout the year." It was fortunate that this acknowledgment was not delayed any longer. The contrast was sadly great between the tall, attractive, stylish figure shown in portraits by Pickersgill and Maclise, and the stooped, frail old man who stood by and accepted the cheers from those who gathered to honor him. His last published work was "Stanley Brereton," which he dedicated to his gracious host. He[xii] died in Reigate on January 3, 1882, leaving a widow and three daughters from his first marriage. He was buried at Kensal Green Cemetery. Except for George Gleig, he was the last survivor of the talented group that wrote for the early issues of Fraser's Magazine, and although he passed away still working, he had outlived nearly all the colleagues from the era when he first gained fame.


TO MY MOTHER

When I inscribed this Romance to you, my dear Mother, on its first appearance, I was satisfied that, whatever reception it might meet with elsewhere, at your hands it would be sure of indulgence. Since then, the approbation your partiality would scarcely have withheld has been liberally accorded by the public; and I have the satisfaction of reflecting, that in following the dictates of affection, which prompted me to select the dearest friend I had in the world as the subject of a dedication, I have not overstepped the limits of prudence; nor, in connecting your honored name with this trifling production, involved you in a failure which, had it occurred, would have given you infinitely more concern than myself. After a lapse of three years, during which my little bark, fanned by pleasant and prosperous breezes, has sailed, more than once, securely into port, I again commit it to the waters, with more confidence than heretofore, and with a firmer reliance that, if it should be found "after many days," it may prove a slight memorial of the warmest filial regard.

When I dedicated this romance to you, my dear Mother, at its first release, I was confident that, no matter how it was received elsewhere, you would be sure to show it kindness. Since then, the approval that your bias might have barely withheld has been generously given by the public; and I take comfort in knowing that by acting on the feelings of love that led me to pick my closest friend as the subject of this dedication, I have not crossed the line of good judgment. Plus, by linking your esteemed name with this small work, I have not put you at risk of a failure that would have mattered far more to you than to me, had it happened. After three years, during which my little ship, buoyed by pleasant and favorable winds, has safely reached shore more than once, I am sending it back to sea with more confidence than before, trusting that, if it is found "after many days," it may serve as a small reminder of my deepest love and respect for you.

Exposed to trials of no ordinary difficulty, and visited by domestic affliction of no common severity, you, my dear Mother, have borne up against the ills of life with a fortitude and resignation which those who know you best can best appreciate, but which none can so well understand, or so thoroughly appreciate, as myself. Suffering is the lot of all. Submission under the dispensation is permitted to few. And it is my fervent hope that my own children may emulate your virtues, if they are happily spared your sorrows.

Exposed to challenges that are far from ordinary, and facing personal struggles of great severity, you, my dear Mother, have endured the hardships of life with a strength and acceptance that those who know you well can understand, but none can fully grasp or appreciate like I do. Suffering is something everyone faces. Few can accept it gracefully. And I truly hope that my own children can follow your example of virtue, if they are fortunate enough to avoid your sorrows.


PREFACE

During a visit to Chesterfield, in the autumn of the year 1831, I first conceived the notion of writing this story. Wishing to describe, somewhat minutely, the trim gardens, the picturesque domains, the rook-haunted groves, the gloomy chambers, and gloomier galleries, of an ancient Hall with which I was acquainted, I resolved to attempt a story in the bygone style of Mrs. Radcliffe,—which had always inexpressible charms for me,—substituting an old English squire, an old English manorial residence, and an old English highwayman, for the Italian marchese, the castle, and the brigand of the great mistress of Romance.

During a visit to Chesterfield in the autumn of 1831, I first got the idea to write this story. I wanted to describe in detail the neat gardens, the picturesque estates, the rook-filled groves, the dark chambers, and even darker hallways of an old Hall that I knew. I decided to try writing a story in the old style of Mrs. Radcliffe, which had always fascinated me, but this time I would swap out the Italian marquis, the castle, and the bandit from the great mistress of Romance for an old English squire, an old English manor, and an old English highwayman.

While revolving this subject, I happened, one evening, to enter the spacious cemetery attached to the church with the queer, twisted steeple, which, like the uplifted tail of the renowned Dragon of Wantley, to whom "houses and churches were as capons and turkeys," seems to menace the good town of Chesterfield with destruction. Here an incident occurred, on the opening of a vault, which it is needless to relate, but which supplied me with a hint for the commencement of my romance, as well as for the ballad entitled "The Coffin." Upon this hint I immediately acted; and the earlier chapters of the book, together with the description of the ancestral mansion of the Rookwoods, were completed before I quitted Chesterfield.

While thinking about this topic, one evening, I happened to walk into the large cemetery next to the church with the odd, twisted steeple, which, like the lifted tail of the famous Dragon of Wantley—who treated "houses and churches like they were just capons and turkeys"—seems to threaten the good town of Chesterfield with destruction. An incident happened here during the opening of a vault, which I don't need to go into, but it inspired me for the beginning of my story, as well as for the ballad titled "The Coffin." I quickly acted on this inspiration, and I finished the earlier chapters of the book, along with the description of the Rookwoods' ancestral mansion, before I left Chesterfield.

Another and much larger portion of the work was written during a residence at Rottingdean, in Sussex, in the latter[xviii] part of 1833, and owes its inspiration to many delightful walks over the South Downs. Romance-writing was pleasant occupation then.

Another, much larger part of the work was created while I was staying in Rottingdean, Sussex, in the later part of 1833, and it drew inspiration from many enjoyable walks across the South Downs. Writing romance was a pleasant pastime back then.

The Ride to York was completed in one day and one night. This feat—for a feat it was, being the composition of a hundred ordinary novel pages in less than twenty-four hours—was achieved at "The Elms," a house I then occupied at Kilburn. Well do I remember the fever into which I was thrown during the time of composition. My pen literally scoured over the pages. So thoroughly did I identify myself with the flying highwayman, that, once started, I found it impossible to halt. Animated by kindred enthusiasm, I cleared every obstacle in my path with as much facility as Turpin disposed of the impediments that beset his flight. In his company, I mounted the hill-side, dashed through the bustling village, swept over the desolate heath, threaded the silent street, plunged into the eddying stream, and kept an onward course, without pause, without hindrance, without fatigue. With him I shouted, sang, laughed, exulted, wept. Nor did I retire to rest till, in imagination, I heard the bell of York Minster toll forth the knell of poor Black Bess.

The ride to York was finished in one day and one night. This was quite an accomplishment—completing a hundred ordinary novel pages in less than twenty-four hours—achieved at "The Elms," the house I was living in at Kilburn. I clearly remember the intense excitement I felt during the writing process. My pen raced across the pages. I was so immersed in the story of the flying highwayman that, once I began, I found it impossible to stop. Driven by a similar passion, I overcame every obstacle in my way just as easily as Turpin dealt with the challenges during his escape. Along with him, I climbed the hillside, rushed through the busy village, swept across the barren heath, navigated the quiet street, plunged into the swirling stream, and kept moving forward, without stopping, without any obstruction, without feeling tired. With him, I shouted, sang, laughed, rejoiced, and cried. I didn't rest until, in my imagination, I heard the bell of York Minster tolling for poor Black Bess.

The supernatural occurrence, forming the groundwork of one of the ballads which I have made the harbinger of doom to the house of Rookwood, is ascribed, by popular superstition, to a family resident in Sussex; upon whose estate the fatal tree—a gigantic lime, with mighty arms and huge girth of trunk, as described in the song—is still carefully preserved. Cuckfield Place, to which this singular piece of timber is attached, is, I may state, for the benefit of the curious, the real Rookwood Hall; for I have not drawn upon imagination, but upon memory, in describing the seat and domains of that fated family. The general features of the venerable structure, several of its chambers, the old garden, and, in particular, the noble park, with its spreading prospects, its picturesque views of the Hall, "like bits of Mrs. Radcliffe,"—as the poet Shelley[xix] once observed of the same scene,—its deep glades, through which the deer come lightly tripping down, its uplands, slopes, brooks, brakes, coverts, and groves, are carefully delineated.

The supernatural event that serves as the basis for one of the ballads I've made the sign of doom for the Rookwood family is believed by local superstition to be linked to a family living in Sussex; on whose estate the cursed tree—a massive lime tree with sturdy branches and a thick trunk, as mentioned in the song—is still well-preserved. Cuckfield Place, where this unique piece of timber stands, is, for those who are curious, the actual Rookwood Hall; I'm not relying on imagination but on memory when describing the home and grounds of that doomed family. The key features of the old building, several of its rooms, the historic garden, and especially the grand park, with its expansive views, picturesque scenes of the Hall, "like scenes from Mrs. Radcliffe,"—as the poet Shelley[xix] once noted about the same landscape—its deep woods where the deer wander gracefully, its hills, slopes, streams, thickets, coverts, and groves, are all described in detail.

The superstition of a fallen branch affording a presage of approaching death is not peculiar to the family I have mentioned. Many other old houses have been equally favored: in fact, there is scarcely an ancient family in the kingdom without a boding sign. For instance, the Breretons of Brereton, in Cheshire, were warned by the appearance of stocks of trees floating, like the swollen bodies of long-drowned men, upon the surface of a sombre lake—called Blackmere, from the inky color of its waters—adjoining their residence; and numerous other examples might be given. The death-presage of the Breretons is alluded to by Drayton in the "Polyolbion."

The superstition that a fallen branch is a sign of impending death is not unique to the family I mentioned. Many other old houses have shared this belief: in fact, there’s hardly an ancient family in the country without some ominous sign. For example, the Breretons of Brereton in Cheshire were warned by the sight of tree branches floating, like the long-dead bodies of drowned men, on the surface of a dark lake—called Blackmere because of the inky color of its waters—next to their home; and many other examples could be provided. The Breretons' death omen is referenced by Drayton in the "Polyolbion."

It has been well observed by Barry Cornwall, "that the songs which occur in dramas are more natural than those which proceed from the author in person." With equal force does the reasoning apply to the romance, which may be termed the drama of the closet. It would seem strange, on a first view, that an author should be more at home in an assumed character than his own. But experience shows the position to be correct. Conscious he is no longer individually associated with his work, the writer proceeds with all the freedom of irresponsibility. His idiosyncrasy is merged in that of the personages he represents. He thinks with their thoughts, sees with their eyes, speaks with their tongues. His strains are such as he himself—per se—would not, perhaps could not, have originated. In this light he may be said to bring to his subject not one mind, but several; he becomes not one poet, but many; for each actor in his drama has a share, and an important share, in the lyrical estro to which he gives birth. This it is which has imparted any verve, variety, or dramatic character they possess, to the ballads contained in this production. Turpin I look upon as the real[xx] songster of "Black Bess;" to Jerry Juniper I am unquestionably indebted for a flash melody which, without his hint, would never have been written, while to the sexton I owe the solitary gleam of light I have been enabled to throw upon the horrors and mystery of the churchyard.

It has been widely noted by Barry Cornwall that "the songs that appear in dramas are more natural than those that come directly from the author." The same logic applies to the romance, which can be thought of as the drama of the private space. At first glance, it might seem odd that an author would feel more comfortable in a fictional character than in their own persona. However, experience proves this to be true. Aware that he is no longer personally linked to his work, the writer moves forward with the freedom of detachment. His unique traits blend into those of the characters he portrays. He thinks their thoughts, sees through their eyes, and speaks in their voices. The themes he expresses are ones he himself—per se—might not, or perhaps could not, have created. In this sense, he brings not just one perspective to his subject, but multiple; he becomes not one poet, but many, as each character in his drama plays an important role in the lyrical inspiration he generates. This is what has given energy, diversity, and dramatic quality to the ballads in this work. I consider Turpin to be the true songster of "Black Bess"; I am undeniably grateful to Jerry Juniper for a catchy tune that, without his suggestion, would never have been composed, while I owe the lone flicker of insight I've been able to shed on the horrors and mysteries of the churchyard to the sexton.

As I have casually alluded to the flash song of Jerry Juniper, I may, perhaps, be allowed to make a few observations upon this branch of versification. It is somewhat curious, with a dialect so racy, idiomatic, and plastic as our own cant, that its metrical capabilities should have been so little essayed. The French have numerous chansons d'argot, ranging from the time of Charles Bourdigné and Villon down to that of Vidocq and Victor Hugo, the last of whom has enlivened the horrors of his "Dernier Jour d'un Condamné" by a festive song of this class. The Spaniards possess a large collection of Romances de Germania, by various authors, amongst whom Quevedo holds a distinguished place. We, on the contrary, have scarcely any slang songs of merit. With a race of depredators so melodious and convivial as our highwaymen, this is the more to be wondered at. Had they no bards amongst their bands? Was there no minstrel at hand to record their exploits? I can only call to mind one robber who was a poet,—Delany, and he was an Irishman. This barrenness, I have shown, is not attributable to the poverty of the soil, but to the want of due cultivation. Materials are at hand in abundance, but there have been few operators. Dekker, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Ben Jonson have all dealt largely in this jargon, but not lyrically; and one of the earliest and best specimens of a canting-song occurs in Brome's "Jovial Crew;" and in the "Adventures of Bamfylde Moore Carew" there is a solitary ode, addressed by the mendicant fraternity to their newly-elected monarch; but it has little humor, and can scarcely be called a genuine canting-song. This ode brings us down to our own time; to the effusions of the illustrious Pierce Egan; to Tom Moore's[xxi] Flights of "Fancy;" to John Jackson's famous chant, "On the High Toby Spice Flash the Muzzle," cited by Lord Byron in a note to "Don Juan;" and to the glorious Irish ballad, worth them all put together, entitled "The Night Before Larry Was Stretched." This facetious performance is attributed to the late Dean Burrowes, of Cork. It is worthy of note that almost all modern aspirants to the graces of the Musa Pedestris are Irishmen. Of all rhymesters of the "Road," however, Dean Burrowes is, as yet, most fully entitled to the laurel. Larry is quite "the potato!"

As I’ve mentioned in passing the catchy song of Jerry Juniper, I can perhaps share a few thoughts on this type of poetry. It’s a bit surprising, with a dialect as vibrant, unique, and flexible as our own slang, that its musical potential hasn’t been explored more. The French have many chansons d'argot, dating from Charles Bourdigné and Villon to Vidocq and Victor Hugo, who added some brightness to the grim themes of his "Dernier Jour d'un Condamné" with a lively song from this genre. The Spanish have a big collection of Romances de Germania, by various writers, with Quevedo having a significant role. In contrast, we barely have any worthwhile slang songs. This is surprising given that we have so many charming and sociable highwaymen. Didn’t they have any poets in their ranks? Was there no minstrel around to celebrate their adventures? The only robber-poet I can recall is Delany, and he was an Irishman. This lack of material, as I’ve shown, isn’t due to a scarcity of resources but to a lack of proper effort. There’s plenty of material available, but there haven’t been many people to utilize it. Dekker, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Ben Jonson have all extensively used this slang, but not in a lyrical way; one of the earliest and best examples of a canting song appears in Brome's "Jovial Crew"; and in the "Adventures of Bamfylde Moore Carew", there’s a single ode from the begging community to their newly-chosen king; however, it lacks humor and can hardly be considered a true canting song. This ode leads us to contemporary times, to the works of the notable Pierce Egan; to Tom Moore's[xxi] flights of "Fancy"; to John Jackson's famous chant, "On the High Toby Spice Flash the Muzzle," mentioned by Lord Byron in a note to "Don Juan"; and to the fantastic Irish ballad, worth all of them combined, called "The Night Before Larry Was Stretched." This humorous piece is attributed to the late Dean Burrowes of Cork. It’s worth noting that nearly all modern contenders for the charms of Musa Pedestris are Irishmen. Among all the rhymers of the "Road", however, Dean Burrowes is still the most deserving of the crown. Larry is definitely "the potato!"

And here, as the candidates are so few, and their pretensions so humble,

And here, since there are only a few candidates and their claims are quite modest,

I can't help putting in my claim for praise.

I can't help asking for some recognition.

I venture to affirm that I have done something more than has been accomplished by my predecessors, or contemporaries, with the significant language under consideration. I have written a purely flash song, of which the great and peculiar merit consists in its being utterly incomprehensible to the uninformed understanding, while its meaning must be perfectly clear and perspicuous to the practised patterer of Romany, or Pedlar's French. I have, moreover, been the first to introduce and naturalize amongst us a measure which, though common enough in the Argotic minstrelsy of France, has been hitherto utterly unknown to our pedestrian poetry. Some years afterwards, the song alluded to, better known under the title of "Nix My Dolly, Pals,—Fake Away!" sprang into extraordinary popularity, being set to music by Rodwell, and chanted by glorious Paul Bedford and clever little Mrs. Keeley.

I boldly say that I've done something beyond what my predecessors or contemporaries have achieved with this notable language. I've written a purely flashy song, which has the remarkable quality of being completely incomprehensible to those who aren't familiar with it, while its meaning is crystal clear to the experienced speaker of Romany or Pedlar's French. Additionally, I've been the first to introduce and make familiar a style that, while quite common in the street music of France, has been completely unknown in our everyday poetry. A few years later, the song I mentioned, now better known as "Nix My Dolly, Pals,—Fake Away!" skyrocketed in popularity, being set to music by Rodwell and performed by the amazing Paul Bedford and the talented Mrs. Keeley.

Before quitting the subject of these songs, I may mention that they probably would not have been written at all if one of the earliest of them—a chance experiment—had not excited the warm approbation of my friend, Charles Ollier, author of the striking romance of "Ferrers." This induced me to prosecute the vein accidentally opened.[xxii]

Before moving on from these songs, I should note that they probably wouldn’t have been written at all if one of the earliest ones—a random experiment—hadn’t caught the enthusiastic approval of my friend, Charles Ollier, who wrote the compelling novel "Ferrers." This encouraged me to keep exploring the new direction I had accidentally found.[xxii]

Turpin was the hero of my boyhood. I had always a strange passion for highwaymen, and have listened by the hour to their exploits, as narrated by my father, and especially to those of "Dauntless Dick," that "chief minion of the moon." One of Turpin's adventures in particular, the ride to Hough Green, which took deep hold of my fancy, I have recorded in song. When a boy, I have often lingered by the side of the deep old road where this robbery was committed, to cast wistful glances into its mysterious windings; and when night deepened the shadows of the trees, have urged my horse on his journey, from a vague apprehension of a visit from the ghostly highwayman. And then there was the Bollin, with its shelvy banks, which Turpin cleared at a bound; the broad meadows over which he winged his flight; the pleasant bowling-green of the pleasant old inn at Hough, where he produced his watch to the Cheshire squires, with whom he was upon terms of intimacy; all brought something of the gallant robber to mind. No wonder, in after-years, in selecting a highwayman for a character in a tale, I should choose my old favorite, Dick Turpin.

Turpin was my childhood hero. I’ve always had a weird fascination with highwaymen and would listen for hours to my dad tell their stories, especially those of "Dauntless Dick," that "chief minion of the moon." One adventure of Turpin's, the ride to Hough Green, particularly captured my imagination, and I've even written a song about it. As a kid, I often lingered by the old road where the robbery happened, casting longing glances into its mysterious curves; and when night fell and the trees cast longer shadows, I would urge my horse onward, sensing a ghostly highwayman might appear. Then there was the Bollin, with its steep banks that Turpin leaped over; the wide meadows he flew across; the charming bowling-green of the cozy inn at Hough, where he showed his watch to the Cheshire squires, with whom he was friendly—all reminded me of that daring robber. It’s no surprise that later on, when I needed a highwayman character for a story, I chose my old favorite, Dick Turpin.

In reference to two of the characters here introduced, and drawn from personages living at the time the tale was written, it may be mentioned that poor Jerry Juniper met his death from an accident at Chichester, while he was proceeding to Goodwood races; and that the knight of Malta,—Mr. Tom, a brewer of Truro, the self-styled Sir William Courtenay, who played the strange tricks at Canterbury chronicled in a song given in these pages,—after his release from Banning Heath Asylum, was shot through the head while leading on a mob of riotous Kentish yeomen, whom he had persuaded that he was the Messiah!

In reference to two of the characters introduced here, based on real people from the time the story was written, it should be noted that poor Jerry Juniper died in an accident in Chichester while heading to the Goodwood races; and that the knight of Malta—Mr. Tom, a brewer from Truro, who called himself Sir William Courtenay and is known for the bizarre antics chronicled in a song in these pages—was shot in the head after being released from Banning Heath Asylum while leading a group of rowdy Kentish farmers who he had convinced that he was the Messiah!

If the design of Romance be, what it has been held, the exposition of a useful truth by means of an interesting story, I fear I have but imperfectly fulfilled the office imposed upon me; having, as I will freely confess, had, throughout, an eye[xxiii] rather to the reader's amusement than his edification. One wholesome moral, however, may, I trust, be gathered from the perusal of this Tale; namely, that, without due governance of the passions, high aspirations and generous emotions will little avail their possessor. The impersonations of the Tempter, the Tempted, and the Better Influence may be respectively discovered, by those who care to cull the honey from the flower, in the Sexton, in Luke, and in Sybil.

If Romance is meant to be the presentation of a useful truth through an engaging story, I worry I haven't fully met that expectation; I've often focused more on entertaining the reader than on educating them. However, I hope one valuable lesson can be drawn from this Tale: without proper control of our emotions, lofty ambitions and noble feelings won’t mean much. Those who want to find deeper meanings can discover representations of the Tempter, the Tempted, and the Better Influence in the characters of the Sexton, Luke, and Sybil.

The chief object I had in view in making the present essay was to see how far the infusion of a warmer and more genial current into the veins of old Romance would succeed in reviving her fluttering and feeble pulses. The attempt has succeeded beyond my most sanguine expectation. Romance, if I am not mistaken, is destined shortly to undergo an important change. Modified by the German and French writers—by Hoffman, Tieck, Hugo, Dumas, Balzac, and Paul Lecroix (le Bibliophile Jacob)—the structure commenced in our own land by Horace Walpole, Monk Lewis, Mrs. Radcliffe, and Maturin, but left imperfect and inharmonious, requires, now that the rubbish which choked up its approach is removed, only the hand of the skilful architect to its entire renovation and perfection.

The main goal I had in writing this essay was to see how much the addition of a warmer and more inviting touch to the old Romance would succeed in reviving its weak and flickering spirit. The attempt has exceeded my most optimistic hopes. Romance, if I’m not mistaken, is about to go through a significant transformation. Influenced by German and French writers—like Hoffman, Tieck, Hugo, Dumas, Balzac, and Paul Lecroix (le Bibliophile Jacob)—the foundation laid in our own country by Horace Walpole, Monk Lewis, Mrs. Radcliffe, and Maturin, which was left unfinished and disjointed, now requires only the skilled architect’s touch to achieve complete renovation and perfection, now that the clutter that blocked its way has been cleared away.

And now, having said my say, I must bid you, worthy reader, farewell. Beseeching you, in the words of old Rabelais, "to interpret all my sayings and doings in the perfectest sense. Reverence the cheese-like brain that feeds you with all these jolly maggots; and do what lies in you to keep me always merry. Be frolic now, my lads! Cheer up your hearts, and joyfully read the rest, with all ease of your body, and comfort of your reins."

And now, after sharing my thoughts, I must say goodbye, dear reader. I ask you, in the words of the old Rabelais, "to understand everything I’ve said and done in the best way possible. Appreciate the cheesy brain that provides you with all these fun ideas; and do what you can to keep me happy. Have fun now, my friends! Lift your spirits, and enjoy the rest of this with comfort and ease."

Kensal Manor-House,
December 15, 1849.

Kensal Manor-House,
December 15, 1849.


ROOKWOOD

BOOK I

THE WEDDING RING

It has been observed, and I am apt to believe it is an observation which will generally be found true, that before a terrible truth comes to light, there are certain murmuring whispers fly before it, and prepare the minds of men for the reception of the truth itself.

It has been noticed, and I tend to think this is something that will generally hold true, that before a harsh truth is revealed, there are certain murmurs that precede it, getting people's minds ready to accept the truth itself.

Gallick Reports:
Case of the Count Saint Geran.

Gallick News:
Case of Count Saint Geran.


CHAPTER I

THE VAULT

Please let me know your full intent. Of this your gloomy setup—
This talk is suitable for a graveyard.

Webster.

Webster.

Within a sepulchral vault, and at midnight, two persons were seated. The chamber was of singular construction and considerable extent. The roof was of solid stone masonry, and rose in a wide semicircular arch to the height of about seventeen feet, measured from the centre of the ceiling to the ground floor, while the sides were divided by slight partition-walls into ranges of low, narrow catacombs. The entrance to each cavity was surrounded by an obtusely-pointed arch, resting upon slender granite pillars; and the intervening space was filled up with a variety of tablets, escutcheons, shields, and inscriptions, recording the titles and heraldic honors of the departed. There were no doors to the niches; and within might be seen piles of coffins, packed one upon another, till the floor groaned with the weight of lead. Against one of the pillars, upon a hook, hung a rack of tattered, time-out-of-mind hatchments; and in the centre of the tomb might be seen the effigies of Sir Ranulph de Rokewode, the builder of the mausoleum, and the founder of the race who slept within its walls. This statue, wrought in black marble, differed from most monumental carved-work, in that its posture was erect and lifelike. Sir Ranulph was represented as sheathed in a complete suit of mail, decorated with his emblazoned and gilded surcoat, his arm leaning upon the pommel of a weighty curtal-axe. The attitude was that of stern repose. A conically-formed helmet[4] rested upon the brow; the beaver was raised, and revealed harsh but commanding features. The golden spur of knighthood was fixed upon the heel; and, at the feet, enshrined in a costly sarcophagus of marble, dug from the same quarry as the statue, rested the mortal remains of one of "the sternest knights to his mortal foe that ever put speare in the rest."

Within a dark vault, and at midnight, two people were seated. The chamber was uniquely designed and quite large. The roof was solid stone and arched high to about seventeen feet from the center ceiling to the ground floor, while the sides were divided by low partition walls into rows of narrow catacombs. Each opening was topped with a bluntly pointed arch, resting on slim granite pillars; the space in between was filled with various tablets, crests, shields, and inscriptions detailing the titles and honors of the deceased. There were no doors to the niches; inside, piles of coffins were stacked one on top of another, causing the floor to creak under the heavy weight. Against one of the pillars, on a hook, hung a rack of tattered old hatchments; and in the center of the tomb stood the statue of Sir Ranulph de Rokewode, the builder of the mausoleum and the founder of the family resting within its walls. This statue, made of black marble, was unique among monumental carvings because it stood upright and lifelike. Sir Ranulph was depicted wearing a full suit of armor, adorned with his emblazoned and gilded surcoat, his arm resting on the pommel of a hefty axe. The pose conveyed a sense of stern calm. A conical helmet rested on his brow; the visor was raised, showing strong but commanding features. The golden spur of knighthood was fastened to his heel; and at his feet, enshrined in an ornate marble sarcophagus, which came from the same quarry as the statue, lay the remains of one of "the sternest knights to his mortal foe that ever put spear in the rest."

Streaming in a wavering line upon the roof, the sickly flame of a candle partially fell upon the human figures before alluded to, throwing them into darkest relief, and casting their opaque and fantastical shadows along the ground. An old coffin upon a bier, we have said, served the mysterious twain for a seat. Between them stood a bottle and a glass, evidences that whatever might be the ulterior object of their stealthy communion, the immediate comfort of the creature had not been altogether overlooked. At the feet of one of the personages were laid a mattock, a horn lantern—from which the candle had been removed—, a crowbar, and a bunch of keys. Near to these implements of a vocation which the reader will readily surmise, rested a strange superannuated terrier with a wiry back and frosted muzzle; a head minus an ear, and a leg wanting a paw. His master, for such we shall suppose him, was an old man with a lofty forehead, covered with a singularly shaped nightcap, and clothed, as to his lower limbs, with tight, ribbed, gray worsted hose, ascending externally, after a bygone fashion, considerably above the knee. The old man's elbow rested upon the handle of his spade, his wrist supported his chin, and his gray glassy eyes, glimmering like marsh-meteors in the candle-light, were fixed upon his companion with a glance of searching scrutiny.

Streaming in a shaky line across the roof, the weak glow of a candle partially illuminated the figures mentioned earlier, casting them into stark contrast and creating their dark and distorted shadows on the ground. An old coffin on a stand, as we noted, served as a seat for the two mysterious figures. Between them was a bottle and a glass, suggesting that while their secret meeting might have a hidden purpose, they had not completely ignored their immediate comfort. At the feet of one of the figures lay a mattock, a horn lantern—with the candle removed—a crowbar, and a bunch of keys. Close to these tools for a profession that the reader can easily guess, rested a peculiar, old terrier with a wiry coat and a frosted muzzle; he had a head missing an ear and a leg missing a paw. His assumed master was an old man with a high forehead, topped with a uniquely shaped nightcap, and dressed in tight, ribbed gray woolen stockings that went up, in an old-fashioned style, well above the knee. The old man's elbow rested on the handle of his spade, his wrist supported his chin, and his gray, glassy eyes, glimmering like marsh lights in the candlelight, were fixed on his companion with a look of intense scrutiny.

The object of his investigation, a much more youthful and interesting person, seemed lost in reverie, and alike insensible to time, place, and the object of the meeting. With both hands grasped round the barrel of a fowling-piece, and his face leaning upon the same support, the features were entirely concealed from view; the light, too, being at the back, and shedding[5] its rays over, rather than upon his person, aided his disguise. Yet, even thus imperfectly defined, the outline of the head, and the proportions of the figure, were eminently striking and symmetrical. Attired in a rough forester's costume, of the mode of 1737, and of the roughest texture and rudest make, his wild garb would have determined his rank as sufficiently humble in the scale of society, had not a certain loftiness of manner, and bold, though reckless deportment, argued pretensions on the part of the wearer to a more elevated station in life, and contradicted, in a great measure, the impression produced by the homely appearance of his habiliments. A cap of shaggy brown fur, fancifully, but not ungracefully fashioned, covered his head, from beneath which, dropping, in natural clusters over his neck and shoulders, a cloud of raven hair escaped. Subsequently, when his face was more fully revealed, it proved to be that of a young man, of dark aspect, and grave, melancholy expression of countenance, approaching even to the stern, when at rest; though sufficiently animated and earnest when engaged in conversation, or otherwise excited. His features were regular, delicately formed, and might be characterized as singularly handsome, were it not for a want of roundness in the contour of the face which gave the lineaments a thin, worn look, totally distinct, however, from haggardness or emaciation. The nose was delicate and fine; the nostril especially so; the upper lip was short, curling, graceful, and haughtily expressive. As to complexion, his skin had a truly Spanish warmth and intensity of coloring. His figure, when raised, was tall and masculine, and though slight, exhibited great personal vigor.

The subject of his investigation, a much younger and more intriguing person, appeared to be lost in thought, seemingly oblivious to time, place, and the purpose of the meeting. With both hands wrapped around the barrel of a shotgun and his face resting on it, his features were completely hidden from view; the light behind him cast its rays over him rather than directly onto him, enhancing his concealment. Yet, even in this shadowy form, the shape of his head and the proportions of his body were striking and symmetrical. Dressed in a rugged woodsman’s outfit from 1737, made from coarse material and simple design, his wild attire suggested a low rank in society. However, a certain air of dignity and bold, though reckless, behavior hinted at aspirations for a higher status, countering the impression left by his unrefined clothing. A cap made of shaggy brown fur, fancifully but not clumsily designed, covered his head, from which clusters of raven hair fell naturally over his neck and shoulders. Later, when his face was more fully visible, it turned out to be that of a young man with a dark complexion and a serious, melancholic expression, bordering on stern when at rest, but animated and engaged during conversation or when excited. His features were regular and delicately shaped, and he could be described as unusually handsome, if not for the lack of fullness in his face, which gave him a thin, weary appearance, distinct from haggardness or emaciation. His nose was delicate and fine, particularly the nostrils; his upper lip was short, curling, graceful, and conveyed a haughty expression. As for his skin tone, it had a warm, intense Spanish quality. When standing, he was tall and masculine, and although he appeared slight, he displayed significant physical strength.

We will now turn to his companion, the old man with the great gray glittering eyes. Peter Bradley, of Rookwood—comitatû Ebor—, where he had exercised the vocation of sexton for the best part of a life already drawn out to the full span ordinarily allotted to mortality, was an odd caricature of humanity. His figure was lean, and almost as lank as a[6] skeleton. His bald head reminded one of a bleached skull, allowing for the overhanging and hoary brows. Deep-seated, and sunken within their sockets, his gray orbs gleamed with intolerable lustre. Few could endure his gaze; and, aware of his power, Peter seldom failed to exercise it. He had likewise another habit, which, as it savored of insanity, made him an object of commiseration with some, while it rendered him yet more obnoxious to others. The habit we allude to, was the indulgence of wild screaming laughter at times when all merriment should be checked; and when the exhibition of levity must proceed from utter disregard of human grief and suffering, or from mental alienation.

We will now turn to his companion, the old man with the great gray glittering eyes. Peter Bradley, of Rookwood—comitatû Ebor—, where he had worked as a sexton for most of a life already stretched to the normal length of human life, was a strange caricature of humanity. His figure was lean, almost as thin as a skeleton. His bald head looked like a bleached skull, except for the overhanging and gray eyebrows. Deep-set and sunken in their sockets, his gray eyes shone with an unbearable brightness. Few could stand his gaze; aware of his power, Peter rarely missed the chance to use it. He also had another habit, which, because it seemed insane, made him an object of pity for some while making him even more disliked by others. This habit was an indulgence in wild, loud laughter at times when all joy should be restrained; such displays of levity could only come from a complete disregard for human grief and suffering or from mental instability.

Wearied with the prolonged silence, Peter at length condescended to speak. His voice was harsh and grating as a rusty hinge.

Wearied by the long silence, Peter finally decided to speak. His voice was harsh and grating like a rusty hinge.

"Another glass?" said he, pouring out a modicum of the pale fluid.

"Another glass?" he asked, pouring a small amount of the pale liquid.

His companion shook his head.

His friend shook his head.

"It will keep out the cold," continued the sexton, pressing the liquid upon him: "and you, who are not so much accustomed as I am to the damps of a vault, may suffer from them. Besides," added he, sneeringly, "it will give you courage."

"It'll keep out the cold," the sexton said, pushing the drink toward him. "And you, who's not as used to the damp of a vault as I am, might struggle with it. Plus," he added with a sneer, "it'll give you some courage."

His companion answered not. But the flash of his eye resented the implied reproach.

His companion didn't respond. But the flash in his eye showed he resented the implied criticism.

"Nay, never stare at me so hard, Luke," continued the sexton; "I doubt neither your courage nor your firmness. But if you won't drink, I will. Here's to the rest eternal of Sir Piers Rookwood! You'll say amen to that pledge, or you are neither grandson of mine, nor offspring of his loins."

"Nah, don’t look at me like that, Luke," the sexton continued; "I have no doubts about your bravery or your strength. But if you won’t drink, I will. Here’s to the eternal rest of Sir Piers Rookwood! You’ll say amen to that toast, or you’re neither my grandson nor his descendant."

"Why should I reverence his memory," answered Luke, bitterly, refusing the proffered potion, "who showed no fatherly love for me? He disowned me in life: in death I disown him. Sir Piers Rookwood was no father of mine."

"Why should I honor his memory," Luke replied bitterly, rejecting the offered drink, "when he never showed me any fatherly love? He disowned me while he was alive: in death, I disown him. Sir Piers Rookwood was no father to me."

"He was as certainly your father, as Susan Bradley, your mother, was my daughter," rejoined the sexton.[7]

"He was definitely your father, just as Susan Bradley, your mother, is my daughter," replied the sexton.[7]

"And, surely," cried Luke, impetuously, "you need not boast of the connection! 'Tis not for you, old man, to couple their names together—to exult in your daughter's disgrace and your own dishonor. Shame! shame! Speak not of them in the same breath, if you would not have me invoke curses on the dead! I have no reverence—whatever you may have—for the seducer—for the murderer of my mother."

"And, really," shouted Luke, passionately, "you shouldn’t brag about that connection! It's not for you, old man, to link their names together—to take pride in your daughter's shame and your own dishonor. Shame! Shame! Don't mention them in the same breath, unless you want me to call down curses on the dead! I have no respect—whatever you might have—for the seducer—for the killer of my mother."

"You have choice store of epithets, in sooth, good grandson," rejoined Peter, with a chuckling laugh. "Sir Piers a murderer!"

"You've got quite the collection of nicknames, really, my good grandson," Peter replied with a chuckle. "Sir Piers a murderer!"

"Tush!" exclaimed Luke, indignantly, "affect not ignorance. You have better knowledge than I have of the truth or falsehood of the dark tale that has gone abroad respecting my mother's fate; and unless report has belied you foully, had substantial reasons for keeping sealed lips on the occasion. But to change this painful subject," added he, with a sudden alteration of manner, "at what hour did Sir Piers Rookwood die?"

"Tush!" Luke exclaimed indignantly, "don't pretend to be ignorant. You know more than I do about the truth or lies surrounding the dark story about my mother's fate; and unless the rumors have seriously misled you, you had good reasons for staying silent. But to change this painful subject," he added, suddenly shifting his tone, "what time did Sir Piers Rookwood die?"

"On Thursday last, in the night-time. The exact hour I know not," replied the sexton.

"Last Thursday, during the night. I don’t know the exact time," replied the sexton.

"Of what ailment?"

"What's the issue?"

"Neither do I know that. His end was sudden, yet not without a warning sign."

"Neither do I know that. His end was sudden, but it wasn't without a warning sign."

"What warning?" inquired Luke.

"What warning?" asked Luke.

"Neither more nor less than the death-omen of the house. You look astonished. Is it possible you have never heard of the ominous Lime-Tree, and the Fatal Bough? Why, 'tis a common tale hereabouts, and has been for centuries. Any old crone would tell it you. Peradventure, you have seen the old avenue of lime-trees leading to the hall, nearly a quarter of a mile in length, and as noble a row of timber as any in the West Riding of Yorkshire. Well, there is one tree—the last on the left hand before you come to the clock-house—larger than all the rest—a huge piece of timber, with broad spreading branches, and of I know not what girth in the trunk. That tree is, in[8] some mysterious manner, connected with the family of Rookwood, and immediately previous to the death of one of that line, a branch is sure to be shed from the parent stem, prognosticating his doom. But you shall hear the legend." And in a strange sepulchral tone, not inappropriate, however, to his subject, Peter chanted the following ballad:

"Neither more nor less than the death-omen of the house. You look surprised. Is it possible you've never heard of the ominous Lime-Tree and the Fatal Bough? Well, it's a common story around here and has been for centuries. Any old crone would tell it to you. Perhaps you have seen the old avenue of lime trees leading to the hall, nearly a quarter of a mile long, and as impressive a row of trees as any in the West Riding of Yorkshire. Well, there’s one tree—the last on the left before you reach the clock house—it's bigger than all the others—a massive tree with wide spreading branches, and I don't know what size the trunk is. That tree is, in[8] some mysterious way, connected to the Rookwood family, and just before the death of someone from that line, a branch is sure to fall from the main trunk, predicting their doom. But you’ll hear the legend." And in a strange, grave tone, which fits his subject, Peter recited the following ballad:

THE LEGEND OF THE LIME-TREE

The Legend of the Lime Tree

In the grove covered by tall, old lime trees —The road that leads to Rookwood's old hall—,
High above everything else, one tree stands tall against the sky, And spreads out wide, like powerful wings, its arms in a shady embrace.
Seven yards at its base would barely fit—a fine tree, I believe,
With silver bark and dark leaves of a gloomy green; And among its branches, two ravens make their home and build there every year,
Their black offspring hatch—they watch their black offspring—then they scream and vanish.
In that old tree where the summer breezes gently sigh, Its leaves rustle, and a soft, mournful sound is heard; And when the storm howls and cries, it resonates through its sacred branches among, Sad, wailing moans, like human groans, extend the harsh concert.
But whether a storm or calm weather rules, or if the threatening clouds have passed,
By the hand of Fate, predetermined, a branch that tree will drop;
A green branch—I'm sure it hasn't been touched by axe or storm's wind—
An ominous feeling of impending death struck Rookwood.
Some believe that tree instinct must come with extraordinary abilities.
Like a warning bell, Death's note tolls at Fate's designated time;
While some claim that there are scary signs visible on its branches,
Red like the stains from human veins mixed with green.
Others, again, argue that on the broken bark A print is made, where dark fiends have left their harsh marks;
Before it falls, the raven calls three times from that magical branch; And each cry indicates the space allowed by the Fates.
In the past, the legend says, when the grim Sir Ranulph looked out A miserable old woman drags her feet under his noble trees. He called his two bloodhounds quickly and immediately started chasing her; Was never seen in forest green, such a fierce and swift race!
[9]
With fiery eyes, each fierce and savage hound approached Ranulph,
Though battered and torn—a truly sad sight—the hag lay on the ground; Even where she lay, the clay was disturbed, along with her limbs and decaying bones. Deep within the earth, with crude laughter, Ranulph grim was cast.
And while the ground was still soaked with that poor witch's blood,
Ranulph took a lime-tree stake and stabbed it into her heart; And, oddly enough, what happened next was that branch immediately took root,
And well-fed, strong suckers sprang forth from its bed.
Every year, new branches grow—it becomes huge in size;
And, with wild excitement, this remarkable Sir Ranulph observes. One day, while he rested happily and proudly under that tree, A branch was found on the ground—next, Sir Ranulph died!
And from that hour, a deadly force has dominated that Wizard Tree,
To Ranulph's lineage, a warning sign of doom and fate:
When I find a branch, I think I’ll lie down under its shade, Before the sun rises three times in the sky, a Rookwood will definitely die!

"And such an omen preceded Sir Piers's demise?" said Luke, who had listened with some attention to his grandsire's song.

"And so, that was the sign before Sir Piers's death?" said Luke, who had listened closely to his grandfather's song.

"Unquestionably," replied the sexton. "Not longer ago than Tuesday morning, I happened to be sauntering down the avenue I have just described. I know not what took me thither at that early hour, but I wandered leisurely on till I came nigh the Wizard Lime-Tree. Great Heaven! what a surprise awaited me! a huge branch lay right across the path. It had evidently just fallen, for the leaves were green and unwithered; the sap still oozed from the splintered wood; and there was neither trace of knife nor hatchet on the bark. I looked up among the boughs to mark the spot from whence it had been torn by the hand of Fate—for no human hand had done it—and saw the pair of ancestral ravens perched amid the foliage, and croaking as those carrion fowl are wont to do when they scent a carcass afar off. Just then a livelier sound saluted my ears. The cheering cry of a pack of hounds resounded from the courts, and the great gates being thrown open, out issued Sir Piers, attended by a troop of his[10] roystering companions, all on horseback, and all making the welkin ring with their vociferations. Sir Piers laughed as loudly as the rest, but his mirth was speedily checked. No sooner had his horse—old Rook, his favorite steed, who never swerved at stake or pale before—set eyes upon the accursed branch, than he started as if the fiend stood before him, and, rearing backwards, flung his rider from the saddle. At this moment, with loud screams, the wizard ravens took flight. Sir Piers was somewhat hurt by the fall, but he was more frightened than hurt; and though he tried to put a bold face on the matter, it was plain that his efforts to recover himself were fruitless. Dr. Titus Tyrconnel and that wild fellow Jack Palmer—who has lately come to the hall, and of whom you know something—tried to rally him. But it would not do. He broke up the day's sport, and returned dejectedly to the hall. Before departing, however, he addressed a word to me in private, respecting you; and pointed, with a melancholy shake of the head, to the fatal branch. 'It is my death-warrant,' said he, gloomily. And so it proved; two days afterwards his doom was accomplished."

"Definitely," replied the sexton. "Just this past Tuesday morning, I happened to be strolling down the avenue I just described. I’m not sure why I was out that early, but I walked slowly until I got close to the Wizard Lime-Tree. My goodness! What a surprise was waiting for me! A huge branch was lying right across the path. It had obviously just fallen, because the leaves were still green and fresh; sap was still oozing from the broken wood, and there was no sign of a knife or axe on the bark. I looked up among the branches to see where it had been torn away by Fate's hand—since no human did it—and saw the pair of ancestral ravens perched in the foliage, croaking like those scavenger birds do when they catch the scent of a carcass from afar. Just then, a livelier sound reached my ears. The cheerful cry of a pack of hounds echoed from the courtyard, and the great gates were flung open, with Sir Piers coming out, accompanied by a group of his rowdy friends, all on horseback, making the air ring with their shouts. Sir Piers laughed as loudly as the others, but his joy quickly faded. No sooner had his horse—old Rook, his favorite steed, who never flinched at a gate or fence—spotted the dreaded branch than he jumped as if a demon stood before him, reared back, and threw his rider from the saddle. At that moment, the wizard ravens took off with loud screams. Sir Piers was a bit hurt from the fall, but he was more scared than hurt; and even though he tried to act brave, it was obvious that his attempts to recover were in vain. Dr. Titus Tyrconnel and that wild guy Jack Palmer—who recently came to the hall, and about whom you know a bit—tried to cheer him up. But it didn’t work. He ended the day’s fun and went back to the hall feeling down. Before leaving, however, he spoke to me privately about you and pointed, shaking his head sadly, at the fatal branch. 'It is my death-warrant,' he said gloomily. And it turned out to be true; two days later, his fate was sealed."

"And do you place faith in this idle legend?" asked Luke, with affected indifference, although it was evident, from his manner, that he himself was not so entirely free from a superstitious feeling of credulity as he would have it appear.

"And do you really believe in this silly legend?" asked Luke, pretending to be indifferent, even though it was clear from his behavior that he wasn't as completely above a superstitious sense of belief as he wanted to seem.

"Certes," replied the sexton. "I were more difficult to be convinced than the unbelieving disciple else. Thrice hath it occurred to my own knowledge, and ever with the same result: first, with Sir Reginald; secondly, with thy own mother; and lastly, as I have just told thee, with Sir Piers."

"Of course," replied the sexton. "I’m harder to convince than the doubting disciple. It has happened three times that I know of, and always with the same outcome: first, with Sir Reginald; then, with your mother; and lastly, as I just told you, with Sir Piers."

"I thought you said, even now, that this death omen, if such it be, was always confined to the immediate family of Rookwood, and not to mere inmates of the mansion."

"I thought you said, even now, that this death omen, if it really is one, was always limited to the immediate family of Rookwood, and not just the people living in the mansion."

"To the heads only of that house, be they male or female."

"Only to the heads of that household, whether they are male or female."

"Then how could it apply to my mother? Was she of that house? Was she a wife?"[11]

"Then how could it relate to my mom? Was she part of that family? Was she a wife?"[11]

"Who shall say she was not?" rejoined the sexton.

"Who can say she was not?" replied the sexton.

"Who shall say she was so?" cried Luke, repeating the words with indignant emphasis—"who will avouch that?"

"Who can say she was?" shouted Luke, repeating the words with angry emphasis—"who will confirm that?"

A smile, cold as a wintry sunbeam, played upon the sexton's rigid lips.

A smile, as chilly as a winter sunbeam, appeared on the sexton's stiff lips.

"I will bear this no longer," cried Luke; "anger me not, or look to yourself. In a word, have you anything to tell me respecting her? if not, let me begone."

"I can’t take this anymore," shouted Luke; "don’t make me angry, or you’ll regret it. Just tell me, do you have anything to say about her? If not, I’m out of here."

"I have. But I will not be hurried by a boy like you," replied Peter, doggedly. "Go, if you will, and take the consequences. My lips are sealed forever, and I have much to say—much that it behoves you to know."

"I have. But I won't be rushed by a kid like you," Peter replied stubbornly. "Go ahead, if you want, and deal with the consequences. My lips are sealed for good, and I have a lot to say—much that you need to know."

"Be brief, then. When you sought me out this morning, in my retreat with the gipsy gang at Davenham Wood, you bade me meet you in the porch of Rookwood Church at midnight. I was true to my appointment."

"Be quick, then. When you came to find me this morning, in my hideout with the gypsy crew at Davenham Wood, you asked me to meet you in the porch of Rookwood Church at midnight. I kept my promise."

"And I will keep my promise," replied the sexton. "Draw closer, that I may whisper in thine ear. Of every Rookwood who lies around us—and all that ever bore the name, except Sir Piers himself—who lies in state at the hall—, are here—not one—mark what I say—not one male branch of the house but has been suspected——"

"And I will keep my promise," replied the sexton. "Come closer, so I can whisper in your ear. Of every Rookwood who rests around us—and all who ever had the name, except Sir Piers himself—who is laid out at the hall—are here—not one—mark what I say—not one male branch of the family but has been suspected——"

"Of what?"

"About what?"

"Of murder!" returned the sexton, in a hissing whisper.

"Of murder!" the sexton replied, hissing the words.

"Murder!" echoed Luke, recoiling.

"Murder!" shouted Luke, backing away.

"There is one dark stain—one foul blot on all. Blood—blood hath been spilt."

"There is one dark stain—one foul mark on everything. Blood—blood has been spilled."

"By all?"

"Everyone?"

"Ay, and such blood! theirs was no common crime. Even murder hath its degrees. Theirs was of the first class."

"Aye, and such blood! Their crime was anything but ordinary. Even murder has its levels. Theirs was the highest degree."

"Their wives!—you cannot mean that?"

"Their wives!—you can't mean that?"

"Ay, their wives!—I do. You have heard it, then? Ha! ha! 'tis a trick they had. Did you ever hear the old saying?

"Ay, their wives!—I do. You’ve heard it, then? Ha! Ha! It’s a trick they pulled. Did you ever hear the old saying?"

No friend ever would tolerate A Rook of the Rookwood!

[12]A merry saying it is, and true. No woman ever stood in a Rookwood's way but she was speedily removed—that's certain. They had all, save poor Sir Piers, the knack of stopping a troublesome woman's tongue, and practised it to perfection. A rare art, eh?"

[12]It’s a cheerful saying, and it’s true. No woman ever got in Rookwood's way without being quickly dealt with—that’s for sure. They all had the talent, except for poor Sir Piers, of silencing a bothersome woman, and they did it perfectly. Quite a skill, right?

"What have the misdeeds of his ancestry to do with Sir Piers," muttered Luke, "much less with my mother?"

"What do his ancestors' mistakes have to do with Sir Piers," mumbled Luke, "let alone with my mom?"

"Everything. If he could not rid himself of his wife—and she is a match for the devil himself—, the mistress might be more readily set aside."

"Everything. If he couldn't get rid of his wife—and she's a match for the devil himself—, the mistress might be easier to dismiss."

"Have you absolute knowledge of aught?" asked Luke, his voice tremulous with emotion.

"Do you have complete knowledge of anything?" asked Luke, his voice shaking with emotion.

"Nay, I but hinted."

"No, I just suggested."

"Such hints are worse than open speech. Let me know the worst. Did he kill her?" And Luke glared at the sexton as if he would have penetrated his secret soul.

"Those hints are worse than saying it directly. Just tell me the worst. Did he kill her?" Luke glared at the sexton as if he could see right into his hidden thoughts.

But Peter was not easily fathomed. His cold, bright eye returned Luke's gaze steadfastly, as he answered, composedly:

But Peter was not easy to understand. His cold, sharp eye held Luke's gaze steadily as he replied calmly:

"I have said all I know."

"I've shared all I know."

"But not all you think."

"But not everything you think."

"Thoughts should not always find utterance, else we might often endanger our own safety, and that of others."

"Not all thoughts should be spoken out loud, or else we could often put our own safety and that of others at risk."

"An idle subterfuge—and, from you, worse than idle. I will have an answer, yea or nay. Was it poison—was it steel?"

"An empty excuse—and, coming from you, even worse than empty. I want a clear answer, yes or no. Was it poison—was it a knife?"

"Enough—she died."

"That's enough—she's gone."

"No, it is not enough. When? Where?"

"No, that's not enough. When? Where?"

"In her sleep—in her bed."

"In her sleep—in her bed."

"Why, that was natural."

"That was natural."

A wrinkling smile crossed the sexton's brow.

A wrinkled smile appeared on the sexton's face.

"What means that horrible gleam of laughter?" exclaimed Luke, grasping the shoulder of the man of graves with such force as nearly to annihilate him. "Speak, or I will strangle you. She died, you say, in her sleep?"

"What does that awful sparkle of laughter mean?" Luke shouted, gripping the shoulder of the grave man so hard it almost crushed him. "Talk, or I swear I’ll choke you. You say she died in her sleep?"

"She did so," replied the sexton, shaking off Luke's hold.[13]

"She did," the sexton replied, shaking off Luke's grip.[13]

"And was it to tell me that I had a mother's murder to avenge, that you brought me to the tomb of her destroyer—when he is beyond the reach of my vengeance?"

"And was it to tell me that I had to avenge my mother's murder that you brought me to the grave of her killer—when he is beyond my ability to take revenge?"

Luke exhibited so much frantic violence of manner and gesture, that the sexton entertained some little apprehension that his intellects were unsettled by the shock of the intelligence. It was, therefore, in what he intended for a soothing tone that he attempted to solicit his grandson's attention.

Luke showed so much frantic violence in his manner and gestures that the sexton was a bit worried that the shock of the news had affected his mind. So, in a tone he meant to be calming, he tried to get his grandson's attention.

"I will hear nothing more," interrupted Luke, and the vaulted chamber rang with his passionate lamentations. "Am I the sport of this mocking fiend?" cried he, "to whom my agony is derision—my despair a source of enjoyment—beneath whose withering glance my spirit shrinks—who, with half-expressed insinuations, tortures my soul, awakening fancies that goad me on to dark and desperate deeds? Dead mother! upon thee I call. If in thy grave thou canst hear the cry of thy most wretched son, yearning to avenge thee—answer me, if thou hast the power. Let me have some token of the truth or falsity of these wild suppositions, that I may wrestle against this demon. But no," added he, in accents of despair, "no ear listens to me, save his to whom my wretchedness is food for mockery."

"I don’t want to hear any more," interrupted Luke, and the vaulted room echoed with his passionate cries. "Am I just a plaything for this mocking fiend?" he shouted. "Is my suffering just a joke to him—my despair a source of pleasure—under whose harsh gaze my spirit shrinks—who, with vague hints, tortures my soul, stirring up thoughts that push me toward dark and desperate actions? Dead mother! I call upon you. If you can hear the cry of your most miserable son in your grave, yearning for revenge—answer me if you can. Give me some sign of the truth or falsehood of these wild ideas, so I can fight against this demon. But no," he added, in despair, "no one listens to me except for him, who finds pleasure in my misery."

"Could the dead hear thee, thy mother might do so," returned the sexton. "She lies within this space."

"If the dead could hear you, your mother probably would," replied the sexton. "She's buried right here."

Luke staggered back, as if struck by a sudden shot. He spoke not, but fell with a violent shock against a pile of coffins, at which he caught for support.

Luke staggered back, as if hit by a sudden blow. He didn't speak, but collapsed with a jarring impact against a stack of coffins, which he grabbed onto for support.

"What have I done?" he exclaimed, recoiling.

"What have I done?" he shouted, pulling back.

A thundering crash resounded through the vault. One of the coffins, dislodged from its position by his fall, tumbled to the ground, and, alighting upon its side, split asunder.

A loud crash echoed through the vault. One of the coffins, knocked out of place by his fall, fell to the ground and landed on its side, splitting apart.

"Great Heavens! what is this?" cried Luke, as a dead body, clothed in all the hideous apparel of the tomb, rolled forth to his feet.

"Good heavens! What is this?" shouted Luke, as a dead body, dressed in all the gruesome clothes of the grave, rolled at his feet.

"It is your mother's corpse," answered the sexton, coldly;[14] "I brought you hither to behold it. But you have anticipated my intentions."

"It’s your mother’s body,” the sexton replied, coldly;[14] “I brought you here to see it. But you’ve already guessed what I wanted to do.”

"This my mother?" shrieked Luke, dropping upon his knees by the body, and seizing one of its chilly hands, as it lay upon the floor, with the face upwards.

"This my mother?" screamed Luke, dropping to his knees beside the body and grabbing one of its cold hands as it lay on the floor, face up.

The sexton took the candle from the sconce.

The sexton took the candle from the wall holder.

"Can this be death?" shouted Luke. "Impossible! Oh, God! she stirs—she moves. The light!—quick. I see her stir! This is dreadful!"

"Can this be death?" shouted Luke. "No way! Oh, God! She's stirring—she's moving. The light!—quick. I see her move! This is awful!"

"Do not deceive yourself," said the sexton, in a tone which betrayed more emotion than was his wont. "'Tis the bewilderment of fancy. She will never stir again."

"Don’t kid yourself," said the sexton, in a tone that showed more emotion than usual. "It’s just your imagination. She won’t move again."

And he shaded the candle with his hand, so as to throw the light full upon the face of the corpse. It was motionless, as that of an image carved in stone. No trace of corruption was visible upon the rigid, yet exquisite tracery of its features. A profuse cloud of raven hair, escaped from its swathements in the fall, hung like a dark veil over the bosom and person of the dead, and presented a startling contrast to the waxlike hue of the skin and the pallid cereclothes. Flesh still adhered to the hand, though it mouldered into dust within the gripe of Luke, as he pressed the fingers to his lips. The shroud was disposed like night-gear about her person, and from without its folds a few withered flowers had fallen. A strong aromatic odor, of a pungent nature, was diffused around; giving evidence that the art by which the ancient Egyptians endeavored to rescue their kindred from decomposition had been resorted to, to preserve the fleeting charms of the unfortunate Susan Bradley.

And he covered the candle with his hand to shine the light directly on the corpse's face. It was still, like a statue carved from stone. There was no sign of decay on the rigid yet beautifully defined features. A thick cloud of black hair, escaping from its wrappings in the fall, draped like a dark veil over the chest and body of the deceased, creating a jarring contrast to the waxy color of the skin and the pale burial cloth. Flesh still clung to the hand, though it crumbled to dust in Luke's grasp as he pressed the fingers to his lips. The shroud was arranged like nightwear around her body, and a few withered flowers had fallen from its folds. A strong, pungent aroma filled the air, indicating that the process the ancient Egyptians used to prevent their loved ones from decomposing had been employed to preserve the fleeting beauty of the unfortunate Susan Bradley.

A pause of awful silence succeeded, broken only by the convulsive respiration of Luke. The sexton stood by, apparently an indifferent spectator of the scene of horror. His eye wandered from the dead to the living, and gleamed with a peculiar and indefinable expression, half apathy, half abstraction. For one single instant, as he scrutinized the features of[15] his daughter, his brow, contracted by anger, immediately afterwards was elevated in scorn. But otherwise you would have sought in vain to read the purport of that cold, insensible glance, which dwelt for a brief space on the face of the mother, and settled eventually upon her son. At length the withered flowers attracted his attention. He stooped to pick up one of them.

A terrible silence fell, broken only by Luke's heavy breathing. The sexton stood by, seemingly indifferent to the horrifying scene. His gaze shifted between the dead and the living, showing a strange mixture of apathy and distraction. For a brief moment, as he examined his daughter's features, his brow furrowed with anger, only to lift in disdain right after. But aside from that, it was hard to read the meaning behind his cold, emotionless stare, which lingered briefly on the mother's face before settling on her son. Finally, the wilted flowers caught his eye. He bent down to pick one up.

"Faded as the hand that gathered ye—as the bosom on which ye were strewn!" he murmured. "No sweet smell left—but—faugh!" Holding the dry leaves to the flame of the candle, they were instantly ignited, and the momentary brilliance played like a smile upon the features of the dead. Peter observed the effect. "Such was thy life," he exclaimed; "a brief, bright sparkle, followed by dark, utter extinction!"

"Faded like the hand that picked you up—as the chest you were laid upon!" he murmured. "No pleasant scent left—but—ugh!" Holding the dry leaves to the candle's flame, they quickly ignited, and the brief glow lit up the features of the dead like a fleeting smile. Peter noticed the effect. "This was your life," he exclaimed; "a quick, bright flash, followed by complete darkness!"

Saying which, he flung the expiring ashes of the floweret from his hand.

Saying that, he tossed the fading ashes of the flower from his hand.


CHAPTER II

THE SKELETON HAND

Duch. You're really cold.
I'm worried you aren't feeling well after your trip.
Ha! Lights. — Oh no!
Let her have enough light.
Duch. What kind of magic is he using that he has left A dead hand here?

Duchess of Malfy.

Duchess of Malfi.

The sexton's waning candle now warned him of the progress of time, and having completed his arrangements, he addressed himself to Luke, intimating his intention of departing. But receiving no answer, and remarking no signs of life about his grandson, he began to be apprehensive that he had fallen into a swoon. Drawing near to Luke, he took him gently by the arm. Thus disturbed, Luke groaned aloud.[16]

The sexton's dimming candle was a reminder of how time was passing, and after finishing his preparations, he turned to Luke to let him know he was leaving. But when he got no response and saw no signs of life from his grandson, he started to worry that Luke had passed out. Moving closer to Luke, he gently grabbed his arm. Startled by the disturbance, Luke groaned loudly.[16]

"I am glad to find you can breathe, if it be only after that melancholy fashion," said the sexton; "but come, I have wasted time enough already. You must indulge your grief elsewhere."

"I’m glad to see you can breathe, even if it’s in that sad way," said the sexton; "but come on, I’ve already wasted enough time. You need to process your grief somewhere else."

"Leave me," sighed Luke.

"Leave me," Luke sighed.

"What, here? It were as much as my office is worth. You can return some other night. But go you must, now—at least, if you take on thus. I never calculated upon a scene like this, or it had been long ere I brought you hither. So come away; yet, stay;—but first lend me a hand to replace the body in the coffin."

"What, here? It’s worth as much as my job. You can come back another night. But you have to go now—at least if you keep acting like this. I never expected a scene like this, or I would have brought you here a long time ago. So come on; wait;—but first help me put the body back in the coffin."

"Touch it not," exclaimed Luke; "she shall not rest another hour within these accursed walls. I will bear her hence myself." And, sobbing hysterically, he relapsed into his former insensibility.

"Don't touch it," Luke shouted; "she won't spend another hour in these cursed walls. I'll take her away myself." And, sobbing uncontrollably, he fell back into his previous state of insensibility.

"Poh! this is worse than midsummer madness," said Peter; "the lad is crazed with grief, and all about a mother who has been four-and-twenty years in her grave. I will e'en put her out of the way myself."

"Pfft! This is worse than summer madness," said Peter; "the guy is out of his mind with grief over a mother who's been in her grave for twenty-four years. I might as well take care of it myself."

Saying which, he proceeded, as noiselessly as possible, to raise the corpse in his arms, and deposited it softly within its former tenement. Carefully as he executed his task, he could not accomplish it without occasioning a slight accident to the fragile frame. Insensible as he was, Luke had not relinquished the hold he maintained of his mother's hand. And when Peter lifted the body, the ligaments connecting the hand with the arm were suddenly snapped asunder. It would appear afterwards, that this joint had been tampered with, and partially dislocated. Without, however, entering into further particulars in this place, it may be sufficient to observe that the hand, detached from the socket at the wrist, remained within the gripe of Luke; while, ignorant of the mischief he had occasioned, the sexton continued his labors unconsciously, until the noise which he of necessity made in stamping with his heel upon the plank, recalled his grandson to sensibility.[17] The first thing that the latter perceived, upon collecting his faculties, were the skeleton fingers twined within his own.

Saying this, he quietly lifted the body in his arms and gently placed it back in its old resting place. No matter how carefully he tried to do it, he couldn’t help causing a small accident to the delicate body. Even in his insensibility, Luke still held onto his mother’s hand. When Peter lifted the body, the ligaments connecting the hand to the arm suddenly snapped. It later seemed that this joint had been messed with and was partially dislocated. Without going into more details here, it’s enough to note that the hand, separated from the wrist, remained clutched in Luke’s grip, while the sexton continued his work, unaware of the damage he had caused, until the noise of his heel striking the plank brought his grandson back to awareness.[17] The first thing Luke noticed, as he gathered his senses, was the skeletal fingers intertwined with his own.

"What have you done with the body? Why have you left this with me?" demanded he.

"What did you do with the body? Why did you leave this with me?" he demanded.

"It was not my intention to have done so," answered the sexton, suspending his occupation. "I have just made fast the lid, but it is easily undone. You had better restore it."

"It wasn't my intention to do that," the sexton replied, pausing his work. "I've just secured the lid, but it's easy to open. You should put it back."

"Never," returned Luke, staring at the bony fragment.

"Never," Luke replied, staring at the bony piece.

"Pshaw! of what advantage is a dead hand? 'Tis an unlucky keepsake, and will lead to mischief. The only use I ever heard of such a thing being turned to, was in the case of Bow-legged Ben, who was hanged in irons for murder, on Hardchase Heath, on the York Road, and whose hand was cut off at the wrist the first night to make a Hand of Glory, or Dead Man's Candle. Hast never heard what the old song says?" And without awaiting his grandson's response, Peter broke into the following wild strain:

"Pshaw! What's the point of a dead hand? It’s a bad luck charm and will only cause trouble. The only time I’ve heard of something like that being used was with Bow-legged Ben, who was hanged for murder on Hardchase Heath, along the York Road, and they chopped off his hand at the wrist that very night to make a Hand of Glory, or a Dead Man's Candle. Haven’t you heard what the old song says?" And without waiting for his grandson's answer, Peter launched into the following wild tune:

THE HAND OF GLORY[1]

THE HAND OF GLORY__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

From the corpse that’s hanging on the roadside tree
—It must be a murderer's corpse—,
Carefully cut off the right hand:—
Cut off the hand that did the action,
Before the flesh that clings to the bones is gone; In its dry veins, there should be no blood. Those terrifying fingers, pale and cold,
Enfolded in a winding sheet; Count the mystical number seven:
Name the Governors of Heaven. Then place them in a clay container,
And encase them with dragon-wort,
Whiten them in the midday sun,
Until the marrow melts and runs, Until the flesh is pale and weak,
As a moonlit cloud,
As an untouched veil.
[18] Next in their cozy embrace
The dead man's Awful Candle location;
That candle must be made from the fat of a murderer. You can scoop it up under the tree by the road—,
Of wax, and of Lapland sesame.
Its wick must be twisted from the hair of the dead,
By the crow and her chicks on the wild, open land. Wherever that awful light shines The sleeper may toss and turn in vain; His heavy eyelids will never open. As long as that magical candle shines. He will command life and treasures. Who knows the magic of the Glorious Hand!
But he should always be careful of the black cat's gall, And watch out for the screech-owl's poisonous blood!

"Peace!" thundered Luke, extending his mother's hand towards the sexton. "What seest thou?"

"Peace!" shouted Luke, reaching his mother's hand out to the sexton. "What do you see?"

"I see something shine. Hold it nigher the light. Ha! that is strange, truly. How came that ring there?"

"I see something shiny. Hold it closer to the light. Ha! That’s odd, really. How did that ring get there?"

"Ask of Sir Piers! ask of her husband!" shouted Luke, with a wild burst of exulting laughter. "Ha! ha! ha! 'tis a wedding-ring! And look! the finger is bent. It must have been placed upon it in her lifetime. There is no deception in this—no trickery—ha!"

"Ask Sir Piers! Ask her husband!" shouted Luke, bursting into wild laughter. "Ha! Ha! Ha! It's a wedding ring! And look! The finger is bent. It must have been put on her finger while she was alive. There’s no deception here—no trickery—ha!"

"It would seem not; the sinew must have been contracted in life. The tendons are pulled down so tightly, that the ring could not be withdrawn without breaking the finger."

"It doesn't seem like it; the muscle must have tightened up in life. The tendons are pulled down so tightly that the ring couldn't be taken off without breaking the finger."

"You are sure that coffin contains her body?"

"You’re sure that coffin has her body in it?"

"As sure as I am that this carcass is my own."

"As sure as I am that this body is mine."

"The hand—'tis hers. Can any doubt exist?"

"The hand—it's hers. Can there be any doubt?"

"Wherefore should it? It was broken from the arm by accident within this moment. I noticed not the occurrence, but it must have been so."

"Why should it? It was broken off the arm by accident just now. I didn't see it happen, but it must have."

"Then it follows that she was wedded, and I am not——"

"Then it follows that she was married, and I am not——"

"Illegitimate. For your own sake I am glad of it."[19]

"Unlawful. For your own good, I’m pleased about it."[19]

"My heart will burst. Oh! could I but establish the fact of this marriage, her wrongs would be indeed avenged."

"My heart is going to explode. Oh! If only I could prove this marriage, her injustices would truly be avenged."

"Listen to me, Luke," said the sexton, solemnly. "I told you, when I appointed this midnight interview, I had a secret to communicate. That secret is now revealed—that secret was your mother's marriage."

"Listen to me, Luke," the sexton said seriously. "I told you when I set up this midnight meeting that I had a secret to share. That secret is now out—that secret was your mother's marriage."

"And it was known to you during her lifetime?"

"And you knew about it while she was still alive?"

"It was. But I was sworn to secrecy."

"It was. But I had to keep it a secret."

"You have proofs then?"

"Do you have proofs then?"

"I have nothing beyond Sir Piers's word—and he is silent now."

"I have nothing but Sir Piers's word—and he isn't saying anything now."

"By whom was the ceremony performed?"

"Who officiated the ceremony?"

"By a Romish priest—a Jesuit—one Father Checkley, at that time an inmate of the hall; for Sir Piers, though he afterwards abjured it, at that time professed the Catholic faith, and this Checkley officiated as his confessor and counsellor; as the partner of his pleasures, and the prompter of his iniquities. He was your father's evil genius."

"By a Roman Catholic priest—a Jesuit—named Father Checkley, who was living in the hall at that time; because Sir Piers, although he later rejected it, was practicing the Catholic faith then, and Checkley served as his confessor and advisor; as well as being a partner in his pleasures and a motivator of his wrongdoings. He was your father's bad influence."

"Is he still alive?"

"Is he still alive?"

"I know not. After your mother's death he left the hall. I have said he was a Jesuit, and I may add, that he was mixed up in dark political intrigues, in which your father was too feeble a character to take much share. But though too weak to guide, he was a pliant instrument, and this Checkley knew. He moulded him according to his wishes. I cannot tell you what was the nature of their plots. Suffice it, they were such as, if discovered, would have involved your father in ruin. He was saved, however, by his wife."

"I don't know. After your mother passed away, he left the hall. I've mentioned he was a Jesuit, and I can add that he got mixed up in shady political schemes, which your father was too weak to be much involved in. But although he wasn't strong enough to lead, he was easily influenced, and Checkley recognized this. He shaped him to fit his own plans. I can't tell you exactly what their schemes were. It's enough to say that if they had been uncovered, your father would have been ruined. Luckily, he was saved by his wife."

"And her reward——" groaned Luke.

"And her reward—" groaned Luke.

"Was death," replied Peter, coldly. "What Jesuit ever forgave a wrong—real or imaginary? Your mother, I ought to have said, was a Protestant. Hence there was a difference of religious opinion—the worst of differences that can exist between husband and wife—. Checkley vowed her destruction, and he kept his vow. He was enamored of her beauty. But[20] while he burnt with adulterous desire, he was consumed by fiercest hate—contending, and yet strangely-reconcilable passions—as you may have reason, hereafter, to discover."

"Was death," Peter replied coldly. "What Jesuit ever forgave a wrong—real or imagined? Your mother, I should have mentioned, was a Protestant. So there was a difference in religious beliefs—the worst kind of difference that can exist between a husband and wife. Checkley vowed to destroy her, and he followed through on that vow. He was captivated by her beauty. But[20] while he burned with adulterous desire, he was also consumed by the fiercest hate—conflicting yet strangely reconcilable emotions—as you may come to realize later on."

"Go on," said Luke, grinding his teeth.

"Go ahead," said Luke, gritting his teeth.

"I have done," returned Peter. "From that hour your father's love for his supposed mistress, and unacknowledged wife, declined; and with his waning love declined her health. I will not waste words in describing the catastrophe that awaited her union. It will be enough to say, she was found one morning a corpse within her bed. Whatever suspicions were attached to Sir Piers were quieted by Checkley, who distributed gold, largely and discreetly. The body was embalmed by Barbara Lovel, the Gipsy Queen."

"I’ve finished," replied Peter. "From that moment on, your father’s love for his supposed mistress and unrecognized wife faded, and as his love faded, so did her health. I won’t waste time explaining the disaster that followed their union. It’s enough to say that she was found dead in her bed one morning. Any suspicions about Sir Piers were silenced by Checkley, who discreetly and generously handed out gold. The body was embalmed by Barbara Lovel, the Gipsy Queen."

"My foster-mother!" exclaimed Luke, in a tone of extreme astonishment.

"My foster mom!" exclaimed Luke, in a tone of extreme astonishment.

"Ah," replied Peter, "from her you may learn all particulars. You have now seen what remains of your mother. You are in possession of the secret of your birth. The path is before you, and if you would arrive at honor you must pursue it steadily, turning neither to the right nor to the left. Opposition you will meet at each step. But fresh lights may be thrown upon this difficult case. It is in vain to hope for Checkley's evidence, even should the caitiff priest be living. He is himself too deeply implicated—ha!"

"Ah," Peter replied, "you can learn everything from her. You’ve now seen what’s left of your mother. You know the truth about your birth. The path is clear, and if you want to achieve greatness, you have to follow it without veering off course. You’ll face resistance at every turn. But new insights might shed light on this tricky situation. It’s pointless to expect Checkley’s testimony, even if that deceitful priest is still alive. He is too deeply involved himself—ha!"

Peter stopped, for at this moment the flame of the candle suddenly expired, and the speakers were left in total darkness. Something like a groan followed the conclusion of the sexton's discourse. It was evident that it proceeded not from his grandson, as an exclamation burst from him at the same instant. Luke stretched out his arm. A cold hand seemed to press against his own, communicating a chill like death to his frame.

Peter stopped because, at that moment, the candle flame suddenly went out, leaving everyone in complete darkness. A sound that resembled a groan followed the sexton's speech. It was clear that the groan didn't come from his grandson, as he let out an exclamation at the same time. Luke reached out his arm. A cold hand seemed to press against his own, sending a chill like death through his body.

"Who is between us?" he ejaculated.

"Who's in between us?" he exclaimed.

"The devil!" cried the sexton, leaping from the coffin-lid[21] with an agility that did him honor. "Is aught between us?"

"The devil!" shouted the sexton, jumping off the coffin lid[21] with a surprising agility that impressed everyone. "Is there anything between us?"

"I will discharge my gun. Its flash will light us."

"I'll fire my gun. The flash will light us up."

"Do so," hastily rejoined Peter. "But not in this direction."

"Go ahead," Peter quickly replied. "But not that way."

"Get behind me," cried Luke. And he pulled the trigger.

"Get behind me," shouted Luke. And he pulled the trigger.

A blaze of vivid light illumined the darkness. Still nothing was visible, save the warrior figure, which was seen for a moment, and then vanished like a ghost. The buck-shot rattled against the further end of the vault.

A bright burst of light lit up the darkness. Yet nothing was visible, except for the warrior figure, which appeared for a moment before disappearing like a ghost. The buck-shot clattered against the far end of the vault.

"Let us go hence," ejaculated the sexton, who had rushed to the door, and thrown it wide open. "Mole! Mole!" cried he, and the dog sprang after him.

"Let's get out of here," shouted the sexton as he rushed to the door and threw it wide open. "Mole! Mole!" he called out, and the dog sprang after him.

"I could have sworn I felt something," said Luke; "whence issued that groan?"

"I could have sworn I felt something," said Luke. "Where did that groan come from?"

"Ask not whence," replied Peter. "Reach me my mattock, and spade, and the lantern; they are behind you. And stay, it were better to bring away the bottle."

"Don’t ask where," Peter replied. "Hand me my mattock, spade, and the lantern; they're right behind you. And wait, it’s better to take the bottle too."

"Take them, and leave me here."

"Take them and leave me here."

"Alone in the vault?—no, no, Luke, I have not told you half I know concerning that mystic statue. It is said to move—to walk—to raise its axe—be warned, I pray."

"Alone in the vault?—no, no, Luke, I haven’t shared even half of what I know about that mysterious statue. They say it can move—it can walk—it can raise its axe—please be careful."

"Leave me, or abide, if you will, my coming, in the church. If there is aught that may be revealed to my ear alone, I will not shrink from it, though the dead themselves should arise to proclaim the mystery. It may be—but—go—there are your tools." And he shut the door, with a jar that shook the sexton's frame.

"Leave me, or stay if you want, while I come into the church. If there's anything that can be told to me alone, I won't shy away from it, even if the dead themselves should rise to reveal the mystery. It could be—but—just go—here are your tools." And he shut the door with a bang that rattled the sexton's frame.

Peter, after some muttered murmurings at the hardihood and madness, as he termed it, of his grandson, disposed his lanky limbs to repose upon a cushioned bench without the communion railing. As the pale moonlight fell upon his gaunt and cadaverous visage, he looked like some unholy thing suddenly annihilated by the presiding influence of that sacred spot. Mole crouched himself in a ring at his master's feet.[22] Peter had not dozed many minutes, when he was aroused by Luke's return. The latter was very pale, and the damp stood in big drops upon his brow.

Peter, after some quiet muttering about the boldness and craziness, as he called it, of his grandson, settled his long limbs onto a cushioned bench outside the communion railing. As the pale moonlight illuminated his thin and deathly face, he looked like some unnatural being suddenly conquered by the holy nature of that place. Mole curled up in a circle at his master's feet.[22] Peter hadn't been asleep for long when he was jolted awake by Luke's return. Luke was very pale, with big drops of sweat on his forehead.

"Have you made fast the door?" inquired the sexton.

"Have you locked the door?" the sexton asked.

"Here is the key."

"Here’s the key."

"What have you seen?" he next demanded.

"What have you seen?" he then asked.

Luke made no answer. At that moment, the church clock struck two, breaking the stillness with an iron clang. Luke raised his eyes. A ray of moonlight, streaming obliquely through the painted window, fell upon the gilt lettering of a black mural entablature. The lower part of the inscription was in the shade, but the emblazonment, and the words—

Luke didn't respond. Just then, the church clock struck two, shattering the silence with a loud clang. Luke looked up. A beam of moonlight, shining at an angle through the stained glass window, illuminated the golden letters of a dark mural. The bottom part of the inscription was in shadow, but the decoration and the words—

Orate pro anima Reginaldi Rookwood equitis aurati,

Orate for the soul of Reginald Rookwood, a knight of the golden spur,

were clear and distinct. Luke trembled, he knew not why, as the sexton pointed to it.

were clear and distinct. Luke trembled, unsure of why, as the sexton pointed to it.

"You have heard of the handwriting upon the wall," said Peter. "Look there!—'His kingdom hath been taken from him.' Ha, ha! Listen to me. Of all thy monster race—of all the race of Rookwood I should say—no demon ever stalked the earth more terrible than him whose tablet you now behold. By him a brother was betrayed; by him a brother's wife was dishonored. Love, honor, friendship, were with him as words. He regarded no ties; he defied and set at naught all human laws and obligations—and yet he was religious, or esteemed so—received the viaticum, and died full of years and honors, hugging salvation to his sinful heart. And after death he has yon lying epitaph to record his virtues. His virtues! ha, ha! Ask him who preaches to the kneeling throng gathering within this holy place what shall be the murderer's portion—and he will answer—Death! And yet Sir Reginald was long-lived. The awful question, 'Cain, where is thy brother?' broke not his tranquil slumbers. Luke, I have told you much—but not all. You know not, as yet—nor shall you know your destiny; but[23] you shall be the avenger of infamy and blood. I have a sacred charge committed to my keeping, which, hereafter, I may delegate to you. You shall be Sir Luke Rookwood, but the conditions must be mine to propose."

"You've heard about the handwriting on the wall," Peter said. "Look there!—'His kingdom has been taken from him.' Ha, ha! Listen to me. Of all your monstrous kind—of all the Rookwoods, to be specific—no demon ever roamed the earth more fearsome than the one whose tablet you see now. He betrayed a brother; he dishonored a brother's wife. Love, honor, friendship were just words to him. He ignored all ties; he defied and dismissed every human law and obligation—and yet he was religious, or at least seen that way—he took the viaticum, and died old and honored, clutching salvation to his sinful heart. And after death, he has that lying epitaph to celebrate his virtues. His virtues! Ha, ha! Ask him who preaches to the kneeling crowd gathering in this holy place what the murderer deserves—and he will answer—Death! And yet Sir Reginald lived a long life. The terrible question, 'Cain, where is your brother?' did not disturb his peaceful sleep. Luke, I've told you a lot—but not everything. You don't know yet—nor will you know your fate; but[23] you will be the avenger of infamy and blood. I have a sacred duty entrusted to me, which I may pass on to you in the future. You will be Sir Luke Rookwood, but the conditions must be mine to set."

"No more," said Luke; "my brain reels. I am faint. Let us quit this place, and get into the fresh air." And striding past his grandsire he traversed the aisles with hasty steps. Peter was not slow to follow. The key was applied, and they emerged into the churchyard. The grassy mounds were bathed in the moonbeams, and the two yew-trees, throwing their black jagged shadows over the grave hills, looked like evil spirits brooding over the repose of the righteous.

"No more," said Luke. "My head is spinning. I feel faint. Let's leave this place and get some fresh air." He moved quickly past his grandfather and hurried down the aisles. Peter quickly followed. The key turned, and they stepped out into the churchyard. The grassy mounds were illuminated by the moonlight, and the two yew trees cast their dark, jagged shadows over the graves, resembling evil spirits watching over the resting souls.

The sexton noticed the deathly paleness of Luke's countenance, but he fancied it might proceed from the tinge of the sallow moonlight.

The sexton noticed the deathly paleness of Luke's face, but he thought it might be due to the yellowish light of the moon.

"I will be with you at your cottage ere daybreak," said Luke. And turning an angle of the church, he disappeared from view.

"I'll be at your cottage before dawn," Luke said. Then he rounded a corner of the church and vanished from sight.

"So," exclaimed Peter, gazing after him, "the train is laid; the spark has been applied; the explosion will soon follow. The hour is fast approaching when I shall behold this accursed house shaken to dust, and when my long-delayed vengeance will be gratified. In that hope I am content to drag on the brief remnant of my days. Meanwhile, I must not omit the stimulant. In a short time I may not require it." Draining the bottle to the last drop, he flung it from him, and commenced chanting, in a high key and cracked voice, a wild ditty, the words of which ran as follow:

"So," Peter exclaimed, watching him go, "the train is set; the spark has been lit; the explosion will come soon. The time is nearing when I will see this cursed house turned to dust, and when my long-awaited revenge will be fulfilled. With that hope, I’m okay with dragging out the last bit of my days. In the meantime, I can't skip the drink. Soon, I might not need it." Finishing the bottle in one go, he tossed it aside and started singing, in a high-pitched and shaky voice, a wild tune, the lyrics of which went like this:

THE CARRION CROW

The carrion crow

The Carrion Crow is a brave sexton. He takes the dead out of the grave; He digs the ground like an old miser,
Secretly concealing his stash of gold.
Caw! Caw!
[24]
The Carrion Crow has a black coat,
Smooth and glossy like a priest's hair at the back; Like a lawyer, he digs in—no matter how—
The smellier the scraps, the better his catch.
Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow!
Dig! Dig! in the ground beneath!
The Carrion Crow has a fancy beak,
He fills his stomach with delicious food; Kept meat from the gallows that suits his fancy,
It can never hang too long for him!
Caw! Caw!
The Carrion Crow has a sense for gunpowder, or so it's said,
Like a soldier avoids the taste of cold metal; No jester or mime has wittier skills, For wherever he shines, he makes an impact!
Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow!
Dig! Dig! in the ground below!

Shouldering his spade, and whistling to his dog, the sexton quitted the churchyard.

Shouldering his shovel and whistling to his dog, the gravekeeper left the churchyard.

Peter had not been gone many seconds, when a dark figure, muffled in a wide black mantle, emerged from among the tombs surrounding the church; gazed after him for a few seconds, and then, with a menacing gesture, retreated behind the ivied buttresses of the gray old pile.

Peter had only been gone for a few seconds when a shadowy figure, wrapped in a large black cloak, appeared from behind the tombs near the church; watched him for a moment, and then, with a threatening motion, stepped back behind the ivy-covered supports of the old gray building.


CHAPTER III

THE PARK

Brian. Ralph! hearest thou any stirring?

Brian. Ralph! Do you hear anything?

Ralph. I heard one speak here, hard by, in the hollow. Peace! master, speak low. Nouns! if I do not hear a bow go off, and the buck bray, I never heard deer in my life.

Ralph. I heard someone talking nearby, in the hollow. Quiet! Please, keep your voice down. Seriously! If I don’t hear a bow fire and the buck roar, then I’ve never heard deer before.

Bri. Stand, or I'll shoot.

Bri. Stand up, or I'll shoot.

Sir Arthur. Who's there?

Sir Arthur. Who's there?

Bri. I am the keeper, and do charge you stand.
You have stolen my deer.

Bri. I'm the one in charge, so I need you to stay put.
You took my deer.

Merry Devil of Edmonton.

Merry Devil of Edmonton.

Luke's first impulse had been to free himself from the restraint imposed by his grandsire's society. He longed to commune with himself. Leaping the small boundary-wall, which defended the churchyard from a deep green lane, he hurried along in a direction contrary to that taken by the sexton, making the best of his way until he arrived at a gap in the high-banked hazel hedge which overhung the road. Heedless of the impediments thrown in his way by the undergrowth of a rough ring fence, he struck through the opening that presented itself, and, climbing over the moss-grown paling, trod presently upon the elastic sward of Rookwood Park.

Luke's first instinct was to escape the constraints of his grandfather's company. He yearned to be alone with his thoughts. He jumped over the low boundary wall that separated the churchyard from a lush green lane and hurried in the opposite direction of the sexton. He made his way quickly until he found a gap in the tall hazel hedge that lined the road. Ignoring the obstacles created by the thick underbrush, he pushed through the opening, climbed over the moss-covered fence, and soon stepped onto the springy grass of Rookwood Park.

A few minutes' rapid walking brought him to the summit of a rising ground crowned with aged oaks and, as he passed beneath their broad shadows, his troubled spirit, soothed by the quietude of the scene, in part resumed its serenity.

A few minutes of brisk walking brought him to the top of a hill topped with old oak trees, and as he walked under their wide shadows, his troubled mind, calmed by the peacefulness of the scene, began to find some of its tranquility again.

Luke yielded to the gentle influence of the time and hour. The stillness of the spot allayed the irritation of his frame, and the dewy chillness cooled the fever of his brow. Leaning for support against the gnarled trunk of one of the trees, he gave himself up to contemplation. The events of the last hour—of[26] his whole existence—passed in rapid review before him. The thought of the wayward, vagabond life he had led; of the wild adventures of his youth; of all he had been; of all he had done, of all he had endured—crowded his mind; and then, like the passing of a cloud flitting across the autumnal moon, and occasionally obscuring the smiling landscape before him, his soul was shadowed by the remembrance of the awful revelations of the last hour, and the fearful knowledge he had acquired of his mother's fate—of his father's guilt.

Luke surrendered to the gentle influence of the time and hour. The quietness of the spot eased his irritation, and the cool dew calmed the fever on his brow. Leaning against the gnarled trunk of one of the trees, he immersed himself in thought. The events of the last hour—of[26] his entire life—flashed before him in quick succession. He reflected on the wayward, wandering life he had lived; the wild adventures of his youth; all he had been; all he had done, and all he had endured—filled his mind. Then, like a cloud passing across the autumn moon, occasionally casting a shadow over the cheerful landscape in front of him, his soul was darkened by the memory of the shocking revelations of the last hour, and the terrifying knowledge he had gained about his mother's fate—about his father's guilt.

The eminence on which he stood was one of the highest points of the park, and commanded a view of the hall, which might be a quarter of a mile distant, discernible through a broken vista of trees, its whitened walls glimmering in the moonlight, and its tall chimney spiring far from out the round masses of wood in which it lay embosomed. The ground gradually sloped in that direction, occasionally rising into swells, studded with magnificent timber—dipping into smooth dells, or stretching out into level glades, until it suddenly sank into a deep declivity, that formed an effectual division, without the intervention of a haw-haw, or other barrier, between the chase and the home-park. A slender stream strayed through this ravine, having found its way thither from a small reservoir, hidden in the higher plantations to the left; and further on, in the open ground, and in a line with the hall, though, of course, much below the level of the building, assisted by many local springs, and restrained by a variety of natural and artificial embankments, this brook spread out into an expansive sheet of water. Crossed by a rustic bridge, the only communication between the parks, the pool found its outlet into the meads below; and even at that distance, and in that still hour, you might almost catch the sound of the brawling waters, as they dashed down the weir in a foaming cascade; while, far away, in the spreading valley, the serpentine meanderings of the slender current might be traced, glittering like silvery threads in the moonshine. The mild beams of the[27] queen of night, then in her meridian, trembled upon the topmost branches of the tall timber, quivering like diamond spray upon the outer foliage; and, penetrating through the interstices of the trees, fell upon the light wreaths of vapor then beginning to arise from the surface of the pool, steeping them in misty splendor, and lending to this part of the picture a character of dreamy and unearthly beauty.

The hill he stood on was one of the highest points in the park, offering a view of the hall, which was about a quarter of a mile away, visible through a scattered line of trees, its white walls shimmering in the moonlight, and its tall chimney rising high above the thick clusters of trees in which it was nestled. The land gradually sloped in that direction, occasionally rising into gentle hills, dotted with impressive trees—dipping into smooth valleys or extending into flat clearings, until it abruptly dropped into a deep dip that created a clear separation, without the need for a fence or any other barrier, between the hunting grounds and the home park. A narrow stream meandered through this ravine, having traveled there from a small reservoir hidden among the higher trees to the left; and further along, in the open area, in line with the hall, although much lower than the building, fed by numerous local springs and bordered by various natural and man-made embankments, the brook spread out into a wide pool. Spanned by a rustic bridge, the only link between the two parks, the pool drained into the meadows below; and even from that distance, at that quiet hour, you could almost hear the sound of the rushing waters as they cascaded down the weir in a frothy flow; while far away, in the expansive valley, the winding path of the thin current could be seen, sparkling like silver threads in the moonlight. The gentle rays of the moon, at its peak, shimmered on the upper branches of the tall trees, glistening like diamond drops on the outer leaves; and as they filtered through the gaps in the trees, they illuminated the delicate wisps of mist that were starting to rise from the surface of the pool, wrapping them in a dreamy glow and giving this part of the scene a quality of ethereal and otherworldly beauty.

All else was in unison. No sound interrupted the silence of Luke's solitude, except the hooting of a large gray owl, that, scared at his approach, or in search of prey, winged its spectral flight in continuous and mazy circles round his head, uttering at each wheel its startling whoop; or a deep, distant bay, that ever and anon boomed upon the ear, proceeding from a pack of hounds kennelled in a shed adjoining the pool before mentioned, but which was shrouded from view by the rising mist. No living objects presented themselves, save a herd of deer, crouched in a covert of brown fern beneath the shadow of a few stunted trees, immediately below the point of land on which Luke stood; and although their branching antlers could scarcely be detected from the ramifications of the wood itself, they escaped not his practised ken.

Everything else was in harmony. No sound broke the stillness of Luke's solitude, except for the hooting of a large gray owl, which, startled by his presence or searching for prey, flew in ghostly circles around his head, issuing a shocking whoop with each turn; or a deep, distant bay that occasionally rumbled in the distance, coming from a pack of hounds housed in a shed near the pool mentioned earlier, but hidden from sight by the rising mist. No living creatures were visible, except for a herd of deer, huddled in a patch of brown ferns under the shadow of a few stunted trees, just below the point of land where Luke stood; and even though their branching antlers were barely distinguishable from the branches of the woods, they did not escape his keen eye.

"How often," murmured Luke, "in years gone by, have I traversed these moonlit glades, and wandered amidst these woodlands, on nights heavenly as this—ay, and to some purpose, as yon thinned herd might testify! Every dingle, every dell, every rising brow, every bosky vale and shelving covert, have been as familiar to my track as to that of the fleetest and freest of their number: scarce a tree amidst the thickest of yon outstretching forest with which I cannot claim acquaintance; 'tis long since I have seen them. By Heavens! 'tis beautiful! and it is all my own! Can I forget that it was here I first emancipated myself from thraldom? Can I forget the boundless feeling of delight that danced within my veins when I first threw off the yoke of servitude, and roved unshackled, unrestrained, amidst these woods? The wild intoxicating[28] bliss still tingles to my heart. And they are all my own—my own! Softly, what have we there?"

"How often," murmured Luke, "in years past, have I walked through these moonlit glades and roamed in these woodlands on nights as beautiful as this—yes, and for good reason, as this thin herd might show! Every nook, every valley, every rising hill, every leafy vale and sheltered spot, has been just as familiar to me as to the fastest and freest of their kind: hardly a tree in the densest part of that vast forest that I don't recognize; it has been a long time since I last saw them. By Heaven! it’s gorgeous! and it’s all mine! Can I forget that it was here I first broke free from bondage? Can I forget the overwhelming joy that surged through me when I first shook off the chains of servitude and wandered freely, unrestrained, through these woods? The wild, intoxicating bliss still sends a thrill to my heart. And they are all mine—my own! Wait, what do we have there?"

Luke's attention was arrested by an object which could not fail to interest him, sportsman as he was. A snorting bray was heard, and a lordly stag stalked slowly and majestically from out the copse. Luke watched the actions of the noble animal with great interest, drawing back into the shade. A hundred yards, or thereabouts, might be between him and the buck. It was within range of ball. Luke mechanically grasped his gun; yet his hand had scarcely raised the piece half way to his shoulder, when he dropped it again to its rest.

Luke's attention was caught by an object that was sure to interest him, being the outdoor enthusiast that he was. A loud bray echoed, and a majestic stag gracefully emerged from the thicket. Luke observed the movements of the impressive creature with keen interest, retreating into the shadows. There was about a hundred yards between him and the buck. It was within range for a shot. Luke instinctively grabbed his gun; however, just as he lifted it halfway to his shoulder, he set it back down again.

"What am I about to do?" he mentally ejaculated. "Why, for mere pastime, should I take away yon noble creature's life, when his carcass would be utterly useless to me? Yet such is the force of habit, that I can scarce resist the impulse that tempted me to fire; and I have known the time, and that not long since, when I should have shown no such self-control."

"What am I about to do?" he thought. "Why, for just a bit of fun, should I take this noble creature's life when its body wouldn't benefit me at all? Yet, the urge is so strong that I can barely resist the impulse to shoot; and not long ago, I would have had no self-control at all."

Unconscious of the danger it had escaped, the animal moved forward with the same stately step. Suddenly it stopped, with ears pricked, as if some sound had smote them. At that instant the click of a gun-lock was heard, at a little distance to the right. The piece had missed fire. An instantaneous report from another gun succeeded; and, with a bound high in air, the buck fell upon his back, struggling in the agonies of death. Luke had at once divined the cause; he was aware that poachers were at hand. He fancied that he knew the parties; nor was he deceived in his conjecture. Two figures issued instantly from a covert on the right, and making to the spot, the first who reached it put an end to the animal's struggles by plunging a knife into its throat. The affrighted herd took to their heels, and were seen darting swiftly down the chase.

Unaware of the danger it had just escaped, the animal continued forward with the same dignified stride. Suddenly, it stopped, ears perked up, as if it had heard something. At that moment, the click of a gun’s mechanism echoed from a short distance to the right. The gun had misfired. Almost immediately, another gun went off, and with a leap into the air, the buck fell onto its back, writhing in its final moments. Luke quickly realized what was happening; he knew poachers were nearby. He thought he recognized the individuals involved, and his guess turned out to be correct. Two figures quickly emerged from cover on the right, and as they approached the spot, the first one to arrive ended the animal's struggles by driving a knife into its throat. The startled herd bolted, seen racing swiftly down the chase.

One of the twain, meantime, was occupied in feeling for the deer's fat, when he was approached by the other, who pointed in the direction of the house. The former raised himself from his kneeling posture, and both appeared to listen attentively.[29] Luke fancied he heard a slight sound in the distance; whatever the noise proceeded from, it was evident the deer-stealers were alarmed. They laid hold of the buck, and, dragging it along, concealed the carcass among the tall fern; they then retreated, halting for an instant to deliberate, within a few yards of Luke, who was concealed from their view by the trunk of the tree, behind which he had ensconced his person. They were so near, that he lost not a word of their muttered conference.

One of the two was busy feeling for the deer's fat when the other approached him and pointed toward the house. The first one got up from his kneeling position, and both seemed to listen carefully.[29] Luke thought he heard a faint sound in the distance; whatever was making the noise, it was clear the deer stealers were on edge. They grabbed the buck and, dragging it along, hid the carcass among the tall ferns. They then stepped back, pausing for a moment to discuss things just a few yards away from Luke, who was hidden from their sight by the trunk of the tree he was crouching behind. They were so close that he overheard every word of their whispered conversation.

"The game's spoiled this time, Rob Rust, any how," growled one, in an angry tone; "the hawks are upon us, and we must leave this brave buck to take care of himself. Curse him!—who'd 'a' thought of Hugh Badger's quitting his bed to-night? Respect for his late master might have kept him quiet the night before the funeral. But look out, lad. Dost see 'em?"

"The game is ruined this time, Rob Rust, anyway," growled one angrily. "The hawks are after us, and we have to leave this brave guy to fend for himself. Damn him! Who would have thought Hugh Badger would get out of bed tonight? Out of respect for his late master, he should have stayed quiet the night before the funeral. But watch out, kid. Do you see them?"

"Ay, thanks to old Oliver—yonder they are," returned the other. "One—two—three—and a muzzled bouser to boot. There's Hugh at the head on 'em. Shall we stand and show fight? I have half a mind for it."

"Yeah, thanks to old Oliver—there they are," replied the other. "One—two—three—and a muzzled dog too. There's Hugh leading them. Should we stand our ground and fight? I'm half tempted to do it."

"No, no," replied the first speaker; "that will never do, Rob—no fighting. Why run the risk of being grabb'd for a haunch of venison? Had Luke Bradley or Jack Palmer been with us, it might have been another affair. As it is, it won't pay. Besides, we've that to do at the hall to-morrow night that may make men of us for the rest of our nat'ral lives. We've pledged ourselves to Jack Palmer, and we can't be off in honor. It won't do to be snabbled in the nick of it. So let's make for the prad in the lane. Keep in the shade as much as you can. Come along, my hearty." And away the two worthies scampered down the hill-side.

"No, no," replied the first speaker, "that won't work, Rob—no fighting. Why risk getting caught over a piece of venison? If Luke Bradley or Jack Palmer had been with us, it might have been a different story. But as it is, it's not worth it. Plus, we have something to take care of at the hall tomorrow night that could change our lives forever. We've promised Jack Palmer, and we can't back out now. It wouldn’t be right to get caught just before. So let’s head for the horse in the lane. Stay in the shade as much as you can. Come on, my friend." And off the two of them hurried down the hillside.

"Shall I follow," thought Luke, "and run the risk of falling into the keeper's hand, just at this crisis, too? No, but if I am found here, I shall be taken for one of the gang. Something must be done—ha!—devil take them, here they are already."

"Should I follow?" Luke thought. "Am I really willing to risk getting caught by the keeper right now? No, but if they find me here, they'll think I'm one of the crew. Something has to be done—oh no! Here they come already."

Further time was not allowed him for reflection. A hoarse[30] baying was heard, followed by a loud cry from the keepers. The dog had scented out the game; and, as secrecy was no longer necessary, his muzzle had been removed. To rush forth now were certain betrayal; to remain was almost equally assured detection; and, doubting whether he should obtain credence if he delivered himself over in that garb and armed, Luke at once rejected the idea. Just then it flashed across his recollection that his gun had remained unloaded, and he applied himself eagerly to repair this negligence, when he heard the dog in full cry, making swiftly in his direction. He threw himself upon the ground, where the fern was thickest; but this seemed insufficient to baffle the sagacity of the hound—the animal had got his scent, and was baying close at hand. The keepers were drawing nigh. Luke gave himself up for lost. The dog, however, stopped where the two poachers had halted, and was there completely at fault: snuffing the ground, he bayed, wheeled round, and then set off with renewed barking upon their track. Hugh Badger and his comrades loitered an instant at the same place, looked warily round, and then, as Luke conjectured, followed the course taken by the hound.

Further time was not allowed for reflection. A hoarse[30] barking was heard, followed by a loud shout from the keepers. The dog had tracked the game, and since secrecy was no longer necessary, his muzzle had been removed. To rush out now would mean certain betrayal; to stay put was almost equally likely to get him caught; and, unsure whether he would be believed if he surrendered in that outfit and armed, Luke immediately dismissed the idea. Just then, it came to his mind that his gun was still unloaded, and he hurried to fix this oversight when he heard the dog barking, coming quickly in his direction. He dropped to the ground, where the ferns were thickest; but this seemed insufficient to fool the hound—the animal had picked up his scent and was barking nearby. The keepers were getting closer. Luke felt hopeless. However, the dog stopped where the two poachers had paused and was completely confused: sniffing the ground, he barked, turned around, and then took off with renewed barking on their trail. Hugh Badger and his buddies lingered for a moment in the same spot, looked around cautiously, and then, as Luke suspected, followed the path taken by the hound.

Swift as thought, Luke arose, and keeping as much as possible under cover of the trees, started in a cross line for the lane. Rapid as was his flight, it was not without a witness: one of the keeper's assistants, who had lagged behind, gave the view-halloo in a loud voice. Luke pressed forward with redoubled energy, endeavoring to gain the shelter of the plantation, and this he could readily have accomplished, had no impediment been in his way. But his rage and vexation were boundless, when he heard the keeper's cry echoed by shouts immediately below him, and the tongue of the hound resounding in the hollow. He turned sharply round, steering a middle course, and still aiming at the fence. It was evident, from the cheers of his pursuers, that he was in full view, and he heard them encouraging and directing the dog.

Quick as a flash, Luke got up and, keeping as much as he could under the cover of the trees, took a diagonal path toward the lane. Even though he was moving fast, someone saw him: one of the keeper's assistants, who had fallen behind, shouted loudly. Luke pushed on with even more determination, trying to reach the safety of the trees, and he could have made it easily if there hadn’t been anything in his way. But his anger and frustration were limitless when he heard the keeper’s shout answered by cheers coming from just below him, and the sound of the hound barking in the valley. He turned sharply, taking a middle path and still aiming for the fence. It was clear from the cheers of his pursuers that they could see him, and he heard them encouraging and directing the dog.

Luke had gained the park palings, along which he rushed, in[31] the vain quest of some practicable point of egress, for the fence was higher in this part of the park than elsewhere, owing to the inequality of the ground. He had cast away his gun as useless. But even without that incumbrance, he dared not hazard the delay of climbing the palings. At this juncture a deep breathing was heard close behind him. He threw a glance over his shoulder. Within a few yards was a ferocious bloodhound, with whose savage nature Luke was well acquainted; the breed, some of which he had already seen, having been maintained at the hall ever since the days of grim old Sir Ranulph. The eyes of the hound were glaring, blood-red; his tongue was hanging out, and a row of keen white fangs was displayed, like the teeth of a shark. There was a growl—a leap—and the dog was close upon him.

Luke had reached the park's fence, running alongside it in[31] a fruitless search for a workable escape route, since the fence was taller in this area of the park due to the uneven ground. He had thrown away his gun as it was useless. But even without that burden, he couldn't risk the delay of climbing the fence. Just then, he heard heavy breathing right behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. A fierce bloodhound was just a few yards away, and Luke was well aware of its savage nature; this breed had been kept at the hall since the days of grim old Sir Ranulph. The hound's eyes were glowing a menacing blood-red; its tongue was hanging out, and a row of sharp white teeth was bared, resembling the teeth of a shark. There was a growl—a leap—and the dog was right on his tail.

Luke's courage was undoubted. But his heart failed him as he heard the roar of the remorseless brute, and felt that he could not avoid an encounter with the animal. His resolution was instantly taken: he stopped short with such suddenness, that the dog, when in the act of springing, flew past him with great violence, and the time, momentary as it was, occupied by the animal in recovering himself, enabled Luke to drop on his knee, and to place one arm, like a buckler, before his face, while he held the other in readiness to grapple his adversary. Uttering a fierce yell, the hound returned to the charge, darting at Luke, who received the assault without flinching; and in spite of a severe laceration of the arm, he seized his foe by the throat, and hurling him upon the ground, jumped with all his force upon his belly. There was a yell of agony—the contest was ended, and Luke was at liberty to pursue his flight unmolested.

Luke's courage was unquestionable. But his heart sank as he heard the thunderous growl of the merciless beast and realized he could not avoid a confrontation with it. He made up his mind instantly: he stopped so suddenly that the dog, in mid-spring, flew past him with great force, and the brief moment it took for the animal to regain itself allowed Luke to drop to one knee, using one arm like a shield in front of his face while keeping the other ready to grab the attacker. Letting out a fierce yell, the hound charged again, lunging at Luke, who took the hit without flinching; despite a serious gash on his arm, he grabbed the dog by the throat and threw it to the ground, then jumped on its belly with all his strength. There was a scream of pain—the fight was over, and Luke was free to continue his escape unbothered.

Brief as had been the interval required for this combat, it had been sufficient to bring the pursuers within sight of the fugitive. Hugh Badger, who from the acclivity had witnessed the fate of his favorite, with a loud oath discharged the contents of his gun at the head of its destroyer. It was fortunate[32] for Luke that at this instant he stumbled over the root of a tree—the shot rattled in the leaves as he fell, and the keeper, concluding that he had at least winged his bird, descended more leisurely towards him. As he lay upon the ground, Luke felt that he was wounded; whether by the teeth of the dog, from a stray shot, or from bruises inflicted by the fall, he could not determine. But, smarting with pain, he resolved to wreak his vengeance upon the first person who approached him. He vowed not to be taken with life—to strangle any who should lay hands upon him. At that moment he felt a pressure at his breast. It was the dead hand of his mother!

Brief as the time was for this fight, it was enough for the pursuers to spot the runaway. Hugh Badger, who had seen his favorite meet its end from the slope, let out a loud curse and fired his gun at the head of its killer. Luckily for Luke, just then he tripped over a tree root—the shot rattled through the leaves as he fell, and the keeper, thinking he had at least hit his target, made his way down toward him more slowly. Lying on the ground, Luke realized he was hurt; he couldn't tell if it was from the dog’s teeth, a stray bullet, or the bruises from his fall. But stinging with pain, he made up his mind to take revenge on anyone who came near him. He swore he wouldn’t be taken alive—to strangle anyone who tried to lay hands on him. In that moment, he felt a weight on his chest. It was the dead hand of his mother!

Luke shuddered. The fire of revenge was quenched. He mentally cancelled his rash oath; yet he could not bring himself to surrender at discretion, and without further effort. The keeper and his assistants were approaching the spot where he lay, and searching for his body. Hugh Badger was foremost, and within a yard of him.

Luke shuddered. The fire of revenge was extinguished. He mentally took back his impulsive vow; yet he couldn’t make himself surrender without a fight, and without putting in more effort. The keeper and his assistants were getting closer to where he lay, searching for his body. Hugh Badger was at the front, just a yard away from him.

"Confound the rascal!" cried Hugh, "he's not half killed; he seems to breathe."

"Curse the guy!" shouted Hugh, "he's not even close to dead; he looks like he can still breathe."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth ere the speaker was dashed backwards, and lay sprawling upon the sod. Suddenly and unexpectedly, as an Indian chief might rush upon his foes, Luke arose, dashing himself with great violence against Hugh, who happened to stand in his way, and before the startled assistants, who were either too much taken by surprise, or unwilling to draw a trigger, could in any way lay hands upon him, exerting all the remarkable activity which he possessed, he caught hold of a projecting branch of a tree, and swung himself, at a single bound, fairly over the paling.

The words had barely left his lips when the speaker was knocked backward, sprawling on the ground. Suddenly and unexpectedly, like an Indian chief charging at his enemies, Luke sprang up, throwing himself violently against Hugh, who happened to be in his path. Before the shocked onlookers, who were either too surprised or hesitant to take action, could react, Luke used all his impressive agility to grab a tree branch and swung himself over the fence in one leap.

Hugh Badger was shortly on his legs, swearing lustily at his defeat. Directing his men to skirt alongside the fence, and make for a particular part of the plantation which he named, and snatching a loaded fowling-piece from one of them, he clambered over the pales, and guided by the crashing branches[33] and other sounds conveyed to his quick ear, he was speedily upon Luke's track.

Hugh Badger quickly got to his feet, cursing loudly about his defeat. He told his men to move along the fence and head for a specific area of the plantation that he named. Grabbing a loaded shotgun from one of them, he climbed over the fence, and following the sounds of breaking branches and other noises that his keen ears picked up, he soon found Luke's trail.

The plantation through which the chase now took place was not, as might be supposed, a continuation of the ring fence which Luke had originally crossed on his entrance into the park, though girded by the same line of paling, but, in reality, a close pheasant preserve, occupying the banks of a ravine, which, after a deep and tortuous course, terminated in the declivity heretofore described as forming the park boundary. Luke plunged into the heart of this defile, fighting his way downwards, in the direction of the brook. His progress was impeded by a thick undergrowth of brier, and other matted vegetation, as well as by the entanglements thrown in his way by the taller bushes of thorn and hazel, the entwined and elastic branches of which, in their recoil, galled and fretted him, by inflicting smart blows on his face and hands. This was a hardship he usually little regarded. But, upon the present occasion, it had the effect, by irritating his temper, of increasing the thirst of vengeance raging in his bosom.

The plantation where the chase was happening now wasn’t, as one might think, just an extension of the fenced area Luke had crossed when he first entered the park. Although it was surrounded by the same type of fencing, it was actually a private pheasant hunting ground situated along the banks of a ravine. This ravine, after winding deeply, ended at the slope that had been described earlier as the park's boundary. Luke dove into the middle of this ravine, struggling to move down toward the stream. His progress was blocked by thick underbrush of briars and other tangled plants, along with the obstacles posed by the taller thorn and hazel bushes. The flexible branches of these bushes would snap back and hit him, irritating his face and hands. Normally, he wouldn't mind this much. However, on this particular occasion, it only served to irritate him further, fueling the anger for revenge that was building inside him.

Through the depths of the ravine welled the shallow stream before alluded to, and Hugh Badger had no sooner reached its sedgy margin than he lost all trace of the fugitive. He looked cautiously round, listened intently, and inclined his ear to catch the faintest echo. All was still: not a branch shook, not a leaf rustled. Hugh looked aghast. He had made sure of getting a glimpse, and, perhaps, a stray shot at the "poaching rascal," as he termed him, "in the open space, which he was sure the fellow was aiming to reach; and now, all at once, he had disappeared, like a will-o'-the-wisp or a boggart of the clough." However, he could not be far off, and Hugh endeavored to obtain some clue to guide him in his quest. He was not long in detecting recent marks deeply indented in the mud on the opposite bank. Hugh leaped thither at once. Further on, some rushes were trodden down, and there were other indications of the course the fugitive had taken.[34]

A shallow stream flowed through the depths of the ravine, and as soon as Hugh Badger reached its grassy edge, he lost all trace of the fugitive. He looked around cautiously, listened carefully, and leaned in to catch any faint sounds. Everything was quiet: not a branch moved, not a leaf stirred. Hugh stared in shock. He had been sure he would see, and maybe even catch a shot at the "poaching rascal," as he called him, "in the open area that he was definitely trying to reach," and now, suddenly, he had vanished, like a will-o'-the-wisp or a ghost in the thicket. However, he couldn't be far away, so Hugh tried to find some clue to help him in his search. It wasn't long before he noticed fresh marks deeply pressed into the mud on the opposite bank. Hugh jumped over immediately. Further along, some reeds were flattened down, and there were other signs of the route the fugitive had taken.[34]

"Hark forward!" shouted Hugh, in the joy of his heart at this discovery; and, like a well-trained dog, he followed up with alacrity the scent he had opened. The brook presented still fewer impediments to expedition than the thick copse, and the keeper pursued the wanderings of the petty current, occasionally splashing into the stream. Here and there, the print of a foot on the soil satisfied him he was in the right path. At length he became aware, from the crumbling soil, that the object of his pursuit had scaled the bank, and he forthwith moderated his pace. Halting, he perceived what he took to be a face peeping at him from behind a knot of alders that overhung the steep and shelving bank immediately above him. His gun was instantly at his shoulder.

"Forward!" shouted Hugh, filled with joy at this discovery; and, like a well-trained dog, he eagerly followed the trail he had opened. The brook offered even fewer obstacles than the thick brush, and the keeper tracked the little stream, occasionally splashing into the water. Here and there, a footprint in the soil assured him he was on the right path. Eventually, he noticed from the crumbling soil that the person he was chasing had climbed the bank, so he slowed down. Stopping, he saw what looked like a face peeking at him from behind a cluster of alders that hung over the steep, sloping bank right above him. He raised his gun immediately.

"Come down, you infernal deer-stealing scoundrel," cried Hugh, "or I'll blow you to shivers."

"Come down, you damn deer-thieving scoundrel," shouted Hugh, "or I'll blow you to pieces."

No answer was returned: expostulation was vain; and, fearful of placing himself at a disadvantage if he attempted to scale the bank, Hugh fired without further parley. The sharp discharge rolled in echoes down the ravine, and a pheasant, scared by the sound, answered the challenge from a neighboring tree. Hugh was an unerring marksman, and on this occasion his aim had been steadily taken. The result was not precisely such as he had anticipated. A fur cap, shaken by the shot from the bough on which it hung, came rolling down the bank, proclaiming the ruse that had been practised upon the keeper. Little time was allowed him for reflection. Before he could reload, he felt himself collared by the iron arm of Luke.

No answer came back; arguing was pointless; and, worried about putting himself at a disadvantage if he tried to climb the bank, Hugh shot without saying anything more. The loud bang echoed through the ravine, and a pheasant, startled by the noise, responded from a nearby tree. Hugh was an excellent marksman, and this time, his aim had been precise. The outcome wasn’t exactly what he expected. A fur cap, shaken loose by the shot from the branch it was hanging from, came rolling down the bank, revealing the ruse that had been played on the keeper. He didn't have much time to think. Before he could reload, he felt Luke's strong grip around him.

Hugh Badger was a man of great personal strength—square-set, bandy-legged, with a prodigious width of chest, and a frame like a Hercules, and, energetic as was Luke's assault, he maintained his ground without flinching. The struggle was desperate. Luke was of slighter proportion, though exceeding the keeper in stature by the head and shoulders. This superiority availed him little. It was rather a disadvantage in the[35] conflict that ensued. The gripe fastened upon Hugh's throat was like that of a clenched vice. But Luke might as well have grappled the neck of a bull, as that of the stalwart keeper. Defending himself with his hobnail boots, with which he inflicted several severe blows upon Luke's shins, and struggling vehemently, Hugh succeeded in extricating himself from his throttling grasp; he then closed with his foe, and they were locked together, like a couple of bears at play. Straining, tugging, and practising every sleight and stratagem coming within the scope of feet, knees, and thighs—now tripping, now jerking, now advancing, now retreating, they continued the strife, but all with doubtful result. Victory, at length, seemed to declare itself in favor of the sturdy keeper. Aware of his opponent's strength, it was Luke's chief endeavor to keep his lower limbs disengaged, and to trust more to skill than force for ultimate success. To prevent this was Hugh's grand object. Guarding himself against every feint, he ultimately succeeded in firmly grappling his agile assailant. Luke's spine was almost broken by the shock, when he suddenly gave way; and, without losing his balance, drew his adversary forward, kicking his right leg from under him. With a crash like that of an uprooted oak, Hugh fell, with his foe upon him, into the bed of the rivulet.

Hugh Badger was a man of immense strength—broad-shouldered, bandy-legged, with a massive chest and a build like Hercules. No matter how forcefully Luke attacked, he held his ground without flinching. The fight was intense. Luke was smaller in frame but taller than the keeper by a head and shoulders. This height advantage did him little good. In fact, it was more of a liability in the conflict that followed. The grip around Hugh's throat felt like a vice. But Luke might as well have tried to choke a bull as the sturdy keeper. Defending himself with his hobnailed boots, he landed several harsh kicks on Luke's shins, and with a fierce struggle, Hugh managed to break free from Luke's hold. He then charged at his opponent, and they locked together like two bears wrestling. Straining, pulling, and using every trick they could with their feet, knees, and thighs—tripping, jerking, advancing, and retreating—they continued to battle, but the outcome was uncertain. Eventually, victory seemed to lean toward the strong keeper. Knowing his opponent's strength, Luke focused on keeping his legs free, relying more on skill than brute force for a win. Preventing this was Hugh’s main goal. He defended against every move, ultimately managing to firmly grab hold of his nimble opponent. Luke’s spine felt nearly shattered by the force when he suddenly faltered and, without losing his footing, pulled Hugh forward, kicking his right leg out from under him. With a crash like an uprooted oak, Hugh fell, with Luke landing on top of him, into the bed of the stream.

Not a word had been spoken during the conflict. A convulsive groan burst from Hugh's hardy breast. His hand sought his girdle, but in vain; his knife was gone. Gazing upwards, his dancing vision encountered the glimmer of the blade. The weapon had dropped from its case in the fall. Luke brandished it before his eyes.

Not a word was said during the fight. A deep groan escaped from Hugh's chest. He reached for his belt, but it was gone; his knife was missing. Looking up, his blurred vision caught a glimpse of the blade. The weapon had fallen out of its sheath during the tumble. Luke waved it in front of him.

"Villain!" gasped Hugh, ineffectually struggling to free himself, "you will not murder me?" And his efforts to release himself became desperate.

"Villain!" Hugh gasped, struggling uselessly to break free, "you won't kill me, will you?" His attempts to escape grew frantic.

"No," answered Luke, flinging the uplifted knife into the brook. "I will not do that, though thou hast twice aimed at my life to-night. But I will silence thee, at all events." Saying[36] which, he dealt the keeper a blow on the head that terminated all further resistance on his part.

"No," Luke replied, throwing the raised knife into the stream. "I won't do that, even though you've tried to kill me twice tonight. But I will silence you, at the very least." With that, he struck the keeper on the head, ending any further resistance from him.

Leaving the inert mass to choke up the current, with whose waters the blood, oozing from the wound, began to commingle, Luke prepared to depart. His perils were not yet past. Guided by the firing, the report of which alarmed them, the keeper's assistants hastened in the direction of the sound, presenting themselves directly in the path Luke was about to take. He had either to retrace his steps, or face a double enemy. His election was made at once. He turned and fled.

Leaving the lifeless body to block the current, where the blood was starting to mix with the water, Luke got ready to leave. His dangers weren't over yet. Guided by the gunfire that startled them, the keeper's assistants rushed toward the sound, getting right in the way of the path Luke was about to take. He had to either go back or confront two enemies. He made his decision instantly. He turned and ran.

For an instant the men tarried with their bleeding companion. They then dragged him from the brook, and with loud oaths followed in pursuit.

For a moment, the men paused with their injured friend. They then pulled him out of the creek and, shouting curses, continued the chase.

Threading, for a second time, the bosky labyrinth, Luke sought the source of the stream. This was precisely the course his enemies would have desired him to pursue; and when they beheld him take it, they felt confident of his capture.

Threading through the wooded maze for the second time, Luke looked for the source of the stream. This was exactly the path his enemies would have wanted him to take; and when they saw him do it, they felt sure they would catch him.

The sides of the hollow became more and more abrupt as they advanced, though they were less covered with brushwood. The fugitive made no attempt to climb the bank, but still pressed forward. The road was tortuous, and wound round a jutting point of rock. Now he was a fair mark—no, he had swept swiftly by, and was out of sight before a gun could be raised. They reached the same point. He was still before them, but his race was nearly run. Steep, slippery rocks, shelving down to the edges of a small, deep pool of water, the source of the stream, formed an apparently insurmountable barrier in that direction. Rooted—Heaven knows how!—in some reft or fissure of the rock, grew a wild ash, throwing out a few boughs over the solitary pool; this was all the support Luke could hope for, should he attempt to scale the rock. The rock was sheer—the pool deep—yet still he hurried on. He reached the muddy embankment; mounted its sides; and seemed to hesitate. The keepers were now within a hundred yards of him. Both guns were discharged. And, sudden as the reports,[37] with a dead, splashless plunge, like a diving otter, the fugitive dropped into the water.

The sides of the hollow became steeper as they moved forward, but there was less brushwood covering them. The fugitive didn’t try to climb the bank and kept pushing ahead. The road was winding and curved around a jutting rock. Now he was an easy target—no, he rushed past quickly and was out of sight before anyone could raise a gun. They arrived at the same spot. He was still ahead of them, but his escape was almost over. Steep, slippery rocks dropped down to the edges of a small, deep pool of water, the source of the stream, creating what seemed like an impossible barrier in that direction. Somehow, rooted in a crack or fissure of the rock, a wild ash tree grew, with a few branches stretching over the solitary pool; this was all the support Luke could hope for if he tried to climb the rock. The rock was sheer—the pool deep—yet he kept moving forward. He reached the muddy embankment, climbed its sides, and seemed to hesitate. The keepers were now within a hundred yards of him. Both guns fired. And, as sudden as the gunshots, with a dead, splashless dive, like a diving otter, the fugitive plunged into the water.

The pursuers were at the brink. They gazed at the pool. A few bubbles floated upon its surface, and burst. The water was slightly discolored with sand. No ruddier stain crimsoned the tide; no figure rested on the naked rock; no hand clung to the motionless tree.

The pursuers were close. They looked at the pool. A few bubbles floated on its surface and popped. The water was slightly tinted with sand. No red stain colored the tide; no figure lay on the bare rock; no hand held onto the still tree.

"Devil take the rascal!" growled one; "I hope he harn't escaped us, arter all."

"Curse that guy!" growled one; "I hope he hasn't escaped us after all."

"Noa, noa, he be fast enough, never fear," rejoined the other; "sticking like a snig at the bottom o' the pond; and, dang him! he deserves it, for he's slipped out of our fingers like a snig often enough to-night. But come, let's be stumping, and give poor Hugh Badger a helping hand."

"No way, he's quick enough, don't worry," the other replied; "sticking like a fish at the bottom of the pond; and, darn it! he deserves it, because he's slipped out of our grasp like a fish too many times tonight. But come on, let's get moving and give poor Hugh Badger a hand."

Whereupon they returned to the assistance of the wounded and discomfited keeper.

They then went back to help the injured and distressed keeper.


CHAPTER IV

THE HALL

I am right against my house—seat of my ancestors.

I am right next to my house—home of my ancestors.

Yorkshire Tragedy.

Yorkshire Tragedy.

Rookwood Place was a fine, old, irregular pile, of considerable size, presenting a rich, picturesque outline, with its innumerable gable-ends, its fantastical coigns, and tall crest of twisted chimneys. There was no uniformity of style about the building, yet the general effect was pleasing and beautiful. Its very irregularity constituted a charm. Nothing except convenience had been consulted in its construction: additions had from time to time been made to it, but everything dropped into its proper place, and, without apparent effort or design, grew into an ornament, and heightened the beauty of the[38] whole. It was, in short, one of those glorious manorial houses that sometimes unexpectedly greet us in our wanderings, and gladden us like the discovery of a hidden treasure. Some such ancestral hall we have occasionally encountered, in unlooked-for quarters, in our native county of Lancaster, or in its smiling sister shire; and never without feelings of intense delight, rejoicing to behold the freshness of its antiquity, and the greenness of its old age. For, be it observed in passing, a Cheshire or Lancashire hall, time-honored though it be, with its often renovated black and white squares, fancifully filled up with trefoils and quatrefoils, rosettes, and other figures, seems to bear its years so lightly, that its age, so far from detracting from its beauty, only lends it a grace; and the same mansion, to all outward appearance, fresh and perfect as it existed in the days of good Queen Bess, may be seen in admirable preservation in the days of the youthful Victoria. Such is Bramall—such Moreton, and many another we might instance; the former of these houses may, perhaps, be instanced as the best specimen of its class,—and its class in our opinion, is the best—to be met with in Cheshire, considered with reference either to the finished decoration of its exterior, rich in the chequered coloring we have alluded to, preserved with a care and neatness almost Dutch, or to the consistent taste exhibited by its possessor to the restoration and maintenance of all its original and truly national beauty within doors. As an illustration of old English hospitality—that real, hearty hospitality for which the squirearchy of this country was once so famous—Ah! why have they bartered it for other customs less substantially English?—it may be mentioned, that a road conducted the passenger directly through the great hall of this house, literally "of entertainment," where, if he listed, strong ale, and other refreshments, awaited his acceptance and courted his stay. Well might old King, the Cheshire historian, in the pride of his honest heart, exclaim, "I know divers men, who are but farmers, that in their housekeeping may compare with a lord[39] or baron, in some countries beyond the seas;—yea, although I named a higher degree, I were able to justify it." We have no such "golden farmers" in these degenerate days!

Rookwood Place was a grand, old, irregular building that was quite large, offering a rich, picturesque silhouette with its countless gable ends, quirky corners, and tall array of twisted chimneys. There was no consistency in style throughout the structure, yet the overall effect was pleasing and beautiful. Its very irregularity added to its charm. Only convenience had been considered in its construction: additions had been made over time, but everything fit perfectly in place, and, without any obvious effort or design, blended into a decoration that enhanced the beauty of the[38] whole. In short, it was one of those stunning manorial houses that sometimes surprise us during our travels, delighting us like finding hidden treasure. We’ve encountered similar ancestral halls unexpectedly in our home county of Lancaster or its cheerful neighboring county, and always with intense joy, celebrating the freshness of their age and the lushness of their antiquity. It’s important to note that a Cheshire or Lancashire hall, though steeped in history, with its often-refurbished black and white patterns creatively adorned with trefoils, quatrefoils, rosettes, and other designs, seems to carry its years so lightly that its age only adds to its beauty instead of diminishing it; and the same house, appearing just as fresh and flawless as it did during the reign of good Queen Bess, can be seen impeccably preserved in the times of the youthful Victoria. Such is Bramall—such is Moreton, along with many others we could mention; the former might be cited as the best example of its kind,—and in our opinion, it is the best—found in Cheshire, whether considering the exquisite decoration of its exterior, rich in the distinctive coloring we’ve noted, maintained with a care and neatness almost Dutch, or the consistent taste shown by its owner in preserving and caring for its original and truly national beauty inside. As a representation of old English hospitality—that genuine, hearty welcome for which the gentry of this country was once legendary—Ah! why have they traded it for other customs less characteristically English?—it’s worth mentioning that a road led visitors directly through the grand hall of this house, literally a place “of entertainment,” where, if one wished, strong ale and other refreshments awaited and encouraged their stay. It’s no wonder that old King, the Cheshire historian, in his honest pride, exclaimed, "I know several men, who are just farmers, that in their hospitality can compare with a lord or baron in some countries across the sea;—indeed, even if I mentioned a higher rank, I could back it up." We don’t have such "golden farmers" in these less-than-ideal times!

The mansion, was originally built by Sir Ranulph de Rookwood—or, as it was then written, Rokewode—the first of the name, a stout Yorkist, who flourished in the reign of Edward IV., and received the fair domain and broad lands upon which the edifice was raised, from his sovereign, in reward for good service; retiring thither in the decline of life, at the close of the Wars of the Roses, to sequestrate himself from scenes of strife, and to consult his spiritual weal in the erection and endowment of the neighboring church. It was of mixed architecture, and combined the peculiarities of each successive era. Retaining some of the sterner features of earlier days, the period ere yet the embattled manor-house peculiar to the reigns of the later Henrys had been merged into the graceful and peaceable hall, the residence of the Rookwoods had early anticipated the gentler characteristics of a later day, though it could boast little of that exuberance of external ornament, luxuriance of design, and prodigality of beauty, which, under the sway of the Virgin Queen, distinguished the residence of the wealthier English landowner; and rendered the hall of Elizabeth, properly so called, the pride and boast of our domestic architecture.

The mansion was originally built by Sir Ranulph de Rookwood—or as it was then spelled, Rokewode—the first of his name, a loyal Yorkist who thrived during the reign of Edward IV. He received the beautiful estate and vast lands where the building stands as a reward from his king for his good service. In the later years of his life, after the Wars of the Roses, he retired there to escape the conflicts and to focus on his spiritual well-being by building and endowing the nearby church. The architecture was a mix that showcased the unique features of each era. While it kept some of the harsher elements from earlier times, the period before the embattled manor-house style typical of the later Henrys had transitioned into a more graceful and peaceful hall. The Rookwood residence had already incorporated the softer traits of a later time, although it lacked the lavish external decorations, intricate designs, and stunning beauty that defined the homes of wealthier English landowners during the reign of the Virgin Queen, which made the hall of Elizabeth, by its proper name, a point of pride in our domestic architecture.

The site selected by Sir Ranulph for his habitation had been already occupied by a vast fabric of oak, which he in part removed, though some vestiges might still be traced of that ancient pile. A massive edifice succeeded, with gate and tower, court and moat complete; substantial enough, one would have thought, to have endured for centuries. But even this ponderous structure grew into disuse, and Sir Ranulph's successors, remodelling, repairing, almost rebuilding the whole mansion, in the end so metamorphosed its aspect, that at last little of its original and distinctive character remained. Still, as we said before, it was a fine old house, though some changes had taken place for the worse, which could not be readily pardoned[40] by the eye of taste: as, for instance, the deep embayed windows had dwindled into modernized casements, of lighter construction; the wide porch, with its flight of steps leading to the great hall of entrance, had yielded to a narrow door; and the broad quadrangular court was succeeded by a gravel drive. Yet, despite all these changes, the house of the Rookwoods, for an old house—and, after all, what is like an old house?—was no undesirable or uncongenial abode for any worshipful country gentleman "who had a great estate."

The location picked by Sir Ranulph for his home had already been taken over by a large structure made of oak, which he partially removed, although traces of that ancient building could still be seen. A solid building followed, complete with a gate, tower, courtyard, and moat; one would think it was sturdy enough to last for centuries. Yet, even this heavy structure fell out of use, and Sir Ranulph's heirs, remodeling, repairing, and almost completely rebuilding the mansion, eventually changed its appearance so much that little of its original character remained. Still, as we mentioned before, it was a fine old house, though some changes for the worse were hard for the eye of taste to overlook: for example, the deep-set windows had shrunk into lighter modern casements; the wide porch, with its steps leading to the grand entrance hall, had been replaced by a narrow door; and the expansive courtyard was now just a gravel drive. Yet, despite all these changes, the house of the Rookwoods, for an old house—and really, what compares to an old house?—was still a desirable and welcoming place for any respectable country gentleman "who had a great estate."[40]

The hall was situated near the base of a gently declining hill, terminating a noble avenue of limes, and partially embosomed in an immemorial wood of the same timber, which had given its name to the family that dwelt amongst its rook-haunted shades. Descending the avenue, at the point of access afforded by a road that wound down the hill-side, towards a village distant about half a mile, as you advanced, the eye was first arrested by a singular octagonal turret of brick, of more recent construction than the house; and in all probability occupying the place where the gateway stood of yore. This tower rose to a height corresponding with the roof of the mansion; and was embellished on the side facing the house with a flamingly gilt dial, peering, like an impudent observer, at all that passed within doors. Two apartments, which it contained, were appropriated to the house-porter. Despoiled of its martial honors, the gateway still displayed the achievements of the family—the rook and the fatal branch—carved in granite, which had resisted the storms of two centuries, though stained green with moss, and mapped over with lichens. To the left, overgrown with ivy, and peeping from out a tuft of trees, appeared the hoary summit of a dovecot, indicating the near neighborhood of an ancient barn, contemporary with the earliest dwelling-house, and of a little world of offices and outbuildings buried in the thickness of the foliage. To the right was the garden—the pleasaunce of the place—formal, precise, old-fashioned, artificial, yet exquisite!—for[41] commend us to the bygone, beautiful English garden—really a garden—not that mixture of park, meadow, and wilderness[3], brought up to one's very windows—which, since the days of the innovators, Kent, and his "bold associates," Capability Brown and Co., has obtained so largely—this was a garden! There might be seen the stately terraces, such as Watteau, and our own Wilson, in his earlier works, painted—the trim alleys exhibiting all the triumphs of topiarian art—

The hall was located at the bottom of a gently sloping hill, at the end of a grand avenue of linden trees, and partially surrounded by an ancient wooded area of the same type, which had given its name to the family living among its crow-haunted shadows. As you walked down the avenue, using a road that wound down the hillside toward a village about half a mile away, your attention was first captured by a unique octagonal brick turret, which was newer than the main house and likely stood where the old gateway once was. This tower reached the same height as the mansion's roof and was adorned on the side facing the house with a brightly gilded clock, peering in like a nosy observer at everything happening inside. The two rooms inside were designated for the housekeeper. Despite losing its military honors, the gateway still showcased the family's achievements—the rook and the fateful branch—carved in granite, which had withstood the storms of two centuries, though now stained green with moss and covered in lichens. To the left, covered in ivy and peeking out from a cluster of trees, was the weathered peak of a dovecote, hinting at the close presence of an ancient barn, contemporary with the earliest farmhouse, as well as a cluster of offices and outbuildings hidden among the dense foliage. To the right was the garden—the pleasure ground of the estate—arranged, neat, old-fashioned, artificial, yet beautiful!—for we must praise the lovely traditional English garden—really a garden—not that blend of park, meadow, and wilderness brought right up to your windows—which, since the days of innovators like Kent and his "bold associates," Capability Brown and Co., has become so prevalent—this was a garden! You could see the elegant terraces that Watteau and our own Wilson captured in his earlier works, the tidy pathways showcasing all the triumphs of topiary art—

The side walls Made of trimmed yew; the holly's sharp branches,
Trimmed into tall arches; the tonsil box,
Woven in a mosaic pattern of many curls,
Surrounding the patterned carpet of the lawn;[4]

the gayest of parterres and greenest of lawns, with its admonitory sun-dial, its marble basin in the centre, its fountain, and conched water-god; the quaint summer-house, surmounted with its gilt vane; the statue, glimmering from out its covert of leaves; the cool cascade, the urns, the bowers, and a hundred luxuries besides, suggested and contrived by Art to render Nature most enjoyable, and to enhance the recreative delights of home-out-of-doors—for such a garden should be—, with least sacrifice of indoor comfort and convenience.

the most vibrant flowerbeds and lushest lawns, featuring its warning sun-dial, a marble fountain in the center, and a water-god statue; the charming summer-house topped with a golden weathervane; the statue glinting through the leaves; the refreshing waterfall, the urns, the arbors, and countless other luxuries created by Art to make Nature more enjoyable and to elevate the outdoor comforts of home—because that’s what a garden should be—while sacrificing as little as possible of indoor comfort and convenience.

When Epicurus taught the world, That pleasure was the greatest good; —and was maybe in the right, if understood correctly, His life reflected his beliefs— And in the shade of his garden, he sought that ultimate pleasure.[5]

All these delights might once have been enjoyed. But at the time of which we write, this fair garden was for the most part a waste. Ill-kept, and unregarded, the gay parterres were disfigured with weeds; grass grew on the gravel walk; several of the urns were overthrown; the hour upon the dial was untold; the fountain was choked up, and the smooth-shaven[42] lawn only rescued, it would seem, from the general fate, that it might answer the purpose of a bowling-green, as the implements of that game, scattered about, plainly testified.

All these joys might have been enjoyed once. But during the time we’re talking about, this beautiful garden was mostly a mess. Poorly maintained and neglected, the colorful flower beds were overrun with weeds; grass grew on the gravel path; some of the urns were knocked over; the time on the clock couldn’t be told; the fountain was clogged, and the neatly cut lawn seemed only spared from the overall decline so it could serve as a bowling green, as the scattered bowling equipment clearly showed.

Diverging from the garden to the house, we have before remarked that the more ancient and characteristic features of the place had been, for the most part, destroyed; less by the hand of time than to suit the tastes of different proprietors. This, however, was not so observable in the eastern wing, which overlooked the garden. Here might be discerned many indications of its antiquity. The strength and solidity of the walls, which had not been, as elsewhere, masked with brickwork; the low, Tudor arches; the mullioned bars of the windows—all attested its age. This wing was occupied by an upper and lower gallery, communicating with suites of chambers, for the most part deserted, excepting one or two, which were used as dormitories; and another little room on the ground-floor, with an oriel window opening upon the lawn, and commanding the prospect beyond—a favorite resort of the late Sir Piers. The interior was curious for his honeycomb ceiling, deeply moulded in plaster, with the arms and alliances of the Rookwoods. In the centre was the royal blazon of Elizabeth, who had once honored the hall with a visit during a progress, and whose cipher E. R. was also displayed upon the immense plate of iron which formed the fire-grate.

Diverging from the garden to the house, we’ve noted that most of the older and more distinctive features of the place had largely been removed; not so much by the passage of time but to cater to the tastes of different owners. However, this was less obvious in the eastern wing, which faced the garden. Here, many signs of its age could still be seen. The strength and durability of the walls, still exposed rather than covered with brickwork like elsewhere; the low Tudor arches; the leaded window panes—all pointed to its history. This wing contained an upper and lower gallery, connecting to suites of rooms that were mostly empty, except for one or two used as bedrooms, and another small room on the ground floor, with an oriel window looking out onto the lawn and offering a view beyond—a favorite spot of the late Sir Piers. The interior was interesting for its honeycomb ceiling, intricately molded in plaster, featuring the arms and alliances of the Rookwoods. In the center was the royal emblem of Elizabeth, who had once visited the hall during a tour, and whose cipher E. R. was also shown on the large iron plate that made up the fireplace.

To return, for a moment, to the garden, which we linger about as a bee around a flower. Below the lawn there was another terrace, edged by a low balustrade of stone, commanding a lovely view of park, water, and woodland. High hanging-woods waved in the foreground, and an extensive sweep of flat champaign country stretched out to meet a line of blue, hazy hills bounding the distant horizon.

To go back for a moment to the garden, where we hang around like a bee buzzing around a flower. Below the lawn, there was another terrace, bordered by a low stone railing, offering a beautiful view of the park, water, and woods. Tall trees waved in the foreground, and a wide stretch of flat countryside extended toward a line of blue, hazy hills at the distant horizon.


CHAPTER V

SIR REGINALD ROOKWOOD

A king who changed his wives as easily as a woman changes her dress. He threw aside the first, cut off the second's head, the third he disemboweled: as for the fourth, he pardoned her, and simply turned her out of doors, but to make matters even, cut off the head of number five.—Victor Hugo: Marie Tudor.

A king who swapped out his wives as casually as a woman changes her clothes. He discarded the first, executed the second, mutilated the third: as for the fourth, he showed mercy and kicked her out, but to balance things out, he beheaded the fifth. —Victor Hugo: Marie Tudor.

From the house to its inhabitants the transition is natural. Besides the connexion between them, there were many points of resemblance; many family features in common; there was the same melancholy grandeur, the same character of romance, the same fantastical display. Nor were the secret passages, peculiar to the one, wanting to the history of the other. Both had their mysteries. One blot there was in the otherwise proud escutcheon of the Rookwoods, that dimmed its splendor, and made pale its pretensions: their sun was eclipsed in blood from its rising to its meridian; and so it seemed would be its setting. This foul reproach attached to all the race; none escaped it. Traditional rumors were handed down from father to son, throughout the county, and, like all other rumors, had taken to themselves wings, and flown abroad; their crimes became a by-word. How was it they escaped punishment? How came they to evade the hand of justice? Proof was ever wanting; justice was ever baffled. They were a stern and stiff-necked people, of indomitable pride and resolution, with, for the most part, force of character sufficient to enable them to breast difficulties and dangers that would have overwhelmed ordinary individuals. No quality is so advantageous to its possessor as firmness; and the determined energy of the Rookwoods bore them harmless through a sea[44] of trouble. Besides, they were wealthy; lavish even to profusion; and gold will do much, if skilfully administered. Yet, despite all this, a dark, ominous cloud settled over their house, and men wondered when the vengeance of Heaven, so long delayed, would fall and consume it.

From the house to its residents, the change felt natural. Along with the connection between them, there were many similarities; shared family traits; the same somber grandeur, the same touch of romance, the same whimsical flair. There were also secret passages unique to each, adding to their stories. Both had their mysteries. One stain on the otherwise proud legacy of the Rookwoods tarnished its brilliance and weakened its claims: their sun was overshadowed by blood from its rise to its peak, and it seemed that its setting would be no different. This terrible stain clung to the entire family; no one was exempt. Tales were passed down from father to son throughout the county, and like all rumors, they took flight and spread; their crimes became infamous. How did they avoid punishment? How did they escape the grasp of justice? Evidence was always lacking; justice was perpetually thwarted. They were a tough and headstrong people, full of pride and determination, possessing enough strength of character to face challenges and dangers that would have crushed ordinary folks. No trait is as beneficial to its holder as steadfastness; the unwavering spirit of the Rookwoods allowed them to sail through a sea of troubles. Moreover, they were wealthy, sometimes excessively so; and money can accomplish a lot, if used wisely. Yet, in spite of all this, a dark, foreboding cloud loomed over their house, and people speculated when the long-awaited wrath of Heaven would finally strike and consume it.

Possessed of considerable landed property, once extending over nearly half the West Riding of Yorkshire, the family increased in power and importance for an uninterrupted series of years, until the outbreak of that intestine discord which ended in the civil wars, when the espousal of the royalist party, with sword and substance, by Sir Ralph Rookwood, the then lord of the mansion—a dissolute, depraved personage, who, however, had been made a Knight of the Bath at the coronation of Charles I.—, ended in his own destruction at Naseby, and the wreck of much of his property; a loss which the gratitude of Charles II., on his restoration, did not fail to make good to Sir Ralph's youthful heir, Reginald.

Owning a large amount of land that once stretched over almost half of the West Riding of Yorkshire, the family gained more power and importance over many years without interruption, until the outbreak of the internal conflict that led to the civil wars. During this time, Sir Ralph Rookwood, the lord of the mansion, supported the royalist cause with both his sword and resources. He was a scandalous and corrupt man who, despite his flaws, had been made a Knight of the Bath at Charles I's coronation. His involvement ultimately led to his downfall at Naseby and the loss of much of his property. However, when Charles II was restored to the throne, he ensured that Sir Ralph's young heir, Reginald, was compensated for that loss.

Sir Ralph Rookwood left two sons, Reginald and Alan. The fate of the latter was buried in obscurity. It was even a mystery to his family. He was, it was said, a youth of much promise, and of gentle manners; who, having made an imprudent match, from jealousy, or some other motive, deserted his wife, and fled his country. Various reasons were assigned for his conduct. Amongst others, it was stated that the object of Alan's jealous suspicions was his elder brother, Reginald; and that it was the discovery of his wife's infidelity in this quarter which occasioned his sudden disappearance with his infant daughter. Some said he died abroad. Others, that he had appeared again for a brief space at the hall. But all now concurred in a belief of his decease. Of his child nothing was known. His inconstant wife, after enduring for some years the agonies of remorse, abandoned by Sir Reginald, and neglected by her own relatives, put an end to her existence by poison. This is all that could be gathered of the story, or the misfortunes of Alan Rookwood.[45]

Sir Ralph Rookwood had two sons, Reginald and Alan. The fate of the latter was lost in obscurity, even to his family. He was described as a young man with great potential and gentle manners, who, after making an unwise choice in marriage, left his wife out of jealousy or some other reason and fled the country. Various explanations were given for his actions. It was said that Alan's jealousy was directed toward his older brother, Reginald, and that discovering his wife's infidelity with him led to his abrupt departure with their infant daughter. Some claimed he died abroad, while others said he briefly returned to the hall. Ultimately, everyone came to believe that he had died. Nothing was known about his child. His unfaithful wife, after suffering for years with remorse, abandoned by Sir Reginald and ignored by her own family, took her own life with poison. This is all that could be gathered about the story and misfortunes of Alan Rookwood.[45]

The young Sir Reginald had attended Charles, in the character of page, during his exile; and if he could not requite the devotion of the son, by absolutely reinstating the fallen fortunes of the father, the monarch could at least accord him the fostering influence of his favor and countenance; and bestow upon him certain lucrative situations in his household, as an earnest of his good-will. And thus much he did. Remarkable for his personal attractions in youth, it is not to be wondered at that we should find the name of Reginald Rookwood recorded in the scandalous chronicles of the day, as belonging to a cavalier of infinite address and discretion, matchless wit, and marvellous pleasantry; and eminent beyond his peers for his successes with some of the most distinguished beauties who ornamented that brilliant and voluptuous court.

The young Sir Reginald had served Charles as a page during his exile. While he couldn't fully restore his father's lost fortunes, the king could at least offer him the support of his favor and provide him with some well-paying positions in his household as a sign of goodwill. And that's exactly what he did. Noted for his good looks in his youth, it’s no surprise that Reginald Rookwood's name appears in the gossip columns of the time as a charming and clever gentleman, known for his unmatched wit and delightful humor; he stood out among his peers for his success with some of the most notable beauties at that lavish and indulgent court.

A career of elegant dissipation ended in matrimony. His first match was unpropitious. Foiled in his attempts upon the chastity of a lady of great beauty and high honor, he was rash enough to marry her; rash, we say, for from that fatal hour all became as darkness; the curtain fell upon the comedy of his life, to rise to tragic horrors. When, passion subsided, repentance awoke, and he became anxious for deliverance from the fetters he had so heedlessly imposed on himself, and on his unfortunate dame.

A life of stylish indulgence ended in marriage. His first choice was unfortunate. After failing to win over the virtue of a beautiful and esteemed woman, he foolishly decided to marry her; foolish, we say, because from that moment on, everything turned dark; the show of his life ended, giving way to tragic miseries. When the excitement faded, regret set in, and he became desperate to escape the chains he had so thoughtlessly strapped on himself and his unfortunate wife.

The hapless lady of Sir Reginald was a fair and fragile creature, floating on the eddying current of existence, and hurried in destruction as the summer gossamer is swept away by the rude breeze, and lost forever. So beautiful, so gentle was she, that if,

The unfortunate lady of Sir Reginald was a lovely and delicate being, drifting on the swirling tide of life, and quickly headed for ruin like a summer spiderweb blown away by a harsh wind, never to be seen again. She was so beautiful and so gentle that if,

Sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self,

Sorrow hadn’t made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty itself,

it would have been difficult to say whether the charm of softness and sweetness was more to be admired than her faultless personal attractions. But when a tinge of melancholy came, saddening and shading the once smooth and smiling brow; when tears dimmed the blue beauty of those deep and tender[46] eyes; when hot, hectic flushes supplied the place of healthful bloom, and despair took possession of her heart, then was it seen what was the charm of Lady Rookwood, if charm that could be called which was a saddening sight to see, and melted the beholder's soul within him. All acknowledged, that exquisite as she had been before, the sad, sweet lady was now more exquisite still.

It was hard to tell whether her softness and sweetness were more admirable than her perfect looks. But when a hint of sadness appeared, darkening her once smooth and smiling forehead; when tears blurred the striking beauty of her deep and tender[46] eyes; when hot, hectic flushes replaced her healthy glow, and despair filled her heart, that was when you could see what truly defined Lady Rookwood. If you could even call it charm, it was a heartbreaking sight that melted the hearts of those who looked at her. Everyone agreed that, although she had been exquisite before, the sorrowful yet sweet lady was now even more exquisite.

Seven moons had waned and flown—seven bitter, tearful moons—and each day Lady Rookwood's situation claimed more soothing attention at the hand of her lord. About this time his wife's brother, whom he hated, returned from the Dutch wars. Struck with his sister's altered appearance, he readily divined the cause; indeed, all tongues were eager to proclaim it to him. Passionately attached to her, Lionel Vavasour implored an explanation of the cause of his sister's griefs. The bewildered lady answered evasively, attributing her woe-begone looks to any other cause than her husband's cruelty; and pressing her brother, as he valued her peace, her affection, never to allude to the subject again. The fiery youth departed. He next sought out his brother-in-law, and taxed him sharply with his inhumanity, adding threats to his upbraidings. Sir Reginald listened silently and calmly. When the other had finished, with a sarcastic obeisance, he replied: "Sir, I am much beholden for the trouble you have taken in your sister's behalf. But when she entrusted herself to my keeping, she relinquished, I conceive, all claim on your guardianship: however, I thank you for the trouble you have taken; but, for your own sake, I would venture to caution you against a repetition of interference like the present."

Seven moons had faded away—seven harsh, tear-filled moons—and each day Lady Rookwood's situation demanded more comforting attention from her husband. Around this time, her brother, whom he despised, returned from the Dutch wars. Noticing his sister's changed appearance, he quickly figured out the reason; indeed, everyone was eager to fill him in. Deeply attached to her, Lionel Vavasour begged for an explanation regarding his sister's sorrow. The confused lady responded vaguely, attributing her sad looks to anything but her husband's cruelty, and urged her brother, for the sake of her peace and affection, never to bring it up again. The hot-headed youth left. He then sought out his brother-in-law and sharply confronted him about his cruelty, adding threats to his accusations. Sir Reginald listened quietly and calmly. When Lionel was done, with a mocking bow, he replied: "Sir, I appreciate the effort you've made on your sister's behalf. But when she entrusted herself to my care, she gave up any claim to your guardianship: however, I thank you for your concern; but, for your own good, I would advise you against interfering like this again."

"And I, sir, caution you. See that you give heed to my words, or, by the heaven above us! I will enforce attention to them."

"And I, sir, warn you. Make sure you pay attention to my words, or, by the heavens above us! I will make you listen."

"You will find me, sir, as prompt at all times to defend my conduct, as I am unalterable in my purposes. Your sister is my wife. What more would you have? Were she a harlot,[47] you should have her back and welcome. The tool is virtuous. Devise some scheme, and take her with you hence—so you rid me of her I am content."

"You'll find me, sir, always ready to defend my actions, just as I am unwavering in my intentions. Your sister is my wife. What else do you want? If she were a prostitute, [47] you could take her back without any issue. The woman is virtuous. Come up with a plan, and take her away from here—I'd be happy to be rid of her."

"Rookwood, you are a villain." And Vavasour spat upon his brother's cheek.

"Rookwood, you’re a villain." And Vavasour spat on his brother's cheek.

Sir Reginald's eyes blazed. His sword started from its scabbard. "Defend yourself!" he exclaimed, furiously attacking Vavasour. Pass after pass was exchanged. Fierce thrusts were made and parried. Feint and appeal, the most desperate and dexterous, were resorted to. Their swords glanced like lightning flashes. In the struggle, the blades became entangled. There was a moment's cessation. Each glanced at the other with deadly, inextinguishable hate. Both were admirable masters of the art of defence. Both were so brimful of wrath as to be regardless of consequences. They tore back their weapons. Vavasour's blade shivered. He was at the mercy of his adversary—an adversary who knew no mercy. Sir Reginald passed his rapier through his brother's body. The hilt struck against his ribs.

Sir Reginald's eyes blazed. His sword shot from its sheath. "Defend yourself!" he shouted, angrily attacking Vavasour. Pass after pass was exchanged. Fierce thrusts were made and blocked. Feints and desperate, skillful maneuvers were used. Their swords flashed like lightning. In the struggle, the blades got tangled. There was a brief pause. Each glared at the other with intense, unquenchable hatred. Both were excellent masters of defense. They were so full of rage that they didn’t care about the consequences. They pulled back their weapons. Vavasour's blade broke. He was at the mercy of his opponent—an opponent who showed no mercy. Sir Reginald drove his rapier through his brother's body. The hilt slammed against his ribs.

Sir Reginald's ire was kindled, not extinguished, by the deed he had done. Like the tiger, he had tasted blood—like the tiger, he thirsted for more. He sought his home. He was greeted by his wife. Terrified by his looks, she yet summoned courage sufficient to approach him. She embraced his arm—she clasped his hand. Sir Reginald smiled. His smile was cutting as his dagger's edge.

Sir Reginald's anger was not calmed, but intensified, by what he had done. Like a tiger, he had tasted blood—like a tiger, he craved more. He made his way home. His wife greeted him. Terrified by his appearance, she mustered enough courage to go to him. She wrapped her arms around his arm—she held his hand tightly. Sir Reginald smiled. His smile was as sharp as the edge of his dagger.

"What ails you, sweetheart?" said he.

"What's bothering you, sweetheart?" he asked.

"I know not; your smile frightens me."

"I don't know; your smile scares me."

"My smile frightens you—fool! be thankful that I frown not."

"My smile scares you—idiot! Be glad I'm not frowning."

"Oh! do not frown. Be gentle, my Reginald, as you were when first I knew you. Smile not so coldly, but as you did then, that I may, for one instant, dream you love me."

"Oh! please don't frown. Be kind, my Reginald, like you were when I first met you. Don't smile so coldly, but as you did back then, so I can, for just a moment, imagine that you love me."

"Silly wench! There—I do smile."

"Silly girl! There—I do smile."

"That smile freezes me. Oh, Reginald, could you but know[48] what I have endured this morning, on your account. My brother Lionel has been here."

"That smile stops me in my tracks. Oh, Reginald, if only you knew[48] what I've been through this morning because of you. My brother Lionel has been here."

"Indeed!"

"Absolutely!"

"Nay, look not so. He insisted on knowing the reason of my altered appearance."

"Don't look at me like that. He pushed to find out why I looked different."

"And no doubt you made him acquainted with the cause. You told him your version of the story."

"And I'm sure you filled him in on the reason. You shared your side of the story."

"Not a word, as I hope to live."

"Not a word, as I hope to live."

"A lie!"

"A falsehood!"

"By my truth, no."

"Honestly, no."

"A lie, I say. He avouched it to me himself."

"A lie, I say. He told me that himself."

"Impossible! He could not—would not disobey me."

"Not possible! He couldn’t—wouldn’t disobey me."

Sir Reginald laughed bitterly.

Sir Reginald laughed sarcastically.

"He would not, I am sure, give utterance to any scandal," continued Lady Rookwood. "You say this but to try me, do you not?—ha! what is this? Your hand is bloody. You have not harmed him? Whose blood is this?"

"He definitely wouldn't say anything scandalous," Lady Rookwood continued. "You're saying this just to test me, aren’t you?—wait, what’s this? Your hand is bloody. You haven’t hurt him, have you? Whose blood is this?"

"Your brother spat upon my check. I have washed out the stain," replied Sir Reginald, coldly.

"Your brother spat on my cheek. I've washed out the stain," Sir Reginald replied coldly.

"Then it is his blood!" shrieked Lady Rookwood, pressing her hand shuddering before her eyes. "Is he dead?"

"Then it is his blood!" screamed Lady Rookwood, covering her eyes with a trembling hand. "Is he dead?"

Sir Reginald turned away.

Sir Reginald looked away.

"Stay," she cried, exerting her feeble strength to retain him, and becoming white as ashes, "abide and hear me. You have killed me, I feel, by your cruelty. I am sinking fast—dying. I, who loved you, only you; yes, one besides—my brother, and you have slain him. Your hands are dripping in his blood, and I have kissed them—have clasped them! And now," continued she, with an energy that shook Sir Reginald, "I hate you—I renounce you—forever! May my dying words ring in your ears on your death-bed, for that hour will come. You cannot shun that. Then think of him! think of me!"

"Wait," she shouted, struggling to hold onto him, her face turning pale as ashes, "just stay and listen to me. You’ve killed me, I can feel it, with your cruelty. I'm fading fast—dying. I, who loved you, only you; yes, and one other—my brother, and you’ve taken his life. Your hands are stained with his blood, and I have kissed them—held them! And now," she continued, with a force that shook Sir Reginald, "I hate you—I reject you—forever! May my last words echo in your ears on your deathbed, because that moment will come. You can’t escape that. Then think of him! think of me!"

"Away!" interrupted Sir Reginald, endeavoring to shake her off.[49]

"Away!" interrupted Sir Reginald, trying to push her away.[49]

"I will not away! I will cling to you—will curse you. My unborn child shall live to curse you—to requite you—to visit my wrongs on you and yours. Weak as I am, you shall not cast me off. You shall learn to fear even me."

"I will not leave! I will hold on to you—will curse you. My unborn child will grow up to curse you—to pay you back—to make you feel the pain you've caused me and your family. As weak as I am, you will not get rid of me. You will learn to fear even me."

"I fear nothing living, much less a frantic woman."

"I fear no one alive, especially not a panicking woman."

"Fear the dead, then."

"Fear the dead, then."

There was a struggle—a blow—and the wretched lady sank, shrieking, upon the floor. Convulsions seized her. A mother's pains succeeded fierce and fast. She spoke no more, but died within the hour, giving birth to a female child.

There was a struggle—a hit—and the unfortunate woman collapsed, screaming, onto the floor. She was seized by convulsions. The pain of childbirth came quickly and intensely. She said nothing more but died within the hour, giving birth to a baby girl.

Eleanor Rookwood became her father's idol—her father's bane. All the love he had to bestow was centred in her. She returned it not. She fled from his caresses. With all her mother's beauty, she had all her father's pride. Sir Reginald's every thought was for his daughter—for her aggrandizement. In vain. She seemed only to endure him, and while his affection waxed stronger, and entwined itself round her alone, she withered beneath his embraces as the shrub withers in the clasping folds of the parasite plant.

Eleanor Rookwood became her father's idol—and his downfall. All the love he had to give was focused on her. She didn't return it. She ran away from his affection. With all her mother’s beauty, she inherited her father’s pride. Sir Reginald's every thought was for his daughter—for her success. It was useless. She seemed to only tolerate him, and as his love grew stronger and wrapped itself around her alone, she faded under his embraces like a plant withers in the grip of a parasite.

She grew towards womanhood. Suitors thronged around her—gentle and noble ones. Sir Reginald watched them with a jealous eye. He was wealthy, powerful, high in royal favor; and could make his own election. He did so. For the first time, Eleanor promised obedience to his wishes. They accorded with her own humor. The day was appointed. It came. But with it came not the bride. She had fled, with the humblest and the meanest of the pretenders to her hand—with one upon whom Sir Reginald supposed she had not deigned to cast her eyes. He endeavored to forget her, and, to all outward seeming, was successful in the effort. But he felt that the curse was upon him; the undying flame scorched his heart.

She was growing into adulthood. Suitors flocked around her—kind and noble ones. Sir Reginald watched them jealously. He was wealthy, powerful, and favored by royalty; he could choose for himself. And he did. For the first time, Eleanor agreed to obey his wishes. They matched her own desires. The day was set. It arrived. But the bride didn’t. She had run away with the most humble and unassuming of her suitors—someone Sir Reginald believed she wouldn’t have even glanced at. He tried to forget her, and outwardly, he seemed to be successful. But deep down, he felt cursed; the unending pain burned within his heart.

Once, and once only, they met again, in France, whither she had wandered. It was a dread encounter—terrible to[50] both; but most so to Sir Reginald. He spoke not of her afterwards.

Once, and once only, they met again, in France, where she had wandered. It was a terrifying encounter—horrible for[50] both; but most so for Sir Reginald. He didn’t mention her afterwards.

Shortly after the death of his first wife, Sir Reginald had made proposals to a dowager of distinction, with a handsome jointure, one of his early attachments, and was, without scruple, accepted. The power of the family might then be said to be at its zenith; and but for certain untoward circumstances, and the growing influence of his enemies, Sir Reginald would have been elevated to the peerage. Like most reformed spend-thrifts, he had become proportionately avaricious, and his mind seemed engrossed in accumulating wealth. In the meantime, his second wife followed her predecessor, dying, it was said, of vexation and disappointment.

Shortly after his first wife's death, Sir Reginald proposed to a well-regarded widow with a substantial settlement, one of his early loves, and was accepted without hesitation. At that time, the family's power was at its peak; and except for certain unfortunate events and the growing influence of his enemies, Sir Reginald would have been raised to the peerage. Like many reformed spenders, he had become increasingly greedy, and his mind seemed focused on amassing wealth. In the meantime, his second wife followed in her predecessor's footsteps, dying, it was said, from frustration and disappointment.

The propensity to matrimony, always a distinguishing characteristic of the Rookwoods, largely displayed itself in Sir Reginald. Another dame followed—equally rich, younger, and far more beautiful than her immediate predecessor. She was a prodigious flirt, and soon set her husband at defiance. Sir Reginald did not condescend to expostulate. It was not his way. He effectually prevented any recurrence of her indiscretions. She was removed, and with her expired Sir Reginald's waning popularity. So strong was the expression of odium against him, that he thought it prudent to retire to his mansion, in the country, and there altogether seclude himself. One anomaly in Sir Reginald's otherwise utterly selfish character was uncompromising devotion to the house of Stuart; and shortly after the abdication of James II., he followed that monarch to Saint Germain, having previously mixed largely in secret political intrigues; and only returned from the French court to lay his bones with those of his ancestry, in the family vault at Rookwood.

The tendency for marriage, always a notable trait of the Rookwoods, was prominently displayed in Sir Reginald. Another woman soon appeared—equally wealthy, younger, and far more beautiful than the one before her. She was a major flirt, and quickly defied her husband. Sir Reginald didn’t bother to argue with her. That wasn’t his style. He effectively put a stop to her indiscretions. She was sent away, and with her departure, Sir Reginald's popularity faded. The backlash against him was so intense that he decided it was wise to retreat to his country estate and completely isolate himself. One exception in Sir Reginald's otherwise totally selfish nature was his unwavering loyalty to the house of Stuart; shortly after James II's abdication, he followed that king to Saint Germain, having previously been deeply involved in secret political machinations; he returned from the French court only to be laid to rest alongside his ancestors in the family vault at Rookwood.


CHAPTER VI

SIR PIERS ROOKWOOD

My old master kept a good house, and twenty or thirty tall sword-and-buckler men about him; and in faith his son differs not much; he will have metal too; though he has no store of cutler's blades, he will have plenty of vintners' pots. His father kept a good house for honest men, his tenants that brought him in part; and his son keeps a bad house with knaves that help to consume all: 'tis but the change of time: why should any man repine at it? Crickets, good, loving, and lucky worms, were wont to feed, sing, and rejoice in the father's chimney; and now carrion crows build in the son's kitchen.

My old master ran a good household and had twenty or thirty tall sword-and-buckler fighters around him; honestly, his son isn’t much different. He wants to show off too; even though he doesn't have many swords, he has plenty of wine goblets. His father entertained honest men, and some of his tenants contributed to that; but his son runs a terrible household filled with shady characters that waste everything. It’s just the way times change: why should anyone complain about it? Crickets, good, loving, and lucky worms used to thrive, sing, and celebrate in the father's fireplace; and now, scavenger crows nest in the son’s kitchen.

Wilkins: Miseries of Enforced Marriage.

Wilkins: The Struggles of Forced Marriage.

Sir Reginald died, leaving issue three children: a daughter, the before-mentioned Eleanor—who, entirely discountenanced by the family, had been seemingly forgotten by all but her father—, and two sons by his third wife. Reginald, the eldest, whose military taste had early procured him the command of a company of horse, and whose politics did not coalesce with those of his sire, fell, during his father's lifetime, at Killiecrankie, under the banners of William. Piers, therefore, the second son, succeeded to the title.

Sir Reginald died, leaving behind three children: a daughter, Eleanor—who had been completely disregarded by the family and seemingly forgotten by everyone except her father—and two sons from his third wife. Reginald, the eldest, had a strong interest in the military which got him the command of a cavalry company, and his political views did not align with his father's. He fell at Killiecrankie under William's banners while his father was still alive. Therefore, Piers, the second son, inherited the title.

A very different character, in many respects, from his father and brother, holding in supreme dislike courts and courtiers, party warfare, political intrigue, and all the subtleties of Jesuitical diplomacy, neither having any inordinate relish for camps or campaigns, Sir Piers Rookwood yet displayed in early life one family propensity, viz., unremitting devotion to the sex. Among his other mistresses was the unfortunate Susan Bradley, in whom by some he was supposed to have been clandestinely united. In early youth, as has been stated, Sir Piers professed the faith of Rome, but shortly after the death of his[52] beautiful mistress—or wife, as it might be—, having quarreled with his father's confessor, Checkley, he publicly abjured his heresies. Sir Piers subsequently allied himself to Maud, only daughter of Sir Thomas D'Aubeny, the last of a line as proud and intolerant as his own. The tables were then turned. Lady Rookwood usurped sovereign sway over her lord and Sir Piers, a cipher in his own house, scarce master of himself, much less of his dame, endured an existence so miserable, that he was often heard to regret, in his cups, that he had not inherited, with the estate of his forefathers, the family secret of shaking off the matrimonial yoke, when found to press too hardly.

A very different character, in many ways, from his father and brother, who had a strong dislike for courts and courtiers, political fights, schemes, and all the tricks of clever diplomacy, Sir Piers Rookwood didn’t have much of a taste for battles or military campaigns. However, in his early life, he did show one family trait: a constant devotion to women. Among his other lovers was the unfortunate Susan Bradley, whom some believed he had secretly married. In his youth, Sir Piers practiced the Roman faith, but shortly after the death of his beautiful mistress—or wife, as it might have been—he had a falling out with his father's confessor, Checkley, and publicly renounced his beliefs. Sir Piers then married Maud, the only daughter of Sir Thomas D'Aubeny, who belonged to a family as proud and intolerant as his own. The roles were reversed. Lady Rookwood took complete control over her husband, and Sir Piers, a nonentity in his own home, hardly the master of himself, let alone of his wife, lived such a miserable existence that he was often heard lamenting, while drinking, that he hadn’t inherited, along with his ancestors’ estate, the family secret of escaping the burdens of marriage when it became too difficult.

At the onset, Sir Piers struggled hard to burst his bondage. But in vain—he was fast fettered; and only bruised himself, like the caged lark, against the bars of his prison-house. Abandoning all further effort at emancipation, he gave himself up to the usual resource of a weak mind, debauchery; and drank so deeply to drown his cares, that, in the end, his hale constitution yielded to his excesses. It was even said, that remorse at his abandonment of the faith of his fathers had some share in his misery; and that his old spiritual, and if report spoke truly, sinful adviser, Father Checkley, had visited him secretly at the hall. Sir Piers was observed to shudder whenever the priest's name was mentioned.

At the beginning, Sir Piers tried hard to break free from his bondage. But it was pointless—he was stuck, hurting himself like a trapped lark against the bars of its cage. Giving up on any further attempts to escape, he surrendered to the usual escape of a weak mind, indulgence; and he drank so heavily to forget his troubles that eventually, his strong constitution gave in to his excesses. It was said that regret over abandoning the faith of his ancestors contributed to his suffering, and that his former spiritual, and if rumors were to be believed, sinful adviser, Father Checkley, had visited him secretly at the estate. People noticed that Sir Piers would shudder whenever the priest's name came up.

Sir Piers Rookwood was a good-humored man in the main, had little of the old family leaven about him, and was esteemed by his associates. Of late, however, his temper became soured, and his friends deserted him; for, between his domestic annoyances, remorseful feelings, and the inroads already made upon his constitution by constant inebriety, he grew so desperate and insane in his revels, and committed such fearful extravagances, that even his boon companions shrank from his orgies. Fearful were the scenes between him and Lady Rookwood upon these occasions—appalling to the witnesses, dreadful to themselves. And it was, perhaps, their frequent recurrence,[53] that, more than anything else, banished all decent society from the hall.

Sir Piers Rookwood was mainly a good-natured guy, with little of the old family baggage about him, and was well-liked by his peers. Recently, though, his mood soured, and his friends started to abandon him; between his home troubles, guilty feelings, and the toll that constant drinking had taken on his health, he became so reckless and wild during his parties that even his closest friends pulled away from his wild behaviour. The scenes between him and Lady Rookwood during these times were terrifying for onlookers and dreadful for them. And it was probably their frequent occurrences, [53] that drove decent people away from the hall more than anything else.

At the time of Sir Piers's decease, which brings us down to the date of our story, his son and successor, Ranulph, was absent on his travels. Shortly after the completion of his academical education, he had departed to make the tour of the Continent, and had been absent rather better than a year. He had quitted his father in displeasure, and was destined never again to see his face while living. The last intelligence received of young Rookwood was from Bordeaux, whence it was thought he had departed for the Pyrenees. A special messenger had been despatched in search of him, with tidings of the melancholy event. But, as it was deemed improbable by Lady Rookwood that her son could return within any reasonable space, she gave directions for the accomplishment of the funeral rites of her husband on the sixth night after his decease—it being the custom of the Rookwoods ever to inter their dead at midnight,—intrusting their solemnization entirely to the care of one of Sir Piers's hangers-on—Dr. Titus Tyrconnel,—for which she was greatly scandalized in the neighborhood.

At the time of Sir Piers's death, which brings us to the date of our story, his son and successor, Ranulph, was away on his travels. Shortly after finishing his education, he had left to tour the Continent and had been gone for just over a year. He had left his father in anger and was never to see him again while he was alive. The last news received about young Rookwood came from Bordeaux, and it was believed he had left for the Pyrenees. A special messenger had been sent to find him and bring news of the sad event. However, since Lady Rookwood thought it unlikely that her son could return anytime soon, she arranged for her husband's funeral to take place on the sixth night after his death—it being the custom of the Rookwoods to bury their dead at midnight—entrusting the ceremony entirely to one of Sir Piers's associates, Dr. Titus Tyrconnel, which caused quite a scandal in the neighborhood.

Ranulph Rookwood was a youth of goodly promise. The stock from which he sprang would on neither side warrant such conclusion. But it sometimes happens that from the darkest elements are compounded the brightest and subtlest substances; and so it occurred in this instance. Fair, frank, and free—generous, open, unsuspicious—he seemed the very opposite of all his race—their antagonizing principle. Capriciously indulgent, his father had allowed him ample means, neither curbing nor restraining his expenditure; acceding at one moment to every inclination, and the next irresolutely opposing it. It was impossible, therefore, for him, in such a state of things, to act decidedly, without incurring his father's displeasure; and the only measure he resolved upon, which was to absent himself for a time, was conjectured to have brought about the[54] result he had endeavored to avoid. Other reasons, however, there were, which secretly influenced him, which it will be our business in due time to detail.

Ranulph Rookwood was a young man with great potential. The background he came from wouldn’t necessarily support that conclusion. But sometimes, the brightest and most refined people emerge from the darkest circumstances, and that was the case here. He was fair, honest, and carefree—generous, open, and trusting—seeming to be the complete opposite of his family, their opposing force. His father, whimsically indulgent, had given him plenty of money, never restricting or limiting his spending; sometimes catering to every desire, and at others, vaguely pushing back against it. Because of this, it was impossible for him to act decisively without upsetting his father; the only plan he settled on, which was to step away for a while, was thought to have led to the[54] outcome he was trying to avoid. However, there were other reasons that secretly influenced him, which we will explore in due time.


CHAPTER VII

THE RETURN

Flam. How does the raven croak? Is our dear Duchess dead?
Lod.    Deceased.

Webster.

Webster.

The time of the sad ceremonial drew nigh. The hurrying of the domestics to and fro; the multifarious arrangements for the night; the distribution of the melancholy trappings, and the discussion of the "funeral-baked meats," furnished abundant occupation within doors. Without, there was a constant stream of the tenantry, thronging down the avenue, mixed with an occasional horseman, once or twice intercepted by a large lumbering carriage, bringing friends of the deceased, some really anxious to pay the last tribute of regard, but the majority attracted by the anticipated spectacle of a funeral by torchlight. There were others, indeed, to whom it was not matter of choice; who were compelled, by a vassal tenure of their lands, held of the house of Rookwood, to lend a shoulder to the coffin, and a hand to the torch, on the burial of its lord. Of these there was a plentiful muster collected in the hall; they were to be marshalled by Peter Bradley, who was deemed to be well skilled in the proceedings, having been present at two solemnities of the kind. That mysterious personage, however, had not made his appearance—to the great dismay of the assemblage. Scouts were sent in search of him, but they returned with the intelligence that the door of his habitation[55] was fastened, and its inmate apparently absent. No other tidings of the truant sexton could be obtained.

The time for the sorrowful ceremony approached. The staff hurried back and forth; various arrangements for the evening were being made; the sad decorations were distributed, and there were discussions about the "funeral-baked meats," keeping everyone busy indoors. Outside, there was a steady flow of tenants moving down the avenue, occasionally mixed in with horsemen and interrupted a couple of times by a large, clumsy carriage carrying friends of the deceased. Some genuinely wanted to pay their last respects, but most were drawn by the anticipated spectacle of a funeral by torchlight. There were also those who had no choice; they were required, due to their lease on the land from the House of Rookwood, to help carry the coffin and hold the torch at the burial of their lord. A large group of them gathered in the hall, set to be led by Peter Bradley, who was considered experienced in such matters after having attended two similar events. However, that mysterious figure had not yet shown up, to the dismay of the gathered crowd. Scouts were sent to find him, but they returned with the news that the door to his home was locked, and he seemed to be missing. No further information about the absent sexton could be found.

It was a sultry August evening. No breeze was stirring in the garden; no cool dews refreshed the parched and heated earth; yet from the languishing flowers rich sweets exhaled. The plash of a fountain fell pleasantly upon the ear, conveying in its sound a sense of freshness to the fervid air; while deep and drowsy murmurs hummed heavily beneath the trees, making the twilight slumberously musical. The westering sun, which filled the atmosphere with flame throughout the day, was now wildly setting; and, as he sank behind the hall, its varied and picturesque tracery became each instant more darkly and distinctly defined against the crimson sky.

It was a humid August evening. There was no breeze in the garden; no cool dew refreshed the dry, heated ground; yet the wilting flowers released rich scents. The sound of a fountain gently filled the air, bringing a sense of freshness to the warm surroundings; while deep, sleepy murmurs buzzed heavily beneath the trees, making the twilight lazily musical. The setting sun, which had filled the sky with fire all day, was now dramatically sinking; and as it disappeared behind the hall, its intricate patterns became more defined against the red sky with each passing moment.

At this juncture a little gate, communicating with the chase, was thrown open, and a young man entered the garden, passing through the shrubbery, and hurrying rapidly forward till he arrived at a vista opening upon the house. The spot at which the stranger halted was marked by a little basin, scantily supplied with water, streaming from a lion's kingly jaws. His dress was travel-soiled, and dusty; and his whole appearance betokened great exhaustion from heat and fatigue. Seating himself upon an adjoining bench, he threw off his riding-cap, and unclasped his collar, displaying a finely-turned head and neck; and a countenance which, besides its beauty, had that rare nobility of feature which seldom falls to the lot of the aristocrat, but is never seen in one of an inferior order. A restless disquietude of manner showed that he was suffering from over-excitement of mind, as well as from bodily exertion. His look was wild and hurried; his black ringlets were dashed heedlessly over a pallid, lofty brow, upon which care was prematurely written; while his large melancholy eyes were bent, with a look almost of agony, upon the house before him.

At that moment, a small gate that led to the woods was opened, and a young man came into the garden, moving quickly through the bushes until he reached a view of the house. He stopped at a spot marked by a small basin, barely filled with water flowing from a lion’s mouth. His clothes were travel-worn and dusty, and he looked extremely tired from the heat and exhaustion. He sat down on a nearby bench, took off his riding cap, and loosened his collar, revealing a well-shaped head and neck, as well as a face that, in addition to its beauty, bore a rare nobility that is rarely seen in aristocrats and never found in those of lower status. His restless manner indicated that he was struggling with mental over-excitement as well as physical strain. His expression was wild and hurried; his black curls were carelessly scattered over a pale, high forehead marked with premature worry; and his large, sorrowful eyes were fixed with what looked almost like agony on the house in front of him.

After a short pause, and as if struggling against violent emotions, and some overwhelming remembrance, the youth arose, and plunged his hand into the basin, applying the moist[56] element to his burning brow. Apparently becoming more calm, he bent his steps towards the hall, when two figures, suddenly issuing from an adjoining copse, arrested his progress; neither saw him. Muttering a hurried farewell, one of the figures disappeared within the shrubbery, and the other, confronting the stranger, displayed the harsh features and gaunt form of Peter Bradley. Had Peter encountered the dead Sir Piers in corporeal form, he could not have manifested more surprise than he exhibited, for an instant or two, as he shrunk back from the stranger's path.

After a brief pause, as if battling intense emotions and overwhelming memories, the young man got up and dipped his hand into the basin, applying the cool water to his hot brow. Seeming to regain his composure, he headed toward the hall when two figures suddenly emerged from a nearby thicket, blocking his way; neither of them noticed him. Mumbling a quick goodbye, one figure vanished into the bushes, while the other, facing the stranger, revealed the harsh features and thin frame of Peter Bradley. If Peter had come across the deceased Sir Piers in the flesh, he couldn't have shown more shock than he did in that moment, as he recoiled from the stranger's path.


CHAPTER VIII

AN IRISH ADVENTURER

Scapin. A most outrageous, roaring fellow, with a swelled red face inflamed with brandy.—Cheats of Scapin.

Scapin. An incredibly loud and outrageous guy, with a swollen red face, flushed from drinking brandy.—Cheats of Scapin.

An hour or two prior to the incident just narrated, in a small, cosy apartment of the hall, nominally devoted to justiciary business by its late owner, but, in reality, used as a sanctum, snuggery, or smoking-room, a singular trio were assembled, fraught with the ulterior purpose of attending the obsequies of their deceased patron and friend, though immediately occupied in the discussion of a magnum of excellent claret, the bouquet of which perfumed the air, like the fragrance of a bed of violets.

An hour or two before the event just described, in a small, cozy apartment down the hall, which was meant for judicial work by its former owner but was actually used as a retreat, hangout, or smoking room, a unique trio had gathered. They were there with the underlying intention of attending the funeral of their late patron and friend, but were currently focused on discussing a bottle of excellent red wine, its aroma filling the air like the sweet scent of a bed of violets.

This little room had been poor Sir Piers's favorite retreat. It was, in fact, the only room in the house that he could call his own; and thither would he often, with pipe and punch, beguile the flagging hours, secure from interruption. A snug, old-fashioned apartment it was; wainscoted with rich black oak; with a fine old cabinet of the same material, and a line or two of crazy, worm-eaten bookshelves, laden with sundry[57] dusty, unconsulted law tomes, and a light sprinkling of the elder divines, equally neglected. The only book, indeed, Sir Piers ever read, was the "Anatomie of Melancholy;" and he merely studied Burton because the quaint, racy style of the learned old hypochondriac suited his humor at seasons, and gave a zest to his sorrows, such as the olives lent to his wine.

This little room had been poor Sir Piers's favorite getaway. It was actually the only room in the house he could truly call his own; there, he would often spend the slow hours with his pipe and punch, free from interruptions. It was a cozy, old-fashioned room, paneled with rich black oak, featuring a fine old cabinet made from the same wood, and a couple of rickety, worm-eaten bookshelves filled with various dusty, ignored law books and a light scattering of neglected writings from older theologians. The only book Sir Piers ever really read was the "Anatomy of Melancholy;" he only turned to Burton because the quirky, lively style of the learned old hypochondriac matched his mood at times and added a flavor to his sorrows, much like olives do to wine.

Four portraits adorned the walls: those of Sir Reginald Rookwood and his wives. The ladies were attired in the flowing drapery of Charles the Second's day, the snow of their radiant bosoms being somewhat sullied by over-exposure, and the vermeil tinting of their cheeks darkened by the fumes of tobacco. There was a shepherdess, with her taper crook, whose large, languishing eyes, ripe pouting lips, ready to melt into kisses, and air of voluptuous abandonment, scarcely suited the innocent simplicity of her costume. She was portrayed tending a flock of downy sheep, with azure ribbons round their necks, accompanied by one of those invaluable little dogs whose length of ear and silkiness of skin evinced him perfect in his breeding, but whose large-eyed indifference to his charge proved him to be as much out of character with his situation as the refined and luxuriant charms of his mistress were out of keeping with her artless attire. This was Sir Piers's mother, the third wife, a beautiful woman, answering to the notion of one who had been somewhat of a flirt in her day. Next to her was a magnificent dame, with the throat and arm of a Juno, and a superb bust—the bust was then what the bustle is now—a paramount attraction; whether the modification be an improvement, we leave to the consideration of the lovers of the beautiful—this was the dowager. Lastly, there was the lovely and ill-fated Eleanor. Every gentle grace belonging to this unfortunate lady had been stamped in undying beauty on the canvas by the hand of Lely, breathing a spell on the picture, almost as powerful as that which had dwelt around the exquisite original. Over the high carved mantelpiece was[58] suspended the portrait of Sir Reginald. It had been painted in early youth; the features were beautiful, disdainful,—with a fierceness breaking through the courtly air. The eyes were very fine, black as midnight, and piercing as those of Cæsar Borgia, as seen in Raphael's wonderful picture in the Borghese Palace at Rome. They seemed to fascinate the gazer—to rivet his glances—to follow him whithersoever he went—and to search into his soul, as did the dark orbs of Sir Reginald in his lifetime. It was the work likewise of Lely, and had all the fidelity and graceful refinement of that great master; nor was the haughty countenance of Sir Reginald unworthy the patrician painter.

Four portraits decorated the walls: those of Sir Reginald Rookwood and his wives. The ladies were dressed in the flowing styles of Charles the Second's era, their radiant bosoms slightly tarnished by overexposure, and the rosy tint of their cheeks darkened by tobacco smoke. One of them was a shepherdess, holding a slender crook, with large, dreamy eyes, full pouting lips ready for kisses, and an air of sultry abandon that didn’t quite match the innocent simplicity of her dress. She was depicted tending a flock of fluffy sheep, each with blue ribbons around their necks, accompanied by one of those adorable little dogs whose long ears and silky coat showed him to be well-bred, but whose large, indifferent eyes for his flock made him just as out of place as the refined and lush beauty of his mistress was with her modest attire. This was Sir Piers's mother, the third wife, a stunning woman who had likely been a bit of a flirt in her youth. Next to her was a magnificent woman, with the throat and arms of a goddess, and an impressive bust—the bust was the center of attraction back then, just as the bustle is now; whether this change is an improvement is up for discussion among lovers of beauty—this was the dowager. Lastly, there was the lovely and tragic Eleanor. Every gentle grace belonging to this ill-fated lady was immortalized in undying beauty on canvas by the hand of Lely, casting a spell on the painting almost as strong as that which surrounded the exquisite original. Above the high carved mantelpiece was[58] the portrait of Sir Reginald. It had been painted in his youth; his features were beautiful and disdainful, with a fierceness breaking through his polished demeanor. His eyes were very striking, black as midnight and piercing like those of Cæsar Borgia, as seen in Raphael's stunning painting in the Borghese Palace in Rome. They seemed to captivate the viewer—locking in their gaze—following him wherever he went—and probing into his soul, just as Sir Reginald's dark eyes had done during his lifetime. This was also the work of Lely, displaying all the fidelity and graceful elegance of that great master; indeed, the proud expression of Sir Reginald was worthy of the patrician painter.

No portrait of Sir Piers was to be met with. But in lieu thereof, depending from a pair of buck's horns, hung the worthy knight's stained scarlet coat—the same in which he had ridden forth, with the intent to hunt, on the eventful occasion detailed by Peter Bradley,—his velvet cap, his buck-handled whip, and the residue of his equipment for the chase. This attire was reviewed with melancholy interest and unaffected emotion by the company, as reminding them forcibly of the departed, of which it seemed a portion.

No portrait of Sir Piers was found. Instead, hanging from a pair of deer antlers was the knight's stained red coat—the same one he wore when he set out to hunt on that memorable day described by Peter Bradley—along with his velvet cap, his whip with the buck handle, and the rest of his hunting gear. The group looked at this outfit with bittersweet interest and genuine emotion, as it strongly reminded them of their lost companion, seeming to be a part of him.

The party consisted of the vicar of Rookwood, Dr. Polycarp Small; Dr. Titus Tyrconnel, an emigrant, and empirical professor of medicine, from the sister isle, whose convivial habits had first introduced him to the hall, and afterwards retained him there; and Mr. Codicil Coates, clerk of the peace, attorney-at-law, bailiff, and receiver. We were wrong in saying that Tyrconnel was retained. He was an impudent, intrusive fellow, whom, having once gained a footing in the house, it was impossible to dislodge. He cared for no insult; perceived no slight; and professed, in her presence, the profoundest respect for Lady Rookwood: in short, he was ever ready to do anything but depart.

The party included the vicar of Rookwood, Dr. Polycarp Small; Dr. Titus Tyrconnel, an immigrant and practical professor of medicine from the neighboring island, whose sociable nature had initially brought him to the hall and kept him there; and Mr. Codicil Coates, the clerk of the peace, attorney-at-law, bailiff, and receiver. We were mistaken in saying that Tyrconnel was invited. He was a brash, unwelcome guy who, once he’d made himself comfortable in the house, was impossible to get rid of. He ignored any insults, missed all slights, and publicly claimed to have the utmost respect for Lady Rookwood: in short, he was always ready to do anything except leave.

Sir Piers was one of those people who cannot dine alone. He disliked a solitary repast almost as much as a tête-à-tête[59] with his lady. He would have been recognized at once as the true Amphitryon, had any one been hardy enough to play the part of Jupiter. Ever ready to give a dinner, he found a difficulty arise, not usually experienced on such occasions—there was no one upon whom to bestow it. He had the best of wine; kept an excellent table; was himself no niggard host; but his own merits, and those of his cuisine, were forgotten in the invariable pendant to the feast; and the best of wine lost its flavor when the last bottle found its way to the guest's head. Dine alone Sir Piers would not. And as his old friends forsook him, he plunged lower in his search of society; collecting within his house a class of persons whom no one would have expected to meet at the hall, nor even its owner have chosen for his companions, had any choice remained to him. He did not endure this state of things without much outward show of discontent. "Anything for a quiet life," was his constant saying; and, like the generality of people with whom those words form a favorite maxim, he led the most uneasy life imaginable. Endurance, to excite commiseration, must be uncomplaining—an axiom the aggrieved of the gentle sex should remember. Sir Piers endured, but he grumbled lustily, and was on all hands voted a bore; domestic grievances, especially if the husband be the plaintiff, being the most intolerable of all mentionable miseries. No wonder that his friends deserted him; still there was Titus Tyrconnel; his ears and lips were ever open to pathos and to punch; so Titus kept his station. Immediately after her husband's demise, it had been Lady Rookwood's intention to clear the house of all the "vermin," so she expressed herself, that had so long infested it; and forcibly to eject Titus, and one or two other intruders of the same class. But in consequence of certain hints received from Mr. Coates, who represented the absolute necessity of complying with Sir Piers's testamentary instructions, which were particular in that respect, she thought proper to defer her intentions until after the[60] ceremonial of interment should be completed, and, in the mean time, strange to say, committed its arrangement to Titus Tyrconnel; who, ever ready to accommodate, accepted, nothing loth, the charge, and acquitted himself admirably well in his undertaking: especially, as he said, "in the aiting and drinking department—the most essential part of it all." He kept open house—open dining-room—open cellar; resolved that his patron's funeral should emulate as much as possible an Irish burial on a grand scale, "the finest sight," in his opinion, "in the whole world."

Sir Piers was one of those people who just couldn’t eat alone. He disliked dining solo almost as much as he disliked a private dinner with his lady. If anyone had been brave enough to take on the role of Jupiter, he would have been instantly recognized as the true host. Always ready to throw a dinner party, he faced a unique challenge this time—there was no one to invite. He had great wine, maintained an excellent table, and was not a stingy host, but his own qualities and the quality of his food were overshadowed by the usual companion at a feast; the best wine lost its appeal when the last bottle ended up overpowering the guest. Sir Piers would not dine alone. As his old friends drifted away, he sank lower in his quest for company, gathering a group of people in his home that no one would have expected to meet there, nor would he have chosen if he had any say in the matter. He didn’t hide his discontent with this situation. “Anything for a quiet life,” was his constant saying; yet, like many who hold that saying dear, he led an incredibly restless life. To gain sympathy, endurance has to be uncomplaining—an idea the complainers among women should keep in mind. Sir Piers put up with it, but he grumbled loudly and was widely considered a bore; domestic complaints, especially coming from a husband, are the most unbearable of all afflictions. It’s no wonder his friends abandoned him; still, there was Titus Tyrconnel; he was always ready to listen to a sob story and enjoy a drink, so Titus stuck around. Right after her husband passed away, Lady Rookwood planned to kick out all the “vermin” that had infested the house, as she called them; she intended to forcibly remove Titus and a couple of other intruders like him. However, after receiving some hints from Mr. Coates, who emphasized the need to adhere to Sir Piers’s will, which was specific about this, she decided to postpone her plans until after the burial ceremony. In the meantime, strangely enough, she entrusted the arrangements to Titus Tyrconnel, who, always eager to help, gladly accepted the task and did an excellent job, especially in the “eating and drinking department—the most essential part of it all,” as he said. He kept the house open—dining room open—cellar open; determined that his patron’s funeral would closely resemble an elaborate Irish burial, “the finest sight,” in his opinion, “in the whole world.”

Inflated with the importance of his office, inflamed with heat, sat Titus, like a "robustious periwig-pated" alderman after a civic feast. The natural rubicundity of his countenance was darkened to a deep purple tint, like that of a full-blown peony, while his ludicrous dignity was augmented by a shining suit of sables, in which his portly person was invested.

Puffed up with the significance of his position and feeling the heat, Titus sat like a boisterous, wig-wearing city official after a big banquet. The natural redness of his face turned to a deep purple, resembling a fully bloomed peony, while his ridiculous sense of dignity was heightened by a shiny fur suit that wrapped around his plump figure.

The first magnum had been discussed in solemn silence; the cloud, however, which hung over the conclave, disappeared under the genial influence of "another and a better" bottle, and gave place to a denser vapor, occasioned by the introduction of the pipe and its accompaniments.

The first bottle had been talked about in serious silence; however, the cloud that hung over the gathering faded away with the welcoming influence of "another and a better" bottle, and was replaced by a thicker haze, caused by the arrival of the pipe and its accessories.

Ensconced in a comfortable old chair—it is not every old chair that is comfortable,—with pipe in mouth, and in full unbuttoned ease, his bushy cauliflower wig laid aside, by reason of the heat, reposed Dr. Small. Small, indeed, was somewhat of a misnomer, as applied to the worthy doctor, who, besides being no diminutive specimen of his kind, entertained no insignificant opinion of himself. His height was certainly not remarkable; but his width of shoulder—his sesquipedality of stomach—and obesity of calf—these were unique! Of his origin we know nothing; but presume he must, in some way or other, have been connected with the numerous family of "the Smalls," who, according to Christopher North, form the predominant portion of mankind. In appearance, the doctor was short-necked and puffy, with a sodden, pasty face, wherein[61] were set eyes whose obliquity of vision was, in some measure, redeemed by their expression of humor. He was accounted a man of parts and erudition, and had obtained high honors at his university. Rigidly orthodox, he abominated the very names of Papists and Jacobites, amongst which heretical herd he classed his companion, Mr. Titus Tyrconnel—Ireland being with him synonymous with superstition and Catholicism—and every Irishman rebellious and schismatical. On this head he was inclined to be disputatious. His prejudices did not prevent him from passing the claret, nor from laughing, as heartily as a plethoric asthma and sense of the decorum due to the occasion would permit, at the quips and quirks of the Irishman, who, he admitted, notwithstanding his heresies, was a pleasant fellow in the main. And when, in addition to the flattery, a pipe had been insinuated by the officious Titus, at the precise moment that Small yearned for his afternoon's solace, yet scrupled to ask for it; when the door had been made fast, and the first whiff exhaled, all his misgivings vanished, and he surrendered himself to the soft seduction. In this Elysian state we find him.

Settled into a comfy old chair—it’s not every old chair that is comfy—with a pipe in his mouth and fully relaxed, his bushy wig set aside because of the heat, sat Dr. Small. "Small" was actually a bit of a misnomer for the worthy doctor, who, aside from being no small example of his kind, had a rather high opinion of himself. His height was certainly unremarkable, but his broad shoulders, large stomach, and hefty calves were quite something! We know nothing about his background, but we assume he must be somewhat related to the many "Smalls," who, according to Christopher North, make up a large portion of humanity. In looks, the doctor was short-necked and puffy, with a damp, pale face, where[61] his eyes, though slightly crossed, were somewhat redeemed by a humorous expression. He was considered a knowledgeable and accomplished man, having received high honors at his university. Strictly orthodox, he detested the very names of Papists and Jacobites, classifying his companion, Mr. Titus Tyrconnel, among this heretical group—since, to him, Ireland was synonymous with superstition and Catholicism—and saw every Irishman as rebellious and schismatic. He was prone to debate on this topic. His biases didn’t stop him from enjoying the wine, nor from laughing, as much as his heavy breathing and the need to maintain decorum would allow, at the antics of the Irishman, who, he conceded, was a good-natured guy overall despite his beliefs. And when, on top of the flattery, a pipe appeared thanks to the eager Titus, right when Small wished for his afternoon comfort but hesitated to ask for it; when the door was closed, and he took the first puff, all his worries faded away, and he surrendered to the gentle pleasure. In this blissful state, we find him.

"Ah! you may say that, Dr. Small," said Titus, in answer to some observation of the vicar, "that's a most original apothegm. We all of us hould our lives by a thrid. Och! many's the sudden finale I have seen. Many's the fine fellow's heels tripped up unawares, when least expected. Death hangs over our heads by a single hair, as your reverence says, precisely like the sword of Dan Maclise,[6] the flatterer of Dinnish what-do-you-call-him, ready to fall at a moment's notice, or no notice at all—eh?—Mr. Coates. And that brings me back again to Sir Piers—poor gentleman—ah! we sha'n't soon see the like of him again!"

"Ah! You might say that, Dr. Small," Titus replied to something the vicar said, "that's a really original saying. We all hold our lives by a thread. Oh! I've seen many sudden endings. Many a fine person caught off guard, when least expected. Death hangs over our heads by a single hair, just as your reverence says, just like the sword of Dan Maclise,[6], the flatterer of Dinnish whatever-his-name-is, ready to drop at a moment's notice, or no notice at all—right?—Mr. Coates. And that brings me back to Sir Piers—poor man—ah! We won't see anyone like him again anytime soon!"

"Poor Sir Piers!" said Mr. Coates, a small man, in a scratch wig, with a face red and round as an apple, and almost as diminutive. "It is to be regretted that his over-conviviality should so much have hastened his lamented demise."[62]

"Poor Sir Piers!" said Mr. Coates, a short man with a scratchy wig, a face as red and round as an apple, and almost just as small. "It's a shame that his love for partying led to his untimely death."[62]

"Conviviality!" replied Titus; "no such thing—it was apoplexy—extravasation of sarum."

"Good times!" replied Titus; "not at all—it was a stroke—bleeding of sarum."

"Extra vase-ation of rum and water, you mean," replied Coates, who, like all his tribe, rejoiced in a quibble.

"Extra dilution of rum and water, you mean," replied Coates, who, like everyone in his group, enjoyed a playful argument.

"The squire's ailment," continued Titus, "was a sanguineous effusion, as we call it—positive determination of blood to the head, occasioned by a low way he got into, just before his attack—a confirmed case of hypochondriasis, as that ould book Sir Piers was so fond of terms the blue devils. He neglected the bottle, which, in a man who has been a hard drinker all his life, is a bad sign. The lowering system never answers—never. Doctor, I'll just trouble you"—for Small, in a fit of absence, had omitted to pass the bottle, though not to help himself. "Had he stuck to this"—holding up a glass, ruby bright—"the elixir vitæ—the grand panacea—he might have been hale and hearty at this present moment, and as well as any of us. But he wouldn't be advised. To my thinking, as that was the case, he'd have been all the better for a little of your reverence's sperretual advice; and his conscience having been relieved by confession and absolution, he might have opened a fresh account with an aisy heart and clane breast."

"The squire's problem," continued Titus, "was a blood condition, as we call it—a serious buildup of blood to the head, caused by a bad state he got into just before his attack—a clear case of hypochondria, as that old book Sir Piers liked to call the blues. He ignored the bottle, which, for someone who's been a heavy drinker all his life, is a bad sign. The depressing approach never works—never. Doctor, I’ll just trouble you"—for Small, in a moment of distraction, had forgotten to pass the bottle, although he had helped himself. "Had he stuck to this"—holding up a glass, bright red—"the elixir of life—the ultimate cure—he might have been healthy and strong right now, just like the rest of us. But he wouldn't listen. In my opinion, given that situation, he would have been better off with a bit of your reverence's spiritual advice; and with his conscience cleared by confession and absolution, he might have started fresh with a light heart and a clear mind."

"I trust, sir," said Small, gravely withdrawing his pipe from his lips, "that Sir Piers Rookwood addressed himself to a higher source than a sinning creature of clay like himself for remission of his sins; but, if there was any load of secret guilt that might have weighed heavy upon his conscience, it is to be regretted that he refused the last offices of the church, and died incommunicate. I was denied all admittance to his chamber."

"I hope, sir," Small said, seriously pulling his pipe from his lips, "that Sir Piers Rookwood sought forgiveness from a higher power rather than from a flawed human like himself. However, if there was any hidden guilt weighing on his conscience, it's unfortunate that he turned away the last rites of the church and died without speaking to anyone. I was not allowed to enter his room."

"Exactly my case," said Mr. Coates, pettishly. "I was refused entrance, though my business was of the utmost importance—certain dispositions—special bequests—matter connected with his sister—for though the estate is entailed, yet still there are charges—you understand me—very strange to refuse to see me. Some people may regret it—may live to[63] regret it, I say—that's all. I've just sent up a package to Lady Rookwood, which was not to be delivered till after Sir Piers's death. Odd circumstance that—been in my custody a long while—some reason to think Sir Piers meant to alter his will—ought to have seen me—sad neglect!"

"That's exactly my situation," Mr. Coates said irritably. "I was denied entry, even though my matters were extremely important—specific arrangements—special bequests—issues related to his sister—because even though the estate is inherited, there are still certain obligations—you get what I mean—it's really odd to refuse to see me. Some people might end up regretting it—might live to [63] regret it, that's all I'm saying. I just sent a package to Lady Rookwood, which wasn't supposed to be delivered until after Sir Piers's death. It's a strange situation—I've had it for quite a while—there's reason to believe Sir Piers intended to change his will—I should have been seen by me—that's a serious oversight!"

"More's the pity. But it was none of poor Sir Piers's doing!" replied Titus; "he had no will of his own, poor fellow, during his life, and the devil a will was he likely to have after his death. It was all Lady Rookwood's doing," added he, in a whisper. "I, his medical adviser and confidential friend, was ordered out of the room; and, although I knew it was as much as his life was worth to leave him for a moment in that state, I was forced to comply: and, would you believe it, as I left the room, I heard high words. Yes, doctor, as I hope to be saved, words of anger from her at that awful juncture."

"How unfortunate. But it wasn't poor Sir Piers's fault!" replied Titus. "He didn't have a mind of his own, poor guy, while he was alive, and there's no way he would have had one after he died. It was all Lady Rookwood's doing," he added in a whisper. "I, his medical advisor and close friend, was ordered out of the room; and even though I knew it could cost him his life to leave him alone like that, I had to go. And would you believe it, as I was leaving, I heard raised voices. Yes, doctor, as I hope to be saved, there were angry words from her at that terrible moment."

The latter part of this speech was uttered in a low tone, and very mysterious manner. The speakers drew so closely together, that the bowls of their pipes formed a common centre, whence the stems radiated. A momentary silence ensued, during which each man puffed for very life. Small next knocked the ashes from his tube, and began to replenish it, coughing significantly. Mr. Coates expelled a thin, curling stream of vapor from a minute orifice in the corner of his almost invisible mouth, and arched his eyebrows in a singular manner, as if he dared not trust the expression of his thoughts to any other feature. Titus shook his huge head, and, upon the strength of a bumper which he swallowed, mustered resolution enough to unburden his bosom.

The latter part of this speech was spoken in a low tone and a very mysterious way. The speakers huddled close together, so that the bowls of their pipes created a common center, with the stems radiating outwards. A brief silence followed, during which each man puffed as if his life depended on it. Small knocked the ashes out of his pipe and started to refill it, coughing meaningfully. Mr. Coates let out a thin, curling stream of smoke from a tiny opening in the corner of his nearly invisible mouth and raised his eyebrows in a peculiar way, as if he didn't trust any other part of his face to express his thoughts. Titus shook his large head and, after downing a drink, gathered enough courage to speak his mind.

"By my sowl," said he, mysteriously, "I've seen enough lately to frighten any quiet gentleman out of his senses. I'll not get a wink of sleep, I fear, for a week to come. There must have been something dreadful upon Sir Piers's mind; sure—nay, there's no use in mincing the matter with you—in a word, then, some crime too deep to be divulged."

"By my soul," he said mysteriously, "I've seen enough lately to scare any calm guy out of his mind. I'm afraid I won't get a wink of sleep for the next week. There must have been something terrible on Sir Piers's mind; really—there's no point in sugarcoating it with you—in short, it's a crime too serious to be revealed."

"Crime!" echoed Coates and Small, in a breath.[64]

"Crime!" shouted Coates and Small in unison.[64]

"Ay, crime!" repeated Titus. "Whist! not so loud, lest any one should overhear us. Poor Sir Piers, he's dead now. I'm sure you both loved him as I did, and pity and pardon him if he was guilty; for certain am I that no soul ever took its flight more heavily laden than did that of our poor friend. Och! it was a terrible ending. But you shall hear how he died, and judge for yourselves. When I returned to his room after Lady Rookwood's departure, I found him quite delirious. I knew death was not far off then. One minute he was in the chase, cheering on the hounds. 'Halloo! tallyho!' cried he: 'who clears that fence?—who swims that stream?' The next, he was drinking, carousing, and hurrahing, at the head of his table. 'Hip! hip! hip!'—as mad, and wild, and frantic as ever he used to be when wine had got the better of him; and then all of a sudden, in the midst of his shouting, he stopped, exclaiming, 'What! here again?—who let her in?—the door is fast—I locked it myself. Devil! why did you open it?—you have betrayed me—she will poison me—and I cannot resist. Ha! another! Who—who is that?—her face is white—her hair hangs about her shoulders. Is she alive again? Susan! Susan! why that look? You loved me well—too well. You will not drag me to perdition! You will not appear against me! No, no, no—it is not in your nature—you whom I doted on, whom I loved—whom I—but I repented—I sorrowed—I prayed—prayed! Oh! oh! no prayers would avail. Pray for me, Susan—for ever! Your intercession may avail. It is not too late. I will do justice to all. Bring me pen and ink—paper—I will confess—he shall have all. Where is my sister? I would speak with her—would tell her—tell her. Call Alan Rookwood—I shall die before I can tell it. Come hither,' said he to me. 'There is a dark, dreadful secret on my mind—it must forth. Tell my sister—no, my senses swim—Susan is near me—fury in her eyes—avenging fury—keep her off. What is this white mass in my arms? what do I hold? is it the corpse by my side, as it lay that long,[65] long night? It is—it is. Cold, stiff, stirless as then. White—horribly white—as when the moon, that would not set, showed all its ghastliness. Ah! it moves, embraces me, stifles, suffocates me. Help! remove the pillow. I cannot breathe—I choke—oh!' And now I am coming to the strangest part of my story—and, strange as it may sound, every word is as true as Gospel."

"Ay, crime!" Titus repeated. "Shh! Not so loud, or someone might overhear us. Poor Sir Piers, he's gone now. I'm sure you both cared for him as I did, and feel compassion and forgiveness for him if he was at fault; because I'm certain no soul ever left this world more burdened than our poor friend's. Oh! It was a terrible ending. But you’ll hear how he died, and you can judge for yourselves. When I returned to his room after Lady Rookwood left, I found him completely delirious. I knew death was close then. One moment he was out hunting, cheering on the hounds. 'Halloo! Tallyho!' he shouted: 'Who clears that fence?—who swims that stream?' The next, he was drinking, partying, and celebrating at the head of his table. 'Hip! hip! hip!'—as wild, mad, and frantic as ever he got when he had too much to drink; and then all of a sudden, in the middle of his shouting, he stopped and exclaimed, 'What! Here again?—who let her in?—the door is locked—I shut it myself. Devil! Why did you open it?—you’ve betrayed me—she will poison me—and I can't resist. Ha! Another! Who—who is that?—her face is pale—her hair hangs down her shoulders. Is she alive again? Susan! Susan! Why that look? You loved me well—too well. You won’t drag me to ruin! You won’t turn against me! No, no, no—it’s not in your nature—you whom I adored, whom I loved—whom I—but I repented—I was sorrowful—I prayed—prayed! Oh! Oh! no prayers would help. Pray for me, Susan—for eternity! Your intercession might work. It’s not too late. I will make amends to everyone. Bring me pen and ink—paper—I will confess—he will have it all. Where is my sister? I need to speak with her—need to tell her—tell her. Call Alan Rookwood—I’ll be dead before I can share it. Come here,' he said to me. 'There’s a dark, dreadful secret on my mind—it must come out. Tell my sister—no, my senses are whirling—Susan is near me—rage in her eyes—vengeful rage—keep her away. What is this white mass in my arms? What do I hold? Is it the corpse beside me, as it lay that long,[65] long night? It is—it is. Cold, stiff, motionless as then. White—horribly white—as when the moon, that wouldn’t set, showed all its ghastliness. Ah! It moves, holds me tight, suffocates me. Help! Remove the pillow. I can’t breathe—I’m choking—oh!' And now I’m getting to the strangest part of my story—and as strange as it may sound, every word is as true as Gospel."

"Ahem!" coughed Small.

"Ahem!" coughed Small.

"Well, at this moment—this terrible moment—what should I hear but a tap against the wainscot. Holy Virgin! how it startled me. My heart leapt to my mouth in an instant, and then went thump, thump, against my ribs. But I said nothing, though you may be sure I kept my ears wide open—and then presently I heard the tap repeated somewhat louder, and shortly afterwards a third—I should still have said nothing, but Sir Piers heard the knock, and raised himself at the summons, as if it had been the last trumpet. 'Come in,' cried he, in a dying voice; and Heaven forgive me if I confess that I expected a certain person, whose company one would rather dispense with upon such an occasion, to step in. However, though it wasn't the ould gentleman, it was somebody near akin to him; for a door I had never seen, and never even dreamed of, opened in the wall, and in stepped Peter Bradley—ay, you may well stare, gentlemen; but it was Peter, looking as stiff as a crowbar, and as blue as a mattock. Well, he walked straight up to the bed of the dying man, and bent his great, diabolical gray eyes upon him, laughing all the while—yes, laughing—you know the cursed grin he has. To proceed. 'You have called me,' said he to Sir Piers; 'I am here. What would you with me?'—'We are not alone,' groaned the dying man. 'Leave us, Mr. Tyrconnel—leave me for five minutes—only five, mark me.'—'I'll go,' thinks I, 'but I shall never see you again alive.' And true enough it was—I never did see him again with breath in his body. Without more ado, I left him, and I had scarcely reached the corridor when I heard[66] the door bolted behind me. I then stopped to listen: and I'm sure you'll not blame me when I say I clapped my eye to the keyhole; for I suspected something wrong. But, Heaven save us! that crafty gravedigger had taken his precautions too well. I could neither see nor hear anything, except after a few minutes, a wild unearthly screech. And then the door was thrown open, and I, not expecting it, was precipitated head foremost into the room, to the great damage of my nose. When I got up, Peter had vanished, I suppose, as he came; and there was poor Sir Piers leaning back upon the pillow with his hands stretched out as if in supplication, his eyes unclosed and staring, and his limbs stark and stiff!"

"Well, at this moment—this terrible moment—what should I hear but a tap against the wall. Holy Virgin! how it startled me. My heart leapt to my throat in an instant and then thumped against my ribs. But I said nothing, though you can be sure I kept my ears wide open—and then I heard the tap again, a bit louder, and shortly after a third. I would still have said nothing, but Sir Piers heard the knock and sat up as if it were the last trumpet. 'Come in,' he called, in a weak voice; and Heaven forgive me for admitting that I expected a certain person, whose company I would rather avoid in such a moment, to walk in. However, although it wasn't the old gentleman, it was someone very much like him; for a door I had never seen and never even imagined opened in the wall, and in stepped Peter Bradley—yes, you may well stare, gentlemen; but it was Peter, looking as stiff as a crowbar and as pale as a ghost. He walked straight up to the bed of the dying man and looked down at him with his great, diabolical gray eyes, laughing the whole time—yes, laughing—you know that cursed grin he has. To continue, 'You called for me,' said he to Sir Piers; 'I’m here. What do you want?'—'We are not alone,' groaned the dying man. 'Leave us, Mr. Tyrconnel—just leave me for five minutes—only five, mind you.'—'I'll go,' I thought, 'but I’ll never see you alive again.' And sure enough, I never did—I never saw him again alive. Without further ado, I left, and I had hardly reached the corridor when I heard the door bolt behind me. I then stopped to listen; and I'm sure you won't blame me when I say I put my eye to the keyhole; for I suspected something was wrong. But, Heaven help us! that crafty gravedigger had taken his precautions too well. I could see nor hear anything, except after a few minutes, a wild, unearthly screech. Then the door flew open, and I, not expecting it, was thrown headfirst into the room, banging my nose. When I got up, Peter had vanished, I suppose, as he came; and there was poor Sir Piers leaning back on the pillow with his hands stretched out as if pleading, his eyes wide open and staring, and his limbs stiff and cold!"

A profound silence succeeded this narrative. Mr. Coates would not venture upon a remark. Dr. Small seemed, for some minutes, lost in painful reflection; at length he spoke: "You have described a shocking scene, Mr. Tyrconnel, and in a manner that convinces me of its fidelity. But I trust you will excuse me, as a friend of the late Sir Piers, in requesting you to maintain silence in future on the subject. Its repetition can be productive of no good, and may do infinite harm by giving currency to unpleasant reports, and harrowing the feelings of the survivors. Every one acquainted with Sir Piers's history must be aware, as I dare say you are already, of an occurrence which cast a shade over his early life, blighted his character, and endangered his personal safety. It was a dreadful accusation. But I believe, nay, I am sure, it was unfounded. Dark suspicions attach to a Romish priest of the name of Checkley. He, I believe, is beyond the reach of human justice. Erring Sir Piers was, undoubtedly. But I trust he was more weak than sinful. I have reason to think he was the tool of others, especially of the wretch I have named. And it is easy to perceive how that incomprehensible lunatic, Peter Bradley, has obtained an ascendancy over him. His daughter, you are aware, was Sir Piers's mistress. Our friend is now gone, and with him let us bury his offences, and the remembrance[67] of them. That his soul was heavily laden, would appear from your account of his last moments; yet I fervently trust that his repentance was sincere, in which case there is hope of forgiveness for him. 'At what time soever a sinner shall repent him of his sins, from the bottom of his heart, I will blot out all his wickedness out of my remembrance, saith the Lord.' Heaven's mercy is greater than man's sins. And there is hope of salvation even for Sir Piers."

A deep silence followed this story. Mr. Coates didn't say a word. Dr. Small seemed lost in thought for a few minutes; finally, he spoke: "You've painted a terrible picture, Mr. Tyrconnel, and you’ve done it in a way that makes me believe it's true. However, as a friend of the late Sir Piers, I hope you'll understand my request to keep quiet about it going forward. Bringing it up again won't help anyone and might cause a lot of harm by spreading unpleasant rumors and upsetting the feelings of those who are left behind. Anyone familiar with Sir Piers's history must know, as I’m sure you do, about an incident that cast a shadow over his early life, ruined his reputation, and put his safety in danger. It was a horrifying accusation. But I believe, and I am convinced, it was false. There are dark suspicions regarding a Catholic priest named Checkley. I believe he is beyond the reach of justice. Sir Piers was certainly flawed. But I hope he was more misguided than evil. I have reason to believe he was manipulated by others, especially the monster I just named. It's clear how that incomprehensible madman, Peter Bradley, gained control over him. His daughter, as you know, was Sir Piers's mistress. Our friend is gone now, and with him, let's bury his mistakes and the memory of them. Your account of his last moments shows that his soul was burdened; I truly hope his repentance was genuine, in which case there's hope for his forgiveness. 'Whenever a sinner sincerely repents, I will erase all their wickedness from my memory,' says the Lord. Heaven's mercy is greater than humanity's sins. And there is hope for salvation even for Sir Piers."

"I trust so, indeed," said Titus, with emotion; "and as to repeating a syllable of what I have just said, devil a word more will I utter on the subject. My lips shall be shut and sealed, as close as one of Mr. Coates's bonds, for ever and a day: but I thought it just right to make you acquainted with the circumstances. And now, having dismissed the bad for ever, I am ready to speak of Sir Piers's good qualities, and not few they were. What was there becoming a gentleman that he couldn't do, I'd like to know? Couldn't he hunt as well as ever a one in the county? and hadn't he as good a pack of hounds? Couldn't he shoot as well, and fish as well, and drink as well, or better?—only he couldn't carry his wine, which was his misfortune, not his fault. And wasn't he always ready to ask a friend to dinner with him? and didn't he give him a good dinner when he came, barring the cross-cups afterwards? And hadn't he everything agreeable about him, except his wife? which was a great drawback. And with all his peculiarities and humors, wasn't he as kind-hearted a man as needs be? and an Irishman at the core? And so, if he wern't dead, I'd say long life to him! But as he is, here's peace to his memory!"

"I truly believe so," said Titus, with emotion; "and as for repeating a word of what I've just said, I won’t say another thing on the matter. My lips will be sealed, as tight as one of Mr. Coates's bonds, forever and ever: but I thought it was only right to let you know the circumstances. And now, having put the bad behind us for good, I'm ready to talk about Sir Piers's good qualities, and there were quite a few. What could he not do that befits a gentleman? Could he not hunt as well as anyone in the county? Didn’t he have a great pack of hounds? Could he not shoot, fish, and drink just as well, if not better?—only he couldn’t hold his liquor, which was his misfortune, not his fault. Wasn’t he always ready to invite a friend to dinner? And didn’t he serve a great meal when they came, minus the subsequent arguments? And didn’t he have everything enjoyable about him, except for his wife? which was a significant drawback. And with all his quirks and moods, wasn’t he one of the kindest men around? And an Irishman at heart? So, if he weren’t dead, I’d wish him a long life! But since he is, here’s to his memory!"

At this juncture, a knocking was heard at the door, which some one without had vainly tried to open. Titus rose to unclose it, ushering in an individual known at the hall as Jack Palmer.

At this point, there was a knock at the door, where someone outside had unsuccessfully tried to get in. Titus got up to open it, welcoming in a person known in the hall as Jack Palmer.


CHAPTER IX

AN ENGLISH ADVENTURER

Mrs. Peachem. Sure the captain's the finest gentleman on the road.

Mrs. Peachem. I'm sure the captain is the best gentleman around.

Beggar's Opera.

Beggar's Opera.

Jack Palmer was a good-humored, good-looking man, with immense bushy, red whiskers, a freckled, florid complexion, and sandy hair, rather inclined to scantiness towards the scalp of the head, which garnished the nape of his neck with a ruff of crisp little curls, like the ring on a monk's shaven crown. Notwithstanding this tendency to baldness, Jack could not be more than thirty, though his looks were some five years in advance. His face was one of those inexplicable countenances, which appear to be proper to a peculiar class of men—a regular Newmarket physiognomy—compounded chiefly of cunning and assurance; not low cunning, nor vulgar assurance, but crafty sporting subtlety, careless as to results, indifferent to obstacles, ever on the alert for the main chance, game and turf all over, eager, yet easy, keen, yet quiet. He was somewhat showily dressed, in such wise that he looked half like a fine gentleman of that day, half like a jockey of our own. His nether man appeared in well-fitting, well-worn buckskins, and boots with tops, not unconscious of the saddle; while the airy extravagance of his broad-skirted, sky-blue riding coat, the richness of his vest—the pockets of which were beautifully exuberant, according to the mode of 1737—the smart luxuriance of his cravat, and a certain curious taste in the size and style of his buttons, proclaimed that, in his own esteem at least, his person did not appear altogether unworthy of decoration; nor, in justice to Jack, can we allow that he was in[69] error. He was a model of a man for five feet ten; square, compact, capitally built in every particular, excepting that his legs were slightly imbowed, which defect probably arose from his being almost constantly on horseback; a sort of exercise in which Jack greatly delighted, and was accounted a superb rider. It was, indeed, his daring horsemanship, upon one particular occasion, when he had outstripped a whole field, that had procured him the honor of an invitation to Rookwood. Who he was, or whence he came, was a question not easily answered—Jack, himself, evading all solution to the inquiry. Sir Piers never troubled his head about the matter: he was a "deuced good fellow—rode well, and stood on no sort of ceremony;" that was enough for him. Nobody else knew anything about him, save that he was a capital judge of horseflesh, kept a famous black mare, and attended every hunt in the West Riding—that he could sing a good song, was a choice companion, and could drink three bottles without feeling the worse for them.

Jack Palmer was a cheerful, good-looking guy with huge bushy red whiskers, a freckled, rosy complexion, and sandy hair that was starting to thin out on top. He had a ruff of crisp curls at the back of his neck, similar to the ring on a monk's shaved head. Despite his balding, Jack was probably no more than thirty, though he looked about five years older. His face had that unique look common to a specific type of man—a classic racing face—made up mainly of cunning and confidence; not the shady kind of cunning or common confidence, but a clever sportsmanship that was carefree about outcomes, unconcerned by obstacles, always ready for opportunity, familiar with racing and betting, eager yet relaxed, sharp yet composed. He was dressed quite flashy, looking part refined gentleman and part modern jockey. His trousers were well-fitted, worn buckskins, and he wore tall boots, clearly accustomed to riding. The flamboyance of his broad-skirted, sky-blue riding coat, the richness of his vest—which had really stylish pockets, fashionable for 1737—the striking elegance of his cravat, and the unique choices he made with the size and style of his buttons all suggested that he believed himself worthy of decoration. Honestly, he wasn't wrong. He was a model of a man at five feet ten, square and compact, well-built except for slightly bowed legs, likely from spending so much time on horseback, which he loved and was considered an excellent rider. It was actually his bold riding skills on one occasion, when he outran the entire field, that earned him an invitation to Rookwood. Who he was or where he came from was a question that was hard to answer—Jack himself avoided any explanation. Sir Piers didn't worry about it; he thought Jack was a "damn good fellow—rode well and didn’t fuss about manners;" that was more than enough for him. Nobody knew much else about Jack, except that he had a great eye for horses, owned an impressive black mare, went to every hunt in the West Riding, could sing a good song, was a fun person to be around, and could drink three bottles without feeling any worse for it.

Sensible of the indecorum that might attach to his appearance, Dr. Small had hastily laid down his pipe, and arranged his wig. But when he saw who was the intruder, with a grunt of defiance he resumed his occupation, without returning the bow of the latter, or bestowing further notice upon him. Nothing discomposed at the churchman's displeasure, Jack greeted Titus cordially, and carelessly saluting Mr. Coates, threw himself into a chair. He next filled a tumbler of claret, and drained it at a draught.

Aware of how inappropriate he might look, Dr. Small quickly put down his pipe and adjusted his wig. But when he saw who had entered, he grunted defiantly and went back to what he was doing, ignoring the polite greeting from the newcomer. Unshaken by the churchman's annoyance, Jack greeted Titus warmly, casually acknowledged Mr. Coates, and plopped down into a chair. He then filled a glass with claret and downed it in one go.

"Have you ridden far, Jack?" asked Titus, noticing the dusty state of Palmer's azure attire.

"Have you traveled far, Jack?" asked Titus, noticing how dusty Palmer's blue outfit was.

"Some dozen miles," replied Palmer; "and that, on such a sultry afternoon as the present, makes one feel thirstyish. I'm as dry as a sandbed. Famous wine this—beautiful tipple—better than all your red fustian. Ah, how poor Sir Piers used to like it! Well, that's all over—a glass like this might do him good in his present quarters! I'm afraid I'm intruding. But[70] the fact is, I wanted a little information about the order of the procession, and missing you below, came hither in search of you. You're to be chief mourner, I suppose, Titus—rehearsing your part, eh?"

"About twelve miles," replied Palmer; "and on such a hot afternoon like today, it really makes you feel thirsty. I'm as dry as a desert. This wine is amazing—so good—better than all that cheap stuff. Ah, how poor Sir Piers used to enjoy it! Well, that's all in the past—a glass like this might do him good in his current situation! I hope I’m not interrupting. But[70] the truth is, I wanted some information about the order of the procession, and since I couldn’t find you downstairs, I came up to look for you. You’re going to be the chief mourner, right, Titus—getting ready for your role, huh?"

"Come, come, Jack, no joking," replied Titus; "the subject's too serious. I am to be chief mourner—and I expect you to be a mourner—and everybody else to be mourners. We must all mourn at the proper time. There'll be a power of people at the church."

"Come on, Jack, no joking," replied Titus; "this is too serious. I'm going to be the chief mourner—and I expect you to mourn—and everyone else to mourn too. We all need to grieve at the right time. There will be a lot of people at the church."

"There are a power of people here already," returned Jack, "if they all attend."

"There are a lot of people here already," Jack replied, "if they all show up."

"And they all will attend, or what is the eating and drinking to go for? I sha'n't leave a soul in the house."

"And they all will come, or what's the point of eating and drinking? I won't leave anyone out."

"Excepting one," said Jack, archly. "Lady Rookwood won't attend, I think."

"Except for one," Jack said, playfully. "I don't think Lady Rookwood will be attending."

"Ay, excepting her ladyship and her ladyship's abigail. All the rest go with me, and form part of the procession. You go too."

"Yeah, except for her ladyship and her lady's maid. Everyone else is coming with me and will be part of the procession. You’re coming too."

"Of course. At what time do you start?"

"Sure. What time do you start?"

"Twelve precisely. As the clock strikes, we set out—all in a line, and a long line we'll make. I'm waiting for that ould coffin-faced rascal, Peter Bradley, to arrange the order."

"Twelve exactly. As the clock chimes, we head out—all in a line, and it’ll be a long one. I'm waiting for that old coffin-faced rascal, Peter Bradley, to sort out the order."

"How long will it all occupy, think you?" asked Jack, carelessly.

"How long will it all take, you think?" asked Jack, casually.

"That I can't say," returned Titus; "possibly an hour, more or less. But we shall start to the minute—that is, if we can get all together, so don't be out of the way. And hark ye, Jack, you must contrive to change your toggery. That sky-blue coat won't do. It's not the thing at all, at all."

"That's hard to say," Titus replied. "Maybe an hour, give or take. But we'll leave right on time—if we can all gather, so don't wander off. And listen, Jack, you really need to change your clothes. That sky-blue coat won't cut it. It's just not appropriate at all."

"Never fear that," replied Palmer. "But who were those in the carriages?"

"Don't worry about that," replied Palmer. "But who were the people in the carriages?"

"Is it the last carriage you mean? Squire Forester and his sons. They're dining with the other gentlefolk, in the great room up-stairs, to be out of the way. Oh, we'll have a grand berrin'. And, by St. Patrick! I must be looking after it."[71]

"Are you talking about the last carriage? Squire Forester and his sons are having dinner with the other gentlemen upstairs in the big room, staying out of the way. Oh, we'll have a great time. And, by St. Patrick! I need to keep an eye on it."[71]

"Stay a minute," said Jack; "let's have a cool bottle first. They are all taking care of themselves below, and Peter Bradley has not made his appearance, so you need be in no hurry. I'll go with you presently. Shall I ring for the claret?"

"Hold on a minute," Jack said, "let's have a cold drink first. Everyone's looking after themselves downstairs, and Peter Bradley hasn't shown up yet, so no need to rush. I'll join you soon. Should I call for the claret?"

"By all means," replied Titus.

"Of course," replied Titus.

Jack accordingly arose; and a butler answering the summons, a long-necked bottle was soon placed before them.

Jack got up, and when the butler responded to the call, a long-necked bottle was quickly set in front of them.

"You heard of the affray last night, I presume?" said Jack, renewing the conversation.

"You heard about the fight last night, I assume?" Jack said, picking up the conversation again.

"With the poachers? To be sure I did. Wasn't I called in to examine Hugh Badger's wounds the first thing this morning; and a deep cut there was, just over the eye, besides other bruises."

"With the poachers? Of course I did. Didn't I get called in to check Hugh Badger's injuries first thing this morning? He had a deep cut right above his eye, along with some other bruises."

"Is the wound dangerous?" inquired Palmer.

"Is the wound serious?" Palmer asked.

"Not exactly mortal, if you mean that," replied the Irishman; "dangerous, certainly."

"Not exactly mortal, if that's what you mean," replied the Irishman; "dangerous, for sure."

"Humph!" exclaimed Jack; "they'd a pretty hardish bout of it, I understand. Anything been heard of the body?"

"Humph!" Jack exclaimed. "I hear they had a pretty rough time with it. Has there been any news about the body?"

"What body?" inquired Small, who was half-dozing.

"What body?" Small asked, groggy.

"The body of the drowned poacher," replied Jack; "they were off to search for it this morning."

"The body of the drowned poacher," Jack replied; "they were headed out to look for it this morning."

"Found it—not they!" exclaimed Titus. "Ha, ha!—I can't help laughing, for the life and sowl of me; a capital trick he played 'em,—capital—ha, ha! What do you think the fellow did? Ha, ha!—after leading 'em the devil's dance, all around the park, killing a hound as savage as a wolf, and breaking Hugh Badger's head, which is as hard and thick as a butcher's block, what does the fellow do but dive into a pool, with a great rock hanging over it, and make his way to the other side, through a subterranean cavern, which nobody knew anything about, till they came to drag it, thinking him snugly drowned all the while—ha, ha!"

"Found it—not them!" exclaimed Titus. "Ha, ha!—I can't stop laughing, no matter what; he pulled off a great trick on them—really great—ha, ha! What do you think the guy did? Ha, ha!—after leading them on a wild chase all around the park, killing a dog as fierce as a wolf, and smashing Hugh Badger's head, which is as tough as a butcher's block, what does he do? He dives into a pool with a huge rock over it and finds his way to the other side through an underground cave that no one knew about until they went to search for him, thinking he was comfortably drowned the whole time—ha, ha!"

"Ha, ha, ha!" chorused Jack; "bravo! he's a lad of the right sort—ha, ha!"

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Jack; "awesome! he's a kid of the right kind—ha, ha!"

"He! who?" inquired the attorney.[72]

"Who? Him?" asked the attorney.[72]

"Why, the poacher, to be sure," replied Jack; "who else were we talking about?"

"Of course it’s the poacher," Jack replied. "Who else could we be talking about?"

"Beg pardon," returned Coates; "I thought you might have heard some intelligence. We've got an eye upon him. We know who it was."

"Excuse me," replied Coates; "I thought you might have heard some news. We're keeping an eye on him. We know who it was."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Jack; "and who was it?"

"Definitely!" shouted Jack. "So, who was it?"

"A fellow known by the name of Luke Bradley."

"Guy named Luke Bradley."

"Zounds!" cried Titus, "you don't say it was he? Murder in Irish! that bates everything; why, he was Sir Piers's——"

"Wow!" exclaimed Titus, "you’re telling me it was him? Murder in Irish! That beats everything; I mean, he was Sir Piers's——"

"Natural son," replied the attorney; "he has not been heard of for some time—shockingly incorrigible rascal—impossible to do anything with him."

"Natural son," replied the lawyer; "he hasn't been heard from in a while—such a shockingly incorrigible troublemaker—it's impossible to deal with him."

"You don't say so?" observed Jack. "I've heard Sir Piers speak of the lad; and, by his account, he's as fine a fellow as ever crossed tit's back; only a little wildish and unreasonable, as the best of us may be; wants breaking, that's all. Your skittish colt makes the best horse, and so would he. To speak the truth, I'm glad he escaped."

"You don't say?" Jack remarked. "I've heard Sir Piers talk about the guy; and according to him, he's as good a guy as ever existed; just a bit wild and unreasonable, like the best of us can be; needs to be trained, that's all. Your nervous colt turns into the best horse, and so would he. Honestly, I'm glad he got away."

"So am I," rejoined Titus; "for, in the first place, I've a foolish partiality for poachers, and am sorry when any of 'em come to hurt; and, in the second, I'd be mighty displeased if any ill had happened to one of Sir Piers's flesh and blood, as this young chap appears to be."

"So am I," replied Titus; "first of all, I have a silly soft spot for poachers and feel bad when any of them get hurt; and secondly, I'd be really upset if anything bad happened to one of Sir Piers's family, since this young guy seems to be one of them."

"Appears to be!" repeated Palmer; "there's no appearing in the case, I take it. This Bradley's an undoubted offshoot of the old squire. His mother was a servant-maid at the hall, I rather think. You sir," continued he, addressing Coates, "perhaps, can inform us of the real facts of the case."

"Looks like it!" Palmer said again; "there's no looking like it in this situation, I believe. This Bradley is definitely a descendant of the old squire. I think his mother was a maid at the hall. You, sir," he said, turning to Coates, "maybe you can tell us the real facts of the situation."

"She was something better than a servant," replied the attorney, with a slight cough and a knowing wink. "I remember her quite well, though I was but a boy then; a lovely creature, and so taking, I don't wonder that Sir Piers was smitten with her. He was mad after the women in those days, and pretty Sue Bradley above all others. She lived with him quite like his lady."[73]

"She was more than just a servant," replied the attorney, with a slight cough and a knowing wink. "I remember her very well, though I was just a boy back then; a beautiful person, and so charming, I can see why Sir Piers was infatuated with her. He was crazy about women in those days, and pretty Sue Bradley more than anyone else. She lived with him almost like his lady." [73]

"So I've heard," returned Jack; "and she remained with him till her death. Let me see, wasn't there something rather odd in the way in which she died, rather suddenish and unexpected,—a noise made about it at the time, eh?"

"So I've heard," Jack replied; "and she stayed with him until her death. Let me think, wasn't there something a bit strange about how she died, rather sudden and unexpected—a lot of talk about it at the time, right?"

"Not that I ever heard," replied Coates, shaking his head, and appearing to be afflicted with an instantaneous ignorance; while Titus affected not to hear the remark, but occupied himself with his wine-glass. Small snored audibly. "I was too young, then, to pay any attention to idle rumors," continued Coates. "It's a long time ago. May I ask the reason of your inquiry?"

"Not that I've ever heard," Coates replied, shaking his head and seeming to suddenly forget everything. Titus pretended not to hear the comment and focused on his wine glass. Small snored loudly. "I was too young back then to pay attention to silly rumors," Coates continued. "It was a long time ago. Can I ask why you're inquiring?"

"Nothing further than simple curiosity," replied Jack, enjoying the consternation of his companions. "It is, as you say, a long while since. But it's singular how that sort of thing is remembered. One would think people had something else to do than talk of one's private affairs for ever. For my part, I despise such tattle. But there are persons in the neighborhood who still say it was an awkward business. Amongst others, I've heard that this very Luke Bradley talks in pretty plain terms about it."

"Just simple curiosity," replied Jack, savoring the shock on his friends' faces. "It has been quite a while, as you mentioned. But it's strange how that kind of thing sticks in people's minds. You'd think they’d have better things to do than gossip about my private life endlessly. Personally, I can’t stand that kind of talk. But there are people around here who still say it was a messy situation. For instance, I've heard that this very Luke Bradley speaks quite openly about it."

"Does he, indeed?" said Coates. "So much the worse for him. Let me once lay hands upon him, and I'll put a gag in his mouth that shall spoil his talking in the future."

"Does he really?" said Coates. "That's all the worse for him. Once I get my hands on him, I'll shove a gag in his mouth that will keep him from talking in the future."

"That's precisely the point I desire to arrive at," replied Jack; "and I advise you by all means to accomplish that, for the sake of the family. Nobody likes his friends to be talked about. So I'd settle the matter amicably, were I you. Just let the fellow go his way; he won't return here again in a hurry, I'll be bound. As to clapping him in quod, he might prattle—turn stag."

"That's exactly the point I want to make," Jack replied. "And I strongly recommend you do that for the sake of the family. Nobody likes their friends being talked about. So I would handle the situation peacefully if I were you. Just let the guy go; he won't be back here anytime soon, I can guarantee that. As for throwing him in jail, he might start talking—switch sides."

"Turn stag!" replied Coates, "what the deuce is that? In my opinion, he has 'turned stag' already. At all events, he'll pay deer for his night's sport, you may depend upon it. What signifies it what he says? Let me lay hands upon him, that's all."[74]

"Turn stag!" replied Coates, "what on earth is that? In my opinion, he has already 'turned stag.' In any case, he'll pay a high price for his night of fun, you can count on it. What does it matter what he says? Just let me get my hands on him, that's all." [74]

"Well, well," said Jack, "no offence. I only meant to offer a suggestion. I thought the family, young Sir Ranulph, I mean, mightn't like the story to be revived. As to Lady Rookwood, she don't, I suppose, care much about idle reports. Indeed, if I've been rightly informed, she bears this youngster no particular good-will to begin with, and has tried hard to get him out of the country. But, as you say, what does it signify what he says? he can only talk. Sir Piers is dead and gone."

"Well, well," said Jack, "no offense. I just wanted to suggest something. I figured the family, young Sir Ranulph, might not want the story brought back up. As for Lady Rookwood, I assume she doesn’t really care much about gossip. In fact, if I’m correct, she doesn’t have any particular fondness for this kid and has been trying hard to get him out of the country. But, as you said, what does it matter what he says? He can only talk. Sir Piers is gone."

"Humph!" muttered Coates, peevishly.

"Humph!" Coates muttered, annoyed.

"But it does seem a little hard, that a lad should swing for killing a bit of venison in his own father's park."

"But it does seem a bit harsh that a kid should face the consequences for killing some game in his own father's park."

"Which he'd a nat'ral right to do," cried Titus.

"Which he had a natural right to do," shouted Titus.

"He had no natural right to bruise, violently assault, and endanger the life of his father's, or anybody else's gamekeeper," retorted Coates. "I tell you, sir, he's committed a capital offence, and if he's taken——"

"He had no right to hurt, violently attack, or put the life of his father's, or anyone else's gamekeeper, in danger," Coates shot back. "I'm telling you, sir, he's committed a serious crime, and if he's caught——"

"No chance of that, I hope," interrupted Jack.

"No way that's happening, I hope," interrupted Jack.

"That's a wish I can't help wishing myself," said Titus: "on my conscience, these poachers are fine boys, when all's said and done."

"That's a wish I can't help making myself," said Titus: "honestly, these poachers are really good guys, when it comes down to it."

"The finest of all boys," exclaimed Jack, with a kindred enthusiasm, "are those birds of the night, and minions of the moon, whom we call, most unjustly, poachers. They are, after all, only professional sportsmen, making a business of what we make a pleasure; a nightly pursuit of what is to us a daily relaxation; there's the main distinction. As to the rest, it's all in idea; they merely thin an overstocked park, as you would reduce a plethoric patient, doctor; or as you would work a moneyed client, if you got him into Chancery, Mister Attorney. And then how much more scientifically and systematically they set to work than we amateurs do! how noiselessly they bag a hare, smoke a pheasant, or knock a buck down with an air-gun! how independent are they of any license, except that of a good eye, and a swift pair of legs! how unnecessary is it for them to ask permission to shoot over Mr. So-and-so's[75] grounds, or my Lord That's preserves! they are free of every cover, and indifferent to any alteration in the game laws. I've some thoughts, when everything else fails, of taking to poaching myself. In my opinion, a poacher's a highly respectable character. What say you, Mr. Coates?" turning very gravely to that gentleman.

"The best of all guys," exclaimed Jack, with shared excitement, "are those night birds and followers of the moon, whom we unfairly label as poachers. They are, after all, just professional sportsmen, turning what we enjoy as a hobby into a business; a nightly hunt for what is for us a daily leisure activity; that's the key difference. As for the rest, it's all a matter of perspective; they simply reduce an overpopulated park, just like you would treat a patient with too much blood, doctor; or like you would handle a wealthy client if he found himself in legal trouble, Mister Attorney. And just think about how much more scientifically and systematically they go about their work than us amateurs! How quietly they catch a hare, smoke a pheasant, or take down a deer with an air-gun! How independent they are of any license, except for a keen eye and quick legs! How unnecessary it is for them to ask for permission to hunt on Mr. So-and-so's[75] land, or on my Lord That's preserves! They have free access to every area and couldn’t care less about changes in the hunting laws. I’ve been thinking, when all else fails, of trying my hand at poaching myself. In my view, a poacher is a pretty respectable character. What do you think, Mr. Coates?" turning very seriously to that gentleman.

"Such a question, sir," replied Coates, bridling up, "scarcely deserves a serious answer. I make no doubt you will next maintain that a highwayman is a gentleman."

"That question, sir," replied Coates, getting defensive, "barely deserves a serious response. I have no doubt you'll next argue that a robber is a gentleman."

"Most undoubtedly," replied Palmer, in the same grave tone, which might have passed for banter, had Jack ever bantered. "I'll maintain and prove it. I don't see how he can be otherwise. It is as necessary for a man to be a gentleman before he can turn highwayman, as it is for a doctor to have his diploma, or an attorney his certificate. Some of the finest gentlemen of their day, as Captain Lovelace, Hind, Hannum, and Dudley, were eminent on the road, and they set the fashion. Ever since their day a real highwayman would consider himself disgraced, if he did not conduct himself in every way like a gentleman. Of course, there are pretenders in this line, as in everything else. But these are only exceptions, and prove the rule. What are the distinguishing characteristics of a fine gentleman?—perfect knowledge of the world—perfect independence of character—notoriety—command of cash—and inordinate success with the women. You grant all these premises? First, then, it is part of a highwayman's business to be thoroughly acquainted with the world. He is the easiest and pleasantest fellow going. There is Tom King, for example: he is the handsomest man about town, and the best-bred fellow on the road. Then whose inclinations are so uncontrolled as the highwayman's, so long as the mopuses last? who produces so great an effect by so few words?—'Stand and deliver!' is sure to arrest attention. Every one is captivated by an address so taking. As to money, he wins a purse of a hundred guineas as easily as you would the same sum from the faro table. And wherein lies the difference?[76] only in the name of the game. Who so little need of a banker as he? all he has to apprehend is a check—all he has to draw is a trigger. As to the women, they dote upon him: not even your red-coat is so successful. Look at a highwayman mounted on his flying steed, with his pistols in his holsters, and his mask upon his face. What can be a more gallant sight? The clatter of his horse's heels is like music to his ear—he is in full quest—he shouts to the fugitive horseman to stay—the other flies all the faster—what chase can be half so exciting as that? Suppose he overtakes his prey, which ten to one he will, how readily his summons to deliver is obeyed! how satisfactory is the appropriation of a lusty purse or corpulent pocket-book!—getting the brush is nothing to it. How tranquilly he departs, takes off his hat to his accommodating acquaintance, wishes him a pleasant journey, and disappears across the heath! England, sir, has reason to be proud of her highwaymen. They are peculiar to her clime, and are as much before the brigand of Italy, the contrabandist of Spain, or the cut-purse of France—as her sailors are before all the rest of the world. The day will never come, I hope, when we shall degenerate into the footpad, and lose our Night Errantry. Even the French borrow from us—they have only one highwayman of eminence, and he learnt and practised his art in England."

"Most definitely," replied Palmer, in the same serious tone, which could have been mistaken for joking, if Jack ever joked. "I'll argue and prove it. I don't see how he could be anything else. Just like it's essential for a man to be a gentleman before he can become a highwayman, it's necessary for a doctor to have his diploma or a lawyer his certificate. Some of the finest gentlemen of their time, like Captain Lovelace, Hind, Hannum, and Dudley, were well-known on the road, and they set the standard. Ever since their time, a true highwayman would feel ashamed if he didn’t act like a gentleman. Of course, there are fakes in this line, as in everything else. But those are just exceptions that prove the rule. What are the traits of a fine gentleman?—a complete understanding of the world—a strong sense of independence—fame—access to money—and significant success with women. Do you accept all these points? First, then, it's part of a highwayman's job to be well-acquainted with the world. He’s the easiest and most enjoyable person to be around. Take Tom King, for example: he’s the best-looking guy in town and the most well-mannered fellow out there. Then who has more freedom than the highwayman, as long as the opportunity lasts? Who creates such a big impact with so few words?—'Stand and deliver!' is sure to grab attention. Everyone is captivated by such a bold approach. As for money, he wins a purse of a hundred guineas just as easily as you’d win the same amount at the faro table. And what’s the difference? Only in the name of the game. Who needs a banker less than him? All he has to worry about is a check—all he has to trigger is a gun. When it comes to women, they adore him: not even your red-coat soldier is as successful. Picture a highwayman on his swift horse, with his pistols in their holsters and his mask on his face. What could be more heroic? The sound of his horse's hooves is like music to his ears—he's fully in pursuit—he shouts to the fleeing horseman to stop—the other runs away even faster—what chase could be more thrilling than that? If he catches up with his target, which he likely will, how easily his command to hand over is followed! How satisfying is it to seize a hefty purse or a fat wallet!—being brushed off doesn’t compare. How calmly he rides away, tips his hat to his accommodating acquaintance, wishes him a pleasant journey, and vanishes across the heath! England, sir, has every reason to be proud of her highwaymen. They are unique to her land, just like her sailors are better than those elsewhere in the world compared to the brigands of Italy, the smugglers of Spain, or the pickpockets of France. I hope the day never comes when we sink to being mere footpads and lose our Night Errantry. Even the French borrow from us—they have only one notable highwayman, and he learned and practiced his craft in England."

"And who was he, may I ask?" said Coates.

"And who was he, if I may ask?" said Coates.

"Claude Du-Val," replied Jack; "and though a Frenchman, he was a deuced fine fellow in his day—quite a tip-top macaroni—he could skip and twirl like a figurant, warble like an opera-singer, and play the flageolet better than any man of his day—he always carried a lute in his pocket, along with his snappers. And then his dress—it was quite beautiful to see how smartly he was rigg'd out, all velvet and lace; and even with his vizard on his face, the ladies used to cry out to see him. Then he took a purse with the air and grace of a receiver-general. All the women adored him—and that, bless their pretty faces! was the best proof of his gentility. I wish[77] he'd not been a Mounseer. The women never mistake. They can always discover the true gentlemen, and they were all, of every degree, from the countess to the kitchen-maid, over head and ears in love with him."

"Claude Du-Val," Jack replied, "and although he was French, he was an incredibly fine guy in his time—quite a stylish character—he could dance and spin like a performer, sing like an opera star, and play the flute better than anyone else around—he always carried a lute in his pocket along with his other instruments. And his outfits—they were truly a sight to behold, all velvet and lace; even with his mask on, the ladies would shout out when they saw him. He had a way of taking a purse that was graceful and confident. All the women adored him—and that, bless their lovely faces! was the best sign of his nobility. I just wish[77] he hadn't been a foreigner. Women never get it wrong. They can always spot a true gentleman, and they were all, from the countess to the kitchen maid, completely smitten with him."

"But he was taken, I suppose?" asked Coates.

"But he was caught, I guess?" asked Coates.

"Ay," responded Jack, "the women were his undoing, as they've been many a brave fellow's before, and will be again." Touched by which reflection, Jack became for once in his life sentimental, and sighed. "Poor Du-Val! he was seized at the Hole-in-the-Wall in Chandos-street by the bailiff of Westminster, when dead drunk, his liquor having been drugged by his dells—and was shortly afterwards hanged at Tyburn."

"Yeah," replied Jack, "the women were his downfall, just like they've been for many brave guys before and will be again." Feeling a bit reflective, Jack for once got sentimental and sighed. "Poor Du-Val! He was caught at the Hole-in-the-Wall in Chandos Street by the bailiff of Westminster when he was dead drunk, his drink having been spiked by his friends—and was soon after hanged at Tyburn."

"It was thousand pities," said Mr. Coates, with a sneer, "that so fine a gentleman should come to so ignominious an end!"

"It was such a shame," said Mr. Coates, with a sneer, "that such a fine gentleman should meet such a disgraceful end!"

"Quite the contrary," returned Jack. "As his biographer, Doctor Pope, properly remarks, 'Who is there worthy of the name of man, that would not prefer such a death before a mean, solitary, inglorious life?' By-the-by, Titus, as we're upon the subject, if you like I'll sing you a song about highwaymen."

"Not at all," Jack replied. "As his biographer, Dr. Pope, rightly points out, 'Who among us is truly worthy of being called a man, that would not choose such a death over a petty, lonely, and unremarkable life?' By the way, Titus, since we're on the topic, if you want, I can sing you a song about highwaymen."

"I should like it of all things," replied Titus, who entertained a very favorable opinion of Jack's vocal powers, and was by no means an indifferent performer; "only let it be in a minor key."

"I would love that more than anything," replied Titus, who had a very high opinion of Jack's singing abilities and was himself quite a good performer; "just make sure it's in a minor key."

Jack required no further encouragement, but disregarding the hints and looks of Coates, sang with much unction the following ballad to a good old tune, then very popular—the merit of which "nobody can deny."

Jack needed no more motivation, but ignoring Coates' hints and glances, sang with great feeling the following ballad to a popular old tune—the quality of which "nobody can deny."

A CHAPTER OF HIGHWAYMEN

A Chapter of Outlaws

Of every type of scoundrel, The most infamous in my opinion,
Was the Cavalier Captain, the cheerful Jemmy Hind![7]
No one can deny that.[78]
But the most charming figure among them all For lute, coranto, and madrigal,
Was the galliard Frenchman, Claude Du-Val!__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Which no one can deny.
And Tobygloak could never be fooled by a coach,
Could lighten a wallet, or empty a pocket,
With a cleaner style than Old Mob, Old Mob![9]
Which no one can deny.
Nor did any burglar ever give harder blows On the stubborn lid of a sturdy box,
Better than that great guy, Tom Cox, Tom Cox![10]
Which no one can deny.
A cheerful guy on the wide road,
Never swore an oath to make a traveler stay,
Than carefree Will Holloway![11]
No one can deny that.
And in deceit, nothing could surpass the tricks Of Gettings and Grey, and the five or six Who followed in the footsteps of the daring Neddy Wicks![12]
No one can deny it.
Nor could anyone easily pick a lock As Sheppard, who was standing on the Newgate dock,
And called the jailers around him "his flock!"[13]
Which no one can deny.
Nor did highwaymen ever have before For convenience, safety, risk, trouble,
What a mare like Dick Turpin's Black Bess! Black Bess!
That’s undeniable.

"A capital song, by the powers!" cried Titus, as Jack's ditty came to a close. "But your English robbers are nothing at all, compared with our Tories[14] and Rapparees—nothing at all. They were the raal gentlemen—they were the boys to cut a throat aisily."

"A brilliant song, for sure!" exclaimed Titus as Jack finished his tune. "But your English robbers are nothing compared to our Tories[14] and Rapparees—nothing at all. They were the real gentlemen—they were the ones who could easily cut a throat."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Jack, in disgust, "the gentlemen I speak of never maltreated any one, except in self-defence."[79]

"Pshaw!" Jack exclaimed, disgusted. "The guys I'm talking about never mistreated anyone, except in self-defense." [79]

"Maybe not," replied Titus; "I'll not dispute the point—but these Rapparees were true brothers of the blade, and gentlemen every inch. I'll just sing you a song I made about them myself. But meanwhile don't let's forget the bottle—talking's dry work. My service to you, doctor!" added he, winking at the somnolent Small. And tossing off his glass, Titus delivered himself with much joviality of the following ballad; the words of which he adapted to the tune of the Groves of the Pool:

"Maybe not," Titus replied, "I won't argue about it—but those Rapparees were true brothers in arms and gentlemen through and through. Let me sing you a song I wrote about them. But in the meantime, let's not forget the drinks—talking can be thirsty work. Cheers to you, doctor!" he added, winking at the sleepy Small. And downing his glass, Titus cheerfully launched into the following ballad, adapting the lyrics to the tune of the Groves of the Pool:

THE RAPPAREES

THE RAPPAREES

Let the Englishman brag about his Turpins and Sheppards, like they're top dogs,
His Mulsacks, Cheneys, and Swiftnecks__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__—it's all just a hassle and chatter; Compared to the robbers in Ireland, they aren't even close. There have never been any scoundrels quite like those from my home island!
First and foremost is Redmond O'Hanlon, recognized as the world's first thief,[16]
That over the vast province of Ulster the Rapparee flag was raised; Oh! he was a stylish guy, like you’ve never seen in your life,
While pulling the trigger of the blunderbuss or dealing with the knife meant for slitting throats.
And then there was a daring squadron like that which made up Redmond's tail!
Meel, Mactigh, Jack Reilly, Shan Bernagh, Phil Galloge, and Arthur O'Neal;
Sure there were never any boys like them for fights, troubles, and parties,
They didn't leave a single rap in the country, so they were called Rapparees.[17]
Next is Power, the prominent Tory__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ of Munster, a true gentleman through and through,
And strong Jack Macpherson from Leinster, a horseshoe that snapped under pressure; The last one was a guy so full of life, not even death could weaken his courage,
As he was being taken to the gallows, he played his own "march to the camp."[19]
[80]
Paddy Fleming, Dick Balf, and Mulhoni are, I believe, the next people on my list, All experts in the fine art of giving a pocket a twist; Jemmy Carrick has to follow his leaders, old Purney who got upset,
By dancing a hornpipe at Tyburn and pestering the hangman for snuff.
There's Paul Liddy, the curly-haired Tory, whose head was stuck on a spike,
And Billy Delaney, the "Songster,"__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ we will never encounter anyone like him again;
For a witch anointed his neck and guaranteed it was safe with her charm,
No hemp that has ever been twisted into his incredible throttle could cause harm.
Finally, there's Cahir na Cappul, the most clever rogue of them all,
Who just needs to whisper a word, and your horse will walk out of his stall; Your horse isn't secure in its stable, even if you or your groom are nearby,
And not a single bit in the paddock if Cahir gets hold of his ear.
Here's to the success of the Tories of Ireland, the generous, the brave, the lively!
The best Rumpads__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ in England can’t even be mentioned in the same breath!
If more proof were needed to demonstrate the priority we give to our prigs,
Remember that our robbers are Tories, while those in your country are Whigs.

"Bravissimo!" cried Jack, drumming upon the table.

"Awesome!" shouted Jack, banging on the table.

"Well," said Coates, "we've had enough about the Irish highwaymen, in all conscience. But there's a rascal on our side of the Channel, whom you have only incidentally mentioned, and who makes more noise than them all put together."

"Well," said Coates, "we've talked enough about the Irish highwaymen, honestly. But there's a rogue on our side of the Channel, whom you've only briefly mentioned, and he makes more noise than all of them combined."

"Who's that?" asked Jack, with some curiosity.

"Who’s that?" Jack asked, a bit curious.

"Dick Turpin," replied the attorney: "he seems to me quite as worthy of mention as any of the Hinds, the Du-Vals, or the O'Hanlons, you have either of you enumerated."

"Dick Turpin," replied the lawyer, "he seems to me just as deserving of mention as any of the Hinds, the Du-Vals, or the O'Hanlons that you’ve both listed."

"I did not think of him," replied Palmer, smiling; "though, if I had, he scarcely deserves to be ranked with those illustrious heroes."[81]

"I didn't think of him," Palmer replied with a smile; "but even if I had, he hardly deserves to be considered alongside those great heroes."[81]

"Gads bobs!" cried Titus; "they tell me Turpin keeps the best nag in the United Kingdom, and can ride faster and further in a day than any other man in a week."

"Gosh!" cried Titus; "they say Turpin has the best horse in the UK and can ride faster and longer in a day than any other guy can in a week."

"So I've heard," said Palmer, with a glance of satisfaction. "I should like to try a run with him. I warrant me, I'd not be far behind."

"So I've heard," Palmer said, flashing a satisfied smile. "I'd love to race with him. I bet I wouldn't be far behind."

"I should like to get a peep at him," quoth Titus.

"I'd like to take a look at him," said Titus.

"So should I," added Coates. "Vastly!"

"So should I," added Coates. "Definitely!"

"You may both of you be gratified, gentlemen," said Palmer. "Talking of Dick Turpin, they say, is like speaking of the devil, he's at your elbow ere the word's well out of your mouth. He may be within hearing at this moment, for anything we know to the contrary."

"You both might be pleased, gentlemen," said Palmer. "Talking about Dick Turpin is like mentioning the devil; he’s right there with you before you’ve even finished saying his name. He could be listening in right now, for all we know."

"Body o' me!" ejaculated Coates, "you don't say so? Turpin in Yorkshire! I thought he confined his exploits to the neighborhood of the metropolis, and made Epping Forest his headquarters."

"Wow!" exclaimed Coates, "you can't be serious? Turpin in Yorkshire! I thought he only operated around the city and used Epping Forest as his base."

"So he did," replied Jack, "but the cave is all up now. The whole of the great North Road, from Tottenham Cross to York gates, comes within Dick's present range; and Saint Nicholas only knows in which part of it he is most likely to be found. He shifts his quarters as often and as readily as a Tartar; and he who looks for him may chance to catch a Tartar—ha!—ha!"

"So he did," Jack replied, "but the cave is all closed up now. The entire North Road, from Tottenham Cross to York gates, is within Dick's current territory; and only Saint Nicholas knows where he’s most likely to be found. He changes his location as often and easily as a Tartar; and anyone searching for him might just end up with a Tartar—ha!—ha!"

"It's a disgrace to the country that such a rascal should remain unhanged," returned Coates, peevishly. "Government ought to look to it. Is the whole kingdom to be kept in a state of agitation by a single highwayman?—Sir Robert Walpole should take the affair into his own hands."

"It's a shame for the country that such a scoundrel is still alive," Coates replied irritably. "The government needs to do something about it. Is the entire nation supposed to be unsettled by one highway robber?—Sir Robert Walpole should handle this himself."

"Fudge!" exclaimed Jack, emptying his glass.

"Fudge!" Jack shouted, finishing his drink.

"I have already addressed a letter to the editor of the Common Sense on the subject," said Coates, "in which I have spoken my mind pretty plainly: and I repeat, it is perfectly disgraceful that such a rascal should be suffered to remain at large."[82]

"I've already written a letter to the editor of Common Sense about this," said Coates, "in which I expressed my thoughts pretty clearly: and I’ll say it again, it's completely disgraceful that such a scoundrel is allowed to roam free."[82]

"You don't happen to have that letter by you, I suppose," said Jack, "or I should beg the favor to hear it?—I am not acquainted with the newspaper to which you allude;—I read Fog's Journal."

"You don’t happen to have that letter with you, do you?" said Jack. "If not, could you share what it says? I’m not familiar with the newspaper you mentioned; I read Fog's Journal."

"So I thought," replied Coates, with a sneer; "that's the reason you are so easily mystified. But luckily I have the paper in my pocket; and you are quite welcome to my opinions. Here it is," added he, drawing forth a newspaper. "I shall waive my preliminary remarks, and come to the point at once."

"So I thought," replied Coates with a sneer, "that's why you're so easily confused. But luckily, I have the article in my pocket, and you're welcome to my thoughts. Here it is," he said as he pulled out a newspaper. "I'll skip my initial comments and get right to the point."

"By all means," said Jack.

"Of course," said Jack.

"'I thank God,'" began Coates, in an authoritative tone, "'that I was born in a country that hath formerly emulated the Romans in their public spirit; as is evident from their conquests abroad, and their struggles for liberty at home.'"

"'I thank God,'" began Coates, in a commanding tone, "'that I was born in a country that has previously modeled itself after the Romans in their civic values; as shown by their conquests overseas and their fights for freedom at home.'"

"What has all this got to do with Turpin?" interposed Jack.

"What does all this have to do with Turpin?" Jack interrupted.

"You will hear," replied the attorney—"no interruptions if you please. 'But this noble principle,'" continued he, with great emphasis, "'though not utterly lost, I cannot think at present so active as it ought to be in a nation so jealous of her liberty.'"

"You will hear," replied the attorney, "no interruptions if you please. 'But this noble principle,'" he continued, emphasizing his words, "'though not completely lost, I can't think it's currently as active as it should be in a nation that values its freedom so much.'"

"Good!" exclaimed Jack. "There is more than 'common sense' in that observation, Mr. Coates."

"Good!" Jack exclaimed. "There's more than 'common sense' in that observation, Mr. Coates."

"'My suspicion,'" proceeded Coates, "'is founded on a late instance. I mean the flagrant, undisturbed success of the notorious Turpin, who hath robb'd in a manner scarce ever known before for several years, and is grown so insolent and impudent as to threaten particular persons, and become openly dangerous to the lives as well as fortunes of the people of England.'"

"'My suspicion,'" Coates continued, "'is based on a recent example. I'm talking about the blatant, unchallenged success of the infamous Turpin, who has been robbing in a way that’s hardly ever been seen before for several years, and has become so brazen and bold that he threatens specific people and has become openly dangerous to the lives and fortunes of the people of England.'"

"Better and better," shouted Jack, laughing immoderately. "Pray go on, sir."

"Better and better," shouted Jack, laughing uncontrollably. "Please continue, sir."

"'That a fellow,'" continued Coates, "'who is known to be a thief by the whole kingdom, shall for so long a time continue to rob us, and not only rob us, but make a jest of us——'"[83]

"'That a guy,'" continued Coates, "'who is known to be a thief by the whole kingdom, can keep robbing us for so long, and not just rob us, but also make fun of us——'"[83]

"Ha—ha—ha—capital! Excuse me, sir," roared Jack, laughing till the tears ran down his cheeks—"pray, pray, go on."

"Ha—ha—ha—awesome! Excuse me, sir," yelled Jack, laughing so hard that tears streamed down his face—"please, please, continue."

"I see nothing to laugh at," replied Coates, somewhat offended; "however, I will conclude my letter, since I have begun it—'not only rob us, but make a jest of us, shall defy the laws, and laugh at justice, argues a want of public spirit, which should make every particular member of the community sensible of the public calamity, and ambitious of the honor of extirpating such a notorious highwayman from society, since he owes his long successes to no other cause than his immoderate impudence, and the sloth and pusillanimity of those who ought to bring him to justice.' I will not deny," continued Coates, "that, professing myself, as I do, to be a staunch new Whig, I had not some covert political object in penning this epistle.[22] Nevertheless, setting aside my principles——"

"I don’t see anything funny," Coates replied, a bit offended; "but I will finish my letter since I’ve started it—'not only rob us but also make a joke of us, shall challenge the laws and mock justice, shows a lack of public spirit, which should make every individual in the community aware of the public disaster and eager for the honor of getting rid of such a notorious highwayman from society, since his long success is due only to his extreme audacity and the laziness and cowardice of those who should bring him to justice.' I won’t deny," Coates continued, "that, as a proud new Whig, I had some hidden political agenda in writing this letter.[22] However, putting my principles aside——"

"Right," observed Jack; "you Whigs, new or old, always set aside your principles."

"Right," Jack noted; "you Whigs, whether new or old, always ignore your principles."

"Setting aside any political feeling I may entertain," continued Coates, disregarding the interruption, "I repeat, I am ambitious of extirpating this modern Cacus—this Autolycus of the eighteenth century."

"Putting aside any political feelings I might have," Coates continued, ignoring the interruption, "I’ll say it again, I want to eliminate this modern Cacus—this Autolycus of the eighteenth century."

"And what course do you mean to pursue?" asked Jack, "for I suppose you do not expect to catch this 'ought-to-lick-us,' as you call him, by a line in the newspapers."

"And what path do you plan to take?" Jack asked, "since I assume you don't expect to catch this 'ought-to-lick-us,' as you call him, through a newspaper ad."

"I am in the habit of keeping my own counsel, sir," replied Coates, pettishly; "and to be plain with you, I hope to finger all the reward myself."

"I usually keep my thoughts to myself, sir," Coates replied irritably; "and to be honest with you, I hope to take all the credit for the reward myself."

"Oons, is there a reward offered for Turpin's apprehension?" asked Titus.

"Oons, is there a reward for catching Turpin?" asked Titus.

"No less than two hundred pounds," answered Coates, "and that's no trifle, as you will both admit. Have you not seen the king's proclamation, Mr. Palmer?"

"No less than two hundred pounds," answered Coates, "and that’s not a small amount, as you both will agree. Haven't you seen the king's proclamation, Mr. Palmer?"

"Not I," replied Jack, with affected indifference.

"Not me," replied Jack, trying to sound indifferent.

"Nor I," added Titus, with some appearance of curiosity; "do you happen to have that by you too?"[84]

"Me neither," Titus said, looking a bit curious. "Do you happen to have that with you too?"[84]

"I always carry it about with me," replied Coates, "that I may refer to it in case of emergency. My father, Christopher, or Kit Coates, as he was familiarly called, was a celebrated thief-taker. He apprehended Spicket, and Child, and half a dozen others, and always kept their descriptions in his pocket. I endeavor to tread in my worthy father's footsteps. I hope to signalize myself by capturing a highwayman. By-the-by," added he, surveying Jack more narrowly, "it occurs to me that Turpin must be rather like you, Mr. Palmer?"

"I always carry it with me," replied Coates, "so I can reference it in case of an emergency. My father, Christopher, or Kit Coates, as he was commonly known, was a famous thief-taker. He caught Spicket, Child, and about six others, and always kept their descriptions in his pocket. I try to follow in my father's footsteps. I hope to make a name for myself by catching a highwayman. Speaking of which," he added, looking at Jack more closely, "I can't help but think that Turpin must look somewhat like you, Mr. Palmer?"

"Like me," said Jack, regarding Coates askance; "like me—how am I to understand you, sir, eh?"

"Like me," Jack said, looking at Coates sideways, "like me—how am I supposed to understand you, sir, huh?"

"No offence; none whatever, sir. Ah! stay, you won't object to my comparing the description. That can do no harm. Nobody would take you for a highwayman—nobody whatever—ha! ha! Singular resemblance—he—he. These things do happen sometimes: not very often, though. But here is Turpin's description in the Gazette, June 28th, A.D. 1737:—'It having been represented to the King that Richard Turpin did, on Wednesday, the 4th of May last, rob on his Majesty's highway Vavasour Mowbray, Esq., Major of the 2d troop of Horse Grenadiers'—that Major Mowbray, by-the-by, is a nephew of the late Sir Piers, and cousin of the present baronet—'and commit other notorious felonies and robberies near London, his Majesty is pleased to promise his most gracious pardon to any of his accomplices, and a reward of two hundred pounds to any person or persons who shall discover him, so as he may be apprehended and convicted.'"

"No offense; none at all, sir. Ah! wait, you won’t mind if I compare the description. That can do no harm. Nobody would mistake you for a highwayman—nobody at all—ha! ha! Quite the resemblance—he—he. These things do happen sometimes: not very often, though. But here is Turpin's description in the Gazette, June 28th, CE 1737:—'It has been reported to the King that Richard Turpin did, on Wednesday, the 4th of May last, rob on his Majesty's highway Vavasour Mowbray, Esq., Major of the 2nd troop of Horse Grenadiers'—that Major Mowbray, by the way, is a nephew of the late Sir Piers and cousin of the current baronet—'and commit other notorious felonies and robberies near London, his Majesty is pleased to promise his most gracious pardon to any of his accomplices, and a reward of two hundred pounds to any person or persons who shall discover him, so that he may be apprehended and convicted.'”

"Odsbodikins!" exclaimed Titus, "a noble reward! I should like to lay hands upon Turpin," added he, slapping Palmer's shoulder: "I wish he were in your place at this moment, Jack."

"Odsbodikins!" exclaimed Titus, "what a great reward! I wish I could get my hands on Turpin," he added, giving Palmer a slap on the shoulder. "I wish he were in your place right now, Jack."

"Thank you!" replied Palmer, shifting his chair.

"Thanks!" replied Palmer, shifting his chair.

"'Turpin,'" continued Coates, "'was born at Thacksted, in Essex; is about thirty'—you, sir, I believe, are about thirty?" added he, addressing Palmer.[85]

'Turpin,' continued Coates, 'was born at Thacksted, in Essex; is about thirty'—you, sir, I believe, are about thirty?" added he, addressing Palmer.[85]

"Thereabouts," said Jack, bluffly. "But what has my age to do with that of Turpin?"

"Thereabouts," Jack said confidently. "But what does my age have to do with Turpin's?"

"Nothing—nothing at all," answered Coates; "suffer me, however, to proceed:—'Is by trade a butcher,'—you, sir, I believe, never had any dealings in that line?"

"Nothing—nothing at all," answered Coates; "but let me continue:—'Is by trade a butcher,'—you, sir, I believe, have never been involved in that business, right?"

"I have some notion how to dispose of a troublesome calf," returned Jack. "But Turpin, though described as a butcher, is, I understand, a lineal descendant of a great French archbishop of the same name."

"I have an idea on how to deal with a troublesome calf," replied Jack. "But Turpin, even though he's called a butcher, is, from what I hear, a direct descendant of a famous French archbishop with the same name."

"Who wrote the chronicles of that royal robber Charlemagne; I know him," replied Coates—"a terrible liar!—The modern Turpin 'is about five feet nine inches high'—exactly your height, sir—exactly!"

"Who wrote the stories about that royal thief Charlemagne? I know him," Coates replied, "a terrible liar! The modern Turpin 'is about five feet nine inches tall'—exactly your height, sir—exactly!"

"I am five feet ten," answered Jack, standing bolt upright.

"I’m five feet ten," Jack replied, standing straight up.

"You have an inch, then, in your favor," returned the unperturbed attorney, deliberately proceeding with his examination—"'he has a brown complexion, marked with the smallpox.'"

"You have an edge, then," replied the calm attorney, continuing with his questioning—"'he has a brown complexion, marked with the smallpox'."

"My complexion is florid—my face without a seam," quoth Jack.

"My complexion is bright—my face without a blemish," said Jack.

"Those whiskers would conceal anything," replied Coates, with a grin. "Nobody wears whiskers nowadays, except a highwayman."

"Those whiskers could hide anything," Coates replied with a grin. "Nobody has whiskers these days, except for a robber."

"Sir!" said Jack, sternly. "You are personal."

"Sir!" Jack said firmly. "You're being personal."

"I don't mean to be so," replied Coates; "but you must allow the description tallies with your own in a remarkable manner. Hear me out, however—'his cheek bones are broad—his face is thinner towards the bottom—his visage short—pretty upright—and broad about the shoulders.' Now I appeal to Mr. Tyrconnel if all this does not sound like a portrait of yourself."

"I don't mean to be rude," Coates replied, "but you have to admit that the description matches you surprisingly well. Just listen to this—'his cheekbones are broad—his face gets thinner at the bottom—his face is short—pretty upright—and broad at the shoulders.' Now I ask Mr. Tyrconnel if all of this doesn't sound just like a picture of you."

"Don't appeal to me," said Titus, hastily, "upon such a delicate point. I can't say that I approve of a gentleman being likened to a highwayman. But if ever there was a highwayman I'd wish to resemble, it's either Redmond O'Hanlon[86] or Richard Turpin; and may the devil burn me if I know which of the two is the greater rascal!"

"Don't try to convince me," said Titus quickly, "on such a sensitive issue. I can't say that I agree with comparing a gentleman to a thief. But if I had to choose a highwayman to look up to, it would be either Redmond O'Hanlon[86] or Richard Turpin; and honestly, I wouldn't know which one is the bigger scoundrel!"

"Well, Mr. Palmer," said Coates, "I repeat, I mean no offence. Likenesses are unaccountable. I am said to be like my Lord North; whether I am or not, the Lord knows. But if ever I meet with Turpin I shall bear you in mind—he—he! Ah! if ever I should have the good luck to stumble upon him, I've a plan for his capture which couldn't fail. Only let me get a glimpse of him, that's all. You shall see how I'll dispose of him."

"Well, Mr. Palmer," Coates said, "I’ll say again, I mean no offense. Resemblances are unpredictable. People say I look like my Lord North; whether that’s true or not, only God knows. But if I ever run into Turpin, I’ll definitely think of you—ha—ha! Ah! If I ever happen to be lucky enough to come across him, I have a foolproof plan to catch him. Just give me a chance to see him, that’s all I need. You’ll see how I’ll handle him."

"Well, sir, we shall see," observed Palmer. "And for your own sake, I wish you may never be nearer to him than you are at this moment. With his friends, they say Dick Turpin can be as gentle as a lamb; with his foes, especially with a limb of the law like yourself, he's been found but an ugly customer. I once saw him at Newmarket, where he was collared by two constable culls, one on each side. Shaking off one, and dealing the other a blow in the face with his heavy-handled whip, he stuck spurs into his mare, and though the whole field gave chase, he distanced them all, easily."

"Well, sir, we shall see," said Palmer. "And for your own good, I hope you never get any closer to him than you are right now. They say Dick Turpin can be as sweet as pie with his friends; but with his enemies, especially a lawman like you, he's anything but pleasant. I once saw him at Newmarket, where two constables grabbed him, one on each side. He shook off one and hit the other in the face with his heavy whip, then kicked his mare into gear, and even though the whole crowd chased after him, he left them all behind without breaking a sweat."

"And how came you not to try your pace with him, if you were there, as you boasted a short time ago?" asked Coates.

"And why didn’t you try to keep up with him if you were there, like you bragged about a little while ago?" asked Coates.

"So I did, and stuck closer to him than any one else. We were neck and neck. I was the only person who could have delivered him to the hands of justice, if I'd felt inclined."

"So I did, and stayed closer to him than anyone else. We were neck and neck. I was the only person who could have handed him over to justice if I had wanted to."

"Zounds!" cried Coates; "If I had a similar opportunity, it should be neck or nothing. Either he or I should reach the scragging-post first. I'd take him, dead or alive."

"Wow!" shouted Coates; "If I had a chance like that, it would be all or nothing. It would be either him or me getting to the gallows first. I'd take him, dead or alive."

"You take Turpin?" cried Jack, with a sneer.

"You taking Turpin?" Jack exclaimed, smirking.

"I'd engage to do it," replied Coates. "I'll bet you a hundred guineas I take him, if I ever have the same chance."

"I'll do it," Coates replied. "I'll bet you a hundred guineas I can take him if I ever have the same chance."

"Done!" exclaimed Jack, rapping the table at the same time, so that the glasses danced upon it.

"Done!" Jack said, tapping the table at the same time, causing the glasses to rattle on it.

"That's right," cried Titus. "I'll go you halves."[87]

"That's right," shouted Titus. "I'll split it with you."[87]

"What's the matter—what's the matter?" exclaimed Small, awakened from his doze.

"What's wrong—what's wrong?" shouted Small, waking up from his nap.

"Only a trifling bet about a highwayman," replied Titus.

"Just a small wager about a robber on the highway," replied Titus.

"A highwayman!" echoed Small. "Eh! what? there are none in the house, I hope."

"A highwayman!" Small exclaimed. "What? I hope there aren’t any in the house."

"I hope not," answered Coates. "But this gentleman has taken up the defence of the notorious Dick Turpin in so singular a manner, that——"

"I hope not," Coates replied. "But this guy has defended the infamous Dick Turpin in such a unique way that——"

"Quod factu fœdum est, idem est et Dictu Turpe," returned Small. "The less said about that rascal the better."

"What is ugly in action is also shameful in speech," Small replied. "The less said about that scoundrel, the better."

"So I think," replied Jack. "The fact is as you say, sir—were Dick here, he would, I am sure, take the freedom to hide 'em."

"So I think," replied Jack. "The truth is, as you say, sir—if Dick were here, I’m sure he would take the freedom to hide them."

Further discourse was cut short by the sudden opening of the door, followed by the abrupt entrance of a tall, slender young man, who hastily advanced towards the table, around which the company were seated. His appearance excited the utmost astonishment in the whole group: curiosity was exhibited in every countenance—the magnum remained poised midway in the hand of Palmer—Dr. Small scorched his thumb in the bowl of his pipe; and Mr. Coates was almost choked, by swallowing an inordinate whiff of vapor.

Further conversation was interrupted by the sudden opening of the door, followed by the quick entrance of a tall, slender young man, who hurried toward the table where everyone was seated. His appearance amazed the entire group: curiosity was evident on every face—the bottle stayed frozen in Palmer's hand—Dr. Small burned his thumb on the bowl of his pipe; and Mr. Coates nearly choked on an excessive puff of smoke.

"Young Sir Ranulph!" ejaculated he, as soon as the syncope would permit him.

"Young Sir Ranulph!" he exclaimed, as soon as he was able to speak again.

"Sir Ranulph here?" echoed Palmer, rising.

"Is Sir Ranulph here?" echoed Palmer, standing up.

"Angels and ministers!" exclaimed Small.

"Angels and ministers!" Small exclaimed.

"Odsbodikins!" cried Titus, with a theatrical start; "this is more than I expected."

"Odsbodikins!" exclaimed Titus, dramatically taken aback; "this is more than I anticipated."

"Gentlemen," said Ranulph, "do not let my unexpected arrival here discompose you. Dr. Small, you will excuse the manner of my greeting; and you, Mr. Coates. One of the present party, I believe, was my father's medical attendant, Dr. Tyrconnel."

"Gentlemen," Ranulph said, "please don't let my unexpected arrival throw you off. Dr. Small, I hope you'll overlook how I greeted you; and you too, Mr. Coates. One of the people here, if I'm not mistaken, was my father's doctor, Dr. Tyrconnel."

"I had that honor," replied the Irishman, bowing profoundly—"I am Dr. Tyrconnel, Sir Ranulph, at your service."[88]

"I had that honor," replied the Irishman, bowing deeply—"I am Dr. Tyrconnel, Sir Ranulph, at your service."[88]

"When, and at what hour, did my father breathe his last, sir?" inquired Ranulph.

“When did my father pass away, sir?” Ranulph asked.

"Poor Sir Piers," answered Titus, again bowing, "departed this life on Thursday last."

"Poor Sir Piers," replied Titus, bowing again, "passed away last Thursday."

"The hour?—the precise minute?" asked Ranulph, eagerly.

"The hour?—the exact minute?" asked Ranulph, eagerly.

"Troth, Sir Ranulph, as nearly as I can recollect, it might be a few minutes before midnight."

"Honestly, Sir Ranulph, as far as I can remember, it could be just a few minutes before midnight."

"The very hour!" exclaimed Ranulph, striding towards the window. His steps were arrested as his eye fell upon the attire of his father, which, as we have before noticed, hung at that end of the room. A slight shudder passed over his frame. There was a momentary pause, during which Ranulph continued gazing intently at the apparel. "The very dress, too!" muttered he; then turning to the assembly, who were watching his movements with surprise; "Doctor," said he, addressing Small, "I have something for your private ear. Gentlemen, will you spare us the room for a few minutes?"

"The very hour!" Ranulph exclaimed, striding over to the window. His steps halted when he noticed his father's clothes hanging at that end of the room. A slight shiver ran through him. There was a brief pause as Ranulph stared intently at the outfit. "The exact same dress, too!" he muttered; then turning to the group, who were watching him in surprise, he said, "Doctor," addressing Small, "I need to speak to you privately. Gentlemen, could you give us a few minutes alone?"

"On my conscience," said Tyrconnel to Jack Palmer, as they quitted the sanctum, "a mighty fine boy is this young Sir Ranulph!—and a chip of the ould block!—he'll be as good a fellow as his father."

"On my conscience," said Tyrconnel to Jack Palmer as they left the room, "this young Sir Ranulph is a really great kid!—just like his old man!—he'll turn out to be as good a guy as his father."

"No doubt," replied Palmer, shutting the door. "But what the devil brought him back, just in the nick of it?"

"No doubt," replied Palmer, shutting the door. "But what on earth brought him back, right at the last minute?"


CHAPTER X

RANULPH ROOKWOOD

Fer. Yeah, Francisco,
He has left his curse on me.
Fran. How's that possible?
Fer. Do I understand what that word means when he curses? Shot from a father's angry breath? Unless
I pull poor Felisarda from my heart,
He has named me the heir to all his curses.

Shirley: The Brothers.

Shirley: The Brothers.

"There is nothing, I trust, my dear young friend, and quondam pupil," said Dr. Small, as the door was closed, "that weighs upon your mind, beyond the sorrow naturally incident to an affliction, severe as the present. Forgive my apprehensions if I am wrong. You know the affectionate interest I have ever felt for you—an interest which, I assure you, is nowise diminished, and which will excuse my urging you to unburden your mind to me; assuring yourself, that whatever may be your disclosure, you will have my sincere sympathy and commiseration. I may be better able to advise with you, should counsel be necessary, than others, from my knowledge of your character and temperament. I would not anticipate evil, and am, perhaps, unnecessarily apprehensive. But I own, I am startled at the incoherence of your expressions, coupled with your sudden and almost mysterious appearance at this distressing conjuncture. Answer me: has your return been the result of mere accident? is it to be considered one of those singular circumstances which almost look like fate, and baffle our comprehension? or were you nearer home than we expected, and received the news of your father's demise through[90] some channel unknown to us? Satisfy my curiosity, I beg of you, upon this point."

"There’s nothing on your mind, I hope, my dear young friend and former student," said Dr. Small, as the door closed. "Beyond the sadness that naturally comes with a loss as severe as this one. Please forgive my worries if I’m wrong. You know how much I care about you—an interest that certainly hasn’t faded, and it’s for that reason I urge you to open up to me. I promise that whatever you share, you will have my genuine sympathy and understanding. I might be better positioned to advise you, if you need it, because of my knowledge of your character and temperament. I don’t want to assume the worst, and maybe I’m being overly anxious. But I have to say, I’m quite taken aback by how jumbled your words are, combined with your sudden and almost mysterious return at such a troubling time. Please answer me: was your return just by chance? Is it one of those strange situations that feels like fate and leaves us puzzled? Or were you closer to home than we thought and got the news about your father's passing through some unknown channel? Please satisfy my curiosity on this matter."

"Your curiosity, my dear sir," replied Ranulph, gravely and sadly, "will not be decreased, when I tell you, that my return has neither been the work of chance,—for I came, fully anticipating the dread event, which I find realized,—nor has it been occasioned by any intelligence derived from yourself, or others. It was only, indeed, upon my arrival here that I received full confirmation of my apprehensions. I had another, a more terrible summons to return."

"Your curiosity, my dear sir," replied Ranulph, seriously and sadly, "won't lessen when I tell you that my return wasn't random— I came here fully expecting the terrible event that I now see has happened—nor was it prompted by any information from you or anyone else. It was only when I got here that I received complete confirmation of my fears. I had another, even more horrific reason to return."

"What summons? you perplex me!" exclaimed Small, gazing with some misgiving into the face of his young friend.

"What summons? You confuse me!" Small exclaimed, looking into the face of his young friend with some uncertainty.

"I am myself perplexed—sorely perplexed," returned Ranulph. "I have much to relate; but I pray you bear with me to the end. I have that on my mind which, like guilt, must be revealed."

"I’m really confused—very confused," Ranulph replied. "I have a lot to share; but please bear with me until the end. There's something on my mind that, like guilt, needs to be shared."

"Speak, then, fearlessly to me," said Small, affectionately pressing Ranulph's hand, "and assure yourself, beforehand, of my sympathy."

"Go ahead, speak freely to me," said Small, warmly squeezing Ranulph's hand, "and know in advance that you have my support."

"It will be necessary," said Ranulph, "to preface my narrative by some slight allusion to certain painful events—and yet I know not why I should call them painful, excepting in their consequences—which influenced my conduct in my final interview between my father and myself—an interview which occasioned my departure for the Continent—and which was of a character so dreadful, that I would not even revert to it, were it not a necessary preliminary to the circumstance I am about to detail.

"It’s important," Ranulph said, "that I start my story with a brief reference to some difficult events—and I’m not even sure why I should call them difficult, except for the outcomes—which affected my actions during my last meeting with my father. This meeting led to my departure for the Continent and was so terrible that I wouldn’t even mention it if it wasn’t essential to the situation I’m about to describe."

"When I left Oxford, I passed a few weeks alone, in London. A college friend, whom I accidentally met, introduced me, during a promenade in St. James's Park, to some acquaintances of his own, who were taking an airing in the Mall at the same time—a family whose name was Mowbray, consisting of a widow lady, her son, and daughter. This introduction was made in compliance with my own request. I had been struck[91] by the singular beauty of the younger lady, whose countenance had a peculiar and inexpressible charm to me, from its marked resemblance to the portrait of the Lady Eleanor Rookwood, whose charms and unhappy fate I have so often dwelt upon and deplored. The picture is there," continued Ranulph, pointing to it: "look at it, and you have the fair creature I speak of before you; the color of the hair—the tenderness of the eyes. No—the expression is not so sad, except when——but no matter! I recognized her features at once.

"When I left Oxford, I spent a few weeks alone in London. A college friend, whom I ran into by chance, introduced me during a walk in St. James's Park to some of his acquaintances who were enjoying the fresh air in the Mall at the same time—a family named Mowbray, made up of a widow, her son, and daughter. This introduction was made at my request. I had been captivated by the striking beauty of the younger lady, whose face had a unique and indescribable charm to me because it closely resembled the portrait of Lady Eleanor Rookwood, whose allure and tragic fate I have often reflected on and lamented. The picture is right there," Ranulph said, pointing to it, "look at it, and you'll see the lovely person I'm talking about; the hair color—the softness of the eyes. No—the expression isn't as sad, unless—well, it doesn't matter! I recognized her features immediately."

"It struck me, that upon the mention of my name, the party betrayed some surprise, especially the elder lady. For my own part, I was so attracted by the beauty of the daughter, the effect of which upon me seemed rather the fulfilment of a predestined event, originating in the strange fascination which the family portrait had wrought in my heart, than the operation of what is called 'love at first sight,' that I was insensible to the agitation of the mother. In vain I endeavored to rally myself; my efforts at conversation were fruitless; I could not talk—all I could do was silently to yield to the soft witchery of those tender eyes; my admiration increasing each instant that I gazed upon them.

"It hit me that when my name was mentioned, the party seemed surprised, especially the older woman. As for me, I was so captivated by the daughter's beauty, which felt more like the fulfillment of some destined event originating from the strange pull the family portrait had on my heart than what people call 'love at first sight,' that I was oblivious to the mother's agitation. I tried to pull myself together, but my attempts at conversation were pointless; I couldn't speak—all I could do was quietly surrender to the gentle magic of those lovely eyes, my admiration growing with every moment I looked at them."

"I accompanied them home. Attracted as by some irresistible spell, I could not tear myself away; so that, although I fancied I could perceive symptoms of displeasure in the looks of both the mother and the son, yet, regardless of consequences, I ventured, uninvited, to enter the house. In order to shake off the restraint which I felt my society imposed, I found it absolutely necessary to divest myself of bashfulness, and to exert such conversational powers as I possessed. I succeeded so well that the discourse soon became lively and animated; and what chiefly delighted me was, that she, for whose sake I had committed my present rudeness, became radiant with smiles. I had been all eagerness to seek for some explanation of the resemblance to which I have just alluded, and the fitting moment had, I conceived, arrived. I called[92] attention to a peculiar expression in the features of Miss Mowbray, and then instanced the likeness that subsisted between her and my ancestress. 'It is the more singular,' I said, turning to her mother, 'because there could have been no affinity, that I am aware of, between them, and yet the likeness is really surprising.'—'It is not so singular as you imagine,' answered Mrs. Mowbray; 'there is a close affinity. That Lady Rookwood was my mother. Eleanor Mowbray does resemble her ill-fated ancestress.'

"I walked them home. Drawn in by an irresistible pull, I couldn’t bring myself to leave; so even though I sensed some signs of displeasure in the expressions of both the mother and the son, I disregarded the consequences and, uninvited, stepped inside the house. To shake off the awkwardness that I felt my presence brought, I found it essential to shed my shyness and use whatever conversational skills I had. I did so well that the conversation quickly became lively and animated; what thrilled me the most was that she, for whom I had committed this social faux pas, lit up with smiles. I had been eager to find an explanation for the resemblance I had just mentioned, and I thought the moment had come. I pointed out a particular expression in Miss Mowbray’s features, then noted the similarity between her and my ancestor. 'It’s even more surprising,' I said, turning to her mother, 'because as far as I know, there couldn’t have been any family connection between them, yet the likeness is truly striking.'—'It's not as surprising as you think,' Mrs. Mowbray replied; 'there is a close connection. That Lady Rookwood was my mother. Eleanor Mowbray does resemble her unfortunate ancestor.'

"Words cannot paint my astonishment. I gazed at Mrs. Mowbray, considering whether I had not misconstrued her speech—whether I had not so shaped the sounds as to suit my own quick and passionate conceptions. But no! I read in her calm, collected countenance—in the downcast glance, and sudden sadness of Eleanor, as well as in the changed and haughty demeanor of the brother, that I had heard her rightly. Eleanor Mowbray was my cousin—the descendant of that hapless creature whose image I had almost worshipped.

"Words can't express my shock. I stared at Mrs. Mowbray, wondering if I had misunderstood her words—if I had twisted the sounds to fit my own quick and intense thoughts. But no! I could see in her calm, composed face—in Eleanor's downcast gaze and sudden sadness—along with the changed and proud attitude of her brother, that I had understood her correctly. Eleanor Mowbray was my cousin—the descendant of that unfortunate person whose image I had almost revered."

"Recovering from my surprise, I addressed Mrs. Mowbray, endeavoring to excuse my ignorance of our relationship, on the plea that I had not been given to understand that such had been the name of the gentleman she had espoused. 'Nor was it,' answered she, 'the name he bore at Rookwood; circumstances forbade it then. From the hour I quitted that house until this moment, excepting one interview with my—with Sir Reginald Rookwood—I have seen none of my family—have held no communication with them. My brothers have been strangers to me; the very name of Rookwood has been unheard, unknown; nor would you have been admitted here, had not accident occasioned it.' I ventured now to interrupt her, and to express a hope that she would suffer an acquaintance to be kept up, which had so fortunately commenced, and which might most probably bring about an entire reconciliation between the families. I was so earnest in my expostulations, my whole soul being in them, that she inclined a more[93] friendly ear to me. Eleanor, too, smiled encouragement. Love lent me eloquence; and at length, as a token of my success, and her own relenting, Mrs. Mowbray held forth her hand: I clasped it eagerly. It was the happiest moment of my life.

Recovering from my surprise, I addressed Mrs. Mowbray, trying to explain my lack of knowledge about our relationship, saying that I hadn’t realized that was the name of the gentleman she had married. "It wasn't," she replied, "the name he used at Rookwood; circumstances prevented it then. From the moment I left that house until now, except for one meeting with my—with Sir Reginald Rookwood—I haven't seen any of my family or communicated with them. My brothers have been strangers to me; I hadn’t heard or known the name Rookwood; and you wouldn't have been allowed in here if it hadn't been for chance." I took the chance to interrupt her and expressed my hope that she would allow our newfound acquaintance to continue, as it could likely lead to a complete reconciliation between our families. I was so passionate in my pleas, pouring my heart into them, that she started to listen more openly. Eleanor also smiled in encouragement. Love gave me the words I needed; eventually, as a sign of my success and her softening, Mrs. Mowbray extended her hand: I took it eagerly. It was the happiest moment of my life.

"I will not trouble you with any lengthened description of Eleanor Mowbray. I hope, at some period or other, you may still be enabled to see her, and judge for yourself; for though adverse circumstances have hitherto conspired to separate us, the time for a renewal of our acquaintance is approaching, I trust, for I am not yet altogether without hope. But this much I may be allowed to say, that her rare endowments of person were only equalled by the graces of her mind.

"I won’t bother you with a long description of Eleanor Mowbray. I hope that at some point you’ll get to meet her and form your own opinion; even though difficult circumstances have kept us apart until now, I believe the chance to reconnect is getting closer, as I still have some hope. I can say this much: her exceptional beauty was matched only by the elegance of her intellect."

"Educated abroad, she had all the vivacity of our livelier neighbors, combined with every solid qualification which we claim as more essentially our own. Her light and frolic manner was French, certainly; but her gentle, sincere heart was as surely English. The foreign accent that dwelt upon her tongue communicated an inexpressible charm, even to the language which she spoke.

"Having studied overseas, she had all the energy of our more animated neighbors, along with every solid qualification we consider uniquely ours. Her light and playful demeanor was definitely French, but her kind and genuine heart was just as much English. The foreign accent that graced her speech added an indescribable charm to the way she communicated."

"I will not dwell too long upon this theme. I feel ashamed of my own prolixity. And yet I am sure you will pardon it. Ah, those bright brief days! too quickly were they fled! I could expatiate upon each minute—recall each word—revive each look. It may not be. I must hasten on. Darker themes await me.

"I won't spend too much time on this topic. I'm embarrassed by my own wordiness. But I’m sure you'll forgive me. Ah, those bright, short days! They passed by too quickly! I could go on about every moment—remember every word—relive every look. But I can’t. I need to move on. Heavier topics are ahead of me."

"My love made rapid progress—I became each hour more enamored of my new-found cousin. My whole time was passed near her; indeed, I could scarcely exist in absence from her side. Short, however, was destined to be my indulgence in this blissful state. One happy week was its extent. I received a peremptory summons from my father to return home.

My feelings grew stronger every hour—I became more in love with my newfound cousin. I spent all my time close to her; honestly, I could barely stand being away from her. However, my time in this happy state was destined to be short-lived. It lasted just a week. I got a firm order from my dad to come back home.

"Immediately upon commencing this acquaintance, I had written to my father, explaining every particular attending it.[94] This I should have done of my own free will, but I was urged to it by Mrs. Mowbray. Unaccustomed to disguise, I had expatiated upon the beauty of Eleanor, and in such terms, I fear, that I excited some uneasiness in his breast. His letter was laconic. He made no allusion to the subject upon which I had expatiated when writing to him. He commanded me to return.

"Right after I started getting to know her, I wrote to my dad, telling him all the details about it.[94] I would have done this on my own, but Mrs. Mowbray encouraged me to do so. Not used to hiding my feelings, I went on about Eleanor's beauty in a way that, I’m afraid, worried him. His reply was brief. He didn't mention anything about the topic I had discussed in my letter. He simply ordered me to come back."

"The bitter hour was at hand. I could not hesitate to comply. Without my father's sanction, I was assured Mrs. Mowbray would not permit any continuance of my acquaintance. Of Eleanor's inclinations I fancied I had some assurance; but without her mother's consent, to whose will she was devoted, I felt, had I even been inclined to urge it, that my suit was hopeless. The letter which I had received from my father made me more than doubt whether I should not find him utterly adverse to my wishes. Agonized, therefore, with a thousand apprehensions, I presented myself on the morning of my departure. It was then I made the declaration of my passion to Eleanor; it was then that every hope was confirmed, every apprehension realized. I received from her lips a confirmation of my fondest wishes; yet were those hopes blighted in the bud, when I heard, at the same time, that their consummation was dependent on the will of two others, whose assenting voices, she feared, could never be obtained. From Mrs. Mowbray I received a more decided reply. All her haughtiness was aroused. Her farewell words assured me, that it was indifferent to her whether we met again as relatives or as strangers. Then was it that the native tenderness of Eleanor displayed itself, in an outbreak of feeling peculiar to a heart keenly sympathetic as hers. She saw my suffering—the reserve natural to her sex gave way—she flung herself into my arms—and so we parted.

The intense moment had arrived. I couldn't hesitate to go along with it. Without my father's approval, I knew Mrs. Mowbray would not allow me to keep in touch. I thought I had some insight into Eleanor's feelings, but without her mother's permission—who she was completely devoted to—I realized that even if I wanted to push for it, my chances were hopeless. The letter I received from my father made me seriously doubt whether he would support my wishes at all. In agony, filled with a thousand worries, I showed up that morning before my departure. It was then that I confessed my love to Eleanor; it was then that all my hopes were confirmed and all my fears came true. She told me everything I had hoped to hear, but those dreams were crushed right away when I learned that making it happen depended on two others, whose agreement she feared would be impossible to get. From Mrs. Mowbray, I received a much clearer response. Her pride was fully engaged. Her parting words made it clear that it didn't matter to her whether we met as family or as strangers. At that moment, Eleanor's natural tenderness shone through in an outburst of feeling that was unique to her deeply sympathetic heart. She felt my pain—the usual restraint of her sex vanished—she threw herself into my arms—and that’s how we said goodbye.

"With a heavy foreboding I returned to Rookwood, and, oppressed with the gloomiest anticipations, endeavored to prepare myself for the worst. I arrived. My reception was such as I had calculated upon; and, to increase my distress, my[95] parents had been at variance. I will not pain you and myself with any recital of their disagreement. My mother had espoused my cause, chiefly, I fear, with the view of thwarting my poor father's inclinations. He was in a terrible mood, exasperated by the fiery stimulants he had swallowed, which had not indeed, drowned his reason, but roused and inflamed every dormant emotion to violence. He was as one insane. It was evening when I arrived. I would willingly have postponed the interview till the morrow. It could not be. He insisted upon seeing me.

"Feeling a heavy sense of dread, I returned to Rookwood and, weighed down by the bleakest expectations, tried to prepare myself for the worst. I arrived, and my welcome was just as I had anticipated. To add to my distress, my[95]parents had been at odds. I won’t burden you or myself with the details of their disagreement. My mother had taken my side, mainly, I’m afraid, to oppose my poor father’s wishes. He was in an awful mood, angered by the strong drinks he had consumed, which had not caused him to lose his reason but had stirred up every repressed emotion to a boiling point. He was like a madman. It was evening when I arrived, and I would have gladly postponed our meeting until the next day, but that wasn’t an option; he insisted on seeing me."

"My mother was present. You know the restraint she usually had over my father, and how she maintained it. On this occasion she had none. He questioned me as to every particular; probed my secret soul; dragged forth every latent feeling, and then thundered out his own determination that Eleanor never should be bride of mine; nor would he receive, under his roof, her mother, the discountenanced daughter of his father. I endeavored to remonstrate with him. He was deaf to my entreaties. My mother added sharp and stinging words to my expostulations. 'I had her consent,' she said; 'what more was needed? The lands were entailed. I should at no distant period be their master, and might then please myself.' This I mention in order to give you my father's strange answer.

"My mother was there. You know how she usually kept my father in check and how she managed to do it. But this time, she had no control at all. He grilled me about everything; dug into my deepest thoughts; pulled out every hidden feeling, and then declared loudly that Eleanor would never be my bride; nor would he let her mother, the disapproved daughter of his father, stay under his roof. I tried to argue with him. He wouldn’t listen to my pleas. My mother added sharp and cutting comments to my protests. 'I had her consent,' she said; 'what more do you need? The lands are entailed. I will soon be their master, and then I can do as I please.' I mention this to highlight my father's bizarre response."

"'Have a care, madam,' replied he, 'and bridle your tongue; they are entailed, 'tis true, but I need not ask his consent to cut off that entail. Let him dare to disobey me in this particular, and I will so divert the channel of my wealth, that no drop shall reach him. I will—but why threaten?—let him do it, and approve the consequences.'

"'Be careful, madam,' he replied, 'and watch your words; it’s true that they’re entailed, but I don’t need to ask for his permission to end that entail. If he wants to defy me on this, I’ll redirect my wealth so that not a single penny comes his way. I will—but why threaten?—let him try, and he can deal with the outcome.'"

"On the morrow I renewed my importunities, with no better success. We were alone.

"By the next day, I pressed my requests again, but with no better luck. We were by ourselves."

"'Ranulph,' said he, 'you waste time in seeking to change my resolution. It is unalterable. I have many motives which influence me; they are inexplicable, but imperative. Eleanor Mowbray never can be yours. Forget her as speedily as may[96] be, and I pledge myself, upon whomsoever else your choice may fix, I will offer no obstacle.'

"'Ranulph,' he said, 'you're wasting your time trying to change my mind. It's not going to happen. I have many reasons that guide me; they’re complicated, but necessary. Eleanor Mowbray can never be yours. Forget her as quickly as you can[96], and I promise, no matter who else you choose, I won’t stand in your way.'

"'But why,' exclaimed I, with vehemence, 'do you object to one whom you have never beheld? At least, consent to see her.'

"'But why,' I exclaimed passionately, 'do you object to someone you've never even met? At the very least, agree to meet her.'"

"'Never!' he replied, 'The tie is sundered, and cannot be reunited; my father bound me by an oath never to meet in friendship with my sister; I will not break my vow, I will not violate its conditions, even in the second degree. We never can meet again. An idle prophecy which I have heard has said "that when a Rookwood shall marry a Rookwood the end of the house draweth nigh." That I regard not. It may have no meaning, or it may have much. To me it imports nothing further, than that, if you wed Eleanor, every acre I possess shall depart from you. And assure yourself this is no idle threat. I can, and will do it. My curse shall be your sole inheritance.'

"'Never!' he replied, 'The bond is broken and cannot be repaired; my father made me promise never to befriend my sister. I won't break my vow, I won't violate its terms, not even slightly. We can never meet again. There’s a silly prophecy I’ve heard that says, "when a Rookwood marries a Rookwood, the end of the house is near." I don’t take that seriously. It might mean nothing, or it might mean a lot. To me, it only means that if you marry Eleanor, every piece of land I own will be taken from you. And trust me, this isn’t an empty threat. I can, and I will do it. My curse will be your only inheritance.'

"I could not avoid making some reply, representing to him how unjustifiable such a procedure was to me, in a case where the happiness of my life was at stake; and how inconsistent it was with the charitable precepts of our faith, to allow feelings of resentment to influence his conduct. My remonstrances, as in the preceding meeting, were ineffectual. The more I spoke, the more intemperate he grew. I therefore desisted, but not before he had ordered me to quit the house. I did not leave the neighborhood, but saw him again on the same evening.

"I couldn't help but respond, pointing out to him how unreasonable his actions were, especially when my happiness was on the line. I explained how it was against the kind teachings of our faith to let anger dictate his behavior. Just like in our previous meeting, my attempts to reason with him didn't work. The more I talked, the angrier he became. So, I stopped, but not before he told me to leave the house. I didn’t go far, though; I saw him again that same evening."

"Our last interview took place in the garden. I then told him that I had determined to go abroad for two years, at the expiration of which period I proposed returning to England; trusting that his resolution might then be changed, and that he would listen to my request, for the fulfilment of which I could never cease to hope. Time, I hoped, might befriend me. He approved of my plan of travelling, requesting me not to see Eleanor before I set out; adding, in a melancholy tone—'We may never meet again, Ranulph, in this life; in that case, farewell forever. Indulge no vain hopes. Eleanor[97] never can be yours, but upon one condition, and to that you would never consent!'—'Propose it!' I cried; 'there is no condition I could not accede to.'—'Rash boy!' he replied, 'you know not what you say; that pledge you would never fulfil, were I to propose it to you; but no—should I survive till you return, you shall learn it then—and now, farewell.'—'Speak now, I beseech you!' I exclaimed; 'anything, everything—what you will!'—'Say no more,' replied he, walking towards the house; 'when you return we will renew this subject; farewell—perhaps forever!' His words were prophetic—that parting was forever. I remained in the garden till nightfall. I saw my mother, but he came not again. I quitted England without beholding Eleanor."

"Our last interview took place in the garden. I told him that I had decided to go abroad for two years, after which I planned to return to England; hoping that by then his mind would have changed, and that he would consider my request, which I could never stop hoping for. I thought time might work in my favor. He supported my travel plans, asking me not to see Eleanor before I left; adding, in a sad tone—'We might never meet again, Ranulph, in this life; if that’s the case, goodbye forever. Don't entertain any false hopes. Eleanor[97] can never be yours unless one thing happens, and you would never agree to that!'—'Propose it!' I exclaimed; 'there's no condition I wouldn’t accept.'—'Foolish boy!' he replied, 'you don’t know what you’re saying; you would never fulfill that promise, even if I were to suggest it to you; but no—if I’m still around when you come back, you’ll find out then—and for now, goodbye.'—'Please speak now!' I urged; 'anything, everything—whatever it is!'—'Enough,' he said, walking toward the house; 'when you come back, we can talk about this again; goodbye—maybe forever!' His words were prophetic—that parting was forever. I stayed in the garden until night fell. I saw my mother, but he didn’t come back. I left England without seeing Eleanor."

"Did you not acquaint her by letter with what had occurred, and your consequent intentions?" asked Small.

"Didn't you inform her by letter about what happened and your plans moving forward?" asked Small.

"I did," replied Ranulph; "but I received no reply. My earliest inquiries will be directed to ascertain whether the family are still in London. It will be a question for our consideration, whether I am not justified in departing from my father's expressed wishes, or whether I should violate his commands in so doing."

"I did," replied Ranulph; "but I got no response. My first inquiries will focus on finding out if the family is still in London. We need to consider whether I'm justified in going against my father's wishes or if I would be breaking his orders by doing so."

"We will discuss that point hereafter," replied Small; adding, as he noticed the growing paleness of his companion, "you are too much exhausted to proceed—you had better defer the remainder of your story to a future period."

"We'll talk about that later," Small replied, noticing his companion’s increasing paleness. "You're too worn out to continue—you should postpone the rest of your story for another time."

"No," replied Ranulph, swallowing a glass of water; "I am exhausted, yet I cannot rest—my blood is in a fever, which nothing will allay. I shall feel more easy when I have made the present communication. I am approaching the sequel of my narrative. You are now in possession of the story of my love—of the motive of my departure. You shall learn what was the occasion of my return.

"No," Ranulph replied, gulping down a glass of water. "I’m worn out, but I can’t relax—my blood feels like it’s on fire, and nothing seems to help. I’ll feel better once I share what I need to. I’m getting to the next part of my story. You already know about my love and why I left. Now, you'll find out what brought me back."

"I had wandered from city to city during my term of exile—consumed by hopeless passion—with little that could amuse me, though surrounded by a thousand objects of interest to[98] others, and only rendering life endurable by severest study or most active exertion. My steps conducted me to Bordeaux;—there I made a long halt, enchanted by the beauty of the neighboring scenery. My fancy was smitten by the situation of a villa on the banks of the Garonne, within a few leagues of the city. It was an old château, with fine gardens bordering the blue waters of the river, and commanding a multitude of enchanting prospects. The house, which had in part gone to decay, was inhabited by an aged couple, who had formerly been servants to an English family, the members of which had thus provided for them on their return to their own country. I inquired the name. Conceive my astonishment to find that this château had been the residence of the Mowbrays. This intelligence decided me at once—I took up my abode in the house; and a new and unexpected source of solace and delight was opened to me, I traced the paths she had traced; occupied the room she had occupied; tended the flowers she had tended; and, on the golden summer evenings, would watch the rapid waters, tinged with all the glorious hues of sunset, sweeping past my feet, and think how she had watched them. Her presence seemed to pervade the place. I was now comparatively happy, and, anxious to remain unmolested, wrote home that I was leaving Bordeaux for the Pyrenees, on my way to Spain."

"I had traveled from city to city during my exile—overcome by hopeless passion—with little that could entertain me, even though I was surrounded by countless interesting things for[98] others. I made life bearable only through intense study or vigorous activity. My journey brought me to Bordeaux; there, I stayed for a while, captivated by the beauty of the nearby landscape. I became enchanted by a villa located on the banks of the Garonne, just a few leagues from the city. It was an old château with lovely gardens along the blue waters of the river, offering a variety of stunning views. The house, which was partially in disrepair, was occupied by an elderly couple who had once been servants for an English family that had provided for them when they returned to their own country. I asked for the name. Imagine my shock when I discovered that this château had been the home of the Mowbrays. This revelation prompted me to move in immediately—and a new and unexpected source of comfort and joy opened up for me. I walked the paths she had walked; occupied the room she had stayed in; tended the flowers she had cared for; and on the golden summer evenings, I would watch the swift waters, glowing with all the beautiful colors of sunset, flowing past my feet, and think about how she had watched them. Her presence seemed to fill the place. I was now relatively happy, and wanting to stay undisturbed, I wrote home that I was leaving Bordeaux for the Pyrenees on my way to Spain."

"That account arrived," observed Small.

"That account's here," noted Small.

"One night," continued Ranulph—"'tis now the sixth since the occurrence I am about to relate—I was seated in a bower that overlooked the river. It had been a lovely evening—so lovely, that I lingered there, wrapped in the heavenly contemplation of its beauties. I watched each rosy tint reflected upon the surface of the rapid stream—now fading into yellow—now shining silvery white. I noticed the mystic mingling of twilight with darkness—of night with day, till the bright current on a sudden became a black mass of waters. I could scarcely discern a leaf—all was darkness—when lo! another change! The moon was up—a flood of light deluged all around—the[99] stream was dancing again in reflected radiance, and I still lingering at its brink.

"One night," Ranulph continued, "it's now the sixth since the event I'm about to share—I was sitting in a gazebo that overlooked the river. It had been a beautiful evening—so beautiful that I stayed there, lost in the heavenly contemplation of its beauties. I watched the rosy hues reflecting on the surface of the fast-moving stream—now fading into yellow—now shining silvery white. I noticed the magical blending of twilight with darkness—of night with day, until the bright current suddenly became a dark mass of water. I could barely make out a leaf—all was darkness—when suddenly! Another change! The moon was up—a flood of light washed over everything—the[99] stream was dancing again in reflected light, and I still lingered at its edge.

"I had been musing for some moments, with my head resting upon my hand, when, happening to raise my eyes, I beheld a figure immediately before me. I was astonished at the sight, for I had perceived no one approach—had heard no footstep advance towards me, and was satisfied that no one besides myself could be in the garden. The presence of the figure inspired me with an undefinable awe! and, I can scarce tell why, but a thrilling presentiment convinced me that it was a supernatural visitant. Without motion—without life—without substance, it seemed; yet still the outward character of life was there. I started to my feet. God! what did I behold? The face was turned to me—my father's face! And what an aspect, what a look! Time can never efface that terrible expression; it is graven upon my memory—I cannot describe it. It was not anger—it was not pain: it was as if an eternity of woe were stamped upon its features. It was too dreadful to behold, I would fain have averted my gaze—my eyes were fascinated—fixed—I could not withdraw them from the ghastly countenance. I shrank from it, yet stirred not—I could not move a limb. Noiselessly gliding towards me, the apparition approached. I could not retreat. It stood obstinately beside me. I became as one half-dead. The phantom shook its head with the deepest despair; and as the word 'Return!' sounded hollowly in my ears, it gradually melted from my view. I cannot tell how I recovered from the swoon into which I fell, but daybreak saw me on my way to England. I am here. On that night—at that same hour, my father died."

"I had been lost in thought for a few moments, resting my head on my hand, when I happened to look up and saw a figure right in front of me. I was shocked by the sight because I hadn’t noticed anyone approach or heard any footsteps coming toward me, and I was sure no one else was in the garden. The sight of the figure filled me with an indescribable fear! For some reason, a chilling feeling convinced me that it was a supernatural being. It seemed to have no motion—no life—no substance; yet it still had the appearance of life. I jumped to my feet. Oh God! What was I seeing? The face was turned toward me—my father’s face! And what a look it had, what an expression! Time can never erase that terrible look; it’s burned into my memory—I can't even describe it. It wasn’t anger—it wasn’t pain: it was as if an eternity of suffering was etched onto his features. It was too horrifying to look at; I wanted to turn away—but my eyes were drawn to it—fixed—I couldn’t take them off the ghastly face. I recoiled from it, yet stayed still—I couldn’t move a muscle. Silently gliding toward me, the apparition came closer. I couldn’t back away. It stood stubbornly beside me. I felt like I was half-dead. The phantom shook its head in deep despair; and as the word 'Return!' echoed in my ears, it slowly faded from my sight. I can't explain how I came out of the faint I fell into, but by dawn, I was on my way to England. Here I am. That night—at that same hour, my father died."

"It was, after all, then, a supernatural summons that you received?" said Small.

"It was, after all, a supernatural call that you got?" said Small.

"Undoubtedly," replied Ranulph.

"Definitely," replied Ranulph.

"Humph!—the coincidence, I own, is sufficiently curious," returned Small, musingly; "but it would not be difficult, I think, to discover a satisfactory explanation of the delusion."[100]

"Honestly!—I have to admit, the coincidence is quite interesting," replied Small, thoughtfully; "but I believe it wouldn't be too hard to find a convincing explanation for the misunderstanding."[100]

"There was no delusion," replied Ranulph, coldly; "the figure was as palpable as your own. Can I doubt, when I behold this result? Could any deceit have been practised upon me, at that distance?—the precise time, moreover, agreeing. Did not the phantom bid me return?—I have returned—he is dead. I have gazed upon a being of another world. To doubt were impious, after that look."

"There was no illusion," Ranulph replied coldly; "the figure was as real as you are. How can I doubt, when I see this outcome? Could anyone have tricked me from that distance?—the timing was exact too. Did the ghost not tell me to come back?—I have come back—he is dead. I've looked upon a being from another world. To doubt would be wrong, after that gaze."

"Whatever my opinions may be, my dear young friend," returned Small, gravely, "I will suspend them for the present. You are still greatly excited. Let me advise you to seek some repose."

"Whatever my thoughts might be, my dear young friend," Small replied seriously, "I'll put them on hold for now. You're still quite upset. Let me suggest that you take some time to relax."

"I am easier," replied Ranulph; "but you are right, I will endeavor to snatch a little rest. Something within tells me all is not yet accomplished. What remains?—I shudder to think of it. I will rejoin you at midnight. I shall myself attend the solemnity. Adieu!"

"I feel a bit better," Ranulph replied, "but you're right, I should try to get some rest. Something inside me tells me that everything isn't finished yet. What’s left?—I dread to think about it. I’ll meet you again at midnight. I’ll be there for the ceremony. Goodbye!"

Ranulph quitted the room. Small sighingly shook his head, and having lighted his pipe, was presently buried in a profundity of smoke and metaphysical speculation.

Ranulph left the room. Small sighed and shook his head, and after lighting his pipe, he soon became enveloped in a cloud of smoke and deep thoughts.


CHAPTER XI

LADY ROOKWOOD

Fran. de Med. Your unhappy husband Is deceased.
Vit. Cor.Oh, he's a joyful husband!
Now he owes nature nothing.
Mon.And see this creature as his wife.
She doesn't come like a widow—she comes armed. With disdain and cheek. Is this a mourning outfit?

The White Devil.

The White Devil.

The progress of our narrative demands our presence in another apartment of the hall—a large, lonesome chamber,[101] situate in the eastern wing of the house, already described as the most ancient part of the building—the sombre appearance of which was greatly increased by the dingy, discolored tapestry that clothed its walls; the record of the patience and industry of a certain Dame Dorothy Rookwood, who flourished some centuries ago, and whose skilful needle had illustrated the slaughter of the Innocents, with a severity of gusto, and sanguinary minuteness of detail, truly surprising in a lady so amiable as she was represented to have been. Grim-visaged Herod glared from the ghostly woof, with his shadowy legions, executing their murderous purposes, grouped like a troop of Sabbath-dancing witches around him. Mysterious twilight, admitted through the deep, dark, mullioned windows, revealed the antique furniture of the room, which still boasted a sort of mildewed splendor, more imposing, perhaps, than its original gaudy magnificence; and showed the lofty hangings, and tall, hearse-like canopy of a bedstead, once a couch of state, but now destined for the repose of Lady Rookwood. The stiff crimson hangings were embroidered in gold, with the arms and cipher of Elizabeth, from whom the apartment, having once been occupied by that sovereign, obtained the name of the "Queen's Room."

The story requires us to move to another room in the hall—a large, lonely space,[101] located in the eastern wing of the house, which we've already noted is the oldest part of the building. Its dark appearance was made even gloomier by the faded, dingy tapestry that covered its walls; a testament to the patience and skill of Dame Dorothy Rookwood, who lived several centuries ago. Her talented needlework illustrated the massacre of the Innocents with a surprising intensity and alarming detail, especially for a woman said to be so kind. The grim-faced Herod loomed from the eerie fabric, surrounded by his shadowy troops, carrying out their deadly tasks, resembling a group of witches dancing on a Sabbath. Mysterious twilight, filtering through the deep, dark, mullioned windows, exposed the old furniture, which still had a sort of moldy splendor, perhaps more imposing than its original bright magnificence. It showcased the tall hangings and the towering, coffin-like canopy of a bed once fit for royalty, but now meant for Lady Rookwood's rest. The stiff crimson drapes were embroidered in gold with the coat of arms and insignia of Elizabeth, from whom this room, once occupied by that queen, got its name: the "Queen's Room."

The sole tenant of this chamber was a female, in whose countenance, if time and strong emotion had written strange defeatures, they had not obliterated its striking beauty and classical grandeur of expression. It was a face majestical and severe. Pride was stamped in all its lines; and though each passion was, by turns, developed, it was evident that all were subordinate to the sin by which the angels fell. The contour of her face was formed in the purest Grecian mould, and might have been a model for Medea; so well did the gloomy grandeur of the brow, the severe chiselling of the lip, the rounded beauty of the throat, and the faultless symmetry of her full form, accord with the beau ideal of antique perfection. Shaded by smooth folds of raven hair, which still maintained[102] its jetty dye, her lofty forehead would have been displayed to the greatest advantage, had it not been at this moment knit and deformed by excess of passion, if that passion can be said to deform which only calls forth strong and vehement expression. Her figure, which wanted only height to give it dignity, was arrayed in the garb of widowhood; and if she exhibited none of the desolation of heart which such a bereavement might have been expected to awaken, she was evidently a prey to feelings scarcely less harrowing. At the particular time of which we speak, Lady Rookwood, for she it was, was occupied in the investigation of the contents of an escritoire. Examining the papers which it contained with great deliberation, she threw each aside, as soon as she had satisfied herself of its purport, until she arrived at a little package, carefully tied up with black ribbon, and sealed. This, Lady Rookwood hastily broke open, and drew forth a small miniature. It was that of a female, young and beautiful, rudely, yet faithfully, executed—faithfully, we say, for there was an air of sweetness and simplicity—and, in short, a look of reality and nature about the picture (it is seldom, indeed, that we mistake a likeness, even if we are unacquainted with the original) that attested the artist's fidelity. The face was as radiant with smiles as a bright day with sunbeams. The portrait was set in gold, and behind it was looped a lock of the darkest and finest hair. Underneath the miniature was written, in Sir Piers's hand, the words "Lady Rookwood." A slip of folded paper was also attached to it.

The only occupant of this room was a woman whose face, despite the marks left by time and intense emotions, still held striking beauty and a classic air. It was a majestic and serious face. Pride was evident in every line; although various emotions surfaced at times, it was clear that they were all overshadowed by the original sin that led to the angels' fall. Her features were sculpted in the purest Grecian style and could have served as a model for Medea; the dark elegance of her brow, the sharp definition of her lips, the graceful curve of her neck, and the perfect symmetry of her full figure all matched the ideal of ancient perfection. Her high forehead, framed by smooth waves of raven hair, still held its deep color, though it was currently marred by the intensity of her emotions. If that intensity could be considered a deformation, it was one that brought forth strong and passionate expression. Her figure, which needed only height to add dignity, was clothed in widow's attire; and while she showed no signs of the deep sorrow one might expect from such a loss, she was clearly suffering from feelings that were almost as tormenting. At that particular moment, Lady Rookwood—who it was—was focused on examining the contents of a writing desk. Carefully going through the papers it held, she set each aside after confirming its contents, until she came across a small bundle tied with black ribbon and sealed. She quickly opened it and pulled out a small miniature. It depicted a young and beautiful woman, roughly but accurately done—accurately, because there was an air of sweetness and simplicity, and a sense of reality in the portrait (it is rare for us to misidentify a likeness, even if we don’t know the original) that testified to the artist's truthfulness. The face was as bright with smiles as a sunny day. The portrait was framed in gold, with a lock of the darkest, finest hair looped behind it. Written beneath the miniature, in Sir Piers's handwriting, were the words "Lady Rookwood." A folded slip of paper was also attached to it.

Lady Rookwood scornfully scrutinized the features for a few moments, and then unfolded the paper, at the sight of which she started, and turned pale. "Thank God!" she cried, "this is in my possession—while I hold this, we are safe. Were it not better to destroy this evidence at once? No, no, not now—it shall not part from me. I will abide Ranulph's return. This document will give me a power over him such as I could never otherwise obtain." Placing the marriage certificate,[103] for such it was, within her breast, and laying the miniature upon the table, she next proceeded, deliberately, to arrange the disordered contents of the box.

Lady Rookwood looked over the features with disdain for a moment, then unfolded the paper, causing her to start and turn pale. "Thank God!" she exclaimed, "I have this—while I hold this, we're safe. Wouldn’t it be better to destroy this evidence right away? No, no, not now—I won’t let it go. I will wait for Ranulph's return. This document will give me a power over him that I could never obtain otherwise." She placed the marriage certificate,[103] since that’s what it was, close to her heart, and laid the miniature on the table before she began to methodically organize the messy contents of the box.

All outward traces of emotion had, ere this, become so subdued in Lady Rookwood, that although she had, only a few moments previously, exhibited the extremity of passionate indignation, she now, apparently without effort, resumed entire composure, and might have been supposed to be engaged in a matter of little interest to herself. It was a dread calm, which they who knew her would have trembled to behold. "From these letters I gather," exclaimed she, "that their wretched offspring knows not of his fortune. So far, well. There is no channel whence he can derive information, and my first care shall be to prevent his obtaining any clue to the secret of his birth. I am directed to provide for him—ha! ha! I will provide—a grave! There will I bury him and his secret. My son's security and my own wrong demand it. I must choose surer hands—the work must not be half-done, as heretofore. And now, I bethink me, he is in the neighborhood, connected with a gang of poachers—'tis as I could wish it."

All outward signs of emotion had, by this point, become so suppressed in Lady Rookwood that even though she had just moments ago shown intense passionate anger, she now, seemingly effortlessly, regained her complete composure and could have been thought to be involved in something of little importance to her. It was a chilling calm that those who knew her would have feared to see. "From these letters, I realize," she exclaimed, "that their miserable offspring has no idea about his fortune. So far, so good. There’s no way for him to get any information, and my first priority will be to ensure he doesn’t get any clues about the secret of his birth. I'm told to make provisions for him—ha! ha! I will make provisions—a grave! That's where I will bury him and his secret. The safety of my son and the wrong done to me demand it. I need to choose more reliable hands—the job must be done right this time, unlike before. And now I remember, he’s in the area, connected with a group of poachers—it’s just as I hoped."

At this moment a knock at the chamber-door broke upon her meditations. "Agnes, is it you?" demanded Lady Rookwood.

At that moment, a knock on the room door interrupted her thoughts. "Agnes, is that you?" Lady Rookwood asked.

Thus summoned, the old attendant entered the room.

Thus called, the old attendant walked into the room.

"Why are my orders disobeyed?" asked the lady, in a severe tone of voice. "Did I not say, when you delivered me this package from Mr. Coates, which he himself wished to present, that I would not be disturbed?"

"Why are you ignoring my orders?" the lady asked, her voice harsh. "Did I not say, when you brought me this package from Mr. Coates, which he wanted to deliver himself, that I wanted to be left alone?"

"You did, my lady, but——"

"You did, my lady, but—"

"Speak out," said Lady Rookwood, somewhat more mildly, perceiving, from Agnes's manner, that she had something of importance to communicate. "What is it brings you hither?"

"Speak up," said Lady Rookwood, more gently this time, noticing from Agnes's behavior that she had something important to share. "What brings you here?"

"I am sorry," returned Agnes, "to disturb your ladyship, but—but——"[104]

"I’m sorry to interrupt you, my lady, but—but——"[104]

"But what?" interrupted Lady Rookwood, impatiently.

"But what?" interrupted Lady Rookwood, impatiently.

"I could not help it, my lady—he would have me come; he said he was resolved to see your ladyship, whether you would or not."

"I couldn't help it, my lady—he insisted that I come; he said he was determined to see you, whether you wanted him to or not."

"Would see me, ha! is it so? I guess his errand, and its object—he has some suspicion. No, that cannot be; he would not dare to tamper with these seals. Agnes, I will not see him."

"Would he see me, huh! Is that true? I can guess his reason for coming here—he's got some suspicions. No, that can't be; he wouldn't dare mess with these seals. Agnes, I will not see him."

"But he swears, my lady, that he will not leave the house without seeing you—he would have forced his way into your presence, if I had not consented to announce him."

"But he insists, my lady, that he won't leave the house without seeing you—he would have pushed his way in to see you if I hadn't agreed to let him know you're here."

"Insolent!" exclaimed Lady Rookwood, with a glance of indignation; "force his way! I promise you he shall not display an equal anxiety to repeat the visit. Tell Mr. Coates I will see him."

"Insolent!" Lady Rookwood exclaimed, giving a look of indignation. "Force his way? I assure you he won't be so eager to come back. Tell Mr. Coates I will see him."

"Mr. Coates! Mercy on us, my lady, it's not he. He'd never have intruded upon you unasked. No such thing. He knows his place too well. No, no; it's not Mr. Coates——"

"Mr. Coates! Oh my goodness, my lady, it's not him. He would never have come to you without an invitation. That’s just not who he is. He knows his place too well. No, no; it’s not Mr. Coates——"

"If not he, who is it?"

"If it's not him, then who is it?"

"Luke Bradley; your ladyship knows whom I mean."

"Luke Bradley; you know who I'm talking about."

"He here—now?——"

"He's here—now?——"

"Yes, my lady; and looking so fierce and strange, I was quite frightened to see him. He looked so like his—his——"

"Yes, my lady; and looking so fierce and strange, I was really scared to see him. He looked so much like his—his——"

"His father, you would say. Speak out."

"His dad, you could say. Go ahead and say it."

"No, my lady, his grandfather—old Sir Reginald. He's the very image of him. But had not your ladyship better ring the alarm-bell? and when he comes in, I'll run and fetch the servants—he's dangerous, I'm sure."

"No, my lady, his grandfather—old Sir Reginald. He's the spitting image of him. But shouldn’t you ring the alarm bell? When he comes in, I’ll run and get the servants—he’s definitely dangerous, I’m sure."

"I have no fears of him. He will see me, you say——"

"I’m not afraid of him. He will see me, you say——"

"Ay, will!" exclaimed Luke, as he threw open the door, and shut it forcibly after him, striding towards Lady Rookwood, "nor abide longer delay."

"Aye, will!" Luke shouted as he flung the door open and slammed it shut behind him, striding toward Lady Rookwood, "and I won’t tolerate any more delays."

It was an instant or two ere Lady Rookwood, thus taken by surprise, could command speech. She fixed her eyes with a look of keen and angry inquiry upon the bold intruder, who,[105] nothing daunted, confronted her glances with a gaze as stern and steadfast as her own.

It took a moment or two before Lady Rookwood, caught off guard, could find her words. She fixed her gaze, filled with sharp and furious questioning, on the daring intruder, who,[105] unfazed, met her stare with a look just as determined and steady as hers.

"Who are you, and what seek you?" exclaimed Lady Rookwood, after a brief pause, and, in spite of herself, her voice sounded tremulously. "What would you have, that you venture to appear before me at this season and in this fashion?"

"Who are you, and what do you want?" Lady Rookwood exclaimed after a short pause, and despite herself, her voice sounded shaky. "What do you want that makes you think you can show up before me at this time and in this way?"

"I might have chosen a fitter opportunity," returned Luke, "were it needed. My business will not brook delay—you must be pleased to overlook this intrusion on your privacy, at a season of sorrow like the present. As to the fashion of my visit, you must be content to excuse it. I cannot help myself. I may amend hereafter. Who I am, you are able, I doubt not, to divine. What I seek, you shall hear, when this old woman has left the room, unless you would have a witness to a declaration that concerns you as nearly as myself."

"I might have picked a better time," Luke replied, "if it were necessary. My business can’t wait—you’ll have to forgive this interruption of your privacy during such a sad time. As for why I’m here, you’ll have to excuse me. I can’t change that. I might fix things later. You can probably guess who I am. You’ll find out what I’m after once this old woman leaves the room, unless you want someone to hear a declaration that affects you as much as it does me."

An indefinite feeling of apprehension had, from the first instant of Luke's entrance crossed Lady Rookwood's mind. She, however, answered, with some calmness:

An unsettling feeling of worry had crossed Lady Rookwood's mind the moment Luke walked in. She, however, replied with some composure:

"What you can have to say is of small moment to me—nor does it signify who may hear it. It shall not, however, be said that Lady Rookwood feared to be alone, even though she endangered her life."

"What you have to say doesn't matter much to me—nor does it matter who hears it. However, it won't be said that Lady Rookwood was afraid to be alone, even if it meant putting her life at risk."

"I am no assassin," replied Luke, "nor have sought the destruction of my deadliest foe—though 'twere but retributive justice to have done so."

"I am not an assassin," Luke replied, "nor have I sought the destruction of my deadliest enemy—though it would have been only fair to do so."

Lady Rookwood started.

Lady Rookwood was startled.

"Nay, you need not fear me," replied Luke; "my revenge will be otherwise accomplished."

"Nah, you don’t have to worry about me," Luke replied. "I’ll get my revenge in a different way."

"Go," said Lady Rookwood to Agnes; "yet—stay without, in the antechamber."

"Go," Lady Rookwood said to Agnes, "but wait outside in the antechamber."

"My lady," said Agnes, scarcely able to articulate, "shall I——"

"My lady," Agnes said, barely able to speak, "should I——"

"Hear me, Lady Rookwood," interrupted Luke. "I repeat, I intend you no injury. My object here is solely to obtain a private conference. You can have no reason for denying me[106] this request. I will not abuse your patience. Mine is no idle mission. Say you refuse me, and I will at once depart. I will find other means of communicating with you—less direct, and therefore less desirable. Make your election. But we must be alone—undisturbed. Summon your household—let them lay hands upon me, and I will proclaim aloud what you would gladly hide, even from yourself."

"Hear me, Lady Rookwood," Luke interrupted. "I want you to know that I mean you no harm. My only purpose here is to have a private conversation. You have no reason to deny me this request. I promise not to take advantage of your patience. I’m not here for some trivial reason. If you say no, I’ll leave immediately. I can find other ways to communicate with you—ways that are less direct and, therefore, not as good. Decide what you want. But we *must* be alone—without interruptions. Call your household—let them restrain me, and I’ll shout out loud what you would prefer to keep hidden, even from yourself."

"Leave us, Agnes," said Lady Rookwood. "I have no fear of this man. I can deal with him myself, should I see occasion."

"Leave us, Agnes," Lady Rookwood said. "I'm not afraid of this man. I can handle him myself if I need to."

"Agnes," said Luke, in a stern, deep whisper, arresting the ancient handmaiden as she passed him, "stir not from the door till I come forth. Have you forgotten your former mistress!—my mother? Have you forgotten Barbara Lovel, and that night?"

"Agnes," Luke said in a serious, low voice, stopping the old handmaiden as she walked by him, "don't leave the door until I come out. Have you forgotten your previous mistress—my mother? Have you forgotten Barbara Lovel, and that night?"

"In Heaven's name, hush!" replied Agnes, with a shudder.

"In God's name, be quiet!" replied Agnes, shivering.

"Let that be fresh in your memory. Move not a footstep, whatever you may hear," added he, in the same tone as before.

"Keep that in mind. Don't take a single step, no matter what you hear," he added, in the same tone as before.

"I will not—I will not." And Agnes departed.

"I won't—I won't." And Agnes left.

Luke felt some wavering in his resolution when he found himself alone with the lady, whose calm, collected, yet haughty demeanor, as she resumed her seat, prepared for his communication, could not fail to inspire him with a certain degree of awe. Not unconscious of her advantage, nor slow to profit by it, Lady Rookwood remained perfectly silent, with her eyes steadily fixed upon his face, while his embarrassment momentarily increased. Summoning, at length, courage sufficient to address her, and ashamed of his want of nerve, he thus broke forth:

Luke felt a bit shaky in his determination when he found himself alone with the lady. Her calm, composed, yet proud attitude, as she sat back down prepared for what he had to say, inspired him with a sense of awe. Aware of the power she held in the situation and quick to use it, Lady Rookwood said nothing, keeping her gaze firmly on his face, causing his embarrassment to grow. Finally, gathering enough courage to speak to her and feeling ashamed for lacking confidence, he started to say:

"When I entered this room, you asked my name and object. As to the first, I answer to the same designation as your ladyship. I have long borne my mother's name. I now claim my father's. My object is, the restitution of my rights."[107]

"When I walked into this room, you asked for my name and purpose. For the first, I go by the same name as you, my lady. I've carried my mother's name for a long time, but now I’m claiming my father's. My purpose is to reclaim my rights."[107]

"Soh!—it is as I suspected," thought Lady Rookwood, involuntarily casting her large eyes down. "Do I hear you rightly?" exclaimed she, aloud; "your name is——"

"Soh!—it’s just as I thought," Lady Rookwood thought, instinctively looking down with her large eyes. "Am I hearing you correctly?" she exclaimed, aloud; "your name is——"

"Sir Luke Rookwood. As my father's elder born; by right of his right to that title."

"Sir Luke Rookwood. As my father's firstborn; by virtue of his claim to that title."

If a glance could have slain him, Luke had fallen lifeless at the lady's feet. With a smile of ineffable disdain, she replied, "I know not why I hesitate to resent this indignity, even for an instant. But I would see how far your audacity will carry you. The name you bear is Bradley?"

If a glance could kill, Luke would have collapsed at the lady's feet. With a smile full of unspoken contempt, she replied, "I don’t know why I’m holding back my anger over this insult, even for a moment. But I want to see how far your boldness goes. Your name is Bradley, right?"

"In ignorance I have done so," replied Luke. "I am the son of her whose maiden name was Bradley. She was——"

"In ignorance, I did that," Luke replied. "I'm the son of the woman whose maiden name was Bradley. She was——"

"'Tis false—I will not hear it—she was not," cried Lady Rookwood, her vehemence getting the master of her prudence.

"'That's not true—I won't listen to it—she was not," shouted Lady Rookwood, her passion overtaking her usual caution.

"Your ladyship anticipates my meaning," returned Luke. "Susan Bradley was the first wife of Sir Piers Rookwood."

"Your ladyship understands what I mean," replied Luke. "Susan Bradley was the first wife of Sir Piers Rookwood."

"His minion—his mistress if you will; nought else. Is it new to you, that a village wench, who lends herself to shame, should be beguiled by such shallow pretences? That she was so duped, I doubt not. But it is too late now to complain, and I would counsel you not to repeat your idle boast. It will serve no other purpose, trust me, than to blazon forth your own—your mother's dishonor."

"His servant—his mistress if you want to call her that; nothing more. Is it surprising to you that a village girl, who gives herself up to disgrace, could be tricked by such shallow facades? I don’t doubt she was deceived. But it’s too late to complain now, and I advise you not to boast about it again. Trust me, it will only serve to highlight your own—your mother’s dishonor."

"Lady Rookwood," sternly answered Luke, "my mother's fame is as free from dishonor as your own. I repeat, she was the first wife of Sir Piers; and that I, her child, am first in the inheritance; nay, sole heir to the estates and title of Rookwood, to the exclusion of your son. Ponder upon that intelligence. Men say they fear you, as a thing of ill. I fear you not. There have been days when the Rookwoods held their dames in subjection. Discern you nought of that in me?"

"Lady Rookwood," Luke replied sternly, "my mother's reputation is just as untarnished as yours. I’ll say it again: she was the first wife of Sir Piers, and I, her child, am first in line for the inheritance; in fact, I am the sole heir to the Rookwood estates and title, which excludes your son. Think about that. People say they fear you, as if you’re something wicked. **I** don't fear you. There **have** been times when the Rookwoods kept their women in check. Don’t you see any of that in me?"

Once or twice during this speech Lady Rookwood's glances had wandered towards the bell-cord, as if about to summon aid; but the intention was abandoned almost as soon as formed,[108] probably from apprehension of the consequences of any such attempt. She was not without alarm as to the result of the interview, and was considering how she could bring it to a termination without endangering herself, and, if possible, secure the person of Luke, when the latter, turning sharply round upon her, and drawing a pistol, exclaimed,—

Once or twice during this speech, Lady Rookwood glanced at the bell cord, as if she was about to call for help; but she quickly abandoned that thought, probably fearing what might happen if she did. She was genuinely worried about how the meeting would turn out and was trying to figure out how to end it without putting herself in danger, and if possible, to keep Luke safe, when he abruptly turned to her, pulled out a pistol, and exclaimed,—

"Follow me!"

"Come with me!"

"Whither?" asked she, in alarm.

"Where to?" she asked, alarmed.

"To the chamber of death!"

"To the death chamber!"

"Why there? what would you do? Villain! I will not trust my life with you. I will not follow you."

"Why there? What would you do? Villain! I will not trust my life with you. I will not follow you."

"Hesitate not, as you value your life. Do aught to alarm the house, and I fire. Your safety depends upon yourself. I would see my father's body ere it be laid in the grave. I will not leave you here."

"Hesitate not, as you value your life. Do anything to alarm the house, and I will shoot. Your safety depends on you. I want to see my father's body before it’s buried. I won't leave you here."

"Go," said Lady Rookwood; "if that be all, I pledge myself you shall not be interrupted."

"Go," said Lady Rookwood; "if that's all, I promise you won't be interrupted."

"I will not take your pledge; your presence shall be my surety. By my mother's unavenged memory, if you play me false, though all your satellites stand around you, you die upon the spot! Obey me, and you are safe. Our way leads to the room by the private staircase—we shall pass unobserved—you see I know the road. The room, by your own command, is vacant—save of the dead. We shall, therefore, be alone. This done, I depart. You will then be free to act. Disobey me, and your blood be upon your own head."

"I won't take your promise; your presence will be enough security for me. By the memory of my mother, who hasn't been avenged, if you betray me, even with all your followers around you, you'll die right here! If you follow my instructions, you'll be safe. Our path leads to the room through the private staircase—we'll go unnoticed—you can see I know the way. The room, as you ordered, is empty—except for the dead. So, we’ll be alone. Once this is done, I'll leave. Then, you’ll be free to do as you wish. Disobey me, and the consequences will be your responsibility."

"Lead on!" said Lady Rookwood, pressing towards the antechamber.

"Lead on!" said Lady Rookwood, moving toward the antechamber.

"The door I mean is there," pointing to another part of the room—"that panel,—"

"The door I'm talking about is over there," pointing to another part of the room—"that panel,—"

"Ha! how know you that?"

"Ha! How do you know that?"

"No matter; follow."

"Whatever; just follow."

Luke touched a spring, and the panel flying open, disclosed a dim recess, into which he entered; and, seizing Lady Rookwood's hand, dragged her after him.

Luke pressed a spring, and the panel flew open, revealing a dim space, into which he stepped; and, grabbing Lady Rookwood's hand, pulled her along behind him.


CHAPTER XII

THE CHAMBER OF DEATH

It's the body—I have instructions to follow. That it should be placed here.

De Montfort.

De Montfort.

The recess upon which the panel opened had been a small oratory, and, though entirely disused, still retained its cushions and its crucifix. There were two other entrances to this place of prayer, the one communicating with a further bedchamber, the other leading to the gallery. Through the latter, after closing the aperture, without relinquishing his grasp, Luke passed.

The small room where the panel opened had once been a little chapel, and although it was completely unused, it still had its cushions and a crucifix. There were two other doorways to this prayer space, one connecting to another bedroom and the other leading to the gallery. After closing the opening, without letting go of his hold, Luke went through the gallery.

It was growing rapidly dark, and at the brightest seasons this gloomy corridor was but imperfectly lighted from narrow, painted, and wire-protected windows that looked into the old quadrangular courtyard below; and as they issued from the oratory a dazzling flash of lightning—a storm having suddenly arisen—momentarily illumined the whole length of the passage, disclosing the retreating figure of a man, wrapped in a large sable cloak, at the other extremity of the gallery. Lady Rookwood uttered an outcry for assistance; but the man, whoever he might be, disappeared in the instantaneously succeeding gloom, leaving her in doubt whether or not her situation had been perceived. Luke had seen this dark figure at the same instant; and, not without apprehensions lest his plans should be defeated, he griped Lady Rookwood's arm still more strictly, and placing the muzzle of the pistol to her breast, hurried her rapidly forwards.

It was getting dark quickly, and during the brightest times of year, this dim corridor was only partially lit by narrow, painted windows protected by wire, which overlooked the old square courtyard below. As they came out of the chapel, a sudden flash of lightning—newly sparked by an unexpected storm—momentarily lit up the entire hallway, revealing the retreating figure of a man wrapped in a large fur cloak at the far end of the corridor. Lady Rookwood cried out for help, but the man, whoever he was, vanished into the quickly returning darkness, leaving her uncertain if her predicament had been noticed. Luke had spotted the dark figure at the same moment and, fearing his plans might be jeopardized, tightened his grip on Lady Rookwood's arm and pressed the muzzle of the pistol against her chest as he hurried her forward.

All was now in total obscurity; the countenance of neither could be perceived as they trod the dark passage; but Luke's[110] unrelaxed grasp indicated no change in his purposes, nor did the slow, dignified march of the lady betray any apprehension on her part. Descending a spiral staircase, which led from the gallery to a lower story, their way now lay beneath the entrance-hall, a means of communication little used. Their tread sounded hollowly on the flagged floor; no other sound was heard. Mounting a staircase, similar to the one they had just descended, they arrived at another passage. A few paces brought them to the door. Luke turned the handle, and they stood within the chamber of the dead.

Everything was now completely dark; neither of their faces could be seen as they walked through the shadowy passage. However, Luke's[110] firm grip showed that his intentions hadn't changed, and the lady's slow, dignified pace revealed no fear on her part. They descended a spiral staircase that connected the gallery to a lower level, moving now beneath the entrance hall, a rarely used pathway. Their footsteps echoed on the stone floor; no other sounds could be heard. Climbing another staircase, similar to the one they had just come down, they reached another passage. After a few steps, they reached the door. Luke turned the handle, and they entered the chamber of the dead.

The room which contained the remains of poor Sir Piers was arrayed in all that mockery of state which, vainly attempting to deride death, is itself a bitter derision of the living. It was the one devoted to the principal meals of the day; a strange choice, but convenience had dictated its adoption by those with whom this part of the ceremonial had originated, and long custom had rendered its usage, for this purpose, almost prescriptive. This room, which was of some size, had originally formed part of the great hall, from which it was divided by a thick screen of black, lustrously varnished oak, enriched with fanciful figures carved in bold relief. The walls were panelled with the same embrowned material, and sustained sundry portraits of the members of the family, in every possible costume, from the steely gear of Sir Ranulph, down to the flowing attire of Sir Reginald. Most of the race were ranged around the room; and, seen in the yellow light shed upon their features by the flambeaux, they looked like an array of stern and silent witnesses, gazing upon their departed descendant. The sides of the chamber were hung with black cloth, and upon a bier in the middle of the room rested the body. Broad escutcheons, decked out in glowing colors pompously set forth the heraldic honors of the departed. Tall lights burned at the head and feet, and fragrant perfumes diffused their odors from silver censers.

The room that held the remains of poor Sir Piers was decorated in a way that mocked the state of death, making it a painful irony for the living. It was the area used for the main meals of the day—a strange choice, but practicality had led those who started this ritual to use it, and long-standing tradition had made it almost mandatory for this purpose. This room, which was quite large, had originally been part of the great hall, separated from it by a thick screen of shiny black oak, adorned with imaginative figures carved in bold relief. The walls were paneled with the same dark material and displayed various portraits of family members in every imaginable outfit, from the armored look of Sir Ranulph to the elegant garb of Sir Reginald. Most of the family members surrounded the room, and in the warm yellow light from the torches, they appeared as a group of serious, silent witnesses gazing upon their deceased relative. The sides of the room were draped in black fabric, and in the center lay the body on a bier. Large shields, displayed in bright colors, prominently featured the deceased's heraldic honors. Tall candles burned at the head and feet, and the sweet scents from silver incense burners filled the air.

The entrance of Luke and his unwilling companion had been[111] abrupt. The transition from darkness to the glare of light was almost blinding, and they had advanced far into the room ere Lady Rookwood perceived a man, whom she took to be one of the mutes, leaning over the bier. The coffin-lid was entirely removed, and the person, whose back was towards them appeared to be wrapped in mournful contemplation of the sad spectacle before him. Suddenly bursting from Luke's hold, Lady Rookwood rushed forward with a scream, and touched the man's shoulder. He started at the summons, and disclosed the features of her son!

The entrance of Luke and his reluctant companion was abrupt. The shift from darkness to bright light was almost blinding, and they had stepped far into the room before Lady Rookwood noticed a man, whom she thought was one of the mutes, leaning over the bier. The coffin lid was completely removed, and the person, whose back was to them, seemed to be lost in sorrowful contemplation of the tragic sight before him. Suddenly breaking free from Luke's grip, Lady Rookwood rushed forward with a scream and touched the man's shoulder. He jumped at her touch and revealed the face of her son!

Rapidly as her own act, Luke followed. He levelled a pistol at her head, but his hand dropped to his side as he encountered the glance of Ranulph. All three seemed paralyzed by surprise. Ranulph, in astonishment, extended his arm to his mother, who, placing one arm over his shoulder, pointed with the other to Luke; the latter stared sternly and inquiringly at both—yet none spoke.

Quickly like her own action, Luke followed. He aimed a gun at her head, but his hand fell to his side when he met Ranulph's gaze. All three appeared frozen in shock. Ranulph, in disbelief, reached out to his mother, who, placing one arm around his shoulder, pointed with the other at Luke; Luke stared firmly and curiously at both of them—but no one spoke.


CHAPTER XIII

THE BROTHERS

We're sorry His violent act has even shed blood of honor,
And tarnished our reputations; Splatters of ink on the forehead of our reputation,
Which envious souls will dip their pens into After we die, and bury us in our graves; What might seem like treason in our lives,
Is laughter when we're gone? Who has the courage to whisper now,
That doesn't dare to speak up; and even announce, With loud words and bold pens, what is our greatest shame?

The Revenger's Tragedy.

The Revenger's Tragedy.

With that quickness of perception which at once supplies information on such an emergency, Luke instantly conjectured[112] who was before him. Startled as he was, he yet retained his composure, abiding the result with his arms folded upon his breast.

With the quickness of understanding that provides information in a situation like this, Luke immediately guessed[112] who was standing in front of him. Although he was startled, he kept his composure, waiting for the outcome with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Seize him!" cried Lady Rookwood, as soon as she could command her speech.

"Get him!" shouted Lady Rookwood, as soon as she could control her words.

"He rushes on his death if he stirs," exclaimed Luke, pointing his pistol.

"He’ll rush to his death if he moves," Luke shouted, aiming his pistol.

"Bethink you where you are, villain!" cried Ranulph; "you are entrapped in your own toils. Submit yourself to our mercy—resistance is vain, and will not secure your safety, while it will aggravate your offence. Surrender yourself——"

"Think about where you are, villain!" shouted Ranulph; "you’ve trapped yourself in your own snares. Give yourself up to our mercy—fighting back is pointless and won’t keep you safe, while it will make your situation worse. Surrender yourself——"

"Never!" answered Luke. "Know you whom you ask to yield?"

"Never!" replied Luke. "Do you even know who you're asking to back down?"

"How should I?" answered Ranulph.

"How should I?" replied Ranulph.

"By that instinct which tells me who you are. Ask Lady Rookwood—she can inform you, if she will."

"By that instinct that tells me who you are. Ask Lady Rookwood—she can tell you, if she chooses."

"Parley not with him—seize him!" cried Lady Rookwood. "He is a robber, a murderer, who has assailed my life."

"Don't talk to him—grab him!" shouted Lady Rookwood. "He's a thief, a killer, who has tried to take my life."

"Beware!" said Luke to Ranulph, who was preparing to obey his mother's commands; "I am no robber—no murderer. Do not you make me a fratricide."

"Watch out!" Luke said to Ranulph, who was getting ready to follow his mom's orders. "I'm not a thief—I'm not a killer. Don't make me a brother killer."

"Fratricide!" echoed Ranulph.

"Brother killing!" echoed Ranulph.

"Heed him not," ejaculated Lady Rookwood. "It is false—he dares not harm thee, for his soul. I will call assistance."

"Don't listen to him," Lady Rookwood exclaimed. "It's a lie—he wouldn't dare hurt you, for his own sake. I will get help."

"Hold, mother!" exclaimed Ranulph, detaining Lady Rookwood; "this man may be what he represents himself. Before we proceed to extremities, I would question him. I would not have mentioned it in your hearing could it have been avoided, but my father had another son."

"Wait, Mom!" Ranulph said, stopping Lady Rookwood. "This guy might be who he claims to be. Before we take drastic measures, I want to ask him some questions. I wouldn't have brought it up in front of you if it could have been avoided, but my dad had another son."

Lady Rookwood frowned. She would have checked him, but Luke rejoined—

Lady Rookwood frowned. She would have called him out, but Luke chimed in—

"You have spoken the truth; he had a son—I am he. I——"

"You’ve spoken the truth; he had a son—I’m that son. I——"

"Be silent, I command you!" said Lady Rookwood.

"Be quiet, I order you!" said Lady Rookwood.

"Death!" cried Luke, in a loud voice. "Why should I be[113] silent at your bidding—at yours—who regard no laws, human or divine; who pursue your own fell purposes, without fear of God or man? Waste not your frowns on me—I heed them not. Do you think I am like a tame hound, to be cowed to silence? I will speak. Ranulph Rookwood, the name you bear is mine, and by a right as good as is your own. From his loins, who lies a corpse before us, I sprang. No brand of shame is on my birth. I am your father's son—his first-born—your elder brother. Hear me!" cried he, rushing to the bier. "By this body, I swear that I have avouched the truth—and though to me the dead Sir Piers Rookwood hath never been what a father should be to a son—though I have never known his smile, felt his caresses, or received his blessing, yet now be all forgiven, all forgotten." And he cast himself with frantic violence upon the coffin.

"Death!" shouted Luke, loudly. "Why should I be[113] quiet at your command—at yours—who ignore all laws, human or divine; who chase your own wicked goals, without fear of God or anyone else? Don’t waste your scowls on me—I don’t care about them. Do you think I’m like a trained dog, to be silenced? I will speak. Ranulph Rookwood, the name you carry is mine, and I have a right to it just as good as yours. I came from the man who lies dead before us. There’s no shame in my birth. I am your father’s son—his firstborn—your older brother. Listen to me!" he yelled, rushing to the coffin. "By this body, I swear that I have told the truth—and though the late Sir Piers Rookwood has never been what a father should be to his son—though I’ve never known his smile, felt his affection, or received his blessing, let everything be forgiven, let everything be forgotten." And he threw himself violently onto the coffin.

It is difficult to describe the feelings with which Ranulph heard Luke's avowal. Amazement and dread predominated. Unable to stir, he stood gazing on in silence. Not so Lady Rookwood. The moment for action was arrived. Addressing her son in a low tone, she said, "Your prey is within your power. Secure him."

It’s hard to put into words how Ranulph felt when he heard Luke's confession. He was mostly shocked and afraid. Frozen in place, he just stood there staring in silence. But not Lady Rookwood. The moment to act had come. Speaking to her son in a quiet voice, she said, "Your target is within your reach. Capture him."

"Wherefore?" rejoined Ranulph; "if he be my brother, shall I raise my hand against him?"

"Why?" replied Ranulph; "if he is my brother, should I raise my hand against him?"

"Wherefore not?" returned Lady Rookwood.

"Why not?" replied Lady Rookwood.

"'Twere an accursed deed," replied Ranulph. "The mystery is resolved. 'Twas for this that I was summoned home."

"It was an evil deed," replied Ranulph. "The mystery is solved. This is why I was called home."

"Ha! what say you? summoned! by whom?"

"Ha! What do you say? Summoned! By whom?"

"My father!"

"Dad!"

"Your father?" echoed Lady Rookwood, in great surprise.

"Your dad?" echoed Lady Rookwood, in great surprise.

"Ay, my dead father! He has appeared to me since his decease."

"Ay, my dead father! He has shown up to me since he passed away."

"Ranulph, you rave—you are distracted with grief—with astonishment."[114]

"Ranulph, you're going on and on—you’re overwhelmed with sadness—with shock."[114]

"No, mother; but I will not struggle against my destiny."

"No, mom; but I won't fight against my fate."

"Pshaw! your destiny is Rookwood, its manors, its lands, its rent-roll, and its title; nor shall you yield it to a base-born churl like this. Let him prove his rights. Let the law adjudge them to him, and we will yield—but not till then. I tell thee he has not the right, nor can he maintain it. He is a deluded dreamer, who, having heard some idle tale of his birth, believes it, because it chimes with his wishes. I treated him with the scorn he deserved. I would have driven him from my presence, but he was armed, as you see, and forced me hither, perhaps to murder me; a deed he might have accomplished had it not been for your intervention. His life is already forfeit, for an attempt of the same sort last night. Why else came he hither? for what else did he drag me to this spot? Let him answer that!"

"Pshaw! Your future is Rookwood, its estates, its land, its income, and its title; you won't give it up to a lowborn person like him. Let him prove his claims. Let the law give it to him, and then we'll step aside—but not before that. I’m telling you he does not have the right, nor can he stand by it. He’s a confused dreamer who, having heard some silly story about his background, believes it because it aligns with his desires. I treated him with the disdain he deserved. I would have kicked him out of my sight, but he was armed, as you see, and forced me here, maybe to kill me; a deed he might have pulled off if it weren't for you stepping in. His life is already forfeit for trying the same thing last night. Why else did he come here? What else did he drag me to this place for? Let him explain that!"

"I will answer it," replied Luke, raising himself from the bier.

"I will answer it," Luke replied, sitting up from the bier.

His face was ghastly as the corpse over which he leaned. "I had a deed to do, which I wished you to witness. It was a wild conception. But the means by which I have acquired the information of my rights were wild. Ranulph, we are both the slaves of fate. You have received your summons hither—I have had mine. Your father's ghost called you; my mother's spectral hand beckoned me. Both are arrived. One thing more remains, and my mission is completed." Saying which, he drew forth the skeleton hand; and having first taken the wedding-ring from the finger, he placed the withered limb upon the left breast of his father's body. "Rest there," he cried, "for ever."

His face was as pale as the corpse he was leaning over. "I had something to do that I wanted you to witness. It was a crazy idea. But the way I found out about my rights was just as wild. Ranulph, we are both at the mercy of fate. You got your summons to come here—I got mine too. Your father’s ghost called you; my mother’s spectral hand signaled me. Both have arrived. One more thing remains, and my mission will be complete." With that, he pulled out the skeletal hand; and after taking the wedding ring off the finger, he laid the withered limb on his father's left breast. "Rest there," he exclaimed, "forever."

"Will you suffer that?" said Lady Rookwood, tauntingly, to her son.

"Will you put up with that?" Lady Rookwood said, teasingly, to her son.

"No," replied Ranulph; "such profanation of the dead shall not be endured, were he ten times my brother. Stand aside," added he, advancing towards the bier, and motioning Luke[115] away. "Withdraw your hand from my father's body, and remove what you have placed upon it."

"No," Ranulph said. "I won't stand for such disrespect towards the dead, even if he were my brother ten times over. Step aside," he added, moving towards the coffin and gesturing for Luke[115] to back off. "Take your hand away from my father's body and remove what you've put on it."

"I will neither remove it nor suffer it to be removed," returned Luke. "'Twas for that purpose I came hither. 'Twas to that hand he was united in life, in death he shall not be divided from it."

"I won't take it away, nor will I let anyone else take it away," Luke replied. "That's why I came here. He was joined to that hand in life, and in death he shouldn't be separated from it."

"Such irreverence shall not be!" exclaimed Ranulph, seizing Luke with one hand, and snatching at the cereclothes with the other. "Remove it, or by Heaven——"

"Such disrespect can't be allowed!" shouted Ranulph, grabbing Luke with one hand and tearing at the burial cloths with the other. "Take it away, or I swear—"

"Leave go your hold," said Luke, in a voice of thunder; "you strive in vain."

"Let go of your grip," said Luke, in a booming voice; "you're fighting a losing battle."

Ranulph ineffectually attempted to push him backwards; and, shaking away the grasp that was fixed upon his collar, seized his brother's wrist, so as to prevent the accomplishment of his purpose. In this unnatural and indecorous strife the corpse of their father was reft of its covering and the hand discovered lying upon the pallid breast.

Ranulph weakly tried to push him back; and, shaking off the grip on his collar, grabbed his brother's wrist to stop him from achieving his goal. In this awkward and disrespectful struggle, their father's corpse was uncovered, and his hand was revealed resting on the pale chest.

And as if the wanton impiety of their conduct called forth an immediate rebuke, even from the dead, a frown seemed to pass over Sir Piers's features, as their angry glances fell in that direction. This startling effect was occasioned by the approach of Lady Rookwood, whose shadow, falling over the brow and visage of the deceased, produced the appearance we have described. Simultaneously quitting each other, with a deep sense of shame, mingled with remorse, both remained, their eyes fixed upon the dead, whose repose they had violated.

And as if the reckless disrespect of their behavior sparked an immediate reprimand, even from beyond the grave, a frown crossed Sir Piers's face as their angry looks went in that direction. This shocking effect was caused by Lady Rookwood’s approach, whose shadow cast over the forehead and face of the deceased created the appearance we’ve described. Leaving each other at the same time, feeling deeply ashamed and remorseful, they both remained, their eyes fixed on the dead, whose peace they had disrupted.

Folding the graveclothes decently over the body, Luke prepared to depart.

Folding the burial clothes neatly over the body, Luke got ready to leave.

"Hold!" cried Lady Rookwood; "you go not hence."

"Stop!" shouted Lady Rookwood; "you're not going anywhere."

"My brother Ranulph will not oppose my departure," returned Luke; "who else shall prevent it?"

"My brother Ranulph won't stop me from leaving," Luke replied. "Who else would?"

"That will I!" cried a sharp voice behind him; and, ere he could turn to ascertain from whom the exclamation proceeded, Luke felt himself grappled by two nervous assailants,[116] who, snatching the pistol from his hold, fast pinioned his arms.

"Definitely!" shouted a sharp voice behind him; and before he could turn to see who had yelled, Luke felt himself grabbed by two anxious attackers,[116] who quickly snatched the pistol from his grip and tightly pinned his arms.

This was scarcely the work of a moment, and he was a prisoner before he could offer any resistance. A strong smile of exultation evinced Lady Rookwood's satisfaction.

This didn't happen in an instant, and he found himself a prisoner before he could put up any fight. A confident smile of triumph showed Lady Rookwood's pleasure.

"Bravo, my lads, bravo!" cried Coates, stepping forward, for he it was under whose skilful superintendence the seizure had been effected: "famously managed; my father the thief-taker's runners couldn't have done it better—hand me that pistol—loaded, I see—slugs, no doubt—oh, he's a precious rascal—search him—turn his pockets inside out, while I speak to her ladyship." Saying which, the brisk attorney, enchanted with the feat he had performed, approached Lady Rookwood with a profound bow, and an amazing smirk of self-satisfaction. "Just in time to prevent mischief," said he; "hope your ladyship does not suffer any inconvenience from the alarm—beg pardon, annoyance I meant to say—which this horrible outrage must have occasioned; excessively disagreeable this sort of thing to a lady at any time, but at a period like this more than usually provoking. However, we have the villain safe enough. Very lucky I happened to be in the way. Perhaps your ladyship would like to know how I discovered——"

"Well done, everyone!" shouted Coates, stepping forward, since he was the one who effectively directed the capture: "Well managed; my dad's thief-taker's runners couldn't have done it better—give me that pistol—loaded, I see—slugs, no doubt—oh, he's a real piece of work—search him—empty his pockets while I talk to her ladyship." With that, the energetic attorney, thrilled with his accomplishment, approached Lady Rookwood with a deep bow and a big grin of self-satisfaction. "Just in time to stop trouble," he said; "I hope you’re not too inconvenienced by the scare—sorry, I meant annoyance—which this dreadful act must have caused; it’s incredibly unpleasant for a lady at any time, but especially during a moment like this. However, we have the scoundrel secure enough. It was very fortunate I happened to be around. Perhaps your ladyship would like to know how I found out——"

"Not now," replied Lady Rookwood, checking the volubility of the man of law. "I thank you, Mr. Coates, for the service you have rendered me; you will now add materially to the obligation by removing the prisoner with all convenient despatch."

"Not now," replied Lady Rookwood, interrupting the talkative lawyer. "Thank you, Mr. Coates, for the help you've given me; you will increase my gratitude by quickly taking the prisoner away."

"Certainly, if your ladyship wishes it. Shall I detain him a close prisoner in the hall for the night, or remove him at once to the lock-up house in the village?"

"Of course, if that's what you want. Should I keep him locked up in the hall for the night, or take him straight to the jail in the village?"

"Where you please, so you do it quickly," replied Lady Rookwood, noticing, with great uneasiness, the agitated manner of her son, and apprehensive lest, in the presence of so many witnesses, he might say or do something prejudicial to their[117] interests. Nor were her fears groundless. As Coates was about to return to the prisoner, he was arrested by the voice of Ranulph, commanding him to stay.

"Do it wherever you want, just make it quick," Lady Rookwood replied, feeling very uneasy as she noticed her son's agitated behavior, worrying that in front of so many witnesses, he might say or do something that could harm their[117] interests. Her fears weren't unfounded. Just as Coates was about to go back to the prisoner, he was stopped by Ranulph's voice, telling him to wait.

"Mr. Coates," said he, "however appearances may be against this man, he is no robber—you must, therefore, release him."

"Mr. Coates," he said, "no matter what it looks like, this man is not a robber—you have to let him go."

"Eh day, what's that? release him, Sir Ranulph?"

"Hey, what's that? Let him go, Sir Ranulph?"

"Yes, sir; I tell you he came here neither with the intent to rob nor to offer violence."

"Yes, sir; I'm telling you he didn't come here to rob or to cause any harm."

"That is false, Ranulph," replied Lady Rookwood. "I was dragged hither by him at the peril of my life. He is Mr. Coates's prisoner on another charge."

"That’s not true, Ranulph," Lady Rookwood said. "He brought me here at the risk of my life. He’s Mr. Coates's prisoner for another reason."

"Unquestionably, your ladyship is perfectly right; I have a warrant against him for assaulting Hugh Badger, the keeper, and for other misdemeanors."

"Absolutely, your ladyship is completely correct; I have a warrant for him for assaulting Hugh Badger, the keeper, and for other offenses."

"I will myself be responsible for his appearance to that charge," replied Ranulph. "Now, sir, at once release him."

"I will take full responsibility for his appearance regarding that charge," replied Ranulph. "Now, sir, release him immediately."

"At your peril!" exclaimed Lady Rookwood.

"At your risk!" exclaimed Lady Rookwood.

"Well, really," muttered the astonished attorney, "this is the most perplexing proceeding I ever witnessed."

"Wow," mumbled the shocked lawyer, "this is the most confusing situation I've ever seen."

"Ranulph," said Lady Rookwood, sternly, to her son, "beware how you thwart me!"

"Ranulph," Lady Rookwood said firmly to her son, "be careful not to go against me!"

"Yes, Sir Ranulph, let me venture to advise you, as a friend, not to thwart her ladyship," whispered the attorney; "indeed, she is in the right." But seeing his advice unheeded, Coates withdrew to a little distance.

"Yes, Sir Ranulph, let me suggest, as a friend, not to go against her ladyship," whispered the attorney; "she's actually in the right." But after seeing that his advice was ignored, Coates stepped back a little.

"I will not see injustice done to my father's son," replied Ranulph, in a low tone. "Why would you detain him?"

"I won't stand by and let injustice happen to my father's son," Ranulph replied quietly. "Why are you holding him?"

"Why?" returned she, "our safety demands it—our honor."

"Why?" she responded, "our safety requires it—our honor."

"Our honor demands his instant liberation; each moment he remains in those bonds sullies its purity. I will free him myself from his fetters."

"Our honor demands that he be freed immediately; every moment he stays in those chains tarnishes our integrity. I will free him from his restraints myself."

"And brave my curse, foolish boy? You incurred your miserable father's anathema for a lighter cause than this. Our honor cries aloud for his destruction. Have I not been[118] injured in the nicest point a woman can be injured? Shall I lend my name to mockery and scorn, by base acknowledgment of such deceit, or will you? Where would be my honor, then, stripped of my fair estates—my son—myself—beggars—dependent on the bounty of an upstart? Does honor ask you to bear this? It is a phantom sense of honor, unsubstantial as your father's shade, of which you just now spoke, that would prompt you to do otherwise."

"And brave my curse, foolish boy? You brought your miserable father's curse upon you for a lesser reason than this. Our honor demands his destruction. Haven't I been[118] hurt in the most sensitive way a woman can be hurt? Should I let my name be a laughingstock and a target of scorn by admitting to such deceit, or will you? Where would my honor be then, stripped of my lands—my son—myself—left as beggars—dependent on the generosity of a nobody? Does honor ask you to endure this? It is an illusory sense of honor, as insubstantial as your father's ghost, which you just mentioned, that would make you consider anything else."

"Do not evoke his awful spirit, mother," cried Ranulph, with a shudder; "do not arouse his wrath."

"Don't summon his terrible spirit, mom," Ranulph cried, shuddering. "Don't provoke his anger."

"Do not arouse my wrath," returned Lady Rookwood. "I am the more to be feared. Think of Eleanor Mowbray; the bar between your nuptials is removed. Would you raise up a greater impediment?"

"Don't provoke my anger," Lady Rookwood replied. "I'm the one you should be afraid of. Consider Eleanor Mowbray; the obstacle to your marriage is gone. Are you willing to create a bigger problem?"

"Enough, mother; more than enough. You have decided, though not convinced me. Detain him within the house, if you will, until the morrow; in the meantime, I will consider over my line of conduct."

"That's enough, mom; more than enough. You've made your choice, but I'm not persuaded. Keep him in the house, if you want, until tomorrow; in the meantime, I'll think about how to proceed."

"Is this, then, your resolve?"

"Is this your decision?"

"It is. Mr. Coates," said Ranulph, calling the attorney, who had been an inquisitive spectator, though, luckily, not an auditor of this interview, "unbind the prisoner, and bring him hither."

"It is. Mr. Coates," said Ranulph, calling to the attorney, who had been an inquisitive observer, though, fortunately, not a listener to this interview, "release the prisoner, and bring him here."

"Is it your ladyship's pleasure?" asked Mr. Coates, who regretted exceedingly that he could not please both parties.

"Is it your ladyship's wish?" asked Mr. Coates, who felt very sorry that he couldn't satisfy both sides.

Lady Rookwood signified her assent by a slight gesture in the affirmative.

Lady Rookwood nodded in agreement with a small gesture.

"Your bidding shall be done, Sir Ranulph," said Coates, bowing and departing.

"Your request will be fulfilled, Sir Ranulph," said Coates, bowing and leaving.

"Sir Ranulph!" echoed Lady Rookwood, with strong emphasis; "marked you that?"

"Sir Ranulph!" Lady Rookwood exclaimed, stressing the words; "did you notice that?"

"Body o' me," muttered the attorney, "this is the most extraordinary family, to be sure. Make way, gentlemen, if you please," added he, pushing through the crowd, towards the prisoner.[119]

"Goodness," muttered the lawyer, "this family is truly extraordinary. Excuse me, gentlemen, if you don’t mind," he continued, pushing through the crowd toward the prisoner.[119]

Having described what took place between Lady Rookwood and her son in one part of the room, we must now briefly narrate some incidental occurrences in the other. The alarm of a robber having been taken spread with great celerity through the house, and almost all its inmates rushed into the room, including Dr. Small, Titus Tyrconnel, and Jack Palmer.

Having explained what happened between Lady Rookwood and her son in one area of the room, we now need to quickly tell about some other events happening in a different part. The news of a robber being caught spread quickly through the house, and almost everyone inside hurried into the room, including Dr. Small, Titus Tyrconnel, and Jack Palmer.

"Odsbodikins! are you there, honey?" said Titus, who discovered his ally; "the bird's caught, you see."

"Odsbodikins! Are you there, honey?" said Titus, who found his ally; "the bird's caught, you see."

"Caught be d—d," replied Jack, bluffly; "so I see; all his own fault; infernal folly to come here, at such a time as this. However, it can't be helped now; he must make the best of it. And as to that sneaking, gimlet-eyed, parchment-skinned quill-driver, if I don't serve him out for his officiousness one of these days, my name's not Jack Palmer."

"Caught, damn it," replied Jack, bluntly; "I get it; it's all his own fault; what an idiotic decision to come here at a time like this. Anyway, there's no changing it now; he has to make the best of it. And as for that sneaky, sharp-eyed, wrinkled old pencil pusher, if I don't get back at him for being so nosy one of these days, my name's not Jack Palmer."

"Och! cushlamacree! did I ever? why, what's the boy to you, Jack? Fair play's a jewel, and surely Mr. Coates only did his duty. I'm sorry he's captured, for his relationship to Sir Piers, and because I think he'll be tucked up for his pains; and, moreover, I could forgive the poaching; but as to the breaking into a house on such an occasion as this, och! It's a plaguy bad look. I'm afraid he's worse than I thought him."

"Och! my dear! Did I ever? Why, what does the boy mean to you, Jack? Fair play is a treasure, and surely Mr. Coates was just doing his job. I'm sorry he's been caught, because of his connection to Sir Piers, and because I think he's going to get in trouble for it; and, besides, I could overlook the poaching; but breaking into a house during a time like this, och! That's a really bad look. I'm afraid he's worse than I believed."

A group of the tenantry, many of whom were in a state of intoxication, had, in the meantime, formed themselves round the prisoner. Whatever might be the nature of his thoughts, no apprehension was visible in Luke's countenance. He stood erect amidst the assemblage, his tall form towering above them all, and his eyes fixed upon the movements of Lady Rookwood and her son. He had perceived the anguish of the latter, and the vehemence of the former, attributing both to their real causes. The taunts and jeers, threats and insolent inquiries, of the hinds who thronged around him, passed unheeded; yet one voice in his ear, sharp as the sting of a serpent, made him start. It was that of the sexton.

A group of tenants, many of whom were drunk, had gathered around the prisoner. No matter what was going through his mind, Luke didn't show any fear on his face. He stood tall among the crowd, his figure towering over everyone, with his eyes locked on Lady Rookwood and her son. He noticed the pain in the latter's expression and the intensity of the former's, understanding the real reasons behind them. The taunts, jeers, threats, and rude questions from the workers surrounding him went unnoticed; still, one voice in his ear, as sharp as a snake's bite, made him flinch. It was the sexton's voice.

"You have done well," said Peter, "have you not? Your fetters are, I hope, to your liking. Well! a wilful man must[120] have his own way, and perhaps the next time you will be content to follow my advice. You must now free yourself, the best way you can, from these Moabites, and I promise you it will be no easy matter. Ha, ha!"

"You've done well," Peter said, "haven't you? I hope your chains are to your liking. Well! A stubborn person has to have their way, and maybe next time you'll be okay with following my advice. You need to free yourself, as best you can, from these Moabites, and I assure you it won't be an easy task. Ha, ha!"

Peter withdrew into the crowd; and Luke, vainly endeavoring to discover his retreating figure, caught the eye of Jack Palmer fixed upon himself, with a peculiar and very significant expression.

Peter stepped back into the crowd, and Luke, trying unsuccessfully to spot his disappearing figure, met Jack Palmer's gaze fixed on him, with a peculiar and very telling expression.

At this moment Mr. Coates made his appearance.

At this moment, Mr. Coates showed up.

"Bring forward the prisoner," said the man of law to his two assistants; and Luke was accordingly hurried along, Mr. Coates using his best efforts to keep back the crowd. It was during the pressure that Luke heard a voice whisper in his ear, "Never fear; all's right!" and turning his head, he became aware of the propinquity of Jack Palmer. The latter elevated his eyebrows with a gesture of silence, and Luke passed on as if nothing had occurred. He was presently confronted with Lady Rookwood and her son; and, notwithstanding the efforts of Mr. Coates, seconded by some few others, the crowd grew dense around them.

"Bring the prisoner forward," said the lawyer to his two assistants; and Luke was quickly pushed along, with Mr. Coates doing his best to hold back the crowd. In the commotion, Luke heard a voice whisper in his ear, "Don’t worry; everything’s fine!" Turning his head, he noticed Jack Palmer nearby. Jack raised his eyebrows in a sign for silence, and Luke moved on as if nothing had happened. He soon found himself face to face with Lady Rookwood and her son; and despite Mr. Coates' efforts, supported by a few others, the crowd thickened around them.

"Remove his fetters," said Ranulph. And his manacles were removed.

"Take off his shackles," said Ranulph. So, his handcuffs were taken off.

"You will consent to remain here a prisoner till to-morrow?"

"You will agree to stay here as a prisoner until tomorrow?"

"I consent to nothing," replied Luke; "I am in your hands."

"I agree to nothing," Luke replied; "I am at your mercy."

"He does not deserve your clemency, Sir Ranulph," interposed Coates.

"He doesn't deserve your mercy, Sir Ranulph," interjected Coates.

"Let him take his own course," said Lady Rookwood; "he will reap the benefit of it anon."

"Let him do what he wants," said Lady Rookwood; "he'll see the outcome soon enough."

"Will you pledge yourself not to depart?" asked Ranulph.

"Will you promise not to leave?" asked Ranulph.

"Of course," cried the attorney; "to be sure he will. Ha, ha!"

"Of course," shouted the lawyer; "there's no doubt he will. Ha, ha!"

"No," returned Luke, haughtily, "I will not—and you will detain me at your proper peril."[121]

"No," Luke replied, arrogantly, "I will not—and you will risk serious consequences if you try to stop me."[121]

"Better and better," exclaimed the attorney. "This is the highest joke I ever heard."

"Better and better," the lawyer exclaimed. "This is the funniest joke I’ve ever heard."

"I shall detain, you, then, in custody, until proper inquiries can be made," said Ranulph. "To your care, Mr. Coates, and to that of Mr. Tyrconnel, whom I must request to lend you his assistance, I commit the charge; and I must further request, that you will show him every attention which his situation will permit. Remove him. We have a sacred duty to the dead to fulfil, to which even justice to the living must give way. Disperse this crowd, and let instant preparations be made for the completion of the ceremonial. You understand me, sir."

"I’m going to keep you in custody until we can make proper inquiries," said Ranulph. "Mr. Coates, I’m putting you in charge, and I need Mr. Tyrconnel to assist you. Please give him all the attention his situation allows. Take him away. We have a sacred duty to the deceased that must be prioritized above even justice for the living. Disperse this crowd and start making immediate preparations for the ceremony. Do you understand me, sir?"

"Ranulph Rookwood," said Luke, sternly, as he departed, "you have another—a more sacred office to perform. Fulfil your duty to your father's son."

"Ranulph Rookwood," Luke said seriously as he walked away, "you have another—an even more important duty to carry out. Honor your obligation to your father's son."

"Away with him!" cried Lady Rookwood. "I am out of all patience with this trilling. Follow me to my chamber," added she to her son, passing towards the door. The concourse of spectators, who had listened to this extraordinary scene in astonishment, made way for her instantly, and she left the room, accompanied by Ranulph. The prisoner was led out by the other door.

"Away with him!" shouted Lady Rookwood. "I’ve had it with this nonsense. Come with me to my room," she said to her son as she walked towards the door. The crowd of spectators, who had watched this unbelievable scene in shock, quickly made way for her, and she left the room with Ranulph. The prisoner was taken out through the other door.

"Botheration!" cried Titus to Mr. Coates, as they followed in the wake, "why did he choose out me? I'll lose the funeral entirely by his arrangement."

"Botheration!" cried Titus to Mr. Coates, as they followed in the wake, "why did he pick me? I'll miss the whole funeral because of his plan."

"That you will," replied Palmer. "Shall I be your deputy?"

"That you will," replied Palmer. "Should I be your deputy?"

"No, no," returned Coates. "I will have no other than Mr. Tyrconnel. It was Sir Ranulph's express wish."

"No, no," Coates replied. "I won’t have anyone but Mr. Tyrconnel. It was Sir Ranulph's clear wish."

"That's the devil of it," returned Titus; "and I, who was to have been chief mourner, and have made all the preparations, am to be omitted. I wish Sir Ranulph had stayed till to-morrow—what could bring him here, to spoil all?—it's cursedly provoking!"

"That's the problem," replied Titus; "and I, who was supposed to be the main mourner and had made all the arrangements, am being left out. I wish Sir Ranulph had waited until tomorrow—what could possibly make him come here and ruin everything?—it's incredibly frustrating!"

"Cursed provoking!" echoed Jack.[122]

"Cursed provoking!" Jack echoed.[122]

"But then there's no help, so I must make the best of it," returned the good-humored Irishman.

"But then there's no help, so I have to make the best of it," replied the good-natured Irishman.

"Body o' me," said Coates, "there's something in all this that I can't fathom. As to keeping the prisoner here, that's all moonshine. But I suppose we shall know the whole drift of it to-morrow."

"Man, I can't wrap my head around all this," said Coates. "As for keeping the prisoner here, that's just nonsense. But I guess we'll figure it all out tomorrow."

"Ay," replied Jack, with a meaning smile, "to-morrow!"

"Ay," replied Jack, with a knowing smile, "tomorrow!"


BOOK II

THE SEXTON

Duchess. Thou art very plain.

Duchess. You are very plain.

Bosola. My trade is to flatter the dead—not the living—I am a tomb-maker.

Bosola. My job is to praise the dead—not the living—I’m a grave maker.

Webster.

Webster.


CHAPTER I

THE STORM

Come, listen, and hear! The bell is ringing,
For some but now leaving soul;
Wasn't that some kind of bad omen? The bat, the night crow, or screech owl? To these, I hear the wild wolf howling,
On this dark night that looks so grim;—
All of this will be recorded in my black book,
For listen! still listen! the bell is tolling
For some but newly departed soul!

Haywood: Rape of Lucrece.

Haywood: The Rape of Lucrece.

The night was wild and stormy. The day had been sultry, with a lurid, metallic-looking sky, hanging like a vast galvanic plate over the face of nature. As evening drew on, everything betokened the coming tempest. Unerring indications of its approach were noted by the weatherwise at the hall. The swallow was seen to skim the surface of the pool so closely that he ruffled its placid mirror as he passed; and then, sharply darting round and round, with twittering scream, he winged his rapid flight to his clay-built home, beneath the barn eaves. The kine that had herded to the margin of the water, and sought, by splashing, to relieve themselves from the keen persecution of their myriad insect tormentors, wended stallwards, undriven, and deeply lowing. The deer, that at twilight had trooped thither also for refreshment, suddenly, "with expanded nostrils, snuffed the air," and bounded off to their coverts, amidst the sheltering fernbrake. The rooks "obstreperous of wing, in crowds combined," cawed in a way that, as plainly as words could have done, bespoke their apprehension; and were[126] seen, some hovering and beating the air with flapping pinion, others shooting upwards in mid space, as if to reconnoitre the weather; while others, again, were croaking to their mates, in loud discordant tone, from the highest branches of the lime-trees; all, seemingly, as anxious and as busy as mariners before a gale of wind. At sunset, the hazy vapors, which had obscured the horizon throughout the day, rose up in spiral volumes, like smoke from a burning forest, and, becoming gradually condensed, assumed the form of huge, billowy masses, which, reflecting the sun's light, changed, as the sinking orb declined, from purple to flame-color, and thence to ashy, angry gray. Night rushed onwards, like a sable steed. There was a dead calm. The stillness was undisturbed, save by an intermittent, sighing wind, which, hollow as a murmur from the grave, died as it rose. At once the gray clouds turned to an inky blackness. A single, sharp, intensely vivid flash, shot from the bosom of the rack, sheer downwards, and struck the earth with a report like that of a piece of ordnance. In ten minutes it was dunnest night, and a rattling thunder-storm.

The night was wild and stormy. The day had been muggy, with a strange, metallic-looking sky hanging over everything like a giant electric plate. As evening approached, all signs pointed to the impending storm. The seasoned observers at the hall noted unmistakable signs of its arrival. A swallow skimmed the surface of the pool so closely that it disturbed the still water. Then, darting around with a screech, it quickly flew back to its nest beneath the barn's eaves. The cattle that had gathered by the water, trying to shake off the relentless swarm of insects by splashing, slowly made their way back to the barn, lowing deeply. The deer that had come there to drink at dusk suddenly sniffed the air and dashed back to their hideouts in the thick ferns. The rooks, noisy and in flocks, cawed in a way that clearly showed their unease. Some hovered, flapping their wings, while others shot up into the sky as if to check the weather. Meanwhile, some croaked loudly from the tops of the lime trees, all appearing as anxious and active as sailors before a storm. At sunset, the hazy fog that had obscured the horizon all day rose in swirling columns like smoke from a burning forest. It gradually thickened into large, billowing clouds that, reflecting the sunlight, shifted from purple to fiery colors and then to a grayish, angry shade as the sun sank. Night came rushing in like a dark horse. There was an eerie calm. The stillness was broken only by a gentle, sighing wind that faded as soon as it rose. Suddenly, the gray clouds darkened into a deep black. A single, sharp flash of lightning shot straight down from the clouds, hitting the ground with a sound like cannon fire. In ten minutes, it was pitch dark, and a fierce thunderstorm rolled in.

The progress of the storm was watched with infinite apprehension by the crowd of tenantry assembled in the great hall; and loud and frequent were the ejaculations uttered, as each succeeding peal burst over their heads. There was, however, one amongst the assemblage who seemed to enjoy the uproar. A kindred excitement appeared to blaze in his glances, as he looked upon the storm without. This was Peter Bradley. He stood close by the window, and shaded not his eyes, even before the fiercest flashes. A grin of unnatural exhilaration played upon his features, and he seemed to exult in, and to court, the tempestuous horrors, which affected the most hardy amongst his companions with consternation, and made all shrink, trembling, into the recesses of the room. Peter's conduct was not unobserved, nor his reputation for unholy dealing forgotten. To some he was almost as much an object of dread as the storm itself.[127]

The crowd of tenants gathered in the great hall watched the storm’s progress with deep anxiety, and there were loud and frequent exclamations as each thunderclap boomed overhead. However, one person in the group seemed to revel in the chaos. A shared excitement lit up his eyes as he gazed at the storm outside. This was Peter Bradley. He stood by the window, not shielding his eyes even from the fiercest lightning. A strange grin of exhilaration spread across his face, and he appeared to take pleasure in the terrifying tempest that left even the bravest of his companions shaken, making them retreat nervously into the corners of the room. Peter's behavior did not go unnoticed, nor was his reputation for dark dealings forgotten. To some, he was almost as terrifying as the storm itself.[127]

"Didst ever see the like o' that?" said Farmer Burtenshaw—one of the guests, whose round, honest face good wine had recently empurpled, but fear had now mottled white,—addressing a neighbor. "Didst ever hear of any man that were a Christian laughing in the very face o' a thunder-storm, with the lightnin' fit to put out his eyes, and the rattle above ready to break the drums o' his ears? I always thought Peter Bradley was not exactly what he ought to be, and now I am sure on it."

"Did you ever see anything like that?" said Farmer Burtenshaw—one of the guests, whose round, honest face was flushed from good wine but now had turned pale with fear—speaking to a neighbor. "Have you ever heard of a man who claimed to be a Christian laughing right in the face of a thunderstorm, with lightning ready to blind him and the thunder loud enough to break his eardrums? I always thought Peter Bradley wasn’t quite what he should be, and now I’m sure of it."

"For my part, I think, Neighbor Burtenshaw," returned the other, "that this great burst of weather's all of his raising, for in all my born days I never see'd such a hurly-burly, and hope never to see the like of it again. I've heard my grandfather tell of folk as could command wind and rain; and, mayhap, Peter may have the power—we all know he can do more nor any other man."

"For my part, I think, Neighbor Burtenshaw," said the other, "that this huge weather event is all due to him, because in all my life, I’ve never seen such a commotion, and I hope to never see anything like it again. I've heard my grandfather talk about people who could control the wind and rain; maybe Peter has that ability—we all know he can do more than any other man."

"We know, at all events," replied Burtenshaw, "that he lives like no other man; that he spends night after night by himself in that dreary churchyard; that he keeps no living thing, except an old terrier dog, in his crazy cottage; and that he never asks a body into his house from one year's end to another. I've never crossed his threshold these twenty years. But," continued he mysteriously, "I happened to pass the house one dark, dismal night, and there what dost think I see'd through the window?"

"We know for sure," replied Burtenshaw, "that he lives unlike anyone else; that he spends night after night alone in that gloomy churchyard; that he doesn't keep any living thing, except for an old terrier dog, in his broken-down cottage; and that he never invites anyone into his house from one year to the next. I haven't stepped over his threshold in twenty years. But," he continued mysteriously, "I happened to walk by the house one dark, dreary night, and guess what I saw through the window?"

"What—what didst see?"

"What did you see?"

"Peter Bradley sitting with a great book open on his knees; it were a Bible, I think, and he crying like a child."

"Peter Bradley sitting with a big book open on his lap; I think it was a Bible, and he was crying like a little kid."

"Art sure o' that?"

"Are you sure about that?"

"The tears were falling fast upon the leaves," returned Burtenshaw; "but when I knocked at the door, he hastily shut up the book, and ordered me to be gone, in a surly tone, as if he were ashamed of being caught in the fact."

"The tears were falling quickly on the leaves," Burtenshaw replied; "but when I knocked on the door, he quickly closed the book and told me to leave in a grumpy tone, as if he were embarrassed to be caught in the act."

"I thought no tear had ever dropped from his eye," said the other. "Why, he laughed when his daughter Susan[128] went off at the hall; and, when she died, folks said he received hush-money to say nought about it. That were a bad business, anyhow; and now that his grandson Luke be taken in the fact of housebreaking, he minds it no more, not he, than if nothing had happened."

"I never thought he had cried at all," said the other. "He laughed when his daughter Susan[128] left for the hall; and when she passed away, people said he was paid off to keep quiet about it. That was a messed-up situation, anyway; and now that his grandson Luke has been caught breaking into a house, he doesn't seem to care at all, like nothing's happened."

"Don't be too sure of that," replied Burtenshaw; "he may be scheming summat all this time. Well, I've known Peter Bradley now these two-and-fifty years, and, excepting that one night, I never saw any good about him, and never heard of nobody who could tell who he be, or where he do come from."

"Don’t be too sure about that," Burtenshaw replied. "He might be planning something this whole time. Well, I’ve known Peter Bradley for fifty-two years, and aside from that one night, I’ve never seen anything good in him, nor have I heard anyone who could tell me who he is or where he's from."

"One thing's certain, at least," replied the other farmer—"he were never born at Rookwood. How he came here the devil only knows. Save us! what a crash!—this storm be all of his raising, I tell 'ee."

"One thing's for sure," replied the other farmer, "he was never born at Rookwood. How he ended up here, only the devil knows. Wow! What a crash! This storm is definitely all his doing, I tell you."

"He be—what he certainly will be," interposed another speaker, in a louder tone, and with less of apprehension in his manner than his comrade, probably from his nerves being better fortified with strong liquor. "Dost thou think, Samuel Plant, as how Providence would entrust the like o' him with the command of the elements? No—no, it's rank blasphemy to suppose such a thing, and I've too much of the true Catholic and apostate church about me, to stand by and hear that said."

"He is—what he definitely will be," interrupted another speaker, in a louder voice and with less worry in his demeanor than his companion, likely because his nerves were steadier from having had some strong drinks. "Do you really think, Samuel Plant, that Providence would allow someone like him to control the elements? No—no, it's utter blasphemy to even think that, and I have too much of the true Catholic and apostate church in me to just stand by and listen to that."

"Maybe, then, he gets his power from the Prince of Darkness," replied Plant; "no man else could go on as he does—only look at him. He seems to be watching for the thunderbowt."

"Maybe, then, he gets his power from the Prince of Darkness," replied Plant; "no one else could keep going like he does—just look at him. He seems to be waiting for the thunderbolt."

"I wish he may catch it, then," returned the other.

"I hope he gets it, then," replied the other.

"That's an evil wish, Simon Toft, and thou mayst repent it."

"That's a wicked wish, Simon Toft, and you might regret it."

"Not I," replied Toft; "it would be a good clearance to the neighborhood to get rid o' th' old croaking curmudgeon."

"Not me," replied Toft; "it would be a good thing for the neighborhood to get rid of the old grumpy curmudgeon."

Whether or not Peter overheard the conversation, we pretend not to say, but at that moment a blaze of lightning showed him staring fiercely at the group.[129]

Whether or not Peter heard the conversation, we won't say, but at that moment a flash of lightning revealed him glaring intensely at the group.[129]

"As I live, he's overheard you, Simon," exclaimed Plant. "I wouldn't be in your skin for a trifle."

"As I live, he's overheard you, Simon," Plant exclaimed. "I wouldn't want to be in your shoes for anything."

"Nor I," added Burtenshaw.

"Me neither," added Burtenshaw.

"Let him overhear me," answered Toft; "who cares? he shall hear summat worth listening to. I'm not afraid o' him or his arts, were they as black as Beelzebuth's own; and to show you I'm not, I'll go and have a crack with him on the spot."

"Let him overhear me," Toft replied. "Who cares? He'll hear something worth listening to. I’m not afraid of him or his tricks, even if they're as dark as the devil's. And to prove it, I'll go talk to him right now."

"Thou'rt a fool for thy pains, if thou dost, Friend Toft," returned Plant, "that's all I can say."

"You're a fool for your trouble, if you do, Friend Toft," replied Plant, "that's all I can say."

"Be advised by me, and stay here," seconded Burtenshaw, endeavoring to hold him back.

"Listen to me and stay here," Burtenshaw added, trying to keep him from leaving.

But Toft would not be advised—

But Toft wouldn’t listen—

Kings might be blessed, but he was magnificent,
Overcome all the problems of life.

Staggering up to Peter, he laid a hard grasp upon his shoulder, and, thus forcibly soliciting his attention, burst into a loud horse-laugh.

Stumbling over to Peter, he grabbed his shoulder firmly and, demanding his attention, let out a loud, hearty laugh.

But Peter was, or affected to be, too much occupied to look at him.

But Peter was, or pretended to be, too busy to look at him.

"What dost see, man, that thou starest so?"

"What do you see, man, that you're staring at so?"

"It comes, it comes—the rain—the rain—a torrent—a deluge—ha, ha! Blessed is the corpse the rain rains on. Sir Piers may be drenched through his leaden covering by such a downfall as that—splash, splash—fire and water and thunder, all together—is not that fine?—ha, ha! The heavens will weep for him, though friends shed not a tear. When did a great man's heir feel sympathy for his sire's decease? When did his widow mourn? When doth any man regret his fellow? Never! He rejoiceth—he maketh glad in his inmost heart—he cannot help it—it is nature. We all pray for—we all delight in each other's destruction. We were created to do so; or why else should we act thus? I never[130] wept for any man's death, but I have often laughed. Natural sympathy!—out on the phrase! The distant heavens—the senseless trees—the impenetrable stones—shall regret you more than man shall bewail your death with more sincerity. Ay, 'tis well—rain on—splash, splash: it will cool the hell-fever. Down, down—buckets and pails, ha, ha!"

"It’s coming, it’s coming—the rain—the rain—a downpour—a flood—ha, ha! Blessed is the corpse that the rain falls on. Sir Piers might be soaked through his heavy covering by such a downfall—splash, splash—fire and water and thunder all together—isn't that great?—ha, ha! The heavens will weep for him, even if friends shed not a tear. When has a great man’s heir ever felt sympathy for his father’s death? When has his widow mourned? When does anyone truly regret their fellow? Never! He rejoices—he feels glad in his heart—he can’t help it—it’s in our nature. We all pray for—we all take delight in each other’s ruin. We were made to do this; or why else would we act this way? I have never[130] cried for any man’s death, but I have often laughed. Natural sympathy!—what a ridiculous phrase! The distant heavens—the indifferent trees—the unfeeling stones—will mourn you more than any man will sincerely lament your death. Yes, it’s good—let it rain—splash, splash: it will cool the fever of hell. Down, down—with buckets and pails, ha, ha!"

There was a pause, during which the sexton, almost exhausted by the frenzy in which he had suffered himself to be involved, seemed insensible to all around him.

There was a moment of silence, during which the sexton, nearly worn out from the frenzy he had let himself get caught up in, appeared oblivious to everything around him.

"I tell you what," said Burtenshaw to Plant, "I have always thought there was more in Peter Bradley nor appears on the outside. He is not what he seems to be, take my word on it. Lord love you! do you think a man such as he pretends to be could talk in that sort of way—about nat'ral simpering?—no such thing."

"I’ll tell you what," said Burtenshaw to Plant, "I've always believed there's more to Peter Bradley than meets the eye. He's not what he seems, trust me on that. Goodness! Do you really think a guy like him could talk that way—about natural simpering? Not a chance."

When Peter recovered, his insane merriment broke out afresh, having only acquired fury by the pause.

When Peter recovered, his wild laughter erupted again, having only gained intensity during the pause.

"Look out, look out!" cried he; "hark to the thunder—list to the rain! Marked ye that flash—marked ye the clock-house—and the bird upon the roof? 'tis the rook—the great bird of the house, that hath borne away the soul of the departed. There, there—can you not see it? it sits and croaks through storm and rain, and never heeds at all—and wherefore should it heed? See, it flaps its broad black wings—it croaks—ha, ha! It comes—it comes."

"Look out, look out!" he shouted; "listen to the thunder—hear the rain! Did you see that flash—did you see the clock tower—and the bird on the roof? It's the rook—the big bird of the house that has taken the soul of the one who has passed. There, there—can you not see it? It sits and croaks through storm and rain, and doesn’t pay attention at all—and why should it? Look, it flaps its wide black wings—it croaks—ha, ha! It's coming—it's coming."

And driven, it might be by the terror of the storm, from more secure quarters, a bird, at this instant, was dashed against the window, and fell to the ground.

And driven, maybe by the fear of the storm, from safer places, a bird, at that moment, slammed into the window and fell to the ground.

"That's a call," continued Peter; "it will be over soon, and we must set out. The dead will not need to tarry. Look at that trail of fire along the avenue; dost see yon line of sparkles, like a rocket's tail? That's the path the corpse will take. St. Hermes's flickering fire, Robin Goodfellow's dancing light, or the blue flame of the corpse-candle, which I saw flitting to the churchyard last week, was not so pretty a sight—ha, ha! You[131] asked me for a song a moment ago—you shall have one now without asking."

"That's a call," Peter continued; "it will be over soon, and we need to head out. The dead won’t wait around. Look at that trail of fire down the avenue; do you see that line of sparkles, like a rocket’s tail? That’s the path the body will take. St. Hermes’s flickering fire, Robin Goodfellow’s dancing light, or the blue flame of the corpse candle, which I saw floating to the graveyard last week, wasn’t as lovely a sight—ha, ha! You[131] asked me for a song a moment ago—you’ll get one now without having to ask."

And without waiting to consult the inclinations of his comrades, Peter broke into the following wild strain with all the fervor of a half-crazed improvisatore:

And without waiting to check with his friends, Peter launched into the following wild tune with all the enthusiasm of a half-crazed improviser:

THE CORPSE-CANDLE

The corpse candle

Lambere flamma ταφος et circum funera pasci.

Lambere flame ταφος and feed around funerals.

Through the midnight darkness, a pale blue light To the churchyard, dark, it makes its lonely flight:— Three times it hovered around those ancient walls— It paused three times—until it found the grave. It glanced over the green grass, It danced over the freshly turned soil,
Like a torch flickering in the night breeze—
Never has such a cheerful thing been seen!
Never was there such a cheerful sight. As the midnight dance of that blue light!
So, what do you know about that pale blue flame? Can you tell where it's coming from, or where it's going? Is it the soul, freed from clay,
Across the earth that moves along,
And takes a moment filled with joy and happiness. Where will the body that has been buried be? Or is it the prank of some whimsical spirit,
That takes pleasure in mortal misfortune,
And mark the road that the coffin will travel,
And the place where the dead will soon be buried? Ask him who can answer these questions correctly;
I don’t know what’s causing that pale blue light!

"I can't say I like thy song, Master Peter," said Toft, as the sexton finished his stave, "but if thou didst see a corpse-candle, as thou call'st thy pale blue flame, whose death doth it betoken?—eh!"

"I can't say I like your song, Master Peter," said Toft, as the sexton finished his verse, "but if you saw a corpse candle, as you call your pale blue flame, whose death does it signify?—eh!"

"Thine own," returned Peter, sharply.[132]

"Your own," returned Peter, sharply.[132]

"Mine! thou lying old cheat—dost dare to say that to my face? Why, I'm as hale and hearty as ever a man in the house. Dost think there's no life and vigor in this arm, thou drivelling old dotard?"

"Mine! You lying old cheat—do you dare say that to my face? I'm as fit and strong as any man in the house. Do you think there’s no life and energy in this arm, you foolish old fool?"

Upon which, Toft seized Peter by the throat with an energy that, but for the timely intervention of the company, who rushed to his assistance, the prophet might himself have anticipated the doom he prognosticated.

Upon which, Toft grabbed Peter by the throat with such force that, if it weren't for the timely intervention of the group who rushed to help him, the prophet might have faced the fate he predicted himself.

Released from the grasp of Toft, who was held back by the bystanders, Peter again broke forth into his eldritch laugh; and staring right into the face of his adversary, with eyes glistening, and hands uplifted, as if in the act of calling down an imprecation on his head, he screamed, in a shrill and discordant voice, "Soh! you will not take my warning? you revile me—you flout me! 'Tis well! your fate shall prove a warning to all unbelievers—they shall remember this night, though you will not. Fool! fool!—your doom has long been sealed! I saw your wraith choose out its last lodgment on Halloween; I know the spot. Your grave is dug already—ha, ha!" And, with renewed laughter, Peter rushed out of the room.

Released from Toft’s grip, who was held back by the onlookers, Peter let out his eerie laugh again. Staring directly at his opponent, with eyes shining and hands raised as if cursing him, he shouted in a high-pitched, jarring voice, “Oh! You won’t heed my warning? You insult me—you mock me! Fine! Your fate will serve as a lesson to all non-believers—they will remember this night, even if you won’t. Fool! Fool! Your doom has been decided for a long time! I saw your spirit choose its final resting place on Halloween; I know where it is. Your grave is already dug—ha, ha!” And, with renewed laughter, Peter dashed out of the room.

"Did I not caution thee not to provoke him, friend Toft?" said Plant; "it's ill playing with edge-tools; but don't let him fly off in that tantrum—one of ye go after him."

"Didn't I warn you not to provoke him, friend Toft?" said Plant; "it's dangerous to mess with sharp objects; but don't let him blow up like that—one of you go after him."

"That will I," replied Burtenshaw; and he departed in search of the sexton.

"Sure thing," replied Burtenshaw, and he left to find the sexton.

"I'd advise thee to make it up with Peter so soon as thou canst, neighbor," continued Plant; "he's a bad friend, but a worse enemy."

"I’d recommend that you reconcile with Peter as soon as you can, neighbor," continued Plant; "he's a bad friend, but a worse enemy."

"Why, what harm can he do me?" returned Toft, who, however, was not without some misgivings. "If I must die, I can't help it—I shall go none the sooner for him, even if he speak the truth, which I don't think he do; and if I must, I sha'n't go unprepared—only I think as how, if it pleased Providence, I could have wished to keep my old missus company some few years longer, and see those bits of lasses of[133] mine grow up into women, and respectably provided for. But His will be done. I sha'n't leave 'em quite penniless, and there's one eye at least, I'm sure, won't be dry at my departure." Here the stout heart of Toft gave way, and he shed some few "natural tears," which, however, he speedily brushed away. "I'll tell you what, neighbors," continued he, "I think we may all as well be thinking of going to our own homes, for, to my mind, we shall never reach the churchyard to-night."

"Why, what harm can he do to me?" Toft replied, though he had some doubts. "If I have to die, there's nothing I can do about it—I won't go any sooner for him, even if he's telling the truth, which I don't believe he is; and if I have to go, I won't be unprepared—it's just that I would have liked to keep my old wife company for a few more years and see my little girls grow up into women and be well taken care of. But His will be done. I won't leave them completely broke, and I know at least one person who won't dry their tears when I'm gone." Here, Toft's strong heart faltered, and he shed a few "natural tears," which he quickly wiped away. "I'll tell you what, neighbors," he continued, "I think we might as well head back home, because I don't think we'll make it to the churchyard tonight."

"That you never will," exclaimed a voice behind him; and Toft, turning round, again met the glance of Peter.

"That you never will," shouted a voice behind him; and Toft, turning around, once more caught Peter's gaze.

"Come, come, Master Peter," cried the good-natured farmer, "this be ugly jesting—ax pardon for my share of it—sorry for what I did—so give us thy hand, man, and think no more about it."

"Come on, Master Peter," said the friendly farmer, "this is just a bad joke—I'm sorry for my part in it—I'm really sorry for what I did—so let’s shake hands, man, and put it behind us."

Peter extended his claw, and the parties were, apparently, once more upon terms of friendship.

Peter stretched out his claw, and it seemed that everyone was, once again, on friendly terms.


CHAPTER II

THE FUNERAL ORATION

In the northern region, customs duty was expressed. To friends who have passed away at their funeral gathering; I've looked into Hollingshed and Stow,
I find it really hard to know,
Who, to refresh those attending the grave, Burnt claret first, or Naples' biscuit provided.

King: Art of Cookery.

King: Cooking Made Easy.

Ceterum priusquam corpus humo injectâ contegatur, defunctus oratione funebri laudabatur.—Durand.

Ceterum priusquam corpus humo injectâ contegatur, defunctus oratione funebri laudabatur.—Durand.

A supply of spirits was here introduced; lights were brought at the same time, and placed upon a long oak table. The[134] party gathering round it, ill-humor was speedily dissipated, and even the storm disregarded, in the copious libations that ensued. At this juncture, a loiterer appeared in the hall. His movements were unnoticed by all excepting the sexton, who watched his proceedings with some curiosity. The person walked to the window, appearing, so far as could be discovered, to eye the storm with great impatience. He then paced the hall rapidly backwards and forwards, and Peter fancied he could detect sounds of disappointment in his muttered exclamations. Again he returned to the window, as if to ascertain the probable duration of the shower. It was a hopeless endeavor; all was pitch-dark without; the lightning was now only seen at long intervals, but the rain still audibly descended in torrents. Apparently seeing the impossibility of controlling the elements, the person approached the table.

A supply of alcohol was brought in; lights were turned on at the same time and placed on a long oak table. The[134] group gathered around it, quickly shaking off their bad moods, and even the storm was ignored amid the generous drinks that followed. At that moment, a lingerer appeared in the hall. His movements went unnoticed by everyone except the sexton, who observed him with some curiosity. The person walked to the window, seemingly trying to check the storm with great impatience. Then he paced the hall quickly, back and forth, and Peter thought he could hear sounds of disappointment in his muttered complaints. He went back to the window again, as if to gauge how long the rain would last. It was a futile effort; it was pitch-dark outside, the lightning was only visible at long intervals, but the rain continued to pour down loudly. Apparently realizing he couldn’t control the weather, the person approached the table.

"What think you of the night, Mr. Palmer?" asked the sexton of Jack, for he was the anxious investigator of the weather.

"What do you think of the night, Mr. Palmer?" asked the sexton of Jack, as he was the eager examinator of the weather.

"Don't know—can't say—set in, I think—cursed unlucky—for the funeral, I mean—we shall be drowned if we go."

"Don’t know—can’t say—settled in, I guess—cursed unlucky—for the funeral, I mean—we’ll be drowned if we go."

"And drunk if we stay," rejoined Peter. "But never fear, it will hold up, depend upon it, long before we can start. Where have they put the prisoner?" asked he, with a sudden change of manner.

"And if we stay, we'll be drunk," Peter replied. "But don't worry, it'll last, trust me, long before we can leave. Where did they put the prisoner?" he asked, suddenly changing his tone.

"I know the room, but can't describe it; it's two or three doors down the lower corridor of the eastern gallery."

"I know the room, but I can't describe it; it's two or three doors down the lower hallway of the east gallery."

"Good. Who are on guard?"

"Good. Who's on guard?"

"Titus Tyrconnel and that swivel-eyed quill-driver, Coates."

"Titus Tyrconnel and that twitchy pencil-pusher, Coates."

"Enough."

"That's enough."

"Come, come, Master Peter," roared Toft, "let's have another stave. Give us one of your odd snatches. No more corpse-candles, or that sort of thing. Something lively—something jolly—ha, ha!"

"Come on, Master Peter," shouted Toft, "let's have another drink. Give us one of your quirky tunes. No more ghost stories or that kind of stuff. Something upbeat—something fun—ha, ha!"

"A good move," shouted Jack. "A lively song from you—lillibullero from a death's-head—ha, ha!"

"A smart move," shouted Jack. "A lively song from you—lillibullero from a skull—ha, ha!"

"My songs are all of a sort," returned Peter; "I am seldom[135] asked to sing a second time. However, you are welcome to the merriest I have." And preparing himself, like certain other accomplished vocalists, with a few preliminary hems and haws, he struck forth the following doleful ditty:

"My songs are pretty much the same," replied Peter; "I hardly ever get asked to sing again. Still, you're welcome to the happiest one I've got." And getting ready, like some other skilled singers, with a few warm-up coughs and throat-clearing, he launched into the following sad tune:

THE OLD OAK COFFIN

THE OLD OAK CASKET

Sic ego componi versus in ossa velim.—Tibullus.

Sic ego componi versus in ossa velim.—Tibullus.

In a churchyard, on the grass, a coffin was placed there,
And leaning against the trees stood a grave digger with his shovel. It was an old, black coffin, crafted in a unique way,
With a charming carved oak piece, in a grotesque fantasy.
For here was created the carved image of a troubled face,
With flexible snakes that twist around it in a tight embrace. Sinister faces of grinning demons were positioned at each corner, And symbolic scrolls, skulls, and bones came together.
"Oh, what a day!" the old sexton exclaimed to himself, "Beneath that lid lies a lot hidden—many terrible mysteries." It’s an old coffin from the abbey that used to be here;
Maybe it contains the bones of an abbot or perhaps those of a friar.
"In digging deep, where monks sleep, beneath that shrine cloister," That old coffin, buried in the dirt, was my opportunity to discover; I carefully scraped the expensive carvings on the lid, I hoped to find a name or date, but I couldn't see anything.
"For over sixty years, I've worked with pick and shovel," But never found, underground, a shell as strange as that before; I've seen many coffins—I've seen them deep or flat,
"Unbelievably stylish—nothing else compares."
And saying that, he forcefully broke the lid open, And, pale with fear, a terrifying sight that the gray sexton saw; It was a terrible sight, that disgusting corpse to look at,
The final, bleak, gloomy stage of fallen humanity.
Though everything was gone except for a stinky pile of bones, a green and gruesome mess, With barely a hint of a human face, it maintained a strange posture. The hands were clenched, the teeth were gritted, as if the unfortunate person had gotten up,
Even after death had taken his breath, to struggle and break free from his prison.[136]
The neck was crooked, the nails were torn, and no limb or joint was straight; Together glued, with blood soaked, black and thickened. As the sexton bent down to lift the coffin plank,
His fingers were covered all over with a slimy, damp substance.
"Ah, what a day!" the gray sexton cried to himself, "I clearly see how Fate's decision was meant to condemn this unfortunate person to die;
A living man, a breathing man, in the coffin pushed, Oh no! Oh no! The pain before he turned to dust!"
A gloomy vision then appeared before the sexton's eyes; Like that poor soul before him, he lies straight in a coffin. He lies in a trance inside that coffin, sealed tight; Even though he is sleeping now, he feels that he will wake up eventually.
The coffin is carried slowly by solemn men, Where candles glow before the altar, where the soft requiem lingers; And for the deceased, a prayer is offered, for the soul that has not departed—
Then everything is engulfed in an empty sound, and the earth is piled on top of him!
He breathes—he rises from death to a more terrible life; To suffering! Such suffering! No living tongue can express it. He must die! That miserable one! He struggles—tries in vain; He will no longer see Heaven's light or bright sunshine again.
"Thank you, Lord!" the sexton shouted, waking up suddenly,
"If this is a dream, it still feels very terrifying to die this way.
Oh, throw my body in the sea! Or dump it on the shore!
But don’t trap me in a coffin—I'm not digging another grave.

It was not difficult to discover the effect produced by this song, in the lengthened faces of the greater part of the audience. Jack Palmer, however, laughed loud and long.

It wasn't hard to see the impact this song had on most of the audience, as reflected in their long faces. Jack Palmer, on the other hand, laughed loudly and for a long time.

"Bravo, bravo!" cried he; "that suits my humor exactly. I can't abide the thoughts of a coffin. No deal box for me."

"Awesome, awesome!" he shouted; "that fits my mood perfectly. I can't stand the idea of a coffin. No way I'm getting in one."

"A gibbet might, perhaps, serve your turn as well," muttered the sexton; adding aloud, "I am now entitled to call upon you;—a song!—a song!"

"A gallows might work for you too," muttered the sexton; then adding loudly, "I'm now allowed to ask you for a song!—a song!"

"Ay, a song, Mr. Palmer, a song!" reiterated the hinds. "Yours will be the right kind of thing."[137]

"A song, Mr. Palmer, a song!" the farmhands repeated. "Yours will be just what we need." [137]

"Say no more," replied Jack. "I'll give you a chant composed upon Dick Turpin, the highwayman. It's no great shakes, to be sure, but it's the best I have." And, with a knowing wink at the sexton, he commenced, in the true nasal whine, the following strain:

"Say no more," Jack said. "I'll give you a chant about Dick Turpin, the highwayman. It's not amazing, for sure, but it's the best I've got." And, with a knowing wink at the sexton, he started, in a true nasal whine, the following tune:

ONE FOOT IN THE STIRRUP

One foot in the stirrup

OR TURPIN'S FIRST FLING

OR TURPIN'S FIRST ROMANCE

Cum esset proposita fuga Turpi(n)s.—Cicero.

Cum esset proposita fuga Turpi(n)s.—Cicero.

"One foot in the stirrup, one hand on the reins,
And the noose will be my fate, or I'll achieve freedom!
Oh! let me take my seat in the saddle again, "And these bloodhounds will discover that the chase isn't over!"
Thus murmured Dick Turpin, who discovered, while he slept,
That the old Philistines had quietly approached while he slept; Had trapped him like a cat on her lap you'd catch, And his snappers were gone—and so was his mare. Hello!
The story of how Dick was captured is easily explained,
The chase had been intense, even though the night was chilly,
At dawn, tired, he looked for a short rest. In the middle of a cornfield, away from his enemies. But his caution was pointless—his horse, Always alert and awake in times of need,
With her lips and hooves against her master's cheek— He continued to sleep and didn't pay attention to Bess's warning.
Hello!
"Wow! Gentlemen!" shouted Turpin, "you've caught me in the act,
And the high-flying highwayman has come to a stop; You've found a winning card—because I know my worth,—
And the forty is yours, even though the noose is my destiny.
Well, whatever happens, you'll see it all clearly when it's all over,
Dick Turpin, the fearless one, was brave to the very end. But before we proceed, I’ll make you a bet,
You won't let me place that one foot in my stirrup. Hello![138]
"A hundred to one are the odds that I will stand,
The odds are a hundred to one that you command; Here’s a group of goldfinches ready to take off!
"Can I put my foot in the stirrup to give it a try?" As he spoke thoughtlessly, Dick threw a glance He motioned to her subtly from the side:—
You can tell by the unique way she tosses her head, And the twitch of her ears showed that she understood his meaning. Hello!
At first, Dick's bet was met with mockery, And his mistake at the beginning still uncorrected; But when he pulled out the coins from his pocket, And offered to "make it a hundred to two," There were plenty of gossipers, and each one whispered to the other,
The same idea, but expressed differently, "Let the fool do his foolishness—the stirrup of Bess!
"We think he's already messed up!"
Hello!
Bess was taken to her master—Dick looked on intently. At the eye of his mare, then he quickly lifted his foot; His toe hit the stirrup, and his hand grabbed the rein—
He was safe on the back of his horse again!
As the clear, battle-crying, and high-pitched sound was the neigh Of Black Bess, as she responded to his call "Hark-away!"
"Surround me, you bloodhounds! from behind and in front;
"My foot's in the stirrup, and anyone who can, catch me!"
Hello!
There was riding and teasing among the crowd and chaos, And the old woods echoed with the shouts of the Philistines!
There was throwing and spinning over bushes and thorny plants,
But Dick Turpin's path was as quick as lightning. Whipping, spurring, and straining wouldn't help at all,
Dick laughed at their insults and mocked their cries; "My foot's in the stirrup!"—this was his final shout; "Bess has answered my call; now we'll test her courage!"
Hello!

Uproarious applause followed Jack's song, when the joviality of the mourners was interrupted by a summons to attend in the state-room. Silence was at once completely restored; and, in the best order they could assume, they followed their leader,[139] Peter Bradley. Jack Palmer was amongst the last to enter, and remained a not incurious spectator of a by no means common scene.

Uproarious applause followed Jack's song when the mood of the mourners was interrupted by a call to gather in the state room. Silence was instantly restored, and in the best order they could manage, they followed their leader, [139] Peter Bradley. Jack Palmer was among the last to enter and stayed an intrigued spectator of a scene that was far from ordinary.

Preparations had been made to give due solemnity to the ceremonial. The leaden coffin was fastened down, and enclosed in an outer case of oak, upon the lid of which stood a richly-chased massive silver flagon, filled with burnt claret, called the grace-cup. All the lights were removed, save two lofty wax flambeaux, which were placed to the back, and threw a lurid glare upon the group immediately about the body, consisting of Ranulph Rookwood and some other friends of the deceased. Dr. Small stood in front of the bier; and, under the directions of Peter Bradley, the tenantry and household were formed into a wide half-moon across the chamber. There was a hush of expectation, as Dr. Small looked gravely round; and even Jack Palmer, who was as little likely as any man to yield to an impression of the kind, felt himself moved by the scene.

Preparations had been made to give the ceremony the respect it deserved. The heavy coffin was secured and placed inside an outer case of oak, on top of which rested a beautifully crafted silver flask filled with burnt claret, known as the grace-cup. All the lights were turned off except for two tall wax candles, which were positioned at the back and cast an eerie light on the group gathered around the body, including Ranulph Rookwood and a few other friends of the deceased. Dr. Small stood at the front of the coffin, and under Peter Bradley's direction, the tenants and household members formed a wide half-moon shape across the room. A silence settled over the space as Dr. Small looked around seriously; even Jack Palmer, who was not easily swayed by emotions, found himself moved by the scene.

The very orthodox Small, as is well known to our readers, held everything savoring of the superstitions of the Scarlet Woman in supreme abomination; and, entertaining such opinions, it can scarcely be supposed that a funeral oration would find much favor in his eyes, accompanied, as it was, with the accessories of censer, candle, and cup; all evidently derived from that period when, under the three-crowned pontiff's sway, the shaven priest pronounced his benediction o'er the dead, and released the penitent's soul from purgatorial flames, while he heavily mulcted the price of his redemption from the possessions of his successor. Small resented the idea of treading in such steps, as an insult to himself and his cloth. Was he, the intolerant of Papistry, to tolerate this? Was he, who could not endure the odor of Catholicism, to have his nostrils thus polluted—his garments thus defiled by actual contact with it? It was not to be thought of: and he had formally signified his declination to Mr. Coates, when a little conversation with that[140] gentleman, and certain weighty considerations therein held forth—the advowson of the church of Rookwood residing with the family—and represented by him, as well as the placing in juxtaposition of penalties to be incurred by refusal, that the scruples of Small gave way; and, with the best grace he could muster, very reluctantly promised compliance.

The very traditional Small, as our readers know well, despised everything related to the superstitions of the Scarlet Woman. Given his beliefs, it’s hard to think that a funeral speech, especially one accompanied by incense, candles, and a cup, would appeal to him. These elements clearly came from the time when, under the rule of the three-crowned pope, the shaven priest would bless the dead and rescue the sinner's soul from purgatory, all while heavily charging for their redemption from the inheritances of their successors. Small found the idea of following in such footsteps an insult to himself and his position. Was he, who was so opposed to Catholicism, supposed to accept this? Could he endure the smell of it and have his clothes soiled by actual contact? That was out of the question. He had formally told Mr. Coates he would decline, but after a brief conversation with that gentleman and considering certain serious points he raised—including the church of Rookwood being linked to his family and the potential penalties for refusing—Small’s reservations faded. With as much grace as he could muster, he reluctantly agreed to comply.

With these feelings, it will be readily conceived that the doctor was not in the best possible frame of mind for the delivery of his exhortation. His spirit had been ruffled by a variety of petty annoyances, amongst the greatest of which was the condition to which the good cheer had reduced his clerk, Zachariah Trundletext, whose reeling eye, pendulous position, and open mouth proclaimed him absolutely incapable of office. Zachariah was, in consequence, dismissed, and Small commenced his discourse unsupported. But as our recording it would not probably conduce to the amusement of our readers, whatever it might to their edification, we shall pass it over with very brief mention. Suffice it to say, that the oration was so thickly interstrewn with lengthy quotations from the fathers,—Chrysostomus, Hieronymus, Ambrosius, Basilius, Bernardus, and the rest, with whose recondite Latinity, notwithstanding the clashing of their opinions with his own, the doctor was intimately acquainted, and which he moreover delighted to quote,—that his auditors were absolutely mystified and perplexed, and probably not without design. Countenances of such amazement were turned towards him, that Small, who had a keen sense of the ludicrous, could scarcely forbear smiling as he proceeded; and if we could suspect so grave a personage of waggery, we should almost think that, by way of retaliation, he had palmed some abstruse, monkish epicedium upon his astounded auditors.

With these feelings, it’s easy to see that the doctor wasn’t in the best mindset to give his speech. He was frustrated by a number of minor annoyances, the biggest of which was the state his clerk, Zachariah Trundletext, had gotten into after the feast. Zachariah’s dazed look, slumped posture, and gaping mouth made it clear he was completely unfit for work. As a result, Zachariah was let go, and Small started his speech alone. Since recording it wouldn’t likely entertain our readers, even if it might educate them, we’ll just mention it briefly. It’s enough to say that the speech was packed with lengthy quotes from the church fathers—Chrysostom, Jerome, Ambrose, Basil, Bernard, and others—whose complex Latin Small was well-versed in and loved to share, despite their conflicting views. This left his audience utterly confused and bewildered, probably on purpose. The looks of astonishment directed his way made Small, who had a good sense of humor, almost smile as he continued. And if we could imagine such a serious person being playful, we might think he was jokingly throwing some obscure, monkish eulogy at his baffled listeners.

The oration concluded, biscuits and confectionery were, according to old observance, handed to such of the tenantry as chose to partake of them. The serving of the grace-cup, which ought to have formed part of the duties of Zachariah,[141] had he been capable of office, fell to the share of the sexton. The bowl was kissed, first by Ranulph, with lips that trembled with emotion, and afterward by his surrounding friends; but no drop was tasted—a circumstance which did not escape Peter's observation. Proceeding to the tenantry, the first in order happened to be Farmer Toft. Peter presented the cup, and as Toft was about to drain a deep draught of the wine, Peter whispered in his ear, "Take my advice for once, Friend Toft, and don't let a bubble of the liquid pass your lips. For every drop of the wine you drain, Sir Piers will have one sin the less, and you a load the heavier on your conscience. Didst never hear of sin-swallowing? For what else was this custom adopted? Seest thou not the cup's brim hath not yet been moistened? Well, as you will—ha, ha!" And the sexton passed onwards.

The speech wrapped up, and as was customary, snacks and sweets were offered to those in the tenant community who wanted some. The duty of serving the grace cup, which should have been handled by Zachariah if he had been able to perform his role, ended up being taken care of by the sexton. The bowl was first kissed by Ranulph, his lips shaking with emotion, and then by his friends around him; but no one actually took a sip—a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by Peter. Moving on to the tenants, the first in line was Farmer Toft. Peter offered him the cup, and just as Toft was about to take a big gulp of the wine, Peter leaned in and whispered, “Take my advice for once, Friend Toft, and don’t let a single drop touch your lips. For every drop of wine you drink, Sir Piers will get one sin lighter, and your conscience will be weighed down even more. Haven’t you heard of sin-swallowing? Isn’t that why this tradition exists? Can’t you see the rim of the cup hasn’t even been touched yet? Well, it’s your choice—ha, ha!” And the sexton moved on.

His work being nearly completed, he looked around for Jack Palmer, whom he had remarked during the oration, but could nowhere discover him. Peter was about to place the flagon, now almost drained of its contents, upon its former resting-place, when Small took it from his hands.

His work almost done, he looked for Jack Palmer, who he had noticed during the speech, but couldn't find him anywhere. Peter was about to put the flagon, now almost empty, back in its original spot when Small took it from him.

"In poculi fundo residuum non relinque, admonisheth Pythagoras," said he, returning the empty cup to the sexton.

"Don't leave any residue at the bottom of the cup, warns Pythagoras," he said, handing the empty cup back to the sexton.

"My task here is ended," muttered Peter, "but not elsewhere. Foul weather or fine, thunder or rain, I must to the church."

"My work here is done," Peter murmured, "but not in other places. Rain or shine, thunder or downpour, I have to get to the church."

Bequeathing his final instructions to certain of the household who were to form part of the procession, in case it set out, he opened the hall door, and, the pelting shower dashing heavily in his face, took his way up the avenue, screaming, as he strode along, the following congenial rhymes:

Bequeathing his final instructions to some of the household who were to be part of the procession, in case it set out, he opened the hall door, and, as the heavy rain pelted his face, made his way up the avenue, shouting, as he walked along, the following fitting rhymes:

EPHIALTES

EPHIALTES

I ride solo—I ride at night
Through the dark air on a white horse! I soar over the dreaming earth,
Here and there—at my whim!
[142] My body is withered, my face is aged,
My hair is frozen, and my bones are ice cold.
The wolf will howl as I walk by his den,
The dog howls, and the owl watches. As I approach, the sleeper catches their breath, And the freezing current abandons his veins!
The unfortunate person may plead in vain for compassion—
Merciless Mara, no prayers can subdue!
I drift to his couch—
I'm sitting on his chest!
Onward! onward! onward!
And one unique charm
—An empty stone!—[23]
He can scare me from over there!
I take on a thousand quirky forms; The strongest heart will tremble at my touch. The miser dreams of a bag of gold,
Or a heavy chest rested on his chest.
The drunkard groans under a barrel of wine; The partygoer sweats under a heavy coat. The coward turns, attacked by his enemies, To run away!—but his feet are stuck to the ground. The goatherd dreams of his mountaintops,
And, dizzily reeling, falls down.
The murderer feels a knife at his throat,
And he gasped, just like his victim gasped, for life!
The thief flinches from the hot brand; The sailor drowns just when land is in sight!
So I have the power to scare sinful man away,
Torture and torment, but not to kill!
But always the couch of purity, With a shuddering look, I rush past. Then let's go!
Let’s ride!
To the horse! Ride on!
The dragon breathes fire— The screech owl hoots— As I glide through the air!

CHAPTER III

THE CHURCHYARD

I thought I was walking around midnight,
Into a graveyard.

Webster: The White Devil.

Webster: The White Devil.

Lights streamed through the chancel window as the sexton entered the churchyard, darkly defining all the ramified tracery of the noble Gothic arch, and illumining the gorgeous dyes of its richly-stained glass, profusely decorated with the armorial bearings of the founder of the fane, and the many alliances of his descendants. The sheen of their blazonry gleamed bright in the darkness, as if to herald to his last home another of the line whose achievements it displayed. Glowing colorings, checkered like rainbow tints, were shed upon the broken leaves of the adjoining yew-trees, and upon the rounded grassy tombs.

Lights poured through the chancel window as the sexton walked into the churchyard, sharply outlining all the intricate designs of the grand Gothic arch and highlighting the vibrant colors of its beautifully stained glass, adorned with the family crests of the church's founder and the various connections of his descendants. The shine of their emblems stood out in the dark, as if to announce the arrival of another family member whose accomplishments they showcased. Bright, rainbow-like colors reflected off the fallen leaves of the nearby yew trees and onto the rounded grassy graves.

Opening the gate, as he looked in that direction, Peter became aware of a dark figure, enveloped in a large black cloak, and covered with a slouched hat, standing at some distance, between the window and the tree, and so intervening as to receive the full influence of the stream of radiance which served to dilate its almost superhuman stature. The sexton stopped. The figure remained stationary. There was something singular both in the costume and situation of the person. Peter's curiosity was speedily aroused, and, familiar with every inch of the churchyard, he determined to take the nearest cut, and to ascertain to whom the mysterious cloak and hat belonged. Making his way over the undulating graves, and instinctively rounding the headstones that intercepted his path, he quickly drew near the object of his inquiry. From the[144] moveless posture it maintained, the figure appeared to be unconscious of Peter's approach. To his eyes it seemed to expand as he advanced. He was now almost close upon it, when his progress was arrested by a violent grasp laid on his shoulder. He started, and uttered an exclamation of alarm. At this moment a vivid flash of lightning illumined the whole churchyard, and Peter then thought he beheld, at some distance from him, two other figures, bearing upon their shoulders a huge chest, or, it might be, a coffin. The garb of these figures, so far as it could be discerned through the drenching rain, was fantastical in the extreme. The foremost seemed to have a long white beard descending to his girdle. Little leisure, however, was allowed Peter for observation. The vision no sooner met his glance than it disappeared, and nothing was seen but the glimmering tombstones—nothing heard but the whistling wind and the heavily-descending shower. He rubbed his eyes. The muffled figure had vanished, and not a trace could be discovered of the mysterious coffin-bearers, if such they were.

Opening the gate, as he looked in that direction, Peter noticed a dark figure wrapped in a large black cloak and wearing a slouched hat, standing a distance away, between the window and the tree. The figure was positioned to catch the full radiance of the light, making its almost superhuman stature more pronounced. The sexton halted. The figure remained still. There was something strange about both the person's outfit and their situation. Peter's curiosity was quickly piqued, and since he knew the churchyard well, he decided to take the shortest route to find out who the mysterious cloak and hat belonged to. Navigating over the uneven graves and instinctively avoiding the headstones in his way, he soon got closer to the object of his curiosity. From the motionless stance it held, the figure seemed unaware of Peter's approach. To his eyes, it appeared to grow larger as he got nearer. He was almost right beside it when a sudden and forceful grip was placed on his shoulder. He jumped and let out a startled shout. At that moment, a bright flash of lightning lit up the entire churchyard, and Peter thought he saw, at a distance, two other figures carrying a huge chest, or perhaps a coffin. The attire of these figures, as far as he could see through the pouring rain, was incredibly bizarre. The leading one appeared to have a long white beard that reached his waist. However, Peter didn't have much time to observe. As soon as the sight caught his eye, it vanished, leaving only the glimmering tombstones and the sounds of the whistling wind and heavy rain. He rubbed his eyes. The cloaked figure had disappeared, and there was no trace of the mysterious coffin bearers, if that’s what they were.

"What have I seen?" mentally ejaculated Peter: "is this sorcery or treachery, or both? No body-snatchers would visit this place on a night like this, when the whole neighborhood is aroused. Can it be a vision I have seen? Pshaw! shall I juggle myself as I deceive these hinds? It was no bearded demon that I beheld, but the gipsy patrico, Balthazar. I knew him at once. But what meant that muffled figure; and whose arm could it have been that griped my shoulder? Ha! what if Lady Rookwood should have given orders for the removal of Susan's body? No, no; that cannot be. Besides, I have the keys of the vault; and there are hundreds now in the church who would permit no such desecration. I am perplexed to think what it can mean. But I will to the vault." Saying which, he hastened to the church porch, and after wringing the wet from his clothes, as a water-dog might shake the moisture from his curly hide, and doffing his broad felt hat, he[145] entered the holy edifice. The interior seemed one blaze of light to the sexton, in his sudden transition from outer darkness. Some few persons were assembled, probably such as were engaged in the preparations; but there was one group which immediately caught his attention.

"What have I just seen?" Peter thought to himself. "Is this some kind of magic or betrayal, or maybe both? No body-snatchers would come to this place on a night like this when the whole neighborhood is awake. Could it be a vision? No way! Am I tricking myself like I fool these simple folks? It wasn’t some bearded demon I saw, but the gypsy leader, Balthazar. I recognized him instantly. But what was that muffled figure? And whose hand could it have been that gripped my shoulder? What if Lady Rookwood ordered Susan’s body to be moved? No, that can’t be it. Besides, I have the keys to the vault; and there are plenty of people at the church who wouldn’t allow such a violation. I’m confused about what this all means. But I need to go to the vault.” With that, he rushed to the church porch, shook the water off his clothes like a wet dog shaking off rain, and took off his wide-brimmed hat. He[145] entered the sacred building. The inside looked like a bright blaze of light compared to the outer darkness he had just left. A few people were gathered, likely those involved in the preparations; but one group immediately caught his eye.

Near the communion-table stood three persons, habited in deep mourning, apparently occupied in examining the various monumental carvings that enriched the walls. Peter's office led him to that part of the church. About to descend into the vaults, to make the last preparations for the reception of the dead, with lantern in hand, keys, and a crowbar, he approached the party. Little attention was paid to the sexton's proceedings, till the harsh grating of the lock attracted their notice.

Near the communion table stood three people, dressed in deep mourning, seemingly busy examining the various monumental carvings that decorated the walls. Peter's role took him to that part of the church. As he was about to go down into the vaults to make the final preparations for receiving the dead, with a lantern in hand, keys, and a crowbar, he approached the group. They paid little attention to the sexton’s activities until the harsh sound of the lock caught their attention.

Peter started as he beheld the face of one of the three, and relaxing his hold upon the key, the strong bolt shot back in the lock. There was a whisper amongst the party. A light step was heard advancing towards him; and ere the sexton could sufficiently recover his surprise, or force open the door, a female figure stood by his side.

Peter jumped when he saw the face of one of the three, and as he loosened his grip on the key, the heavy bolt slid back in the lock. There was a quiet murmur among the group. A light footstep approached him, and before the sexton could fully regain his composure or manage to open the door, a woman was standing beside him.

The keen, inquiring stare which Peter bestowed upon the countenance of the young lady so much abashed her, that she hesitated in her purpose of addressing him, and hastily retired.

The curious, probing look that Peter directed at the young lady's face embarrassed her so much that she hesitated to speak to him and quickly left.

"She here!" muttered Peter; "nay, then, I must no longer withhold the dreaded secret from Luke, or Ranulph may, indeed, wrest his possessions from him."

"She's here!" muttered Peter; "Well then, I can't keep the dreaded secret from Luke any longer, or Ranulph might really take everything away from him."

Reinforced by her companions, an elderly lady and a tall, handsome man, whose bearing and deportment bespoke him to be a soldier, the fair stranger again ventured towards Peter.

Reinforced by her companions, an elderly lady and a tall, handsome man, whose posture and demeanor suggested he was a soldier, the attractive stranger stepped towards Peter again.

"You are the sexton," said she, addressing him in a voice sweet and musical.

"You are the caretaker," she said, speaking to him in a sweet and melodic voice.

"I am," returned Peter. It was harmony succeeded by dissonance.

"I am," Peter replied. It was a blend of harmony followed by dissonance.

"You, perhaps, can tell us, then," said the elderly lady, "whether the funeral is likely to take place to-night? We thought it possible that the storm might altogether prevent it."[146]

"You, maybe, can let us know," said the old lady, "if the funeral is supposed to happen tonight? We were thinking that the storm might stop it altogether."[146]

"The storm is over, as nearly as maybe," replied Peter. "The body will soon be on its way. I am but now arrived from the hall."

"The storm is basically over," replied Peter. "The body will be on its way soon. I just got back from the hall."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the lady. "None of the family will be present, I suppose. Who is the chief mourner?"

"Really!" the lady exclaimed. "I assume none of the family will be there. Who is the main mourner?"

"Young Sir Ranulph," answered the sexton. "There will be more of the family than were expected."

"Young Sir Ranulph," answered the sexton. "There will be more family members than we anticipated."

"Is Sir Ranulph returned?" asked the young lady, with great agitation of manner. "I thought he was abroad—that he was not expected. Are you sure you are rightly informed?"

"Is Sir Ranulph back?" asked the young woman, clearly anxious. "I thought he was overseas—that he wasn't expected. Are you sure you have the right information?"

"I parted with him at the hall not ten minutes since," replied Peter. "He returned from France to-night most unexpectedly."

"I just said goodbye to him in the hall, not ten minutes ago," Peter replied. "He came back from France tonight, completely unexpectedly."

"Oh, mother!" exclaimed the younger lady, "that this should be—that I should meet him here. Why did we come?—let us depart."

"Oh, Mom!" the younger woman exclaimed, "I can't believe this—I can't believe I ran into him here. Why did we come? Let's leave."

"Impossible!" replied her mother; "the storm forbids it. This man's information is so strange, I scarce can credit it. Are you sure you have asserted the truth?" said she, addressing Peter.

"Impossible!" replied her mother; "the storm won’t allow it. This man's information is so unusual, I can hardly believe it. Are you sure you've told the truth?" she asked Peter.

"I am not accustomed to be doubted," answered he. "Other things as strange have happened at the hall."

"I'm not used to being doubted," he replied. "Other strange things have happened at the hall."

"What mean you?" asked the gentleman, noticing this last remark.

"What do you mean?" asked the gentleman, noticing this last remark.

"You would not need to ask the question of me, had you been there, amongst the other guests," retorted Peter. "Odd things, I tell you, have been done there this night, and stranger things may occur before the morning."

"You wouldn’t have to ask me that question if you had been there with the other guests," Peter shot back. "Weird things, I tell you, have happened there tonight, and even stranger things might happen before morning."

"You are insolent, sirrah! I comprehend you not."

"You are rude, sir! I don’t understand you."

"Enough! I can comprehend you," replied Peter, significantly; "I know the count of the mourners invited to this ceremonial, and I am aware that there are three too many."

"Enough! I understand you," Peter replied, with emphasis; "I know how many mourners were invited to this ceremony, and I realize that there are three too many."

"Know you this saucy knave, mother?"[147]

"Do you know this cheeky guy, mom?"[147]

"I cannot call him to mind, though I fancy I have seen him before."

"I can't remember him, but I think I've seen him before."

"My recollection serves me better, lady," interposed Peter. "I remember one who was once the proud heiress of Rookwood—ay, proud and beautiful. Then the house was filled with her gallant suitors. Swords were crossed for her. Hearts bled for her. Yet she favored none, until one hapless hour. Sir Reginald Rookwood had a daughter; Sir Reginald lost a daughter. Ha!—I see I am right. Well, he is dead and buried; and Reginald, his son, is dead likewise; and Piers is on his road hither; and you are the last, as in the course of nature you might have been the first. And, now that they are all gone, you do rightly to bury your grievances with them."

"My memory serves me better, lady," Peter interrupted. "I recall someone who was once the proud heiress of Rookwood—yes, proud and beautiful. The house was filled with her charming suitors. Swords were drawn for her. Hearts were broken for her. Yet she chose none, until one unfortunate moment. Sir Reginald Rookwood had a daughter; Sir Reginald lost a daughter. Ha!—I see I'm right. Well, he is dead and buried; and Reginald, his son, is also dead; and Piers is on his way here; and you are the last, as in the natural order of things you might have been the first. And now that they are all gone, you are right to bury your grievances with them."

"Silence, sirrah!" exclaimed the gentleman, "or I will beat your brains out with your own spade."

"Be quiet, you!" shouted the man, "or I will smash your head in with your own shovel."

"No; let him speak, Vavasour," said the lady, with an expression of anguish—"he has awakened thoughts of other days."

"No; let him speak, Vavasour," said the lady, with a look of pain—"he has brought back memories of the past."

"I have done," said Peter, "and must to work. Will you descend with me, madam, into the sepulchre of your ancestry? All your family lie within—ay, and the Lady Eleanor, your mother, amongst the number."

"I’ve finished," said Peter, "and I need to get to work. Will you come with me, ma'am, into the burial place of your ancestors? Your whole family is resting in there—yes, and Lady Eleanor, your mother, is among them."

Mrs. Mowbray signified her assent, and the party prepared to follow him.

Mrs. Mowbray agreed, and the group got ready to follow him.

The sexton held the lantern so as to throw its light upon the steps as they entered the gloomy receptacle of the departed. Eleanor half repented having ventured within its dreary limits, so much did the appearance of the yawning catacombs, surcharged with mortality, and, above all, the ghostly figure of the grim knight, affect her with dread, as she looked wistfully around. She required all the support her brother's arm could afford her; nor was Mrs. Mowbray altogether unmoved.

The sexton held the lantern to light the way as they stepped into the dark resting place of the dead. Eleanor regretted stepping into such a dreary space, especially with the sight of the yawning catacombs filled with death, and above all, the terrifying figure of the grim knight, filling her with fear as she looked around. She needed all the support her brother's arm could provide; Mrs. Mowbray was also visibly affected.

"And all the family are here interred, you say?" inquired the latter.

"And all the family is buried here, you say?" the latter asked.

"All," replied the sexton.[148]

"All," replied the sexton.

"Where, then, lies Sir Reginald's younger brother?"

"Where is Sir Reginald's younger brother?"

"Who?" exclaimed Peter, starting.

"Who?" Peter exclaimed, startled.

"Alan Rookwood."

"Alan Rookwood."

"What of him?"

"What about him?"

"Nothing of moment. But I thought you could, perhaps, inform me. He died young."

"Nothing important. But I thought you might be able to, maybe, tell me. He died young."

"He did," replied Peter, in an altered tone—"very young; but not before he had lived to an old age of wretchedness. Do you know his story, madam?"

"He did," replied Peter, in a changed tone—"very young; but not before he had lived to an old age of misery. Do you know his story, ma'am?"

"I have heard it."

"I've heard it."

"From your father's lips?"

"From your dad's lips?"

"From Sir Reginald Rookwood's—never. Call him not my father, sirrah; even here I will not have him named so to me."

"From Sir Reginald Rookwood's—never. Don’t call him my father, you brat; even here I won’t let you refer to him as that."

"Your pardon, madam," returned the sexton. "Great cruelty was shown to the Lady Eleanor, and may well call forth implacable resentment in her child; yet methinks the wrong he did his brother Alan was the foulest stain with which Sir Reginald's black soul was dyed."

"Excuse me, ma'am," the sexton replied. "The Lady Eleanor suffered greatly, which could understandably provoke lasting anger in her child; however, I believe the harm he did to his brother Alan was the darkest mark on Sir Reginald's evil soul."

"With what particular wrong dost thou charge Sir Reginald?" demanded Major Mowbray. "What injury did he inflict upon his brother Alan?"

"With what specific wrongdoing do you accuse Sir Reginald?" asked Major Mowbray. "What harm did he cause his brother Alan?"

"He wronged his brother's honor," replied the sexton; "he robbed him of his wife, poisoned his existence, and hurried him to an untimely grave."

"He disrespected his brother's honor," replied the sexton; "he took away his wife, ruined his life, and pushed him towards an early grave."

Eleanor shudderingly held back during this horrible narration, the hearing of which she would willingly have shunned, had it been possible.

Eleanor shuddered and held back during this awful story, which she would have gladly avoided if she could have.

"Can this be true?" asked the major.

"Is this really true?" the major asked.

"Too true, my son," replied Mrs. Mowbray, sorrowfully.

"That's definitely true, my son," replied Mrs. Mowbray, sadly.

"And where lies the unfortunate Alan?" asked Major Mowbray.

"And where is the unfortunate Alan?" asked Major Mowbray.

"'Twixt two cross roads. Where else should the suicide lie?"

"'Between two crossroads. Where else should the suicide lie?"

Evading any further question, Peter hastily traversed the[149] vault, elevating the light so as to reveal the contents of each cell. One circumstance filled him with surprise and dismay—he could nowhere perceive the coffin of his daughter. In vain he peered into every catacomb—they were apparently undisturbed; and, with much internal marvelling and misgiving, Peter gave up the search. "That vision is now explained," muttered he; "the body is removed, but by whom? Death! can I doubt? It must be Lady Rookwood—who else can have any interest in its removal. She has acted boldly. But she shall yet have reason to repent her temerity." As he continued his search, his companions silently followed. Suddenly he stopped, and, signifying that all was finished, they not unwillingly quitted this abode of horror, leaving him behind them.

Evading any further questions, Peter quickly crossed the[149] vault, raising the light to reveal the contents of each cell. One thing filled him with surprise and dismay—he couldn't find his daughter's coffin anywhere. He peered into every catacomb in vain; they all seemed undisturbed. With a mix of wonder and dread, Peter gave up the search. "That vision makes sense now," he muttered; "the body is moved, but by whom? Death! Can I really doubt it? It must be Lady Rookwood—who else would have any interest in moving it? She's acted boldly. But she will regret her recklessness." As he continued his search, his companions silently followed. Suddenly he stopped and indicated that he was done; they left this place of horror behind, not too unwillingly, with him still there.

"It is a dreadful place," whispered Eleanor to her mother; "nor would I have visited it, had I conceived anything of its horrors. And that strange man! who or what is he?"

"It’s a terrible place," Eleanor whispered to her mother; "I never would have come here if I had any idea of its horrors. And that weird guy! Who is he?"

"Ay, who is he?" repeated Major Mowbray.

"Ay, who is he?" Major Mowbray repeated.

"I recollect him now," replied Mrs. Mowbray; "he is one who has ever been connected with the family. He had a daughter, whose beauty was her ruin: it is a sad tale; I cannot tell it now: you have heard enough of misery and guilt: but that may account for his bitterness of speech. He was a dependent upon my poor brother."

"I remember him now," replied Mrs. Mowbray; "he's always been part of the family. He had a daughter, whose beauty led to her downfall: it's a tragic story; I can't share it right now: you've heard enough about suffering and guilt: but that might explain his harsh words. He relied on my poor brother."

"Poor man!" replied Eleanor; "if he has been unfortunate, I pity him. I am sorry we have been into that dreadful place. I am very faint: and I tremble more than ever at the thought of meeting Ranulph Rookwood again. I can scarcely support myself—I am sure I shall not venture to look upon him."

"Poor guy!" replied Eleanor; "if he’s been through tough times, I feel for him. I'm sorry we went into that awful place. I'm really feeling weak: and I’m even more anxious about the thought of running into Ranulph Rookwood again. I can barely hold myself up—I’m sure I won’t have the courage to face him."

"Had I dreamed of the likelihood of his attending the ceremony, rest assured, dear Eleanor, we should not have been here: but I was informed there was no possibility of his return. Compose yourself, my child. It will be a trying time to both of us; but it is now inevitable."

"Had I known he might actually come to the ceremony, trust me, dear Eleanor, we wouldn’t be here: but I was told there was no chance he would return. Stay calm, my child. This will be a challenging time for both of us, but it's now unavoidable."

At this moment the bell began to toll. "The procession[150] has started," said Peter, as he passed the Mowbrays. "That bell announces the setting out."

At that moment, the bell started to ring. "The procession[150] has begun," Peter said as he walked by the Mowbrays. "That bell signals the start."

"See yonder persons hurrying to the door," exclaimed Eleanor, with eagerness, and trembling violently. "They are coming. Oh! I shall never be able to go through with it, dear mother."

"Look at those people rushing to the door," Eleanor exclaimed eagerly, trembling violently. "They’re coming. Oh! I don’t think I can handle this, dear mother."

Peter hastened to the church door, where he stationed himself, in company with a host of others, equally curious. Flickering lights in the distance, shining like stars through the trees, showed them that the procession was collecting in front of the hall. The rain had now entirely ceased; the thunder muttered from afar, and the lightning seemed only to lick the moisture from the trees. The bell continued to toll, and its loud booming awoke the drowsy echoes of the valley. On the sudden, a solitary, startling concussion of thunder was heard; and presently a man rushed down from the belfry, with the tidings that he had seen a ball of fire fall from a cloud right over the hall. Every ear was on the alert for the next sound; none was heard. It was the crisis of the storm. Still the funeral procession advanced not. The strong sheen of the torchlight was still visible from the bottom of the avenue, now disappearing, now brightly glimmering, as if the bearers were hurrying to and fro amongst the trees. It was evident that much confusion prevailed, and that some misadventure had occurred. Each man muttered to his neighbor, and few were there who had not in a measure surmised the cause of the delay. At this juncture, a person without his hat, breathless with haste and almost palsied with fright, rushed through the midst of them and, stumbling over the threshold, fell headlong into the church.

Peter hurried to the church door, where he joined a crowd of others who were just as curious. Flickering lights in the distance, shining like stars through the trees, indicated that the procession was gathering in front of the hall. The rain had completely stopped; thunder rumbled in the distance, and the lightning seemed to just lick the moisture off the trees. The bell kept tolling, its loud sound awakening the sleepy echoes of the valley. Suddenly, a loud crash of thunder was heard; soon after, a man rushed down from the belfry, bringing news that he had seen a fireball fall from a cloud right over the hall. Everyone was on edge, listening for the next sound; but none came. It was the peak of the storm. Yet, the funeral procession still hadn’t moved. The bright glow of the torches was still visible from the end of the avenue, now fading, now shining brightly, as if the bearers were rushing back and forth among the trees. It was clear that there was a lot of confusion, and that something had gone wrong. Each man whispered to his neighbor, and few hadn’t at least somewhat guessed the reason for the delay. At that moment, a man without his hat, breathless and almost trembling with fear, dashed through their midst and, stumbling over the threshold, fell headfirst into the church.

"What's the matter, Master Plant? What has happened? Tell us! Tell us!" exclaimed several voices simultaneously.

"What's wrong, Master Plant? What happened? Tell us! Tell us!" shouted several voices at once.

"Lord have mercy upon us!" cried Plant, gasping for utterance, and not attempting to raise himself. "It's horrible! dreadful! oh!—oh!"[151]

"Lord, have mercy on us!" shouted Plant, struggling to speak and not trying to lift himself. "It's awful! Terrible! Oh!—oh!"[151]

"What has happened?" inquired Peter, approaching the fallen man.

"What happened?" Peter asked, getting closer to the fallen man.

"And dost thou need to ask, Peter Bradley? thou, who foretold it all? but I will not say what I think, though my tongue itches to tell thee the truth. Be satisfied, thy wizard's lore has served thee right—he is dead."

"And do you need to ask, Peter Bradley? You, who predicted it all? But I won’t say what I think, even though I’m dying to tell you the truth. Just be satisfied, your wizard's knowledge has served you well—he is dead."

"Who? Ranulph Rookwood? Has anything befallen him, or the prisoner, Luke Bradley?" asked the sexton, with eagerness.

"Who? Ranulph Rookwood? Has something happened to him or the prisoner, Luke Bradley?" asked the sexton eagerly.

A scream here burst forth from one who was standing behind the group; and, in spite of the efforts of her mother to withhold her, Eleanor Mowbray rushed forward.

A scream suddenly erupted from someone standing behind the group; and, despite her mother's attempts to hold her back, Eleanor Mowbray rushed forward.

"Has aught happened to Sir Ranulph?" asked she.

"Has anything happened to Sir Ranulph?" she asked.

"Noa—noa—not to Sir Ranulph—he be with the body."

"Noa—noa—not to Sir Ranulph—he's with the body."

"Heaven be thanked for that!" exclaimed Eleanor. And then, as if ashamed of her own vehemence, and, it might seem, apparent indifference to another's fate, she inquired who was hurt.

"Heaven be thanked for that!" Eleanor exclaimed. Then, as if embarrassed by her own intensity and what seemed like indifference to someone else's situation, she asked who was hurt.

"It be poor neighbor Toft, that be killed by a thunderbolt, ma'am," replied Plant.

"It’s poor neighbor Toft who was killed by a lightning strike, ma'am," replied Plant.

Exclamations of horror burst from all around.

Exclamations of horror erupted from everywhere.

No one was more surprised at this intelligence than the sexton. Like many other seers, he had not, in all probability, calculated upon the fulfilment of his predictions, and he now stared aghast at the extent of his own foreknowledge.

No one was more surprised by this news than the sexton. Like many other forecasters, he probably hadn't expected his predictions to come true, and now he stared in shock at how much he actually knew.

"I tell 'ee what, Master Peter," said Plant, shaking his bullet-head, "it be well for thee thou didn't live in my grandfather's time, or thou'dst ha' been ducked in a blanket; or may be burnt at the stake, like Ridley and Latimer, as we read on—but however that may be, ye shall hear how poor Toft's death came to pass, and nobody can tell 'ee better nor I, seeing I were near to him, poor fellow, at the time. Well, we thought as how the storm were all over—and had all got into order of march, and were just beginning to step up the avenue, the coffin-bearers pushing lustily along, and the torches shining[152] grandly, when poor Simon Toft, who could never travel well in liquor in his life, reeled to one side, and staggering against the first huge lime-tree, sat himself down beneath it—thou knowest the tree I mean."

"I'll tell you what, Master Peter," said Plant, shaking his bullet-shaped head, "it’s a good thing you didn’t live in my grandfather’s time, or you would have been ducked in a blanket; or maybe burnt at the stake, like Ridley and Latimer, as we read about—but anyway, you’ll hear how poor Toft's death happened, and nobody can tell you better than I can since I was close to him, poor fellow, at the time. Well, we thought the storm was all over—we had all lined up and were just starting to move up the avenue, the coffin bearers pushing forward energetically, and the torches shining grandly, when poor Simon Toft, who never traveled well when he had been drinking, leaned to one side, and staggering against the first huge lime tree, sat down underneath it—you know the tree I mean."

"The tree of fate," returned Peter. "I ought, methinks, to know it."

"The tree of fate," Peter replied. "I think I should know it."

"Well, I were just stepping aside to pick him up, when all at once there comes such a crack of thunder, and, whizzing through the trees, flashed a great globe of red fire, so bright and dazzlin', it nearly blinded me; and when I opened my eyes, winkin' and waterin', I see'd that which blinded me more even than the flash—that which had just afore been poor Simon, but which was now a mass o' black smouldering ashes, clean consumed and destroyed—his clothes rent to a thousand tatters—the earth and stones tossed up, and scattered all about, and a great splinter of the tree lying beside him."

"Well, I was just stepping aside to pick him up when suddenly there was a huge crack of thunder, and a big ball of red fire shot through the trees, so bright and dazzling that it nearly blinded me. When I opened my eyes, squinting and watering, I saw something that blinded me even more than the flash—that which had just been poor Simon, but now was a heap of black smoldering ashes, completely consumed and destroyed—his clothes ripped to a thousand pieces—the earth and stones thrown up and scattered all around, with a big splinter of the tree lying next to him."

"Heaven's will be done!" said the sexton; "this is an awful judgment."

"Heaven's will be done!" said the sexton; "this is a terrible judgment."

"And Sathan cast down; for this is a spice o' his handiwork," muttered Plant; adding, as he slunk away, "If ever Peter Bradley do come to the blanket, dang me if I don't lend a helpin' hand."

"And Satan was cast down; for this is a sign of his work," muttered Plant; adding, as he walked away, "If Peter Bradley ever ends up in trouble, I swear I’ll lend a hand."


CHAPTER IV

THE FUNERAL

Like a quiet stream, covered by darkness, And gently moving with our breezy breaths,
Moves the entire frame of this seriousness!
Tears, sighs, and darkness, filling the comparison!
While I, the only sound in this grove, Of death, thus emptily emerge.

The Fatal Dowry.

The Deadly Dowry.

Word being given that the funeral train was fast approaching, the church door was thrown open, and the assemblage divided in two lines, to allow it admission.

Word got out that the funeral train was coming quickly, the church door was flung open, and the crowd split into two lines to let it in.

Meanwhile, a striking change had taken place, even in this brief period, in the appearance of the night. The sky, heretofore curtained with darkness, was now illumined by a serene, soft moon, which, floating in a watery halo, tinged with silvery radiance the edges of a few ghostly clouds that hurried along the deep and starlit skies. The suddenness of the change could not fail to excite surprise and admiration, mingled with regret that the procession had not been delayed until the present time.

Meanwhile, a remarkable change had occurred, even in this short time, in the look of the night. The sky, which had been covered in darkness, was now illuminated by a calm, soft moon that floated in a watery halo, casting a silvery glow on the edges of a few wispy clouds drifting across the deep, starry skies. The abruptness of the change was sure to spark both surprise and admiration, mixed with a sense of regret that the procession hadn't been postponed until now.

Slowly and mournfully the train was seen to approach the churchyard, winding, two by two, with melancholy step, around the corner of the road. First came Dr. Small; then the mutes, with their sable panoply; next, the torch-bearers; next, those who sustained the coffin, bending beneath their ponderous burden, followed by Sir Ranulph and a long line of attendants, all plainly to be distinguished by the flashing torchlight. There was a slight halt at the gate, and the coffin changed supporters.

Slowly and sadly, the train was seen approaching the churchyard, moving two by two with a somber pace around the bend in the road. First came Dr. Small; then the pallbearers in their dark attire; next were the torchbearers; following them were those carrying the coffin, struggling under its heavy weight, trailed by Sir Ranulph and a long line of attendants, all clearly visible in the flickering torchlight. There was a brief pause at the gate as the coffin was passed to new supporters.

"Ill luck betide them!" ejaculated Peter; "could they find[154] no other place except that to halt at? Must Sir Piers be gatekeeper till next Yule! No," added he, seeing what followed; "it will be poor Toft, after all."

"Curse their bad luck!" shouted Peter; "couldn’t they choose[154] a better spot to stop? Does Sir Piers have to be the gatekeeper until next Christmas? No," he continued, noticing what happened next; "it will end up being poor Toft, after all."

Following close upon the coffin came a rude shell, containing, as Peter rightly conjectured, the miserable remains of Simon Toft, who had met his fate in the manner described by Plant. The bolt of death glanced from the tree which it first struck, and reduced the unfortunate farmer to a heap of dust. Universal consternation prevailed, and doubts were entertained as to what course should be pursued. It was judged best by Dr. Small to remove the remains at once to the charnel-house. Thus "unanointed, unaneled, with all his imperfections on his head," was poor Simon Toft, in one brief second, in the twinkling of an eye, plunged from the height of festivity to the darkness of the grave, and so horribly disfigured, that scarce a vestige of humanity was discernible in the mutilated mass that remained of him. Truly may we be said to walk in blindness, and amidst deep pitfalls.

Following closely behind the coffin was a rough shell, containing, as Peter correctly guessed, the tragic remains of Simon Toft, who had met his end in the way Plant described. The death bolt hit the tree first, turning the unfortunate farmer into a pile of dust. There was widespread shock, and people were unsure about what to do next. Dr. Small thought it was best to take the remains directly to the charnel-house. Thus, "unanointed, unaneled, with all his imperfections on his head," poor Simon Toft was, in just a second, from the peak of celebration to the depths of the grave, so horrifically disfigured that hardly a trace of humanity was visible in the mangled remains that were left of him. Truly, we can say that we walk in blindness and amid deep pitfalls.

The churchyard was thronged by the mournful train. The long array of dusky figures—the waving torchlight gleaming ruddily in the white moonshine—now glistening upon the sombre habiliments of the bearers, and on their shrouded load, now reflected upon the jagged branches of the yew-trees, or falling upon the ivied buttresses of the ancient church, constituted no unimpressive picture. Over all, like a lamp hung in the still sky, shone the moon, shedding a soothing, spiritual lustre over the scene.

The churchyard was crowded with a sorrowful procession. The long line of dark figures—the flickering torchlight shining red in the bright moonlight—now glimmering on the dark clothing of the pallbearers and their covered burden, now reflecting off the twisted branches of the yew trees, or casting light on the ivy-covered supports of the old church, created a striking image. Above it all, like a lamp hanging in the quiet sky, the moon illuminated the scene with a calming, spiritual glow.

The organ broke into a solemn strain as the coffin was borne along the mid-aisle—the mourners following, with reverent step, and slow. It was deposited near the mouth of the vault, the whole assemblage circling around it. Dr. Small proceeded with the performance of that magnificent service appointed for the burial of the dead, in a tone as remarkable for its sadness as for its force and fervor. There was a tear in every eye—a cloud on every brow.[155]

The organ played a somber tune as the coffin was carried down the middle aisle, with the mourners following slowly and respectfully. It was placed near the entrance of the vault, and everyone gathered around it. Dr. Small began the beautiful service designated for the burial of the dead, his voice filled with both sadness and strength. There was a tear in every eye and a cloud over every brow.[155]

Brightly illumined as was the whole building, there were still some recesses which, owing to the intervention of heavy pillars, were thrown into shade; and in one of these, supported by her mother and brother, stood Eleanor, a weeping witness of the scene. She beheld the coffin silently borne along; she saw one dark figure slowly following; she knew those pale features—oh, how pale they were! A year had wrought a fearful alteration; she could scarce credit what she beheld. He must, indeed, have suffered—deeply suffered; and her heart told her that his sorrows had been for her.

Brightly lit as the whole building was, there were still some areas that, thanks to the heavy pillars, were cast in shadow; and in one of these spots, supported by her mother and brother, stood Eleanor, tearfully witnessing the scene. She watched as the coffin was quietly carried by; she noticed a dark figure slowly following behind; she recognized those pale features—oh, how pale they were! A year had made a devastating change; she could hardly believe what she saw. He must have suffered—deeply suffered; and her heart revealed to her that his pain had been because of her.

Many a wistful look, besides, was directed to the principal figure in this ceremonial, Ranulph Rookwood. He was a prey to unutterable anguish of soul; his heart bled inwardly for the father he had lost. Mechanically following the body down the aisle, he had taken his station near it, gazing with confused vision upon the bystanders; had listened, with a sad composure, to the expressive delivery of Small, until he read—"For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain; he heapeth up riches, and cannot tell who shall gather them."

Many longing glances were cast at the main figure in this ceremony, Ranulph Rookwood. He was consumed by an indescribable pain; his heart ached for the father he had lost. Mechanically following the casket down the aisle, he took his place near it, staring blankly at the mourners; he listened, with a heavy calm, to Small's heartfelt delivery until he read—"For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain; he heapeth up riches, and cannot tell who shall gather them."

"Verily!" exclaimed a deep voice; and Ranulph, looking round, met the eyes of Peter Bradley fixed full upon him. But it was evidently not the sexton who had spoken.

"Seriously!" exclaimed a deep voice; and Ranulph, looking around, met Peter Bradley's gaze fixed directly on him. But it was clear that it was not the sexton who had spoken.

Small continued the service. He arrived at this verse: "Thou hast set our misdeeds before thee; and our secret sins in the light of thy countenance."

Small continued the service. He arrived at this verse: "You have placed our wrongdoings before You; and our hidden sins in the light of Your presence."

"Even so!" exclaimed the voice; and as Ranulph raised his eyes in the direction of the sound, he thought he saw a dark figure, muffled in a cloak, disappear behind one of the pillars. He bestowed, however, at the moment, little thought upon this incident. His heart melted within him; and leaning his face upon his hand, he wept aloud.

"Even so!" exclaimed the voice; and as Ranulph lifted his eyes toward the sound, he thought he saw a dark figure, wrapped in a cloak, disappear behind one of the pillars. He didn't give much thought to this incident at the moment. His heart ached, and leaning his face on his hand, he cried out loud.

"Command yourself, I entreat of you, my dear Sir Ranulph," said Dr. Small, as soon as the service was finished, "and suffer this melancholy ceremonial to be completed."[156] Saying which, he gently withdrew Ranulph from his support, and the coffin was lowered into the vault.

"Please take charge of yourself, I beg you, my dear Sir Ranulph," said Dr. Small, as soon as the service was over, "and allow this sad ceremony to be completed."[156] With that, he gently pulled Ranulph away from his support, and the coffin was lowered into the vault.

Ranulph remained for some time in the extremity of sorrow. When he in part recovered, the crowd had dispersed, and few persons were remaining within the church; yet near him stood three apparent loiterers. They advanced towards him. An exclamation of surprise and joy burst from his lips.

Ranulph stayed in deep sorrow for a while. When he started to feel a bit better, the crowd had thinned out, and only a few people were left inside the church; however, three individuals who seemed to be lingering were still nearby. They approached him, and he couldn’t help but exclaim in surprise and joy.

"Eleanor!"

"Eleanor!"

"Ranulph!"

"Ranulph!"

"Is it possible? Do I indeed behold you, Eleanor?"

"Is it really possible? Am I actually seeing you, Eleanor?"

No other word was spoken. They rushed into each other's arms. Oh! sad—sad is the lover's parting—no pang so keen; but if life hath a zest more exquisite than others—if felicity hath one drop more racy than the rest in her honeyed cup, it is the happiness enjoyed in such a union as the present. To say that he was as one raised from the depths of misery by some angel comforter, were a feeble comparison of the transport of Ranulph. To paint the thrilling delight of Eleanor—the trembling tenderness—the fond abandonment which vanquished all her maiden scruples, would be impossible. Reluctantly yielding—fearing, yet complying, her lips were sealed in one long, loving kiss, the sanctifying pledge of their tried affection.

No other words were said. They rushed into each other's arms. Oh! sad—sad is the lover's parting—no pain so sharp; but if life has a flavor more exquisite than others—if happiness has one drop richer than the rest in her honeyed cup, it is the joy found in a union like this. To say he felt like someone pulled from the depths of despair by some angelic comfort would be a weak comparison to the ecstasy Ranulph experienced. To describe the thrilling delight of Eleanor—the trembling tenderness—the devoted surrender that overcame all her shy reservations would be impossible. Reluctantly giving in—fearful yet compliant, her lips were sealed in one long, loving kiss, the sacred promise of their enduring affection.

"Eleanor, dear Eleanor," exclaimed Ranulph, "though I hold you within my arms—though each nerve within my frame assures me of your presence—though I look into those eyes, which seem fraught with greater endearment than ever I have known them wear—though I see and feel and know all this, so sudden, so unlooked for is the happiness, that I could almost doubt its reality. Say to what blessed circumstance I am indebted for this unlooked-for happiness."

"Eleanor, dear Eleanor," Ranulph exclaimed, "even though I hold you in my arms—though every nerve in my body tells me you’re here—though I gaze into those eyes, which seem to hold more affection than I’ve ever seen in them—though I see, feel, and know all this, the happiness is so sudden and unexpected that I can hardly believe it’s real. Please tell me what wonderful chance I owe this surprise happiness to."

"We are staying not far hence, with friends, dear Ranulph; and my mother, hearing of Sir Piers Rookwood's death, and wishing to bury all animosity with him, resolved to be present at the sad ceremony. We were told you could not be here."[157]

"We're staying nearby with friends, dear Ranulph; and my mother, having heard about Sir Piers Rookwood's death and wanting to put all past conflicts behind her, decided to attend the sad ceremony. We were informed that you wouldn't be able to make it."[157]

"And would my presence have prevented your attendance, Eleanor?"

"And would my being there have kept you from coming, Eleanor?"

"Not that, dear Ranulph; but——"

"Not that, dear Ranulph; but—"

"But what?"

"But why?"

At this moment the advance of Mrs. Mowbray offered an interruption to their further discourse.

At this moment, Mrs. Mowbray's approach interrupted their conversation.

"My son and I appear to be secondary in your regards, Sir Ranulph," said she, gravely.

"My son and I seem to be less important to you, Sir Ranulph," she said seriously.

"Sir Ranulph!" mentally echoed the young man. "What will she think when she knows that that title is not mine? I dread to tell her." He then added aloud, with a melancholy smile, "I crave your pardon, madam; the delight of a meeting so unexpected with your daughter must plead my apology."

"Sir Ranulph!" the young man thought to himself. "What will she think when she finds out that title isn't really mine? I’m scared to tell her." Then he said out loud, with a sad smile, "I beg your pardon, madam; the joy of an unexpected meeting with your daughter must be my excuse."

"None is wanting, Sir Ranulph," said Major Mowbray. "I who have known what separation from my sister is, can readily excuse your feelings. But you look ill."

"None are missing, Sir Ranulph," said Major Mowbray. "I, who have experienced separation from my sister, can easily understand your feelings. But you look unwell."

"I have, indeed, experienced much mental anxiety," said Ranulph, looking at Eleanor; "it is now past, and I would fain hope that a brighter day is dawning." His heart answered, 'twas but a hope.

"I've really been through a lot of mental stress," said Ranulph, looking at Eleanor; "it's behind me now, and I'm hopeful that a brighter day is coming." His heart replied, it was just a hope.

"You were unlooked for here to-night, Sir Ranulph," said Mrs. Mowbray; "by us, at least: we were told you were abroad."

"You weren't expected here tonight, Sir Ranulph," said Mrs. Mowbray; "at least not by us: we were told you were away."

"You were rightly informed, madam," replied Ranulph. "I only arrived this evening from Bordeaux."

"You were correctly informed, ma'am," replied Ranulph. "I just got here this evening from Bordeaux."

"I am glad you are returned. We are at present on a visit with your neighbors, the Davenhams, at Braybrook, and trust we shall see you there."

"I’m glad you’re back. Right now, we’re visiting your neighbors, the Davenhams, at Braybrook, and we hope to see you there."

"I will ride over to-morrow," replied Ranulph; "there is much on which I would consult you all. I would have ventured to request the favor of your company at Rookwood, had the occasion been other than the present."

"I'll ride over tomorrow," Ranulph replied; "there's a lot I want to discuss with all of you. I would have asked you to join me at Rookwood, if it weren't for the current situation."

"And I would willingly have accepted your invitation," returned Mrs. Mowbray; "I should like to see the old house once more. During your father's lifetime I could not approach[158] it. You are lord of broad lands, Sir Ranulph—a goodly inheritance."

"And I would gladly have accepted your invitation," replied Mrs. Mowbray; "I would love to see the old house again. When your father was alive, I couldn’t get close to it. You are the master of vast lands, Sir Ranulph—a fine inheritance."

"Madam!"

"Ma'am!"

"And a proud title, which you will grace well, I doubt not. The first, the noblest of our house, was he from whom you derive your name. You are the third Sir Ranulph; the first founded the house of Rookwood; the next advanced it; 'tis for you to raise its glory to its height."

"And it's a proud title that I have no doubt you'll live up to. The first and the noblest of our family was the one you get your name from. You are the third Sir Ranulph; the first established the Rookwood house, and the next took it to the next level; now it's your turn to elevate its glory to the highest point."

"Alas! madam, I have no such thought."

"Unfortunately! Ma'am, I have no such thought."

"Wherefore not? you are young, wealthy, powerful. With such domains as those of Rookwood—with such a title as its lord can claim, naught should be too high for your aspirations."

"Why not? You're young, rich, and powerful. With lands like those of Rookwood—and a title that comes with it, nothing should be too ambitious for your dreams."

"I aspire to nothing, madam, but your daughter's hand; and even that I will not venture to solicit until you are acquainted with——" And he hesitated.

"I want nothing, ma'am, but your daughter's hand; and even that I won't dare to ask for until you know——" And he paused.

"With what?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, in surprise.

"With what?" Mrs. Mowbray asked, surprised.

"A singular, and to me most perplexing event has occurred to-night," replied Ranulph, "which may materially affect my future fortunes."

"A unique and, to me, highly confusing event happened tonight," replied Ranulph, "which could significantly impact my future prospects."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray. "Does it relate to your mother?"

"Really!" Mrs. Mowbray said. "Does it have to do with your mom?"

"Excuse my answering the question now, madam," replied Ranulph; "you shall know all to-morrow."

"Sorry for answering the question now, ma'am," Ranulph replied, "you'll find out everything tomorrow."

"Ay, to-morrow, dear Ranulph," said Eleanor; "and whatever that morrow may bring forth, it will bring happiness to me, if you are bearer of the tidings."

"Yeah, tomorrow, dear Ranulph," said Eleanor; "and whatever that tomorrow brings, it will bring me happiness if you are the one delivering the news."

"I shall expect your coming with impatience," said Mrs. Mowbray.

"I'll be waiting for you to arrive with impatience," said Mrs. Mowbray.

"And I," added Major Mowbray, who had listened thus far in silence, "would offer you my services in any way you think they would be useful. Command me as you think fitting."

"And I," added Major Mowbray, who had listened quietly so far, "would like to offer my help in any way you find it useful. Just let me know how you want me to assist."

"I thank you heartily," returned Ranulph. "To-morrow you shall learn all. Meanwhile, it shall be my business to investigate the truth or falsehood of the statement I have heard, ere I report it to you. Till then, farewell."[159]

"I truly appreciate it," Ranulph replied. "Tomorrow, you'll find out everything. In the meantime, I will look into whether what I've heard is true or not before I tell you. Until then, goodbye."[159]

As they issued from the church it was gray dawn. Mrs. Mowbray's carriage stood at the door. The party entered it; and accompanied by Dr. Small, whom he found within in the vestry, Ranulph walked towards the hall, where a fresh surprise awaited him.

As they came out of the church, it was early morning and still gray. Mrs. Mowbray's carriage was at the door. The group got in, and with Dr. Small, who he found inside the vestry, Ranulph headed toward the hall, where another surprise awaited him.


CHAPTER V

THE CAPTIVE

Black Will. Where is the place we're supposed to hide?
Green.This inner space.
Black Will. That's good. The message is, "Now I take you."

Arden of Feversham.

Arden of Feversham.

Guarded by the two young farmers who had displayed so much address in seizing him, Luke, meanwhile, had been conveyed in safety to the small chamber in the eastern wing, destined by Mr. Coates to be his place of confinement for the night. The room, or rather closet, opening from another room, was extremely well adapted for the purpose, having no perceptible outlet; being defended, on either side, by thick partition walls of the hardest oak, and at the extremity by the solid masonry of the mansion. It was, in fact, a remnant of the building anterior to the first Sir Ranulph's day; and the narrow limits of Luke's cell had been erected long before the date of his earliest progenitor. Having seen their prisoner safely bestowed, the room was carefully examined, every board sounded, every crevice and corner peered into by the curious eye of the little lawyer; and nothing being found insecure, the light was removed, the door locked, the rustic constables dismissed, and a brace of pistols having been loaded and laid on the table, Mr. Coates pronounced himself thoroughly satisfied and quite comfortable.[160]

Guarded by the two young farmers who had skillfully captured him, Luke was brought safely to the small room in the eastern wing, which Mr. Coates had designated as his confinement for the night. The room, or rather a closet that opened from another room, was extremely well-suited for this purpose, having no obvious exits; it was flanked on either side by thick partition walls of solid oak, and at the far end by the sturdy masonry of the mansion. In fact, it was a remnant of the building that predated the first Sir Ranulph, and the confined space of Luke's cell had been built long before his earliest ancestor. Once they had secured their prisoner, the room was thoroughly inspected—every floorboard tapped, every crack and corner scrutinized by the inquisitive gaze of the little lawyer; and finding everything secure, the light was extinguished, the door was locked, the rural constables were dismissed, and after loading a pair of pistols and placing them on the table, Mr. Coates declared himself completely satisfied and quite at ease.[160]

Comfortable! Titus heaved a sigh as he echoed the word. He felt anything but comfortable. His heart was with the body all the while. He thought of the splendor of the funeral, the torches, the illumined church, his own dignified march down the aisle, and the effect he expected to produce amongst the bewildered rustics. He thought of all these things, and cursed Luke by all the saints in the calendar. The sight of the musty old apartment, hung round with faded arras, which, as he said, "smelt of nothing but rats and ghosts, and suchlike varmint," did not serve to inspirit him; and the proper equilibrium of his temper was not completely restored until the appearance of the butler, with all the requisites for the manufacture of punch, afforded him some prospective solace.

Comfortable! Titus sighed as he repeated the word. He felt anything but comfortable. His mind was focused on the body the whole time. He reflected on the grandeur of the funeral, the torches, the lit church, his own dignified walk down the aisle, and the impression he expected to make on the confused locals. He thought about all these things and cursed Luke by all the saints on the calendar. The sight of the musty old apartment, draped in faded tapestries, which, as he put it, "smelled of nothing but rats and ghosts, and other pests," didn't lift his spirits; and he didn’t fully regain his composure until the butler showed up with everything needed to make punch, offering him some hopeful comfort.

"And what are they about now, Tim?" asked Titus.

"And what are they talking about now, Tim?" asked Titus.

"All as jolly as can be," answered the domestic; "Dr. Small is just about to pronounce the funeral 'ration."

"Everything is as cheerful as can be," replied the housekeeper; "Dr. Small is just about to announce the funeral arrangements."

"Devil take it," ejaculated Titus, "there's another miss! Couldn't I just slip out, and hear that?"

"Devil take it," shouted Titus, "there's another miss! Can't I just slip out and listen to that?"

"On no account," said Coates. "Consider, Sir Ranulph is there."

"Absolutely not," said Coates. "Just think, Sir Ranulph is right there."

"Well, well," rejoined Titus, heaving a deep sigh, and squeezing a lemon; "are you sure this is biling water, Tim? You know, I'm mighty particular."

"Well, well," replied Titus, taking a deep sigh and squeezing a lemon. "Are you sure this is biling water, Tim? You know I’m really particular about that."

"Perfectly aware of it, sir."

"Fully aware of it, sir."

"Ah, Tim, do you recollect the way I used to brew for poor Sir Piers, with a bunch of red currants at the bottom of the glass? And then to think that, after all, I should be left out of his funeral—it's the height of barbarity. Tim, this rum of yours is poor stuff—there's no punch worth the trouble of drinking, except whisky-punch. A glass of right potheen, straw-color, peat-flavor, ten degrees over proof, would be the only thing to drown my cares. Any such thing in the cellar? There used to be an odd bottle or so, Tim—in the left bin, near the door."

"Hey, Tim, do you remember how I used to make drinks for poor Sir Piers, with a handful of red currants at the bottom of the glass? And to think that, in the end, I won’t even be included in his funeral—it’s downright barbaric. Tim, this rum of yours is terrible—there’s no punch worth drinking, except for whisky punch. A glass of proper potheen, straw-colored, with a hint of peat, ten degrees over proof, would be the only thing to ease my worries. Is there anything like that in the cellar? There used to be a random bottle or two, Tim—in the left bin, near the door."

"I've a notion there be," returned Timothy. "I'll try the[161] bin your honor mentions, and if I can lay hands upon a bottle you shall have it, you may depend."

"I think there is," Timothy replied. "I'll check the [161] bin you mentioned, and if I can find a bottle, you can count on it."

The butler departed, and Titus, emulating Mr. Coates, who had already enveloped himself, like Juno at the approach of Ixion, in a cloud, proceeded to light his pipe.

The butler left, and Titus, following Mr. Coates' example, who had already wrapped himself in a cloud like Juno when Ixion was near, started to light his pipe.

Luke, meanwhile, had been left alone, without light. He had much to meditate upon, and with naught to check the current of his thoughts, he pensively revolved his present situation and future prospects. The future was gloomy enough—the present fraught with danger. And now that the fever of excitement was passed, he severely reproached himself for his precipitancy.

Luke, on the other hand, was left alone in the dark. He had a lot to think about, and with nothing to interrupt his thoughts, he seriously considered his current situation and future possibilities. The future looked pretty bleak, and the present was full of danger. Now that the rush of excitement had faded, he harshly criticized himself for acting so hastily.

His mind, by degrees, assumed a more tranquil state; and, exhausted with his great previous fatigue, he threw himself upon the floor of his prison-house, and addressed himself to slumber. The noise he made induced Coates to enter the room, which he did with a pistol in each hand, followed by Titus with a pipe and candle; but finding all safe the sentinels retired.

His mind gradually became more peaceful, and, worn out from his earlier exhaustion, he collapsed onto the floor of his prison and fell asleep. The sound he made prompted Coates to come into the room, armed with a pistol in each hand, followed by Titus holding a pipe and a candle; but upon finding everything okay, the guards left.

"One may see, with half an eye, that you're not used to a feather-bed, my friend," said Titus, as the door was locked. "By the powers, he's a tall chap, anyhow—why his feet almost touch the door. I should say that room was a matter of six feet long, Mr. Coates."

"One can easily see that you're not used to a feather bed, my friend," said Titus as he locked the door. "By the way, he's a tall guy—his feet nearly touch the door. I'd say that room is about six feet long, Mr. Coates."

"Exactly six feet, sir."

"Exactly six feet, dude."

"Well, that's a good guess. Hang that ugly rascal, Tim; he's never brought the whisky. But I'll be even with him to-morrow. Couldn't you just see to the prisoner for ten minutes, Mr. Coates?"

"Well, that's a decent guess. Hang that ugly guy, Tim; he's never brought the whisky. But I'll get even with him tomorrow. Could you check on the prisoner for just ten minutes, Mr. Coates?"

"Not ten seconds. I shall report you, if you stir from your post."

"Not ten seconds. I will report you if you move from your spot."

Here the door was opened, and Tim entered with the whisky.

Here the door swung open, and Tim walked in with the whisky.

"Arrah! by my soul, Tim, and here you are at last—uncork it, man, and give us a thimbleful—blob! there goes the stopper—here's[162] a glass"—smacking his lips—"whist, Tim, another drop—stuff like this will never hurt a body. Mr. Coates, try it—no—I thought you'd be a man of more taste."

"Wow! Finally, Tim, here you are—pop it open, man, and pour us a little—oops! there goes the cork—here's[162] a glass"—smacking his lips—"hey, Tim, another splash—drinking this won’t hurt anyone. Mr. Coates, give it a shot—no—I figured you’d have better taste."

"I must limit you to a certain quantity," replied Coates, "or you will not be fit to keep guard—another glass must be the extent of your allowance."

"I have to limit you to a certain amount," Coates replied, "or you won't be able to keep watch—another drink should be the maximum you can have."

"Another glass! and do you think I'll submit to any such iniquitous proposition?"

"Another drink! Do you really think I'll agree to such an unfair suggestion?"

"Beg pardon, gentlemen," said Tim, "but her ladyship desires me to tell you both, that she trusts you will keep the strictest watch upon the prisoner. I have the same message also from Sir Ranulph."

"Excuse me, gentlemen," said Tim, "but her ladyship wants me to let you both know that she expects you to keep a very close eye on the prisoner. I also have the same message from Sir Ranulph."

"Do you hear that?" said Coates.

"Do you hear that?" Coates asked.

"And what are they all about now, Tim?" groaned Titus.

"And what are they all about now, Tim?" sighed Titus.

"Just starting, sir," returned Tim; "and, indeed, I must not lose my time gossiping here, for I be wanted below. You must be pleased to take care of yourselves, gentlemen, for an hour or so, for there will be only a few women-kind left in the house. The storm's just over, and the men are all lighting their torches. Oh, it's a grand sight!" And off set Tim.

"Just getting started, sir," Tim replied, "and I really shouldn’t waste time chatting here since they need me downstairs. You gentlemen will need to take care of yourselves for about an hour, as there will only be a few women left in the house. The storm just passed, and the men are all lighting their torches. Oh, it's quite a sight!" And off went Tim.

"Bad luck to myself, anyhow," ejaculated Titus; "this is more than I can bear—I've had enough of this watch and ward business—if the prisoner stirs, shoot him, if you think proper—I'll be back in an hour."

"Bad luck for me, anyway," shouted Titus; "this is more than I can handle—I’m done with this whole watch and guard situation—if the prisoner moves, shoot him if you think it’s right—I’ll be back in an hour."

"I tell you what, Mr. Tyrconnel," said Coates, coolly taking up the pistol from the table, "I'm a man of few words, but those few are, I hope, to the purpose, and I'd have you to know if you stir from that chair, or attempt to leave the room, damme but I'll send a brace of bullets after you. I'm serious, I assure you." And he cocked the pistol.

"I'll tell you what, Mr. Tyrconnel," Coates said, calmly picking up the pistol from the table, "I'm not one for a lot of words, but the few I have, I hope, are meaningful. I want you to know that if you get up from that chair or try to leave the room, I swear I'll fire a couple of bullets your way. I'm serious, I promise you." And he cocked the pistol.

By way of reply to this menace, Titus deliberately filled a stiff glass of whisky-and-water.

By way of response to this threat, Titus purposefully poured a stiff glass of whiskey and water.

"That's your last glass," said the inexorable Coates.

"That's your last drink," said the relentless Coates.

To return once more to Luke. He slept uneasily for some[163] short space, and was awakened by a sound which reached his dreaming ears and connected itself with the visions that slumber was weaving around him. It was some moments before he could distinctly remember where he was. He would not venture to sleep again, though he felt overwhelmed by drowsiness—there was a fixed pain at his heart, as if circulation were suspended. Changing his posture, he raised himself upon one arm; he then became aware of a scratching noise, somewhat similar to the sound he had heard in his dream, and perceived a light gleaming through a crevice in the oaken partition. His attention was immediately arrested, and placing his eye close to the chink, he distinctly saw a dark lantern burning, and by its light a man filing some implement of housebreaking. The light fell before the hard features of the man, with whose countenance Luke was familiar; and although only one person came within the scope of his view, Luke could make out, from a muttered conversation that was carried on, that he had a companion. The parties were near to him, and though speaking in a low tone, Luke's quick ear caught the following:

To go back to Luke. He slept fitfully for a short while and was awakened by a sound that reached his dreaming ears and connected with the visions that sleep was spinning around him. It took him a few moments to clearly remember where he was. He wouldn’t risk going back to sleep, even though he felt incredibly drowsy—there was a constant pain in his chest, as if his circulation had stopped. Changing his position, he propped himself up on one arm; then he noticed a scratching noise, somewhat similar to what he had heard in his dream, and saw light shining through a crack in the wooden partition. His attention was immediately captured, and as he leaned closer to the opening, he clearly saw a dark lantern glowing, and by its light, a man filing some tool for breaking in. The light illuminated the hard features of the man, whose face Luke recognized; and although he could only see one person, Luke could tell from the quiet conversation happening that he had a companion. The two were close to him, and although they were speaking softly, Luke's sharp ears caught the following:

"What keeps Jack Palmer, I wonder?" said he of the file. "We're all ready for the fakement—pops primed—and I tell you what, Rob Rust, I've made my clasp-knife as sharp as a razor, and damme, if Lady Rookwood offers any resistance, I'll spoil her talking in future, I promise you."

"What do you think is holding Jack Palmer up?" said the guy with the file. "We're all set for the scam—pops are loaded—and let me tell you, Rob Rust, I've made my pocketknife as sharp as a razor, and I swear, if Lady Rookwood puts up any fight, I'll make sure she can't talk anymore, I promise you."

Suppressed laughter from Rust followed this speech. That laugh made Luke's blood run cold within his veins.

Suppressed laughter from Rust followed this speech. That laugh made Luke's blood run cold.

"Harkee, Dick Wilder, you're a reg'lar out-and-outer, and stops at nothing, and curse me if I'd think any more of it than yourself. But Jack's as squeamish of bloodshed as young Miss that cries at her cut finger. It's the safer plan. Say what you will, nothing but that will stop a woman's tongue."

"Hear me out, Dick Wilder, you're a real risk-taker who stops at nothing, and I swear I wouldn't think any differently than you. But Jack is as sensitive about bloodshed as a young girl who cries over a cut finger. It's the safer approach. Say what you want, nothing but that will silence a woman's tongue."

"I shall make short work with her ladyship to-night, anyhow. Hist! here Jack comes."

"I'll take care of her ladyship tonight, no matter what. Listen! Here comes Jack."

A footstep crossed in the room, and, presently afterwards,[164] exclamations of surprise and smothered laughter were heard from the parties.

A footstep was heard in the room, and soon after,[164] exclamations of surprise and muffled laughter came from the group.

"Bravo, Jack! famous! that disguise would deceive the devil himself."

"Great job, Jack! That disguise could fool anyone."

"And now, my lads," said the newcomer, "is all right?"

"And now, guys," said the newcomer, "is everything good?"

"Right and tight."

"Just right."

"Nothing forgotten?"

"Did you remember everything?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing."

"Then off with your stamps, and on with your list slippers; not a word. Follow me, and, for your lives, don't move a step but as I direct you. The word must be, 'Sir Piers Rookwood calls.' We'll overhaul the swag here. This crack may make us all for life; and if you'll follow my directions implicitly, we'll do the trick in style. This slum must be our rendezvous when all's over; for hark ye, my lads, I'll not budge an inch till Luke Bradley be set free. He's an old friend, and I always stick by old friends. I'd do the same for one of you if you were in the same scrape, so, damn you, no flinching; besides, I owe that spider-shanked, snivelling split-cause Coates, who stands sentry, a grudge, and I'll pay him off, as Paul did the Ephesians. You may crop his ears, or slit his tongue as you would a magpie's, or any other chattering varmint; make him sign his own testament, or treat him with a touch of your Habeas Corpus Act, if you think proper, or give him a taste of blue plumb. One thing only I stipulate, that you don't hurt that fat, mutton-headed Broganeer, whatever he may say or do; he's a devilish good fellow. And now to business."

"Now take off your boots and put on your soft shoes; not a word. Follow me, and whatever you do, don’t take a step unless I say so. The code is, 'Sir Piers Rookwood calls.' We'll sort out the loot here. This job could set us up for life; and if you follow my instructions to the letter, we’ll pull it off in style. This place should be our meeting point when it’s all done; listen up, guys, I won’t move an inch until Luke Bradley is freed. He's an old friend, and I always stick by my friends. I’d do the same for any of you if you were in a bind, so no backing down; besides, I’ve got a score to settle with that scrawny, whining Coates, who’s playing guard, and I’ll take care of him, just like Paul did with the Ephesians. You can clip his ears or cut out his tongue like you would a magpie or any other chatterbox; make him sign his own confession, or give him a taste of your Habeas Corpus Act, if you like, or let him enjoy some blue plumb. There’s just one thing I insist on: don’t hurt that chubby, thick-headed Broganeer, no matter what he says or does; he’s actually a really good guy. Now, let’s get down to business."

Saying which, they noiselessly departed. But carefully as the door was closed, Luke's ear could detect the sound. His blood boiled with indignation; and he experienced what all must have felt who have been similarly situated, with the will, but not the power, to assist another—a sensation almost approaching to torture. At this moment a distant scream burst upon his ears—another—he hesitated no longer. With all his force he thundered at the door.[165]

Saying that, they quietly left. But even as the door was shut, Luke could hear the sounds. His blood boiled with anger, and he felt what anyone in his position would feel—having the desire but not the ability to help someone else, a sensation almost like torture. At that moment, a distant scream reached his ears—another one—he didn’t hesitate any longer. With all his strength, he slammed his fist against the door.[165]

"What do you want, rascal?" cried Coates, from without.

"What do you want, you little troublemaker?" shouted Coates from outside.

"There are robbers in the house."

"There are burglars in the house."

"Thank you for the information. There is one I know of already."

"Thanks for the info. I already know of one."

"Fool, they are in Lady Rookwood's room. Run to her assistance."

"Fool, they’re in Lady Rookwood’s room. Go help her."

"A likely story, and leave you here."

"A believable story, and just leave you here."

"Do you hear that scream?"

"Did you hear that scream?"

"Eh, what—what's that? I do hear something." Here Luke dashed with all his force against the door. It yielded to the blow, and he stood before the astonished attorney.

"Uh, what—what's that? I can hear something." Luke then charged with all his strength at the door. It gave way to the impact, and he found himself standing before the shocked attorney.

"Advance a footstep, villain," exclaimed Coates, presenting both his pistols, "and I lodge a brace of balls in your head."

"Take a step forward, you thug," shouted Coates, aiming both his guns, "and I'll put a couple of bullets in your head."

"Listen to me," said Luke; "the robbers are in Lady Rookwood's chamber—they will plunder the place of everything—perhaps murder her. Fly to her assistance, I will accompany you—assist you—it is your only chance."

"Listen to me," Luke said. "The robbers are in Lady Rookwood's room—they're going to steal everything—maybe even kill her. Hurry to help her, I’ll go with you—I’ll help you—it’s your only chance."

"My only chance—your only chance. Do you take me for a greenhorn? This is a poor subterfuge; could you not have vamped up something better? Get back to your own room, or I shall make no more of shooting you than I would of snuffing that candle."

"My only opportunity—your only opportunity. Do you think I’m a rookie? This is a weak excuse; couldn’t you have come up with something better? Go back to your own room, or I’ll treat you like I would that candle and snuff you out."

"Be advised, sir," continued Luke. "There are three of them—give me a pistol, and fear nothing."

"Just so you know, sir," Luke continued. "There are three of them—give me a gun, and don't worry."

"Give you a pistol! Ha, ha!—to be its mark myself. You are an amusing rascal, I will say."

"Give you a pistol! Ha, ha!—to be its target myself. You really are a funny guy, I'll admit."

"Sir, I tell you not a moment is to be lost. Is life nothing? Lady Rookwood may be murdered."

"Sir, I’m telling you that we can’t waste a second. Is life meaningless? Lady Rookwood could be killed."

"I tell you, once for all, it won't do. Go back to your room, or take the consequences."

"I’m telling you right now, this is not okay. Go back to your room, or face the consequences."

"By the powers! but it shall do, anyhow," exclaimed Titus, flinging himself upon the attorney, and holding both his arms; "you've bullied me long enough. I'm sure the lad's in the right."

"By the powers! But it will do, anyway," shouted Titus, throwing himself at the attorney and grabbing both of his arms; "you've pushed me around long enough. I'm sure the kid is right."

Luke snatched the pistols from the hands of Coates.[166]

Luke grabbed the pistols from Coates' hands.[166]

"Very well, Mr. Tyrconnel; very well, sir," cried the attorney, boiling with wrath, and spluttering out his words. "Extremely well, sir. You are not perhaps aware, sir, what you have done; but you will repent this, sir—repent, I say—repent was my word, Mr. Tyrconnel."

"Alright, Mr. Tyrconnel; alright, sir," shouted the attorney, fuming with anger and stammering his words. "Just great, sir. You might not realize what you've done, but you'll regret this, sir—regret, I say—regret was my word, Mr. Tyrconnel."

"Poh!—poh!" replied Titus. "I shall never repent a good-natured action."

"Pfft!—pfft!" replied Titus. "I will never regret doing something kind."

"Follow me," cried Luke; "settle your disputes hereafter. Quick, or we shall be too late."

"Follow me," shouted Luke; "resolve your arguments later. Hurry up, or we'll miss our chance."

Coates bustled after him, and Titus, putting the neck of the forbidden whisky bottle to his lips, and gulping down a hasty mouthful, snatched up a rusty poker, and followed the party with more alacrity than might have been expected from so portly a personage.

Coates hurried after him, and Titus, bringing the neck of the forbidden whiskey bottle to his lips and quickly taking a hasty swig, grabbed a rusty poker and followed the group with more energy than one might expect from someone so heavyset.


CHAPTER VI

THE APPARITION

Gibbet. Well, gentlemen, 'tis a fine night for our enterprise.

Gibbet. Well, guys, it’s a great night for our mission.

Hounslow. Dark as hell.

Hounslow. Dark as hell.

Bagshot. And blows like the devil.

Bagshot. And fights like crazy.

Boniface. You'll have no creature to deal with but the ladies.

Boniface. You'll only have to deal with the ladies.

Gibbet. And I can assure you, friend, there's a great deal of address, and good manners, in robbing a lady. I am the most of a gentleman, that way, that ever travelled the road.

Gibbet. And I can tell you, my friend, there’s a real skill and good etiquette in robbing a lady. I’m more of a gentleman in that respect than anyone who’s ever traveled this road.

Beaux Stratagem.

Beau Stratagem.

Accompanied by her son, Lady Rookwood, on quitting the chamber of the dead, returned to her own room. She then renewed all her arguments; had recourse to passionate supplications—to violent threats, but without effect. Ranulph maintained profound silence. Passion, as it ever doth, defeated its own ends; and Lady Rookwood, seeing the ill effect her anger would probably produce, gradually softened the asperity of her manner, and suffered him to depart.[167]

Accompanied by her son, Lady Rookwood left the room of the dead and returned to her own. She then repeated all her arguments, resorted to emotional pleas, and even made violent threats, but none of it worked. Ranulph remained completely silent. Passion, as it often does, proved counterproductive; and Lady Rookwood, realizing how her anger would likely backfire, slowly relaxed her harsh demeanor and allowed him to leave.[167]

Left to herself, and to the communings of her own troubled spirit, her fortitude, in a measure, forsook her, under the pressure of the difficulties by which she was environed. There was no plan she could devise—no scheme adopt, unattended with peril. She must act alone—with promptitude and secrecy. To win her son over was her chief desire, and that, at all hazards, she was resolved to do. But how? She knew of only one point on which he was vulnerable—his love for Eleanor Mowbray. By raising doubts in his mind, and placing fresh difficulties in his path, she might compel him to acquiesce in her machinations, as a necessary means of accomplishing his own object. This she hoped to effect. Still there was a depth of resolution in the placid stream of Ranulph's character which she had often noticed with apprehension. Aware of his firmness, she dreaded lest his sense of justice should be stronger than his passion.

Left to her own thoughts and the struggles of her troubled spirit, her courage, to some extent, left her, weighed down by the difficulties surrounding her. There was no plan she could come up with—no scheme she could follow that didn't involve risk. She had to act alone—with urgency and stealth. Winning her son over was her main goal, and no matter what it took, she was determined to do it. But how? She only knew of one weakness he had—his love for Eleanor Mowbray. By planting doubts in his mind and putting new obstacles in his way, she might force him to go along with her plans as a means to achieve his own goals. This was her hope. Still, there was a depth of determination in Ranulph's calm demeanor that she had often observed with concern. Knowing his firmness, she feared that his sense of justice would be stronger than his passion.

As she wove these webs of darkness, fear, hitherto unknown, took possession of her soul. She listened to the howling of the wind—to the vibration of the rafters—to the thunder's roar, and to the hissing rain—till she, who never trembled at the thought of danger, became filled with vague uneasiness. Lights were ordered; and when her old attendant returned. Lady Rookwood fixed a look so wistful upon her, that Agnes ventured to address her.

As she spun these webs of darkness, fear, something she had never felt before, took over her soul. She listened to the howling wind, the creaking rafters, the rumble of thunder, and the hissing rain—until she, who never flinched at the idea of danger, was filled with a vague sense of unease. Lights were requested; and when her elderly attendant came back, Lady Rookwood gave her a look so longing that Agnes decided to speak to her.

"Bless you, my lady," said the ancient handmaiden, trembling, "you look very pale, and no wonder. I feel sick at heart, too. Oh! I shall be glad when they return from the church, and happier still when the morning dawns. I can't sleep a wink—can't close my eyes, but I think of him."

"Bless you, my lady," said the old handmaiden, shaking, "you look really pale, and it’s no surprise. I feel sick inside, too. Oh! I’ll be so relieved when they come back from the church, and even happier when morning comes. I can’t sleep at all—I can’t shut my eyes without thinking of him."

"Of him?"

"About him?"

"Of Sir Piers, my lady; for though he's dead, I don't think he's gone."

"About Sir Piers, my lady; even though he’s dead, I don’t believe he’s really gone."

"How?"

"How?"

"Why, my lady, the corruptible part of him's gone, sure enough. But the incorruptible, as Dr. Small calls it—the[168] sperrit, my lady. It might be my fancy, your ladyship; but as I'm standing here, when I went back into the room just now for the lights, as I hope to live, I thought I saw Sir Piers in the room."

"Well, my lady, the part of him that can be corrupted is definitely gone. But the part that can’t be corrupted, as Dr. Small says—the[168]spirit, my lady. It might just be my imagination, your ladyship; but as I stand here, when I went back into the room just now for the lights, I swear I thought I saw Sir Piers in there."

"You are crazed, Agnes."

"You've lost it, Agnes."

"No, my lady, I'm not crazed; it was mere fancy, no doubt. Oh, it's a blessed thing to live with an easy conscience—a thrice blessed thing to die with an easy one, and that's what I never shall, I'm afeard. Poor Sir Piers! I'd mumble a prayer for him, if I durst."

"No, my lady, I'm not crazy; it was just a whim, no doubt. Oh, it's a wonderful thing to live with a clear conscience—an even greater blessing to die with one, and that's something I fear I never will. Poor Sir Piers! I'd say a prayer for him if I had the courage."

"Leave me," said Lady Rookwood, impatiently.

"Leave me," Lady Rookwood said, feeling annoyed.

And Agnes quitted the room.

And Agnes left the room.

"What if the dead can return?" thought Lady Rookwood. "All men doubt it, yet all men believe it. I would not believe it, were there not a creeping horror that overmasters me, when I think of the state beyond the grave—that intermediate state, for such it must be, when the body lieth mouldering in the ground, and the soul survives, to wander, unconfined, until the hour of doom. And doth the soul survive when disenthralled? Is it dependent on the body? Does it perish with the body? These are doubts I cannot resolve. But if I deemed there was no future state, this hand should at once liberate me from my own weaknesses—my fears—my life. There is but one path to acquire that knowledge, which, once taken, can never be retraced. I am content to live—while living, to be feared—it may be, hated; when dead, to be contemned—yet still remembered. Ha! what sound was that? A stifled scream! Agnes!—without there! She is full of fears. I am not free from them myself, but I will shake them off. This will divert their channel," continued she, drawing from her bosom the marriage certificate. "This will arouse the torpid current of my blood—'Piers Rookwood to Susan Bradley.' And by whom was it solemnized? The name is Checkley—Richard Checkley. Ha! I bethink me—a Papist priest—a recusant—who was for some time an inmate of the hall. I have heard[169] of this man—he was afterwards imprisoned, but escaped—he is either dead or in a foreign land. No witnesses—'tis well! Methinks Sir Piers Rookwood did well to preserve this. It shall light his funeral pyre. Would he could now behold me, as I consume it!"

"What if the dead can come back?" thought Lady Rookwood. "Everyone doubts it, but deep down, everyone believes it. I wouldn’t believe it myself if it weren't for this creeping dread that overwhelms me when I think about what comes after death—that in-between state it has to be, when the body is decaying in the ground, and the soul lives on, wandering freely until the day of judgment. Does the soul continue to exist once it's free? Is it tied to the body? Does it die with the body? These are questions I can’t answer. But if I thought there was no afterlife, this hand would quickly free me from my own weaknesses—my fears—my life. There’s only one way to gain that knowledge, a path that, once taken, can never be turned back from. I’m okay with living—being feared while alive—it may even be that I’m hated; when I’m gone, to be looked down on—but still remembered. Ha! What was that sound? A muffled scream! Agnes!—is that you? She's full of fears. I can’t say I’m free of them myself, but I will shake them off. This will change their course," she said, pulling out the marriage certificate from her dress. "This will revive the sluggish flow of my blood—'Piers Rookwood to Susan Bradley.' And who officiated? The name is Checkley—Richard Checkley. Ha! I remember—he was a Catholic priest, a recusant—who stayed at the hall for a while. I’ve heard of this man—he was later imprisoned, but escaped—he’s either dead or in another country. No witnesses—good! I think Sir Piers Rookwood did well to keep this. It will light his funeral pyre. I wish he could see me now as I burn it!"

She held the paper in the direction of the candle; but, ere it could touch the flame, it dropped from her hand. As if her horrible wish had been granted, before her stood the figure of her husband! Lady Rookwood started not. No sign of trepidation or alarm, save the sudden stiffening of her form, was betrayed. Her bosom ceased to palpitate—her respiration stopped—her eyes were fixed upon the apparition.

She held the paper towards the candle; but before it could touch the flame, it slipped from her hand. As if her terrible wish had come true, her husband appeared before her! Lady Rookwood didn’t flinch. No sign of fear or panic, except for the sudden stiffening of her body, showed. Her chest stopped rising and falling—her breathing halted—her eyes were locked on the apparition.

The figure appeared to regard her sternly. It was at some little distance, within the shade cast by the lofty bedstead. Still she could distinctly discern it. There was no ocular deception; it was attired in the costume Sir Piers was wont to wear—a hunting dress. All that her son had told her rushed to her recollection. The phantom advanced. Its countenance was pale, and wore a gloomy frown.

The figure seemed to look at her in a serious way. It was a bit far away, within the shadow created by the tall bed. Still, she could clearly see it. There was no trick of the light; it was wearing the outfit Sir Piers usually wore—a hunting outfit. Everything her son had told her flooded back to her mind. The ghost moved closer. Its face was pale and had a dark scowl.

"What would you destroy?" demanded the apparition, in a hollow tone.

"What would you destroy?" the apparition asked in a hollow voice.

"The evidence of——"

"The proof of——"

"What?"

"What’s up?"

"Your marriage."

"Your wedding."

"With yourself, accursed woman?"

"With you, cursed woman?"

"With Susan Bradley."

"With Susan Bradley."

"What's that I hear?" shouted the figure, in an altered tone. "Married to her! then Luke is legitimate, and heir to this estate!" Whereupon the apparition rushed to the table, and laid a very substantial grasp upon the document. "A marriage certificate!" ejaculated the spectre; "here's a piece of luck! It ain't often in our lottery life we draw a prize like this. One way or the other, it must turn up a few cool thousands."

"What's that I hear?" shouted the figure in a changed tone. "Married to her! Then Luke is legitimate and heir to this estate!" With that, the apparition rushed to the table and firmly grasped the document. "A marriage certificate!" exclaimed the specter; "here's a stroke of luck! It's not often in our lottery of life that we draw a prize like this. One way or another, this has to bring in some serious cash."

"Restore that paper, villain," exclaimed Lady Rookwood,[170] recovering all the audacity natural to her character the instant she discovered the earthly nature of the intruder—"restore it, or, by Heaven, you shall rue your temerity."

"Give back that paper, you scoundrel," shouted Lady Rookwood,[170] regaining all the boldness typical of her character the moment she realized the intruder was just a regular person—"return it, or, I swear, you will regret your boldness."

"Softly, softly," replied the pseudo-phantom, with one hand pushing back the lady, while the other conveyed the precious document to the custody of his nether man—"softly," said he, giving the buckskin pocket a slap—"two words to that, my lady. I know its value as well as yourself, and must make my market. The highest offer has me, your ladyship; he's but a poor auctioneer that knocks down his ware when only one bidder is present. Luke Bradley, or, as I find he now is, Sir Luke Rookwood, may come down more handsomely."

"Easy does it," said the fake ghost, pushing the lady back with one hand while the other handed off the important document to his accomplice—"easy," he added, slapping the leather pocket—"two words about that, my lady. I know its worth as well as you do, and I need to make my deal. The highest bidder gets me, your ladyship; it’s a bad auctioneer who sells his goods with only one bidder in the room. Luke Bradley, or as he’s now called, Sir Luke Rookwood, might offer a better price."

"Who are you, ruffian, and to what end is this masquerade assumed? If for the purpose of terrifying me into compliance with the schemes of that madman, Luke Bradley, whom I presume to be your confederate, your labor is misspent—your stolen disguise has no more weight with me than his forged claims."

"Who are you, thug, and why are you putting on this act? If it's to scare me into going along with the plans of that lunatic, Luke Bradley, who I assume is your partner in crime, then you're wasting your time—your stolen disguise means nothing to me, just like his fake claims."

"Forged claims! Egad, he must be a clever hand to have forged that certificate. Your ladyship, however, is in error. Sir Luke Rookwood is no associate of mine; I am his late father's friend. But I have no time to bandy talk. What money have you in the house? Be alive."

"Fake claims! Wow, he must be really skilled to have faked that certificate. However, your ladyship, you're mistaken. Sir Luke Rookwood is not my associate; I'm a friend of his late father. But I don't have time to chat. How much money do you have in the house? Hurry up."

"You are a robber, then?"

"You’re a robber, then?"

"Not I. I'm a tax-gatherer—a collector of Rich-Rates—ha, ha! What plate have you got? Nay, don't be alarmed—take it quietly—these things can't be helped—better make up your mind to do it without more ado—much the best plan—no screaming, it may injure your lungs, and can alarm nobody. Your maids have done as much before—it's beneath your dignity to make so much noise. So, you will not heed me? As you will." Saying which, he deliberately cut the bell-cord, and drew out a brace of pistols at the same time.

"Not me. I'm a tax collector—a collector of Rich-Rates—ha, ha! What silverware do you have? Now, don’t freak out—just take it easy—these things can’t be helped—better to get it over with quickly—much better plan—no yelling, it might hurt your lungs, and it won’t scare anyone. Your maids have done this before—it’s beneath your dignity to make such a fuss. So, you aren’t going to listen to me? As you wish." With that, he intentionally cut the bell cord and pulled out a pair of pistols at the same time.

"Agnes!" shrieked Lady Rookwood, now seriously alarmed.

"Agnes!" Lady Rookwood screamed, now really worried.

"I must caution your ladyship to be silent," said the robber,[171] who, as our readers will no doubt have already conjectured, was no other than the redoubted Jack Palmer. "Agnes is already disposed of," said he, cocking a pistol. "However like your deceased 'lord and master' I may appear, you will find you have got a very different spirit from that of Sir Piers to deal with. I am naturally the politest man breathing—have been accounted the best-bred man on the road by every lady whom I have had the honor of addressing; and I should be sorry to sully my well-earned reputation by anything like rudeness. I must use a little force, of the gentlest kind. Perhaps you will permit me to hand you to a chair. Bless me! what a wrist your ladyship has got. Excuse me if I hurt you, but you are so devilish strong. What ho! 'Sir Piers Rookwood calls—'"

"I have to warn you to be quiet," said the robber,[171] who, as our readers have probably already guessed, was none other than the infamous Jack Palmer. "Agnes is already taken care of," he said, aiming a pistol. "No matter how much I may resemble your late 'lord and master,’ you’ll find that you're dealing with a very different spirit than Sir Piers. I am naturally the politest person you'll ever meet—I’ve been called the best-mannered person on the road by every lady I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with; and I wouldn't want to tarnish my hard-earned reputation with any kind of rudeness. I’ll have to use a little force, but of the gentlest kind. Perhaps I can help you to a chair. My goodness! what a strong wrist you have, madam. Please excuse me if I hurt you, but you're incredibly strong. What ho! 'Sir Piers Rookwood calls—'"

"Ready," cried a voice.

"Ready!" shouted a voice.

"That's the word," rejoined another; "ready;" and immediately two men, their features entirely hidden by a shroud of black crape, accoutred in rough attire, and each armed with pistols, rushed into the room.

"That's the word," responded another; "ready;" and right away two men, their faces completely covered by a veil of black fabric, dressed in rough clothing, and each carrying pistols, stormed into the room.

"Lend a hand," said Jack.

"Help out," said Jack.

Even in this perilous extremity Lady Rookwood's courage did not desert her. Anticipating their purpose, ere her assailants could reach her she extricated herself from Palmer's grasp, and rushed upon the foremost so unexpectedly, that, before the man could seize her, she snatched a pistol from his hand, and presented it at the group with an aspect like that of a tigress at bay—her eye wandering from one to the other, as if selecting a mark.

Even in this dangerous situation, Lady Rookwood's bravery didn’t fail her. Anticipating what they intended to do, before her attackers could get to her, she broke free from Palmer's hold and charged at the first man so suddenly that, before he could grab her, she snatched a pistol from his hand and aimed it at the group with the fierce look of a cornered tigress—her gaze moving from one person to another as if choosing a target.

There was a pause of a few seconds, in which the men glanced at the lady, and then at their leader. Jack looked blank.

There was a brief pause, during which the men exchanged glances with the lady and then with their leader. Jack looked confused.

"Hem!" said he, coolly; "this is something new—disarmed—defied by a petticoat. Hark ye, Rob Rust, the disgrace rests with you. Clear your character, by securing her at once. What! afraid of a woman?"[172]

“Hem!” he said, casually. “This is something new—disarmed—challenged by a woman. Listen up, Rob Rust, the shame is on you. Clear your name by capturing her immediately. What? Scared of a woman?”[172]

"A woman!" repeated Rust, in a surly tone; "devilish like a woman, indeed. Few men could do what she has done. Give the word, and I fire. As to seizing her, that's more than I'll engage to do."

"A woman!" Rust said again, sounding annoyed. "She’s really something else, like a woman, for sure. Not many men could pull off what she has. Just say the word, and I’ll shoot. But as for capturing her, that’s asking for too much."

"You are a coward," cried Jack. "I will steer clear of blood—if I can help it. Come, madam, surrender, like the more sensible part of your sex, at discretion. You will find resistance of no avail." And he stepped boldly towards her.

"You’re a coward," yelled Jack. "I’ll avoid bloodshed—if I can help it. Come on, lady, give up, like the smarter part of your gender, voluntarily. You’ll find that fighting back won’t do any good." And he stepped confidently toward her.

Lady Rookwood pulled the trigger. The pistol flashed in the pan. She flung away the useless weapon without a word.

Lady Rookwood pulled the trigger. The gun fired without a bang. She tossed aside the useless weapon without saying a word.

"Ha, ha!" said Jack, as he leisurely stooped to pick up the pistol, and approached her ladyship; "the bullet is not yet cast that is to be my billet. Here," said he, dealing Rust a heavy thump upon the shoulder with the butt-end of the piece, "take back your snapper, and look you prick the touchhole, or your barking-iron will never bite for you. And now, madam, I must take the liberty of again handing you to a seat. Dick Wilder, the cord—quick. It distresses me to proceed to such lengths with your ladyship—but safe bind, safe find, as Mr. Coates would say."

"Ha, ha!" Jack chuckled as he casually bent down to pick up the pistol and walked over to her ladyship. "The bullet hasn't been fired yet that will seal my fate. Here," he said, giving Rust a solid thump on the shoulder with the butt of the gun, "take back your weapon, and make sure you prime the touchhole, or your gun won't fire for you. And now, madam, I must kindly assist you to a seat again. Dick Wilder, the rope—hurry. It bothers me to go to such lengths with you, but as Mr. Coates would say, 'better safe than sorry.'"

"You will not bind me, ruffian."

"You won't tie me up, thug."

"Your ladyship is very much mistaken—I have no alternative—your ladyship's wrist is far too dexterous to be at liberty. I must furthermore request of your ladyship to be less vociferous—you interrupt business, which should be transacted with silence and deliberation."

"You're very much mistaken—I have no choice—your wrist is way too skilled to be free. I must also ask you to be quieter—you’re interrupting business that should be done in silence and with careful thought."

Lady Rookwood's rage and vexation at this indignity were beyond all bounds. Resistance, however, was useless, and she submitted in silence. The cord was passed tightly round her arms, when it flashed upon her recollection for the first time that Coates and Tyrconnel, who were in charge of her captive in the lower corridor, might be summoned to her assistance. This idea no sooner crossed her mind than she uttered a loud and prolonged scream.[173]

Lady Rookwood's anger and frustration at this humiliation were off the charts. However, resisting was pointless, so she stayed quiet. The rope was tied tightly around her arms when it hit her for the first time that Coates and Tyrconnel, who were guarding her in the lower hallway, could be called for help. As soon as this thought crossed her mind, she let out a loud and long scream.[173]

"'Sdeath!" cried Jack; "civility is wasted here. Give me the gag, Rob."

"'Damn it!" shouted Jack; "manners are pointless here. Hand me the gag, Rob."

"Better slit her squeaking-pipe at once," replied Rust, drawing his clasped knife; "she'll thwart everything."

"Better cut her off right now," replied Rust, pulling out his knife; "she'll mess up everything."

"The gag, I say, not that."

"The joke, I say, not that."

"I can't find the gag," exclaimed Wilder, savagely. "Leave Rob Rust to manage her—he'll silence her, I warrant you, while you and I rummage the room."

"I can't find the prank," exclaimed Wilder, angrily. "Leave Rob Rust to handle her—he'll shut her up, I promise you, while you and I search the room."

"Ay, leave her to me," said the other miscreant. "Go about your business, and take no heed. Her hands are fast—she can't scratch. I'll do it with a single gash—send her to join her lord, whom she loved so well, before he's under ground. They'll have something to see when they come home from the master's funeral—their mistress cut and dry for another. Ho, ho!"

"Yeah, leave her to me," said the other villain. "Go on with your business and don’t pay any attention. Her hands are tied—she can’t scratch. I’ll take care of it with one quick cut—send her to be with her husband, whom she loved so much, before he’s buried. They’ll have quite a sight to see when they come back from the master’s funeral— their mistress all set for someone else. Ha, ha!"

"Mercy, mercy!" shrieked Lady Rookwood.

"Help, help!" shrieked Lady Rookwood.

"Ay, ay, I'll be merciful," said Rust, brandishing his knife before her eyes. "I'll not be long about it. Leave her to me—I'll give her a taste of Sir Sydney."

"Ay, ay, I'll be merciful," said Rust, waving his knife in front of her. "I won't take long. Leave her to me—I'll give her a taste of Sir Sydney."

"No, no, Rust; no bloodshed," said Jack, authoritatively; "I'll find some other way to gag the jade."

"No, no, Rust; no violence," said Jack, confidently; "I'll figure out another way to silence the girl."

At this moment a noise of rapid footsteps was heard within the passage.

At that moment, the sound of quick footsteps echoed in the hallway.

"Assistance comes," screamed Lady Rookwood. "Help! help!"

"Help is here!" screamed Lady Rookwood. "Somebody help!"

"To the door!" cried Jack. The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Luke dashed into the room, followed by Coates and Tyrconnel.

"To the door!" shouted Jack. The words had barely left his mouth when Luke rushed into the room, followed by Coates and Tyrconnel.

Palmer and his companions levelled their pistols at the intruders, and the latter would have fired, but Jack's keen eye having discerned Luke amongst the foremost, checked further hostilities for the present. Lady Rookwood, meanwhile, finding herself free from restraint, rushed towards her deliverers, and crouched beneath Luke's protecting arms, which were extended, pistol in hand, over her head. Behind them stood[174] Titus Tyrconnel, flourishing the poker, and Mr. Coates, who, upon the sight of so much warlike preparation, began somewhat to repent having rushed so precipitately into the lion's den.

Palmer and his friends aimed their guns at the intruders, who were ready to shoot. However, Jack quickly spotted Luke in the front line and halted any further attacks for the time being. Lady Rookwood, meanwhile, realized she was free and rushed toward her rescuers, ducking under Luke's outstretched arms, which were raised with a gun protecting her. Behind them stood[174] Titus Tyrconnel, swinging the poker, and Mr. Coates, who, upon seeing all the weaponry, started to regret having rushed so boldly into such a dangerous situation.

"Luke Bradley!" exclaimed Palmer, stepping forward.

"Luke Bradley!" Palmer exclaimed, stepping forward.

"Luke Bradley!" echoed Lady Rookwood, recoiling and staring into his face.

"Luke Bradley!" exclaimed Lady Rookwood, pulling back and staring into his face.

"Fear nothing, madam," cried Luke. "I am here to assist you—I will defend you with my life."

"Don't worry, ma'am," Luke shouted. "I'm here to help you—I'll protect you with my life."

"You defend me!" exclaimed Lady Rookwood, doubtfully.

"You defend me!" exclaimed Lady Rookwood, uncertain.

"Even I," cried Luke, "strange as it may sound."

"Even me," shouted Luke, "as strange as it might sound."

"Holy powers protect me!" ejaculated Titus. "As I live, it is Sir Piers himself."

"Holy powers, protect me!" shouted Titus. "As I live, it’s Sir Piers himself."

"Sir Piers!" echoed Coates, catching the infection of terror, as he perceived Palmer more distinctly. "What! is the dead come to life again? A ghost, a ghost!"

"Sir Piers!" echoed Coates, caught up in the wave of fear, as he saw Palmer more clearly. "What! Has the dead come back to life? A ghost, a ghost!"

"By my soul," cried Titus, "it's the first ghost I ever heard of that committed a burglary in its own house, and on the night of the body's burial, too. But who the devil are these? maybe they're ghosts likewise."

"By my soul," shouted Titus, "this is the first ghost I've ever heard of that broke into its own house on the night of its burial. But who the hell are these? Maybe they're ghosts too."

"They are," said Palmer, in a hollow tone, mimicking the voice of Sir Piers, "attendant spirits. We are come for this woman; her time is out; so no more palavering, Titus. Lend a hand to take her to the churchyard, and be hanged to you."

"They are," said Palmer, in a hollow tone, mimicking the voice of Sir Piers, "attendant spirits. We’ve come for this woman; her time is up; so no more talking, Titus. Help carry her to the churchyard, and good luck to you."

"Upon my conscience, Mr. Coates," cried Titus, "it's either the devil, or Sir Piers. We'll be only in the way here. He's only just settling his old scores with his lady. I thought it would come to this long ago. We'd best beat a retreat."

"Honestly, Mr. Coates," shouted Titus, "it's either the devil or Sir Piers. We're just getting in the way here. He's only just sorting things out with his lady. I figured it would come to this a while ago. We should probably back off."

Jack took advantage of the momentary confusion created by this incidental alarm at his disguise to direct Rust towards the door by which the new comers had entered; and, this being accomplished, he burst into a loud laugh.

Jack seized the brief confusion caused by the unexpected alarm about his disguise to guide Rust toward the door through which the newcomers had come in; once that was done, he burst into a loud laugh.

"What! not know me?" cried he—"not know your old friend with a new face, Luke? Nor you, Titus? Nor you,[175] who can see through a millstone, lawyer Coates, don't you recognize——"

"What! You don't recognize me?" he exclaimed. "Don't you see your old friend with a new look, Luke? Or you, Titus? And you, [175] who can see through a millstone, lawyer Coates, don't you know——"

"Jack Palmer, as I'm a sinner!" cried Titus. "Why, this beats Banaghan. Arrah! Jack, honey, what does this mean? Is it yourself I see in such company? You're not robbing in earnest?"

"Jack Palmer, are you kidding me!" shouted Titus. "Wow, this is better than Banaghan. Come on! Jack, what’s going on? Is that really you hanging out with them? You’re not seriously robbing, are you?"

"Indeed but I am, friend Titus," exclaimed Jack; "and it is my own self you see. I just took the liberty of borrowing Sir Piers's old hunting-coat from the justice-room. You said my toggery wouldn't do for the funeral. I'm no other than plain Jack Palmer, after all."

"Yes, it’s really me, friend Titus," Jack exclaimed; "and it is my own self you see. I just borrowed Sir Piers's old hunting coat from the justice room. You said my outfit wouldn’t be appropriate for the funeral. I'm just plain Jack Palmer, after all."

"With half a dozen aliases at your back, I dare say," cried Coates. "I suspected you all along. All your praise of highwaymen was not lost upon me. No, no; I can see into a millstone, be it ever so thick."

"With six different names behind you, I must say," shouted Coates. "I suspected you the whole time. All your admiration for highwaymen didn't escape my notice. No, no; I can see through a millstone, no matter how thick it is."

"Well," replied Jack, "I'm sorry to see you here, friend Titus. Keep quiet, and you shall come to no harm. As to you, Luke Bradley, you have anticipated my intention by half an hour; I meant to set you free. For you, Mr. Coates, you may commit all future care of your affairs to your executors, administrators, and assigns. You will have no further need to trouble yourself with worldly concerns," added he, levelling a pistol at the attorney, who, however, shielded himself, in an agony of apprehension, behind Luke's person. "Stand aside, Luke."

"Well," Jack said, "I'm sorry to see you here, my friend Titus. Stay quiet, and you won't get hurt. As for you, Luke Bradley, you beat me to it by half an hour; I was going to set you free. And you, Mr. Coates, you can leave all future management of your affairs to your executors, administrators, and assigns. You won't need to worry about worldly matters anymore," he added, aiming a pistol at the attorney, who, in a panic, hid behind Luke. "Step aside, Luke."

"I stir not," replied Luke. "I thank you for your good intention, and will not injure you—that is, if you do not force me to do so. I am here to defend her ladyship."

"I won’t move," Luke replied. "I appreciate your good intentions, and I won’t hurt you—unless you make me do it. I’m here to protect her ladyship."

"What's that you say?" returned Jack, in surprise—"defend her ladyship?"

"What's that you said?" Jack replied, surprised—"defend her ladyship?"

"With my life," replied Luke. "Let me counsel you to depart."

"With my life," Luke replied. "Let me advise you to leave."

"Are you mad? Defend her—Lady Rookwood—your enemy—who would hang you? Tut, tut! Stand aside, I say, Luke Bradley, or look to yourself."[176]

"Are you crazy? Defend her—Lady Rookwood—your enemy—who would hang you? Come on! Step aside, I say, Luke Bradley, or watch out for yourself."[176]

"You had better consider well ere you proceed," said Luke. "You know me of old. I have taken odds as great, and not come off the vanquished."

"You should think carefully before you go ahead," said Luke. "You know me well. I’ve faced tough challenges before and come out on top."

"The odds are even," cried Titus, "if Mr. Coates will but show fight. I'll stand by you to the last, my dear boy. You're the right son of your father, though on the wrong side. Och! Jack Palmer, my jewel, no wonder you resemble Dick Turpin."

"The odds are even," shouted Titus, "if Mr. Coates is willing to put up a fight. I’ll stand with you until the end, my dear boy. You’re just like your father, even if you’re on the wrong side. Oh! Jack Palmer, my treasure, it’s no surprise you look like Dick Turpin."

"You hear this?" cried Luke.

"You hear this?" shouted Luke.

"Hot-headed fool!" muttered Jack.

"Hot-headed idiot!" muttered Jack.

"Why don't you shoot him on the spot?" said Wilder.

"Why don't you just shoot him right there?" said Wilder.

"And mar my own chance," thought Jack. "No, that will never do; his life is not to be thrown away. Be quiet," said he, in a whisper to Wilder; "I've another card to play, which shall serve us better than all the plunder here. No harm must come to that youngster; his life is worth thousands to us." Then, turning to Luke, he continued, "I'm loth to hurt you; yet what can I do? You must have the worst of it if we come to a pitched battle. I therefore advise you, as a friend, to draw off your forces. We are three to three, it is true; but two of your party are unarmed."

"And ruin my own chance," thought Jack. "No, that won't work; his life shouldn't be wasted. Just be quiet," he whispered to Wilder; "I've got another plan that will help us more than all the loot here. No harm can come to that kid; his life is worth thousands to us." Then, turning to Luke, he continued, "I really don’t want to hurt you; but what can I do? You’ll have the worst of it if we get into a full-on fight. So, as a friend, I suggest you pull back your forces. We may be three against three, but two of your team are unarmed."

"Unarmed!" interrupted Titus. "Devil burn me! this iron shillelah shall convince you to the contrary, Jack, or any of your friends."

"Unarmed!" interrupted Titus. "Damn it! This iron club will prove you wrong, Jack, or any of your friends."

"Make ready then, my lads," cried Palmer.

"Get ready then, guys," shouted Palmer.

"Stop a minute," exclaimed Coates. "This gets serious; it will end in homicide—in murder. We shall all have our throats cut to a certainty; and though these rascals will as certainly be hanged for it, that will be poor satisfaction to the sufferers. Had we not better refer the matter to arbitration?"

"Wait a minute," Coates said. "This is getting serious; it’s going to end in homicide—in murder. We are definitely going to get our throats cut; and while these guys will most definitely be hanged for it, that won't be much comfort to those who suffer. Shouldn't we refer this matter to arbitration?"

"I'm for fighting it out," said Titus, whisking the poker round his head like a flail in action. "My blood's up. Come on, Jack Palmer, I'm for you."

"I'm ready to fight it out," said Titus, swinging the poker around his head like a flail in motion. "I'm fired up. Let's go, Jack Palmer, I'm with you."

"I should vote for retreating," chattered the attorney, "if that cursed fellow had not placed a ne exeat at the door."

"I should vote for retreating," chattered the attorney, "if that cursed guy hadn’t put a ne exeat at the door."

"Give the word, captain," cried Rust, impatiently.[177]

"Give the word, captain," Rust shouted, feeling impatient.[177]

"Ay, ay," echoed Wilder.

"Ay, ay," echoed Wilder.

"A skilful general always parleys," said Jack. "A word in your ear, Luke, ere that be done which cannot be undone."

"A skilled general always negotiates," said Jack. "A word in your ear, Luke, before something is done that can't be undone."

"You mean me no treachery?" returned Luke.

"You don't mean any betrayal towards me?" replied Luke.

Jack made no answer, but uncocking his pistols, deposited them within his pockets.

Jack didn't respond, but he uncocked his pistols and put them in his pockets.

"Shoot him as he advances," whispered Coates; "he is in your power now."

"Shoot him as he comes closer," Coates whispered; "you have the upper hand now."

"Scoundrel!" replied Luke, "do you think me as base as yourself?"

"Scoundrel!" Luke replied, "Do you really think I'm as low as you?"

"Hush, hush! for God's sake don't expose me," said Coates.

"Hush, hush! Please, for God's sake, don't expose me," said Coates.

Lady Rookwood had apparently listened to this singular conference with sullen composure, though in reality she was racked with anxiety as to its results; and, now apprehending that Palmer was about to make an immediate disclosure to Luke, she accosted him as he passed her.

Lady Rookwood had seemingly listened to this unusual meeting with a calm expression, but inside she was filled with anxiety about the outcome; now realizing that Palmer was about to reveal something important to Luke, she stopped him as he walked by.

"Unbind me!" cried she, "and what you wish shall be yours—money—jewels——"

"Set me free!" she shouted, "and whatever you want will be yours—cash—diamonds——"

"Ha! may I depend?"

"Ha! can I count on?"

"I pledge my word."

"I give my word."

Palmer untied the cord, and Lady Rookwood, approaching a table whereon stood the escritoire, touched a spring, and a secret drawer flew open.

Palmer untied the cord, and Lady Rookwood, walking over to a table with the writing desk, pressed a button, and a hidden drawer popped open.

"You do this of your own free will?" asked Luke. "Speak, if it be otherwise."

"You’re doing this of your own choice?" Luke asked. "If that's not the case, say so."

"I do," returned the lady, hastily.

"I do," the lady replied quickly.

Palmer's eyes glistened at the treasures exposed to his view.

Palmer's eyes sparkled at the treasures laid out before him.

"They are jewels of countless price. Take them, and rid me," she added in a whisper, "of him."

"They are priceless treasures. Take them, and free me," she added in a whisper, "from him."

"Luke Bradley?"

"Is this Luke Bradley?"

"Ay."

"Hey."

"Give them to me."

"Hand them over to me."

"They are yours freely on those terms."[178]

"They are yours without any charge on those terms."[178]

"You hear that, Luke," cried he, aloud; "you hear it, Titus; this is no robbery. Mr. Coates—'Know all men by these presents'—I call you to witness, Lady Rookwood gives me these pretty things."

"You hear that, Luke," he shouted; "you hear it, Titus; this isn't a robbery. Mr. Coates—'Know all men by these presents'—I'm calling you to witness, Lady Rookwood is giving me these nice things."

"I do," returned she; adding, in a whisper, "on the terms which I proposed."

"I do," she replied, adding in a whisper, "on the terms I suggested."

"Must it be done at once?"

"Does it have to be done right now?"

"Without an instant's delay."

"Without a moment's delay."

"Before your own eyes?"

"Right in front of you?"

"I fear not to look on. Each moment is precious. He is off his guard now. You do it, you know, in self-defence."

"I’m not afraid to look. Every moment is valuable. He’s vulnerable right now. You do it, you know, in self-defense."

"And you?"

"And you?"

"For the same cause."

"For the same reason."

"Yet he came here to aid you?"

"Still, he came here to help you?"

"What of that?"

"What about that?"

"He would have risked his life for yours?"

"He would have risked his life for you?"

"I cannot pay back the obligation. He must die!"

"I can't repay the debt. He has to die!"

"The document?"

"The file?"

"Will be useless then."

"Will be pointless then."

"Will not that suffice; why aim at life?"

"Isn't that enough? Why strive for life?"

"You trifle with me. You fear to do it."

"You're playing games with me. You're scared to go through with it."

"Fear!"

"Fear!"

"About it, then; you shall have more gold."

"About that, then; you'll get more money."

"I will about it," cried Jack, throwing the casket to Wilder, and seizing Lady Rookwood's hands. "I am no Italian bravo, madam—no assassin—no remorseless cut-throat. What are you—devil or woman—who ask me to do this? Luke Bradley, I say."

"I will handle it," shouted Jack, tossing the casket to Wilder and grabbing Lady Rookwood's hands. "I'm not some Italian thug, ma'am—I'm no assassin—no heartless killer. Who are you—devil or woman—to ask me to do this? Luke Bradley, I tell you."

"Would you betray me?" cried Lady Rookwood.

"Would you betray me?" shouted Lady Rookwood.

"You have betrayed yourself, madam. Nay, nay, Luke, hands off. See, Lady Rookwood, how you would treat a friend. This strange fellow would blow out my brains for laying a finger upon your ladyship."

"You have betrayed yourself, ma'am. No, no, Luke, hands off. Look, Lady Rookwood, how you would treat a friend. This strange guy would shoot me for even touching you."

"I will suffer no injury to be done to her," said Luke; "release her."[179]

"I won't let anyone hurt her," Luke said; "let her go."[179]

"Your ladyship hears him," said Jack. "And you, Luke, shall learn the value set upon your generosity. You will not have her injured. This instant she has proposed, nay, paid for your assassination."

"Your ladyship hears him," said Jack. "And you, Luke, will understand the worth of your generosity. You won't let her get hurt. Right now, she has suggested, or rather, financed your assassination."

"How?" exclaimed Luke, recoiling.

"How?" Luke exclaimed, stepping back.

"A lie, as black as hell," cried Lady Rookwood.

"A lie, as dark as hell," shouted Lady Rookwood.

"A truth, as clear as heaven," retained Jack. "I will speedily convince you of the fact." Then, turning to Lady Rookwood, he whispered, "Shall I give him the marriage document?"

"A truth, as clear as day," Jack said. "I will quickly prove it to you." Then, turning to Lady Rookwood, he whispered, "Should I show him the marriage document?"

"Beware!" said Lady Rookwood.

"Caution!" said Lady Rookwood.

"Do I avouch the truth, then?"

"Am I declaring the truth, then?"

She was silent.

She was quiet.

"I am answered," said Luke.

"I have my answer," said Luke.

"Then leave her to her fate," cried Jack.

"Then let her deal with it," cried Jack.

"No," replied Luke; "she is still a woman, and I will not abandon her to ruffianly violence. Set her free."

"No," Luke responded, "she's still a woman, and I won't leave her to face violent thugs. Let her go."

"You are a fool," said Jack.

"You're an idiot," said Jack.

"Hurrah, hurrah!" vociferated Coates, who had rushed to the window. "Rescue, rescue! they are returning from the church; I see the torchlight in the avenue; we are saved!"

"Hooray, hooray!" shouted Coates, who had dashed to the window. "Help, help! They’re coming back from church; I see the torchlight in the driveway; we’re saved!"

"Hell and the devil!" cried Jack; "not an instant is to be lost. Alive, lads; bring off all the plunder you can; be handy!"

"Hell and the devil!" shouted Jack; "not a second to waste. Come on, guys; grab as much loot as you can; move fast!"

"Lady Rookwood, I bid you farewell," said Luke, in a tone in which scorn and sorrow were blended. "We shall meet again."

"Lady Rookwood, I bid you farewell," said Luke, in a tone that mixed contempt and sadness. "We will meet again."

"We have not parted yet," returned she; "will you let this man pass? A thousand pounds for his life."

"We haven't separated yet," she replied; "will you allow this man to go? A thousand pounds for his life."

"Upon the nail?" asked Rust.

"On the nail?" asked Rust.

"By the living God, if any of you attempt to touch him, I will blow his brains out upon the spot, be he friend or foe," cried Jack. "Luke Bradley, we shall meet again. You shall hear from me."

"By the living God, if any of you try to touch him, I’ll blow his brains out on the spot, whether you’re a friend or an enemy," shouted Jack. "Luke Bradley, we will meet again. You’ll hear from me."

"Lady Rookwood," said Luke, as he departed, "I shall not forget this night."[180]

"Lady Rookwood," said Luke as he left, "I won't forget this night."[180]

"Is all ready?" asked Palmer of his comrades.

"Is everything ready?" asked Palmer of his friends.

"All."

"Everything."

"Then budge."

"Then move."

"Stay!" cried Lady Rookwood, in a whisper to him. "What will purchase that document?"

"Stay!" whispered Lady Rookwood to him. "What will it take to get that document?"

"Hem!"

"Hmm!"

"A thousand pounds?"

"One thousand pounds?"

"Double it."

"Make it twice as much."

"It shall be doubled."

"It will be doubled."

"I will turn it over."

"I'll turn it over."

"Resolve me now."

"Resolve this for me now."

"You shall hear from me."

"You'll hear from me."

"In what manner?"

"How?"

"I will find speedy means."

"I will find quick ways."

"Your name is Palmer?"

"Is your name Palmer?"

"Palmer is the name he goes by, your ladyship," replied Coates, "but it is the fashion with these rascals to have an alias."

"Palmer is the name he goes by, your ladyship," replied Coates, "but it's common for these rascals to have a nickname."

"Ha! ha!" said Jack, thrusting the ramrod into his pistol-barrel, "are you there, Mr. Coates? Pay your wager, sir."

"Ha! ha!" Jack said, jamming the ramrod into his pistol, "Are you there, Mr. Coates? Pay up, sir."

"What wager?"

"What bet?"

"The hundred we bet that you would take me if ever you had the chance."

"The hundred we bet that you would take me if you ever had the chance."

"Take you!—it was Dick Turpin I betted to take."

"Take you!—it was Dick Turpin I wagered on."

"I am Dick Turpin—that's my alias!" replied Jack.

"I am Dick Turpin—that's my nickname!" replied Jack.

"Dick Turpin! then I'll have a snap at you at all hazards," cried Coates, springing suddenly towards him.

"Dick Turpin! Then I'm going to take my shot at you no matter what," shouted Coates, suddenly lunging towards him.

"And I at you," said Turpin, discharging his pistol right in the face of the rash attorney; "there's a quittance in full."

"And I at you," Turpin said, firing his pistol directly in the face of the reckless attorney; "that’s a full settlement."


BOOK III

THE GIPSY

Place a wreath on my coffin. Of the gloomy yew; Young women, willow branches bear,
Say I really died. My love was insincere, but I was steadfast
From the moment I was born; Upon my buried body lie Softly, gentle earth.

Beaumont and Fletcher.

Beaumont and Fletcher.


CHAPTER I

A MORNING RIDE

I had a sister who, among the group She was the most beautiful of the gypsies. Beautiful she was. In calm grace, and a nod to her beauty.

Brome.

Brome.

On quitting Lady Rookwood's chamber, Luke speeded along the gloomy corridor, descended the spiral stairs, and, swiftly traversing sundry other dark passages, issued from a door at the back of the house. Day was just beginning to break. His first object had been to furnish himself with means to expedite his flight; and, perceiving no one in the yard, he directed his hasty steps towards the stable. The door was fortunately unfastened; and, entering, he found a strong roan horse, which he knew, from description, had been his father's favorite hunter, and to the use of which he now considered himself fully entitled. The animal roused himself as he approached, shook his glossy coat, and neighed, as if he recognized the footsteps and voice.

On leaving Lady Rookwood's room, Luke hurried down the dark corridor, went down the spiral stairs, and quickly made his way through several other shadowy passages until he exited a door at the back of the house. Daylight was just starting to break. His main goal was to gather what he needed to make his escape, and seeing no one in the yard, he hurried towards the stable. Luckily, the door was unlocked; as he entered, he found a strong roan horse that he recognized from descriptions as his father's favorite hunting horse, which he now felt fully entitled to use. The horse perked up as he approached, shook its glossy coat, and neighed, as if it recognized his footsteps and voice.

"Thou art mistaken, old fellow," said Luke; "I am not he thou thinkest; nevertheless, I am glad thy instinct would have it so. If thou bearest my father's son as thou hast borne thy old master, o'er many a field for many a day, he need not fear the best mounted of his pursuers. Soho! come hither, Rook."

"You're mistaken, old friend," said Luke; "I'm not who you think I am; still, I'm glad your instincts think so. If you carry my father's son like you've carried your old master, through many fields for many days, he doesn't need to fear the best-mounted of his pursuers. Hey! Come here, Rook."

The noble steed turned at the call. Luke hastily saddled him, vaulted upon his back, and, disregarding every impediment in the shape of fence or ditch, shaped his course across the field towards the sexton's cottage, which he reached just as its owner was in the act of unlocking his door. Peter[184] testified his delight and surprise at the escape of his grandson, by a greeting of chuckling laughter.

The noble horse turned at the call. Luke quickly saddled him, jumped onto his back, and, ignoring any obstacles like fences or ditches, headed across the field towards the sexton's cottage, arriving just as the owner was unlocking his door. Peter[184] expressed his joy and surprise at his grandson's escape with a hearty laugh.

"How?—escaped!" exclaimed he. "Who has delivered you from the hands of the Moabites? Ha, ha! But why do I ask? Who could it have been but Jack Palmer?"

"How?—escaped!" he exclaimed. "Who got you out of the hands of the Moabites? Ha, ha! But why do I even ask? Who else could it have been but Jack Palmer?"

"My own hands have set me free," returned Luke. "I am indebted to no man for liberty; still less to him. But I cannot tarry here; each moment is precious. I came to request you to accompany me to the gipsy encampment. Will you go, or not?"

"My own hands have set me free," Luke said. "I don't owe my freedom to anyone, especially not to him. But I can't stay here; every moment counts. I came to ask you to come with me to the gypsy camp. Will you come or not?"

"And mount behind you?" replied Peter; "I like not the manner of conveyance."

"And ride behind you?" Peter replied. "I don't like that way of traveling."

"Farewell, then." And Luke turned to depart.

"Goodbye, then." And Luke turned to leave.

"Stay; that is Sir Piers's horse, old Rook. I care not if I do ride him."

"Wait; that's Sir Piers's horse, old Rook. I don't mind riding him."

"Quick, then; mount."

"Hurry up; get on."

"I will not delay you a moment," rejoined the sexton, opening his door, and throwing his implements into the cottage. "Back, Mole; back, sir," cried he, as the dog rushed out to greet him. "Bring your steed nigh this stone, grandson Luke—there—a little nearer—all's right." And away they galloped.

"I won't keep you waiting," the sexton said, opening his door and tossing his tools into the cottage. "Back, Mole; back, boy," he called out as the dog rushed out to greet him. "Bring your horse closer to this stone, grandson Luke—there—a little bit closer—all good." And off they went at full speed.

The sexton's first inquiries were directed to ascertain how Luke had accomplished his escape; and, having satisfied himself in this particular, he was content to remain silent; musing, it might be, on the incidents detailed to him.

The sexton's first questions were aimed at figuring out how Luke had managed to escape; after he felt he understood this, he was fine with staying quiet, possibly reflecting on the events he had been told about.

The road Luke chose was a rough, unfrequented lane, that skirted, for nearly a mile, the moss-grown palings of the park. It then diverged to the right, and seemed to bear towards a range of hills rising in the distance. High hedges impeded the view on either hand; but there were occasional gaps, affording glimpses of the tract of country through which he was riding. Meadows were seen steaming with heavy dews, intersected by a deep channelled stream, whose course was marked by a hanging cloud of vapor, as well as by a row of melancholy pollard-willows, that stood like stripped, shivering urchins by[185] the river side. Other fields succeeded, yellow with golden grain, or bright with flowering clover—the autumnal crop—colored with every shade, from the light green of the turnip to the darker verdure of the bean, the various products of the teeming land. The whole was backed by round drowsy masses of trees.

The road Luke picked was a rough, rarely used lane that ran along the moss-covered fence of the park for almost a mile. It then turned to the right and seemed to head toward a range of hills in the distance. High hedges blocked the view on both sides, but there were occasional gaps that offered glimpses of the countryside he was riding through. Meadows appeared to be steaming with heavy dew, crossed by a deeply carved stream, its path indicated by a hanging cloud of mist and a line of sad pollard willows that stood like cold, shivering kids by the riverbank. Other fields followed, golden with ripe grain or bright with blooming clover—the autumn harvest—painted in every shade from the light green of turnips to the darker hue of beans, the various products of the fertile land. The whole scene was framed by lazy clusters of trees.

Luke spoke not, nor abated his furious course, till the road began to climb a steep ascent. He then drew in the rein, and from the heights of the acclivity surveyed the plain over which he had passed.

Luke didn't say a word or slow down his furious pace until the road started to climb a steep hill. He then pulled on the reins and, from the top of the slope, looked out over the plain he had traveled.

It was a rich agricultural district, with little picturesque beauty, but much of true English endearing loveliness to recommend it. Such a quiet, pleasing landscape, in short, as one views, at such a season of the year, from every eminence in every county of our merry isle. The picture was made up of a tract of land filled with corn ripe for the sickle, or studded with sheaves of the same golden produce, enlivened with green meadows, so deeply luxuriant as to claim the scythe for the second time; each divided from the other by thick hedgerows, the uniformity of which was broken ever and anon by some towering elm, tall poplar, or wide-branching oak. Many old farmhouses, with their broad barns and crowded haystacks—forming little villages in themselves—ornamented the landscape at different points, and by their substantial look evidenced the fertility of the soil, and the thriving condition of its inhabitants. Some three miles distant might be seen the scattered hamlet of Rookwood; the dark russet thatch of its houses scarcely perceptible amidst the embrowned foliage of the surrounding timber. The site of the village was, however, pointed out by the square tower of the antique church, that crested the summit of the adjoining hill; and although the hall was entirely hidden from view, Luke readily traced out its locality amidst the depths of the dark grove in which it was embosomed.

It was a fertile farming area, not particularly beautiful but full of charming English qualities that made it appealing. It was a calm, pleasant landscape—something you can see from any hill in the countryside of our cheerful island at this time of year. The scene consisted of fields with golden corn ready for harvest or dotted with sheaves of the same crop, brightened by lush green meadows that could be cut for a second time; each area separated by thick hedgerows, occasionally interrupted by tall elms, poplars, or broad oak trees. Many old farmhouses, along with their large barns and stacked hay, created small communities throughout the landscape, showcasing the land's productivity and the wellbeing of its residents. About three miles away, you could see the scattered village of Rookwood; the dark, brownish thatch of its houses was hardly noticeable among the dappled foliage of the nearby trees. However, the village stood out thanks to the square tower of the old church that topped the hill nearby; and even though the hall was completely out of sight, Luke easily identified its location within the deep, dark grove that surrounded it.

This goodly prospect had other claims to attention in Luke's[186] eyes besides its agricultural or pictorial merit. It was, or he deemed it was, his own. Far as his eye ranged, yea, even beyond the line of vision, the estates of Rookwood extended.

This beautiful view had other reasons to catch Luke's[186] attention beyond its farming or artistic value. It was, or he thought it was, his own. As far as he could see, and even beyond what he could see, the land of Rookwood stretched out.

"Do you see that house below us in the valley?" asked Peter of his companion.

"Do you see that house down in the valley?" Peter asked his friend.

"I do," replied Luke; "a snug old house—a model of a farm. Everything looks comfortable and well to do about it. There are a dozen lusty haystacks, or thereabouts; and the great barn, with its roof yellowed like gold, looks built for a granary; and there are stables, kine-houses, orchards, dovecots, and fishponds, and an old circular garden, with wall-fruit in abundance. He should be a happy man, and a wealthy one, who dwells therein."

"I do," replied Luke; "a cozy old house—a perfect example of a farm. Everything looks nice and prosperous around it. There are about a dozen strong haystacks, and the big barn, with its golden-yellow roof, seems made for storing grain. There are stables, cowhouses, orchards, dovecotes, and fish ponds, along with an old circular garden, overflowing with fruit. He must be a happy and rich man who lives there."

"He dwells therein no longer," returned Peter; "he died last night."

"He doesn't live there anymore," Peter replied; "he died last night."

"How know you that? None are stirring in the house as yet."

"How do you know that? No one is moving around in the house yet."

"The owner of that house, Simon Toft," replied Peter, "was last night struck by a thunderbolt. He was one of the coffin-bearers at your father's funeral. They are sleeping within the house, you say. 'Tis well. Let them sleep on—they will awaken too soon, wake when they may—ha, ha!"

"The owner of that house, Simon Toft," Peter replied, "was struck by lightning last night. He was one of the pallbearers at your father's funeral. They are sleeping inside the house, you say. That's fine. Let them sleep on—they will wake up too soon, whenever they do—ha, ha!"

"Peace!" cried Luke; "you blight everything—even this smiling landscape you would turn to gloom. Does not this morn awaken a happier train of thoughts within your mind? With me it makes amends for want of sleep, effaces resentment, and banishes every black misgiving. 'Tis a joyous thing thus to scour the country at earliest dawn; to catch all the spirit and freshness of the morning; to be abroad before the lazy world is half awake; to make the most of a brief existence; and to have spent a day of keen enjoyment, almost before the day begins with some. I like to anticipate the rising of the glorious luminary; to watch every line of light changing, as at this moment, from shuddering gray to blushing rose! See how the heavens are dyed! Who would exchange yon gorgeous[187] spectacle," continued he, pointing towards the east, and again urging his horse to full speed down the hill, endangering the sexton's seat, and threatening to impale him upon the crupper of the saddle—"who would exchange that sight, and the exhilarating feeling of this fresh morn, for a couch of eiderdown, and a headache in reversion?"

"Peace!" shouted Luke. "You ruin everything—even this beautiful landscape, turning it into darkness. Doesn't this morning inspire some happier thoughts in you? For me, it makes up for a lack of sleep, wipes away resentment, and pushes away any dark worries. It’s such a joy to ride through the countryside at dawn; to soak in all the energy and freshness of the morning; to be out before the lazy world is even halfway awake; to make the most of a short life; and to enjoy a day of pure pleasure before some people even start their day. I love anticipating the rise of the glorious sun; to watch each ray of light change, like right now, from a trembling gray to a rosy blush! Look at how the sky is colored! Who would trade this stunning[187] sight," he continued, pointing toward the east and pushing his horse to full speed down the hill, nearly throwing the sexton off the saddle and almost knocking him off—"who would give up that view and the refreshing feeling of this morning for a comfy bed and a headache later?"

"I for one," returned the sexton, sharply, "would willingly exchange it for that, or any other couch, provided it rid me of this accursed crupper, which galls me sorely. Moderate your pace, grandson Luke, or I must throw myself off the horse in self-defence."

"I for one," said the sexton sharply, "would gladly trade it for that, or any other couch, as long as it gets rid of this cursed crupper, which really annoys me. Slow down, grandson Luke, or I might have to throw myself off the horse in self-defense."

Luke slackened his charger's pace, in compliance with the sexton's wish.

Luke slowed down his horse in accordance with the sexton's request.

"Ah! well," continued Peter, restored in a measure to comfort; "now I can contemplate the sunrise, which you laud, somewhat at mine ease. 'Tis a fine sight, I doubt not, to the eyes of youth; and, to the sanguine soul of him upon whom life itself is dawning, is, I dare say, inspiriting: but when the heyday of existence is past; when the blood flows sluggishly in the veins; when one has known the desolating storms which the brightest sunrise has preceded, the seared heart refuses to trust its false glitter; and, like the experienced sailor, sees oft in the brightest skies a forecast of the tempest. To such a one, there can be no new dawn of the heart; no sun can gild its cold and cheerless horizon; no breeze can revive pulses that have long since ceased to throb with any chance emotion. I am too old to feel freshness in this nipping air. It chills me more than the damps of night, to which I am accustomed. Night—midnight! is my season of delight. Nature is instinct then with secrets dark and dread. There is a language which he who sleepeth not, but will wake, and watch, may haply learn. Strange organs of speech hath the invisible world; strange language doth it talk; strange communion hold with him who would pry into its mysteries. It talks by bat and owl—by the grave-worm, and by each crawling thing—by the[188] dust of graves, as well as by those that rot therein—but ever doth it discourse by night, and specially when the moon is at the full. 'Tis the lore I have then learned that makes that season dear to me. Like your cat, mine eye expands in darkness. I blink at the sunshine, like your owl."

"Ah! well," Peter continued, feeling a bit more comfortable; "now I can appreciate the sunrise that you praise, with a little more ease. It's a beautiful sight, no doubt, to youthful eyes; and for someone who is just starting out in life, it must be uplifting. But when the peak of one's life has passed; when the blood flows sluggishly through the veins; when you've experienced the devastating storms that often follow the brightest sunrise, the wounded heart refuses to believe in its false brilliance; and, like a seasoned sailor, often sees a storm ahead even in the clearest skies. For someone like that, there can be no new dawn for the heart; no sun can brighten its cold and lifeless horizon; no breeze can stir the emotions that have long ceased to beat with any vitality. I'm too old to feel rejuvenated by this chilly air. It chills me more than the dampness of night, which I'm used to. Night—midnight! is my favorite time. Nature is filled with dark, mysterious secrets then. There's a language that those who don’t sleep but stay awake and watch might learn. The invisible world has strange ways of communicating; it speaks in a peculiar language and has a unique connection with those who seek to uncover its secrets. It communicates through bats and owls—through the grave-worm and every creeping thing—through the dust of graves, as well as those who decay within them—but it always speaks at night, especially when the moon is full. It's the knowledge I've gained during that time that makes it precious to me. Like your cat, my eyes adjust to the darkness. I squint at the sunshine, like your owl."

"Cease this forbidding strain," returned Luke; "it sounds as harshly as your own screech-owl's cry. Let your thoughts take a more sprightly turn, more in unison with my own and the fair aspect of nature."

"Stop this gloomy attitude," replied Luke; "it sounds just as unpleasant as your own screech-owl's call. Try to think more positively, in line with my own thoughts and the beautiful view of nature."

"Shall I direct them to the gipsies' camp, then?" said Peter, with a sneer. "Do your own thoughts tend thither?"

"Should I lead them to the gypsies' camp, then?" Peter said with a sneer. "Are your thoughts really going in that direction?"

"You are not altogether in the wrong," replied Luke. "I was thinking of the gipsies' camp, and of one who dwells amongst its tents."

"You’re not completely wrong," Luke replied. "I was thinking about the gypsies' camp and one person who lives among their tents."

"I knew it," replied Peter. "Did you hope to deceive me by attributing all your joyousness of heart to the dawn? Your thoughts have been wandering all this while upon one who hath, I will engage, a pair of sloe-black eyes, an olive skin, and yet withal a clear one—'black, yet comely, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon'—a mesh of jetty hair, that hath entangled you in its network—ripe lips, and a cunning tongue—one of the plagues of Egypt.—Ha, ha!"

"I knew it," Peter replied. "Did you think you could trick me by saying all your happiness came from the sunrise? Your thoughts have been focused all along on someone who I bet has a pair of dark, striking eyes, an olive complexion, and yet a clear one—'black, yet beautiful, like the tents of Kedar, like the curtains of Solomon'—a tangle of jet-black hair that's caught you in its snare—full lips and a clever tongue—one of the plagues of Egypt.—Ha, ha!"

"You have guessed shrewdly," replied Luke; "I care not to own that my thoughts were so occupied."

"You've guessed wisely," Luke replied. "I don't want to admit that my mind was so focused."

"I was assured of it," replied the sexton. "And what may be the name of her towards whom your imagination was straying?"

"I was assured of it," replied the sexton. "And what is the name of the person your thoughts were wandering to?"

"Sibila Perez," replied Luke. "Her father was a Spanish Gitano. She is known amongst her people by her mother's name of Lovel."

"Sibila Perez," Luke said. "Her dad was a Spanish Gitano. Among her people, she’s known by her mom’s name, Lovel."

"She is beautiful, of course?"

"She's beautiful, of course?"

"Ay, very beautiful!—but no matter! You shall judge of her charms anon."

"Ah, very beautiful!—but it doesn't matter! You'll see her charms soon."

"I will take your word for them," returned the sexton; "and you love her?"[189]

"I'll take your word for it," replied the sexton; "and you love her?"[189]

"Passionately."

"With passion."

"You are not married?" asked Peter, hastily.

"You aren't married?" Peter asked quickly.

"Not as yet," replied Luke; "but my faith is plighted."

"Not yet," replied Luke; "but I am committed."

"Heaven be praised! The mischief is not then irreparable. I would have you married—though not to a gipsy girl."

"Heaven be praised! The trouble is not irreparable then. I want you to get married—though not to a gypsy girl."

"And whom would you select?"

"And who would you choose?"

"One before whom Sybil's beauty would pale as stars at day's approach."

"One whose beauty would make Sybil's look dull, like stars at sunrise."

"There lives not such a one."

"There's no one like that."

"Trust me there does. Eleanor Mowbray is lovely beyond parallel. I was merely speculating upon a possibility when I wished her yours—it is scarcely likely she would cast her eyes upon you."

"Trust me, there really is. Eleanor Mowbray is incredibly lovely. I was just thinking about a possibility when I mentioned her being yours—it's unlikely she would even notice you."

"I shall not heed her neglect. Graced with my title, I doubt not, were it my pleasure to seek a bride amongst those of gentle blood, I should not find all indifferent to my suit."

"I won't pay attention to her neglect. With my title, I believe that if I chose to look for a bride among those of noble lineage, I wouldn't find everyone indifferent to my proposal."

"Possibly not. Yet what might weigh with others, would not weigh with her. There are qualities you lack which she has discovered in another."

"Maybe not. But what matters to others wouldn’t matter to her. There are qualities you don’t have that she’s found in someone else."

"In whom?"

"Who?"

"In Ranulph Rookwood."

"In Ranulph Rookwood."

"Is he her suitor?"

"Is he her boyfriend?"

"I have reason to think so."

"I have a good reason to believe that."

"And you would have me abandon my own betrothed love, to beguile from my brother his destined bride? That were to imitate the conduct of my grandsire, the terrible Sir Reginald, towards his brother Alan."

"And you want me to give up my own fiancée, to steal my brother’s intended bride? That would be like how my grandfather, the awful Sir Reginald, treated his brother Alan."

The sexton answered not, and Luke fancied he could perceive a quivering in the hands that grasped his body for support. There was a brief pause in their conversation.

The sexton didn't respond, and Luke thought he could see a tremble in the hands that held him for support. There was a short break in their conversation.

"And who is Eleanor Mowbray?" asked Luke, breaking the silence.

"And who is Eleanor Mowbray?" Luke asked, breaking the silence.

"Your cousin. On the mother's side a Rookwood. 'Tis therefore I would urge your union with her. There is a[190] prophecy relating to your house, which seems as though it would be fulfilled in your person and in hers:

"Your cousin. On your mother’s side, a Rookwood. That’s why I encourage you to marry her. There’s a[190] prophecy about your family that seems like it would be realized through you and her:

When the stray Rook perches on the highest branch,
There will be noise and shouting, I believe;
But of right, and of law, of the old nest,
The Rook that mates with Rooks will be in control.

"I place no faith in such fantasies," replied Luke; "and yet the lines bear strangely upon my present situation."

"I don't believe in those fantasies," Luke said, "yet the lines oddly relate to what I'm going through right now."

"Their application to yourself and Eleanor Mowbray is unquestionable," replied the sexton.

"Their application to you and Eleanor Mowbray is undeniable," replied the sexton.

"It would seem so, indeed," rejoined Luke; and he again sank into abstraction, from which the sexton did not care to arouse him.

"It definitely seems that way," Luke replied; and he fell back into his thoughts, which the sexton didn't want to interrupt.

The aspect of the country had materially changed since their descent of the hill. In place of the richly-cultivated district which lay on the other side, a broad brown tract of waste land spread out before them, covered with scattered patches of gorse, stunted fern, and low brushwood, presenting an unvaried surface of unbaked turf. The shallow coat of sod was manifested by the stones that clattered under the horse's hoofs as he rapidly traversed the arid soil, clearing with ease to himself, though not without discomfort to the sexton, every gravelly trench, natural chasm, or other inequality of ground that occurred in his course. Clinging to his grandson with the tenacity of a bird of prey, Peter for some time kept his station in security; but, unluckily, at one dike rather wider than the rest, the horse, owing possibly to the mismanagement, intentional or otherwise, of Luke, swerved; and the sexton, dislodged from his "high estate," fell at the edge of the trench, and rolled incontinently to the bottom.

The landscape of the country had changed significantly since they had come down the hill. Instead of the lush farmland they had seen earlier, a wide stretch of barren land spread out in front of them, dotted with patches of gorse, scraggly ferns, and low brush, showing a flat surface of dry turf. The thin layer of grass was made clear by the stones that clattered under the horse's hooves as it quickly moved across the dry ground, easily jumping over every gravelly ditch, natural crevice, or bump in the terrain, though not without causing some discomfort for the sexton. Holding onto his grandson tightly like a bird of prey, Peter managed to stay secure for a while; but unfortunately, at one wider ditch than the others, the horse, possibly due to Luke's mismanagement, either intended or accidental, swerved, and the sexton, knocked off his "high perch," fell at the edge of the trench and tumbled straight to the bottom.

Luke drew in the rein to inquire if any bones were broken; and Peter presently upreared his dusty person from the abyss, and without condescending to make any reply, yet muttering[191] curses, "not loud, but deep," accepted his grandson's proffered hand, and remounted.

Luke pulled on the reins to check if any bones were broken; and Peter soon lifted his dusty self from the depths, and without bothering to respond, while muttering[191] curses, "not loud, but deep," accepted his grandson's offered hand and got back on.

While thus occupied, Luke fancied he heard a distant shout, and noting whence the sound proceeded—the same quarter by which he had approached the heath—he beheld a single horseman spurring in their direction at the top of his speed; and to judge from the rate at which he advanced, it was evident he was anything but indifferently mounted. Apprehensive of pursuit, Luke expedited the sexton's ascent; and that accomplished, without bestowing further regard upon the object of his solicitude, he resumed his headlong flight. He now thought it necessary to bestow more attention on his choice of road, and, perfectly acquainted with the heath, avoided all unnecessary hazardous passes. In spite of his knowledge of the ground, and the excellence of his horse, the stranger sensibly gained upon him. The danger, however, was no longer imminent.

While he was busy, Luke thought he heard a distant shout, and noticing where the sound came from—the same direction he had approached the heath—he saw a single horseman racing toward them as fast as he could go; and judging by how quickly he was moving, it was clear he was on a really good horse. Worried about being chased, Luke hurried the sexton up the hill; and once that was done, without paying any more attention to the source of his worry, he continued his frantic escape. He now felt it was important to focus more on his choice of path and, being very familiar with the heath, avoided any unnecessary risky areas. Despite knowing the land well and having an excellent horse, the stranger was definitely catching up to him. However, the danger was no longer immediate.

"We are safe," cried Luke; "the limits of Hardchase are past. In a few seconds we shall enter Davenham Wood. I will turn the horse loose, and we will betake ourselves to flight amongst the trees. I will show you a place of concealment. He cannot follow us on horseback, and on foot I defy him."

"We're safe," shouted Luke; "we've passed the edge of Hardchase. In just a few seconds, we'll be in Davenham Wood. I'll let the horse go, and we can escape among the trees. I'll show you a hiding place. He can't chase us on horseback, and on foot, I challenge him."

"Stay," cried the sexton. "He is not in pursuit—he takes another course—he wheels to the right. By Heaven! it is the Fiend himself upon a black horse, come for Bow-legged Ben. See, he is there already."

"Wait," yelled the sexton. "He’s not chasing him—he's going another way—he turns to the right. By God! it's the Devil himself on a black horse, come for Bow-legged Ben. Look, he's already there."

The horseman had turned, as the sexton stated, careering towards a revolting object at some little distance on the right hand. It was a gibbet, with its grisly burden. He rode swiftly towards it, and, reining in his horse, took off his hat, bowing profoundly to the carcase that swung in the morning breeze. Just at that moment a gust of air catching the fleshless skeleton, its arms seemed to be waved in reply to the salutation. A solitary crow winged its flight over the horseman's head as he paused. After a moment's halt, he wheeled about, and again shouted to Luke, waving his hat.[192]

The rider had turned, as the sexton said, speeding toward a disturbing sight a short distance to his right. It was a gallows, with its gruesome payload. He rode quickly toward it, and, pulling on the reins, removed his hat, bowing deeply to the corpse swinging in the morning breeze. Just then, a gust of wind caught the fleshless skeleton, making its arms appear to wave back in acknowledgment. A lone crow flew overhead as the rider paused. After a brief stop, he turned around and called out to Luke again, waving his hat.[192]

"As I live," said the latter, "it is Jack Palmer."

"As I live," said the latter, "it's Jack Palmer."

"Dick Turpin, you mean," rejoined the sexton. "He has been paying his respects to a brother blade. Ha, ha! Dick will never have the honor of a gibbet; he is too tender of the knife. Did you mark the crow? But here he comes." And in another instant Turpin was by their side.

"Dick Turpin, you’re talking about," replied the sexton. "He's been paying his respects to a fellow outlaw. Ha, ha! Dick will never get the honor of a hanging; he's too soft with the blade. Did you see the crow? But here he comes." And in a moment, Turpin was by their side.


CHAPTER II

A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT

I see a column of slowly rising smoke
Overlook the tall wood that borders the wilderness.

Cowper: The Task.

Cowper: The Task.

"The top of the morning to you, gem'men," said Turpin, 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 Bess to it, and she soon brought me within hail. Bless her black skin," added he, affectionately patting his horse's neck, "there's not her match in these parts, or 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 cross cut to look at poor Ben.

"The top of the morning to you, gentlemen," Turpin said as he rode up at an easy canter. "Did you not hear my shout? I spotted you on the hill over there. I recognized you both from two miles away, so since I wanted to say a word or two to you, Luke Bradley, before I leave this area, I pushed Bess a bit, and she quickly brought me close. Bless her black coat," he added, affectionately patting his horse's neck, "there's no other like her around here or anywhere else; she doesn't need any encouragement to do her job—she doesn't need any persuading. I would have caught up to you sooner if I hadn't taken a shortcut to check on poor Ben."

One night, while riding my mare.
I went to Bagshot Heath,
And saw Will Davies hanging there,
On the bleak and bare gallows, With a rusty, old, musty vibe.

Excuse my singing. The sight of a gibbet always puts me in[193] mind of the Golden Farmer. May I ask whither you are bound, comrades?"

Excuse my singing. The sight of a gallows always reminds me of the Golden Farmer. Can I ask where you all are headed, friends?

"Comrades!" whispered the sexton to Luke; "you see he does not so easily forget his old friends."

"Friends!" whispered the sexton to Luke; "you see he doesn’t easily forget his old friends."

"I have business that will not admit of delay," rejoined Luke; "and to speak plainly——"

"I have urgent business that can't wait," Luke replied; "and to be straightforward——"

"You want not my society," returned Turpin; "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."

"You don’t want to hang out with me," Turpin replied. "I figured that out. It makes sense! You’ve realized how lucky you are. You’ve discovered you’re the heir of a wealthy man, not the illegitimate child of a poor woman. No hard feelings; I’m a straight shooter, as you’ll see if you don’t already know. I don’t mind you pulling these fancy tricks on others, but it won’t work with me."

"Sir!" exclaimed Luke, sharply.

"Sir!" Luke exclaimed sharply.

"Sir to you," replied Turpin—"Sir Luke—as I suppose you would now choose to be addressed. I am aware of all. A nod is as good as a wink to me. Last night I learned the fact of Sir Piers's marriage from Lady Rookwood—ay, from her ladyship. You stare—and old Peter, there, opens his ogles now. She let it out by accident; and I am in possession of what can alone substantiate your father's first marriage, and establish your claims to the property."

"Sir to you," replied Turpin—"Sir Luke—since I guess that's how you prefer to be addressed now. I'm aware of everything. A nod is just as good as a wink to me. Last night, I found out about Sir Piers's marriage from Lady Rookwood—yes, from her ladyship. You're surprised—and old Peter there is blinking now. She slipped up and revealed it by accident; and I have what can prove your father's first marriage and confirm 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."

"The devil!" shouted the sexton, then added in a whisper to Luke, "You might want to be careful about ending such a helpful relationship too quickly."

"You are jesting," said Luke to Turpin.

"You're joking," Luke said to Turpin.

"It is ill jesting before breakfast," returned Dick: "I am seldom in the mood for a joke so early. What if a certain marriage certificate had fallen into my hand?"

"It’s not cool to joke around before breakfast," replied Dick. "I’m usually not in the mood for humor this early. What if I happened to find a certain marriage certificate?"

"A marriage certificate!" echoed Luke and the sexton simultaneously.

"A marriage certificate!" Luke and the sexton said at the same time.

"The only existing proof of the union of Sir Piers Rookwood with Susan Bradley," continued Turpin. "What if I had stumbled upon such a document—nay more, if I knew where to direct you to it?"[194]

"The only proof of the union between Sir Piers Rookwood and Susan Bradley," Turpin continued. "What if I had found such a document—actually, what if I knew exactly where to send you to find it?"[194]

"Peace!" cried Luke to his tormentor; and then addressing Turpin, "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?"

"Peace!" Luke shouted at his tormentor; then turning to Turpin, "If what you’re saying is true, my search is over. It seems you have everything I need. Other evidence doesn’t matter as much. I know who I'm dealing with. What do you want in exchange for that certificate?"

"We will talk about the matter after breakfast," said Turpin. "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 luck to my account. I were a fool to do otherwise. You cannot expect it. And then I have Rust and Wilder to 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 haughtiness; but I will not help you up the ladder to be kicked down myself. Now you understand me. Whither are you bound?"

"We'll talk about it after breakfast," Turpin said. "I want to negotiate as friends. If you agree to that, I’m on board; if you reject my offer, I'll turn my horse around and head back to Rookwood. All your hopes rest with me now. I've been straight with you, and I expect the same in return. It would be foolish for me not to take advantage of this opportunity. You can't expect otherwise. Plus, I still need to deal with Rust and Wilder. Even though I've left them behind, they know where I'm headed. We've been in this together for a long time. I like your attitude—I’m not bothered by your arrogance; but I won’t help you climb the ladder just to get knocked down myself. Now you know where I stand. Where are you headed?"

"To Davenham Priory, the gipsy camp."

"To Davenham Priory, the gypsy camp."

"The gipsies are your friends?"

"Are the gypsies your friends?"

"They are."

"They're."

"I am alone."

"I'm alone."

"You are safe."

"You're 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?"

"You promise that everything will be fair. You won't say a word to that hypocritical group about what I've told you?"

"With one exception, you may rely upon my secrecy."

"Except for one thing, you can count on my confidentiality."

"Whom do you except?"

"Who do you accept?"

"A woman."

"A woman."

"Bad! never trust a petticoat."

"Bad! Never trust a skirt."

"I will answer for her with my life."

"I'll take responsibility for her with my life."

"And for your granddad there?"

"And what about your granddad?"

"He will answer for himself," said Peter. "You need not fear treachery in me. Honor among thieves, you know."[195]

"He will speak for himself," said Peter. "You don't have to worry about betrayal from me. There's a code of honor among thieves, you know."[195]

"Or where else should you seek it?" rejoined Turpin; "for it has left all other classes of society. Your highwayman is your only man of honor. 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 daddle, Sir Luke, and I am 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."

"Where else would you look for it?" Turpin shot back; "because it's abandoned all other social classes. Your highwayman is the only true man of honor. I’ll trust both of you, and you’ll see you can trust me too. After breakfast, as I mentioned earlier, we’ll settle this. Give us your hand, Sir Luke, and I’m satisfied. I guarantee you'll be in charge of Rookwood within a week; and then — But talking like this is tedious; let’s get on our way to breakfast."

And away they cantered.

And away they trotted.

A narrow bridle-road conducted them singly through the defiles of a thick wood. Their route 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 all was warmth and light. Quivering on the tops of the timber, the horizontal sunbeams created, in their refraction, brilliant prismatic colorings, and filled the air with motes like golden dust. Our horsemen heeded not the sunshine or the shade. Occupied each with his own train of thought, they silently rode on.

A narrow bridle path led them individually through the narrow passages of a dense forest. Their path was shaded, and the air felt cool among the trees since the sun hadn’t risen high enough to get through, while above them everything was warm and bright. The sunbeams, trembling on the tops of the trees, created beautiful prismatic colors through refraction and filled the air with particles that sparkled like golden dust. The riders paid no attention to the sunshine or the shade. Each lost in his own thoughts, they continued to ride in silence.

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 many patriarchal trees. Ancient oaks, with broad, gnarled 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, dissevered, would in itself have formed a tree, populous with leaves, and variegated with rich autumnal tints; the sprightly sycamore, the dark chestnut, the weird wych-elm, the majestic elm itself, festooned with ivy, every variety of[196] wood, dark, dense, and intricate, composed the forest through which they rode; and so multitudinous was the timber, so closely planted, so entirely 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 bough 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 fore feet, in expression of displeasure; the rabbit darted across their path; the jays flew screaming amongst the foliage; the blue cushat, scared at the clatter of the horses' hoofs, sped on swift wing into quarters secure from their approach; while the parti-colored pies, like curious village gossips, congregated to peer at the strangers, expressing their astonishment by loud and continuous chattering. Though so gentle of ascent as to be almost imperceptible, it was still evident that the path they were pursuing gradually mounted a hill-side; 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[197] 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 it had once been the haunt of man were a few gray 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 brake, the light-colored vapor beautifully contrasting with the green umbrage whence it issued.

Davenham Wood, through which they made their way, had once been a large forest. It used to belong to the Rookwood family but had been sold to a wealthy neighboring landowner and lawyer, Sir Edward Davenham, and it had remained with his descendants ever since. It was a grand wood, filled with many ancient trees. There were old oaks with broad, twisted branches that storms for five hundred years had tried to uproot, now sternly decaying; massive beech trees with smooth, silvery trunks reaching high, with branches so large that each one, if cut off, could have stood alone as a tree, full of leaves and vibrant autumn colors; the lively sycamore, dark chestnut, eerie wych-elm, and the impressive elm draped in ivy, along with every type of wood, dark, dense, and tangled, made up the forest they rode through; so abundant was the timber, so closely packed, and so completely filled with thick, tangled undergrowth that little view was allowed, if any was desired, into the maze of the grove. Tree after tree, adorned in the bright colors of the season, passed by, quickly followed by others. Occasionally, a branch reached over their path, forcing the riders to bow their heads as they went by; but, ignoring such challenges, they pushed on. Soon, the path became lighter, and they immediately felt the warm influence of the sun. The change was as pleasant as it was instant. They emerged into a vast area of fully grown pines, whose tall, trunkless stems shot up like a forest of masts, letting in the cheerful sunlight. Beneath these trees, the ground was sandy and devoid of all undergrowth, though covered with brown, hair-like fibers and dry cones shed by the pines. The lively squirrel, the most carefree inhabitant of the grove, leapt from the ground as the horsemen galloped on, scampering up the nearest tree, where it could be seen angrily glaring at the intruders, thumping the branches with its front paws in displeasure; a rabbit dashed across their path; jays flew through the branches, squawking; while the blue cushat, startled by the noise of the horses' hooves, quickly took flight to safety; and the colorful magpies gathered like nosy villagers to watch the newcomers, expressing their surprise by chattering loudly. Although the ascent was so gentle it was almost unnoticeable, it was still clear that the path they were on was gradually climbing a hillside; and when they finally reached an opening, the view revealed the height they had quietly gained. Pausing briefly at the top of the hill, Luke pointed to a stream winding through the valley, and tracing its path, indicated a specific spot among the trees. There was no sign of a house—no cottage roof, no white canvas shelter to indicate the tents of the wandering tribe they were looking for. The only hint it had once been a place of human habitation was a few gray monastic ruins, barely distinguishable from the rocky barrier surrounding them; and the only proof that it was still visited by people was a thin column of pale blue smoke, rising in curling wisps from the undergrowth, the light vapor beautifully contrasting with the surrounding green foliage.

"Our destination is yonder," exclaimed Luke, pointing in the direction of the vapor.

"Our destination is over there," exclaimed Luke, pointing toward the mist.

"I am glad to hear it," cried Turpin, "as well as to perceive there is some one 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 fayter fellows to count their fingers by. We shall find three sticks, and a black pot with a kid seething in it, I'll engage. These gipsies 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."

"I’m glad to hear that," shouted Turpin, "and it’s nice to see someone is awake. That smoke suggests there’s breakfast ahead. You can’t have smoke without fire, as old Lady Scanmag used to say; and I’d bet a little that the fire wasn’t started just for the tough guys to count their fingers. We’re likely to find three sticks and a black pot with a goat cooking in it, I’m sure of it. These gypsies picked a nice spot to camp—quite picturesque, as they say—and if it weren’t for that obvious smoke, which looks just like a Dutch captain puffing out his morning cloud, no one would even know they’re nearby. It’s a lovely place, I swear."

The spot, in sooth, 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, excepting 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 gray 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[198] rocks, severed, it would seem, by some diluvial convulsion, from the opposite mountain side, 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 mountain side 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 depredators, 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 watch-tower then had crowned each eminence, every vestige of which had, however, long since disappeared. Sequestered in the vale stood the Priory before alluded to—a Monastery of Gray 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 wont 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 gipsies 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[199] Lovel held queenly sway—made it their haunt, and were suffered by the authorities of the neighborhood to remain unmolested—a lenient piece of policy, which, in our infinite regard for the weal of the tawny tribe, we recommend to the adoption of all other justices and knights of the shire.

The spot truly deserved Turpin's praise. It was a small valley, surrounded by wooded hills, so isolated that not a single house was in sight. The hills were covered with trees all the way to the tops, except for the side where the group stood, which sloped downwards. These mountainous ridges created a jagged outline of foliage, mixed with patches of bright orange, brown timber, and deep green. Four hills enclosed the valley. Here and there, a gray rock slab could be seen among the trees, and a mountain-ash stood out on a projecting cliff just below them. Deep within the ravine, partly hidden by wild grass and small shrubs, ran a line of steep rocks, seemingly torn away by some ancient flood from the opposite mountain, where a matching split was visible, showing the same layers of rock and certain ribbed hollows that once connected these stone walls. A clear stream, well known and beloved among the local anglers, flowed beside the cliff, although they rarely followed it to its source in these hills. The stream entered the valley through a gap far to the left and cascaded down the mountain in a rushing torrent. The valley could be reached from Rookwood via an infrequently used road, which Luke had avoided for practical reasons. Everything felt dedicated to silence—to solitude—to the quiet of nature; yet this peaceful scene was the favorite hideout of outlaws and had once been a site of feudal oppression. We mentioned that no homes were visible; that no place inhabited by humans could be seen; but following the ridge of the furthest mountain, some remains of a stone wall could be found; and on a natural rock platform stood a solid square tower, which had once been the stronghold of the lords who claimed the four hills as their own. A watchtower originally topped each hill, although every trace of them had long since vanished. Nestled in the valley was the mentioned Priory—a Monastery of Gray Friars from the Order of St. Francis—some of its ancient walls still standing; and if they hadn’t fallen to the bats and owls, as is often the fate of such sacred buildings, their cloistered shrines would have been home to beings whose nature resembled that of night creatures—a people whose actions were shady and whose eyes avoided the light. Here, the gypsies had set up their camp; and while the place was often partly abandoned by the wandering group, some of the older ones—over whom Barbara Lovel held a regal influence—made it their home, and the local authorities allowed them to stay without interference—a lenient approach that, in our sincere concern for the well-being of this group, we recommend to all other judges and local leaders.

Bidding his grandsire have regard to his seat, Luke leaped 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 to 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.

Bidding his grandfather to pay attention to his seat, Luke jumped a high bank and, followed by Turpin, started to go down the hill. However, Peter made sure to look out for himself. The descent was so risky and the ground so unstable that he preferred to rely on what nature had given him rather than put his neck at risk with any misstep from the horse. So, he managed to slide off from behind, choosing a safer route for himself.

He who has wandered amidst the Alps must have often had occasion to witness the wonderful surefootedness of that 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 unshrinking 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 hill-side, 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.

Anyone who has traveled through the Alps has likely witnessed the incredible surefootedness of the mule, the mountain guide. They’ve probably noticed how, with its strong hooves, it grips the rock and pulls itself from one precarious ledge to another, keeping its rider perfectly safe; how it faces the roaring winds and stands brave at the edge of deep ravines. But it’s a different story with horses: fast on flat ground, careful on rough terrain, they become timid and unsure on steep hillsides, and the risk that Luke and Turpin took when descending the nearly vertical cliffs was enormous. Peter watched their descent with a mix of admiration and disdain.

"He will break his neck, of a surety," said he; "but what matters it? As well now as hereafter."

"He’s definitely going to break his neck," he said, "but what does it matter? It’s just as true now as it will be later."

So saying, he approached the verge of the precipice, where he could see them more distinctly.

So saying, he went to the edge of the cliff, where he could see them more clearly.

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 cliffs, 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[200] of any one 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 withal so narrow, that the danger was proportionately increased.

The path that Luke rode on had never been traveled by a horse before. Carved into the rock, it offered a steep, winding trail through the cliffs, providing no support for a pedestrian other than a few shrubs that clung to the sides, and absolutely no safety for a rider; the chance of anyone trying to navigate it likely wasn't considered by those who created it. On top of that, the steps were uneven in height and so narrow that the risk was significantly heightened.

"Ten thousand devils!" cried Turpin, staring downwards, "is this the best road you have got?"

"Ten thousand devils!" shouted Turpin, looking down, "is this the best road you have?"

"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 brook side. You will meet me at the priory."

"You'll find one more easily," replied Luke, "if you ride for a quarter of a mile down the woods, and then come back along the brook. You’ll 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."

"No," replied the highwayman confidently; "if you’re going, I’m going too. It will never be said that Dick Turpin was too scared to follow where someone else would lead. Go ahead."

Luke gave his horse the bridle, and the animal slowly and steadily commenced the descent, fixing his fore legs 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.

Luke put the bridle on his horse, and the animal began to descend slowly and steadily, placing its front legs on the steps and carefully bringing its back legs along. This was where the grace and stability of Turpin's mare truly stood out. No mountain mule could have carried its rider with more obvious ease and safety. Turpin encouraged her with his hands and words, but she didn't really need it. The sexton watched them, and as he followed their precarious descent, he grew more intrigued than he expected. Suddenly, his attention shifted to Luke.

"He is gone," cried Peter. "He falls—he sinks—my plans are all defeated—the last link is snapped. No," added he, recovering his wonted composure, "his end is not so fated."

"He’s gone," shouted Peter. "He’s falling—he’s sinking—my plans are all ruined—the last connection is broken. No," he added, regaining his usual calm, "his fate isn’t sealed like that."

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 enabled to extricate himself from the stirrup and to regain his feet; seizing the bridle, he dragged his faulty steed back again to the road.

Rook had lost his balance. He rolled, stumbling down the cliff for a few yards. Luke's fate seemed sealed. His feet were caught in the stirrup, and he couldn't free himself. A birch tree, growing in a crack of the cliff, stopped his fall. If it hadn't been for this lucky break, it would have been all over. Here, Luke was able to free himself from the stirrup and get back on his feet; grabbing the bridle, he pulled his stubborn horse back onto the road.

"You have had a narrow escape, by Jove," said Turpin, who had been thunderstruck with the whole proceeding.[201] "Those big cattle are always clumsy; devilish lucky it's no worse."

"You had a close call, wow," said Turpin, who was completely shocked by the whole situation.[201] "Those big animals are always so clumsy; really lucky it’s not 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.

It was now relatively easy traveling; but they hadn't reached the valley yet, and it seemed like Luke's goal was to take a roundabout route. This was so clear that Turpin couldn't help but mention it.

Luke evaded the question. "The crag is steep there," said he; "besides, to tell you the truth, I want to surprise them."

Luke dodged the question. "The cliff is steep over there," he said; "plus, to be honest, I want to surprise them."

"Ho, ho!" laughed Dick. "Surprise them, eh? What a pity the birch tree was in the way; you would have done it properly then. Egad, here's another surprise."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Dick. "Surprise them, huh? What a shame the birch tree was in the way; you would have done it right then. Wow, here’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.

Dick's last shout happened when he suddenly discovered a wide gully in the rock, through which a rushing torrent flowed, 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, and measuring the distance of the pass with his eye. "So, so, Bess!—Ay, look at it, wench. Curse me, Luke, if I think your horse will do it, and, therefore, turn him loose."

"You must be crazy to have taken this road," shouted Turpin, looking down into the raging depths where the waterfall crashed, and judging the distance of the pass with his eye. "So, so, Bess!—Yeah, look at it, girl. I swear, Luke, if I think your horse can make it, then let him go."

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.

But Dick might as well have told the waterfall to flow backwards. Luke kicked his heels into his horse's sides. The horse galloped to the edge, snorted, and refused to jump.

"I told you so—he can't do it," said Turpin. "Well, if you are obstinate, a wilful man must have his way. Stand aside, while I try it for you." Patting Bess, he put her to a gallop. She cleared the gulf bravely, landing her rider safely upon the opposite rock.

"I told you so—he can't do it," said Turpin. "Well, if you're stubborn, a determined man will get his way. Step aside while I give it a shot." Giving Bess an encouraging pat, he urged her into a gallop. She jumped the gap boldly, landing her rider safely on the other rock.

"Now then," cried Turpin, from the other side of the chasm.

"Alright then," shouted Turpin, from the other side of the gap.

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.

Luke urged his horse again. Motivated by what he had seen, this time the horse jumped across without any hesitation. In the next moment, they were in the valley.

For some time they rode along the banks of the stream in silence. A sound at length caught the quick ears of the highwayman.

For a while, they rode silently along the banks of the stream. Eventually, a sound caught the sharp ears of the highwayman.

"Hist!" cried he; "some one sings. Do you hear it?"[202]

"Shh!" he exclaimed. "Someone's singing. Do you hear it?"[202]

"I do," replied Luke, the blood rushing to his cheeks.

"I do," replied Luke, his cheeks flushing.

"And could give a guess at the singer, no doubt," said Turpin, with a knowing look. "Was it to hear yon woodlark that you nearly broke your own neck, and put mine in jeopardy?"

"And I bet you could guess who the singer is," said Turpin, with a sly look. "Was it to hear that woodlark over there that you almost broke your own neck and put mine in danger?"

"Prithee be silent," whispered Luke.

"Please be quiet," whispered Luke.

"I am dumb," replied Turpin; "I like a sweet voice as well as another."

"I’m not smart," replied Turpin; "I enjoy a nice voice just like anyone else."

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 gipsy song it warbled: Luke knew it well. Thus ran the romance:

Clear as a bird's song, yet sad like the distant toll of a evening bell, the sound of that sweet voice came from the woods. It was a piece of a Spanish gypsy song that it sang: Luke knew it well. This was the story:

LA GITANILLA

The Gypsy Girl

By the Guadalquivir River,
Before the sun is gone,
By that amazing river A maid sits alone.
Like the beautiful sunset Of that current brightness, Shone her dark eyes gently As its eerie glow. Like the flowing ripple,
Tinged with a purple sheen,
Dark, richly glowing,
Is her warm cheek visible? It's the Gitanilla By the stream lingers, In the hope that everyone Will her partner bring her?
Look, the sun is setting; All fades away and dies; Check out the waves drinking
Wonders of the skies.
Day's last light shines On that dark day; Yet no speck betrays His long-awaited bark.
[203] It's meeting time!
No, the time has passed; Time is flying!
Hope fades quickly. Still the Gitanilla By the stream lingers, In the hope of night Will her partner bring her?

The tender trembling of a guitar was heard in accompaniment of the ravishing melodist.

The soft strumming of a guitar accompanied the captivating singer.

The song ceased.

The song stopped.

"Where is the bird?" asked Turpin.

"Where's the bird?" Turpin asked.

"Move on in silence, and you shall see," said Luke; and keeping upon the turf, so that his horse's 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.

"Move quietly, and you'll see," said Luke; and staying on the grass, so his horse's steps were silent, he soon reached a place where, through the branches, he could clearly see what he was investigating, even though he was hidden from sight.

Upon a platform of rock, rising to the height of the trees, nearly perpendicularly from the river's bed, appeared the figure of the gipsy 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 small 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:

Upon a rocky platform, rising high above the trees, almost straight up from the riverbed, stood the figure of the gypsy girl. Her foot was at the very edge of the steep cliff, where the water churned in a deep whirlpool below, and she was as balanced as a bounding chamois. One small hand rested on her guitar, while the other pressed against her forehead. Her braided hair, the darkest black and silky smooth, was wrapped around her forehead in endless twisted loops:

It was woven into many a curious worry,
Just like a wealthy and inquisitive crown,
On whose arches twenty Cupids rest,
And were as attached, or unwilling to leave. [24]

And so exuberant was this rarest 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,[204] were 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, be it 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. Sybil's features were exquisite, yet you looked only at her eyes—they were the loadstars of her countenance. Her costume was singular, and partook, like herself, of other climes. Like the Andalusian dame, her choice of color inclined towards black, as the material of most of her dress was of that sombre hue. A bodice of embroidered velvet restrained her delicate bosom's swell; a rich girdle, from which depended a silver chain, sustaining a short poniard, bound her waist; around her slender throat was twined a costly kerchief; and the rest of her dress was calculated to display her slight, yet faultless, figure to the fullest advantage.

And so vibrant was this rare feminine ornament that, after being placed on her head, it was draped behind and hung down in long, thick braids almost to her feet. Sparkling like the sunbeams that played on her dark yet radiant features,[204] the large, black, Oriental eyes of the young woman shone, shaded by long, silky lashes. She had a Moorish look, where the beauty of her eyes overshadowed her face, no matter how beautiful it was—an effect reminiscent of the angelic images by Murillo—and the lovely shape of her face was barely noticed amidst the captivating gaze of those long, dreamy, glowing eyes. Sybil's features were exquisite, yet one could only look at her eyes—they were the guiding stars of her appearance. Her outfit was unique, reflecting, like her, influences from different cultures. Like an Andalusian woman, she favored black, as most of her clothing was in that somber color. A bodice of embroidered velvet hugged her delicate figure; a rich belt, from which a silver chain holding a short dagger hung, cinched her waist; a luxurious scarf was wrapped around her slender neck; and the rest of her attire was designed to showcase her slight yet flawless figure to the fullest extent.

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:

Unaware that she was being watched, she lifted her guitar and tried to play the chords. She hit a few notes and went back to her story:

Swift river flows on,
Swift the night is falling,— Yet she isn't gone,
Though heartbroken.

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 hare could not have started more suddenly from her form. She heard accents well known concluding the melody:

Her song faded out. She needed to wipe away the tears gathering in her big dark eyes. Suddenly, her demeanor shifted. The hare couldn't have jumped away from her more quickly. She heard familiar notes wrapping up the melody:

Dips an oar—hark!—
Softly on the river; It's her lover's boat.
On the Guadalquivir River.[205] Listen! a song she hears!
Every note she grabs; As the singer approaches,
She remembers her own name. Now the Little Gypsy Stays away from the water,
For the midnight hour Has her lover brought her?

It was her lover's voice. She caught the sound at once, and, starting, as the roe would arouse herself at the hunter's approach, bounded down the crag, and ere he had finished the refrain, was by his side.

It was her lover's voice. She recognized the sound immediately, and, like a deer sensing a hunter's presence, she quickly rushed down the cliff and, before he finished the refrain, was at his side.

Flinging the bridle to Turpin, Luke sprang to her, and caught her in his arms. Disengaging herself from his ardent embrace, Sybil drew back, abashed at the sight of the highwayman.

Flinging the bridle to Turpin, Luke jumped to her and caught her in his arms. Pulling away from his passionate embrace, Sybil stepped back, embarrassed by the sight of the highwayman.

"Heed him not," said Luke; "it is a friend."

"Don't listen to him," said Luke; "he's a friend."

"He is welcome here then," replied Sybil. "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 wearily since you departed. You bring good news?"

"He’s welcome here then," replied Sybil. "But where have you been for so long, dear Luke?" she continued as they moved a bit away from the highwayman. "What has kept you? The hours have dragged on since you left. Do you bring good news?"

"Good news, my girl; so good, that I falter even in the telling of it. You shall know all anon. And see, our friend yonder grows impatient. Are there any stirring? We must bestow a meal upon him, and that forthwith: he is one of those who brook not much delay."

"Good news, my girl; it's so good that I hesitate even to share it. You’ll know everything soon. And look, our friend over there is getting impatient. Is there anything happening? We need to get him a meal right away: he’s not one to wait around."

"I came not to spoil a love meeting," said Turpin, who had good-humoredly witnessed the scene; "but, in sober seriousness, if there is a stray capon to be met with in the land of Egypt, I shall be glad to make his acquaintance. Methinks I scent a stew afar off."

"I didn't come to interrupt a romantic moment," said Turpin, who had good-naturedly watched the scene; "but seriously, if there's a stray capon to be found in Egypt, I would love to meet him. I think I smell a stew from a distance."

"Follow me," said Sybil; "your wants shall be supplied."

"Come with me," said Sybil; "I'll take care of what you need."

"Stay," said Luke; "there is one other of our party whose coming we must abide."[206]

"Wait," said Luke; "there's one more person from our group whose arrival we need to wait for."[206]

"He is here," said Sybil, observing the sexton at a distance. "Who is that old man?"

"He’s here," said Sybil, watching the sexton from afar. "Who is that old guy?"

"My grandsire, Peter Bradley."

"My grandfather, Peter Bradley."

"Is that Peter Bradley?" asked Sybil.

"Is that Peter Bradley?" Sybil asked.

"Ay, you may well ask whether that old dried-up otomy, who ought to grin in a 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 i' faith he is."

"Ay, you might wonder if that old dried-up otomy, who should be smiling in a glass case for people to gawk at, could really be related to such a great guy like your fancy man, Luke," said Turpin, laughing—"but I swear he is."

"Though he is your grandsire, Luke," said Sybil, "I like him not. His glance resembles that of the Evil Eye."

"Even though he’s your grandfather, Luke," Sybil said, "I don’t like him. His stare feels like the Evil Eye."

And, in fact, the look which Peter fixed upon her was such as the rattlesnake casts upon its victim, and Sybil 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 orbs 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. Sybil 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.

And, in fact, the way Peter looked at her was like the gaze of a rattlesnake upon its prey, and Sybil felt like a helpless, fluttering bird caught in the spell of that venomous creature. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his, even though she trembled while she stared. We mentioned that Peter's eyes were like those of a toad. Time hadn’t dulled their brightness. His harsh features were only capable of expressing bitter scorn or withering hate; but in his eyes was a magnetic pull that could either attract or repulse. Sybil experienced the former feeling in an uncomfortable way. She felt drawn to him as if by the force of a whirlpool, and she instinctively held onto her lover.

"It is the Evil Eye, dear Luke."

"It’s the Evil Eye, dear Luke."

"Tut, tut, dear Sybil; I tell you it is my grandsire."

"Tut, tut, dear Sybil; I'm telling you it's my grandfather."

"The girl says 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 have waited for you long enough. Is this the first time you have seen a pretty lass, eh?"

"The girl is right," Turpin replied. "Peter has a really ugly look in his eyes and stares so much that it can make a modest girl feel uncomfortable. Come on, my old friend, hurry up, we’ve waited for you long enough. Is this the first time you’ve seen a pretty girl, huh?"

"It is the first time I have seen one so beautiful," said Peter; "and I crave her 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 counsel 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 hill-top,[207] otherwise the chances are shrewdly against your reaching the ground with neck unbroken."

"It’s the first time I’ve seen someone so beautiful," said Peter; "and I hope she forgives me if I’ve overstepped. I understand your enchantment now, grandson Luke, now that I see the reason for it. But I have one piece of advice for this lovely girl. The next time she lets you out of her sight, I suggest she waits for you at the top of the hill,[207] or else the odds are pretty much against you landing safely."

There was something, notwithstanding the satirical manner in which Peter delivered this speech, calculated to make a more favorable impression upon Sybil 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.

There was something, despite the mocking way Peter delivered this speech, that was likely to leave a better impression on Sybil than his earlier behavior had. After finding out from Luke what his speech was about, she reached out her hand to him, but not without a shiver, as it was held in his bony grip. It was like Venus's fingers in the hands of a skeleton.

"This is a little hand," said Peter, "and I have some skill myself in palmistry. Shall I peruse its lines?"

"This is a small hand," said Peter, "and I have some skill in palm reading. Should I take a look at its lines?"

"Not now, in the devil's name!" said Turpin, stamping impatiently. "We shall have Old Ruffin himself amongst us presently, if Peter Bradley grows gallant."

"Not now, for the love of God!" Turpin said, stamping his foot in frustration. "We’ll have Old Ruffin himself here soon if Peter Bradley gets brave."

Leading their horses, the party took their way through the trees. A few minutes' walking brought them in sight of the gipsy encampment, the spot selected for which might be termed the Eden of the valley. It was a small green plain, smooth as a well-shorn lawn, kept ever verdant—save in 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 coloring; the rude-fashioned hut of primitive construction; the kettle slung

Leading their horses, the group made their way through the trees. After a few minutes of walking, they caught sight of the gypsy camp, which could be called the Eden of the valley. It was a small green meadow, as smooth as a well-manicured lawn, always lush—except in the areas where the frequent fires had burned its surface—thanks to the flowing stream that rushed by and the surrounding amphitheater of wooded hills. Here, you could see the canvas tent with its various colored patches; the rough hut built from simple materials; the kettle hanging

Between two poles, upon a stick transverse;

Between two poles, on a crossbeam;

the tethered beasts of burden, the horses, asses, dogs, carts, caravans, wains, 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 once majestic pile, and the long, though broken line of Saxon arches, that[208] still marked the cloister wall; the piers that yet supported the dormitory; the enormous horse-shoe 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 honors, 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.

the tethered beasts of burden—horses, donkeys, dogs, carts, caravans, wagons, blocks, and other movable and immovable items belonging to the wandering tribe. Glimmering through the trees at the edge of the plain were the ivy-covered walls of Davenham Priory. While much had fallen into disrepair, enough remained to recall the original grandeur of this once-majestic structure, including the long, though broken, line of Saxon arches that[208] still marked the cloister wall; the piers still supporting the dormitory; the massive horse-shoe arch that spanned the courtyard; and, above all, the great marigold, or circular window, which capped the chapel and, though now stripped of its painted beauty, retained, like a skeleton leaf, its fibrous details intact—each eloquently spoke of the glories of the past while awakening reverence and admiration for the enduring beauty of the present.

Towards these ruins Sybil conducted the party.

Towards these ruins, Sybil led the group.

"Do you dwell therein?" asked Peter, pointing towards the priory.

"Do you live there?" asked Peter, pointing towards the priory.

"That is my dwelling," said Sybil.

"That's my spot," Sybil said.

"It is one I should covet more than a modern mansion," returned the sexton.

"It’s one I should want more than a modern mansion," replied the sexton.

"I love those old walls better than any house that was ever fashioned," replied Sybil.

"I love those old walls more than any house that was ever made," replied Sybil.

As they entered the Prior's 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.

As they walked into the area known as the Prior's Close, several dark-skinned figures emerged from the tents. Many greetings were exchanged with Luke, spoken in the tribe's rough language. Finally, a strange, short figure with a messy head of black hair hopped over to them. He appeared to recognize Luke as his master.

"What ho! Grasshopper," said Luke, "take these horses, and see that they lack neither dressing nor provender."

"Hey there, Grasshopper," said Luke, "take these horses and make sure they have everything they need, both food and grooming."

"And hark ye, Grasshopper," added Turpin; "I give you a special charge about this mare. Neither dress nor feed her till I see both done myself. Just walk her for ten minutes, and if you have a glass of ale in the place, let her sip it."

"And listen, Grasshopper," added Turpin; "I have a special instruction for you about this mare. Don’t groom or feed her until I see both done myself. Just walk her for ten minutes, and if you have a glass of ale around, let her have a sip."

"Your bidding shall be done," chirped the human insect, as he fluttered away with his charges.

"Your bidding will be done," chirped the human insect, as he flitted away with his responsibilities.

A motley assemblage of tawny-skinned varlets, 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 ear of Luke as he passed. As it was evident he was in no mood for converse,[209] Sybil, who seemed to exercise considerable authority over the crew, with a word dispersed them, and they herded back to their respective habitations.

A mixed group of tan-skinned guys, dark-eyed women, and children, whose dark skin revealed their heritage, dressed in unusual outfits and acting wildly, blocked the path, muttering greeting after greeting into Luke’s ear as he walked by. Since it was clear he wasn't in the mood to chat,[209] Sybil, who appeared to have significant authority over the group, quickly sent them away with a few words, and they returned to their homes.

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 of the adjoining fabric.

A low door let Luke and his friends into what used to be the garden, where some old apple and walnut trees, covered in moss, still stood, looking almost as ancient as the nearby building.

Another open door gave them entrance to a spacious chamber, formerly the eating-room or refectory of the holy brotherhood, and a goodly room it had been, though now its slender lanceolated windows were stuffed with hay to keep out the air. Large holes told where huge oaken rafters had once crossed the roof, and a yawning aperture marked the place where a cheering fire had formerly blazed. As regarded this latter spot, the good old custom was not, even now, totally abrogated. An iron plate, covered with crackling wood, sustained a ponderous black caldron, the rich steam from which gratefully affected the olfactory organs of the highwayman.

Another open door led them into a spacious room, which had once served as the dining area or refectory for the holy brotherhood. It had been a fine room, although now its narrow, pointed windows were stuffed with hay to keep the air out. Large gaps indicated where massive oak beams had once supported the roof, and a big opening marked the spot where a warm fire had previously burned. As for this last area, the good old tradition was not completely abandoned even now. An iron plate, covered with crackling wood, held up a heavy black cauldron, the rich steam from which pleasantly reached the noses of the highwayman.

"That augurs well," said he, rubbing his hands.

"That looks promising," he said, rubbing his hands together.

"Still hungering after the fleshpots of Egypt," said the sexton, with a ghastly smile.

"Still craving the good things of Egypt," said the sexton, with a creepy smile.

"We will see what that kettle contains," said Luke.

"We'll see what's in that kettle," Luke said.

"Handassah—Grace!" exclaimed Sybil, calling.

"Handassah—Grace!" Sybil called.

Her summons was answered by two maidens, habited not unbecomingly, in gipsy gear.

Her call was answered by two young women, dressed quite nicely in gypsy attire.

"Bring the best our larder can furnish," said Sybil, "and use despatch. You have appetites to provide for, sharpened by a long ride in the open air."

"Bring the best food we have," said Sybil, "and hurry up. You have appetites to satisfy, sharpened by a long ride in the fresh air."

"And by a night's fasting," said Luke, "and solitary confinement to boot."

"And by fasting for a night," said Luke, "and being alone, too."

"And a night of business," added Turpin—"and plaguy perplexing business into the bargain."

"And a night of work," added Turpin—"and really frustrating work on top of that."

"And the night of a funeral too," doled Peter; "and that funeral a father's. Let us have breakfast speedily, by all means. We have rare appetites."[210]

"And the night of a funeral too," said Peter; "and that funeral is for a father. Let's get breakfast quickly, for sure. We're really hungry."[210]

An old oaken table—it might have been the self-same upon which the holy friars had broken their morning fast—stood in the middle of the room. The ample board soon groaned beneath the weight of the savory caldron, the unctuous contents of which proved to be a couple of dismembered pheasants, an equal proportion of poultry, great gouts of ham, mushrooms, onions, and other piquant condiments, so satisfactory to Dick Turpin, that, upon tasting a mouthful, he absolutely shed tears of delight. The dish was indeed the triumph of gipsy cookery; and so sedulously did Dick apply himself to his mess, and so complete was his abstraction, that he perceived 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 this discovery.

An old oak table—it might have been the same one on which the holy friars had enjoyed their breakfast—sat in the center of the room. The large table soon sagged under the weight of the delicious pot, filled with a couple of chopped-up pheasants, some chicken, large pieces of ham, mushrooms, onions, and other tasty seasonings, which pleased Dick Turpin so much that he actually shed tears of joy after tasting a bite. The dish was truly the highlight of gypsy cooking; and so focused was Dick on his food, so lost in thought, that he didn’t even notice he was alone. It was only when he was about to wash down the last drumstick of the last chicken with a can of excellent ale that he realized this.

"What! all gone? 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 feasted like a king of Egypt. That will never do. Caution, Dick, caution. Suppose I shift yon brick from the wall, and place this precious document beneath it. Pshaw! Luke would never play me false. And now for Bess! 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."

"What! They're all gone? And Peter Bradley, too? What the hell does this mean?" he thought. "I can't overload my brain with any more Pharaoh stuff, even though I’ve eaten like a king. That won’t work. Be careful, Dick, be careful. What if I move that brick from the wall and hide this important document underneath it? Come on! Luke would never betray me. And now for Bess! Bless her dark skin! She'll wonder where I've been all this time. It's not like me to leave her to take care of herself, although she can manage if she has to."

Soliloquizing thus, he arose and walked towards the door.

Soliloquizing like this, he got up and walked toward the door.


CHAPTER III

SYBIL

The climbing vine that wraps around the friendly elm Twists her gentle limbs and creates a leafy cloak. For her supportive partner, she doesn't dare to take risks. To blend her humble branches with the embraces Of the taller cedar.

Glapthorne: Albertus Wallenstein.

Glapthorne: Albert Wallenstein.

Beneath a moldering wall, whither they had strayed, to be free from interruption, and upon a carpet of the greenest moss, sat Sybil and her lover.

Beneath a decaying wall, where they had wandered to escape interruptions, and on a carpet of lush green 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 rencontre with Lady Rookwood; his visit to his father's body; and his meeting with his brother. All this 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 Luke 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 ennobled hand and unchanged heart, he would fulfil the troth plighted in his outcast days; in lieu of tender, grateful acquiescence, the features of Sybil became overcast, the soft smile faded away, and, as spring sunshine is succeeded by the sudden shower, the light that dwelt in her sunny orbs grew dim with tears.[212]

With eager curiosity, she listened to his story. He recounted everything that had happened to him since he left. He told her about the shocking discoveries in the tomb; about the ring that, like a charm, had opened up a thousand exciting possibilities; about his later dangers; his narrow escapes; his encounter with Lady Rookwood; his visit to his father's grave; and his meeting with his brother. She listened with cheeks that flushed with anticipation and paled with worry; her heart raced, and she held her breath. But when he softened his tone and spoke of love, affection, and happiness, painting a picture of the joy that should be theirs in his new life; when he would share his fortune with her, lay his titles at her feet, and ask her to wear them with him; when, with an honored hand and unchanged heart, he would fulfill the promise made during his toughest days; instead of responding with tender, grateful acceptance, Sybil's expression darkened, her gentle smile faded away, and just as spring sunshine is followed by a sudden downpour, the light in her bright eyes dimmed with tears.[212]

"Why—why is this, dear Sybil?" said Luke, 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?"

"Why—why is this, dear Sybil?" Luke asked, looking at her in shock, mixed with annoyance. "What should I make of these tears? You don't, of course, regret my good luck?"

"Not on your own account, dear Luke," returned she, sadly. "The tears I shed were for myself—the first, the only tears that I have ever shed for such cause; and," added she, raising her head like a flower surcharged with moisture, "they shall be the last."

"Not because of you, dear Luke," she replied, sadly. "The tears I cried were for myself—the first and only tears I've ever shed for this reason; and," she added, lifting her head like a flower weighed down with water, "they will be the last."

"This is inexplicable, dear Sybil. Why should you lament for yourself, if not for me? Does not the sunshine of prosperity that now shines upon me gild you with the same beam? Did I not even now affirm that the day that saw me enter the hall of my forefathers should dawn upon our espousals?"

"This is beyond understanding, dear Sybil. Why should you feel sorrow for yourself, if not for me? Doesn’t the bright light of success that’s currently shining on me also shine on you? Didn't I just say that the day I stepped into my family's hall should also be the day we get married?"

"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."

"That's true; but the sun that shines on you looks threatening to me. The day of that marriage will never come. You can't 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, or 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."

"What do I hear?" Luke exclaimed, surprised by this confession from his mistress, shared in a somber and deliberate tone. "Not marry you? And why not? Is it my status that bothers you, or the status I hope to achieve? Tell me, so I don’t waste any more time chasing fleeting happiness while the real thing slips away 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 forego 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 are they just shadows; and is this the reality, dear Luke? Question your inner self, and you'll find it’s different. You couldn’t give up your victory; it's unlikely. You've thought too much about the proud title that will belong to you to just let it go to someone else, especially when it can be so easily won. And, above all, when one word spoken aloud could clear your mother's reputation and your own tarnished name, would you really hold back? No, dear Luke, I know your heart; you wouldn't."

"And if I could not forego this, wherefore is it that you refuse to be a sharer in my triumph? Why will you render my honors valueless when I have acquired them? You love me not."[213]

"And if I can't not give this up, why do you refuse to share in my victory? Why do you make my achievements worthless when I've earned them? You don't love me."[213]

"Not love you, Luke?"

"Don't you love me, Luke?"

"Approve it, then."

"Just approve it."

"I do approve it. Bear witness 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 never can be yours. As Luke Bradley, I would joyfully—oh, how joyfully!—have been your bride. As Sir Luke Rookwood"—and she shuddered as she pronounced the name—"I never can be so."

"I do approve it. Witness the sacrifice I'm about to make of all my hopes at the altar of my devotion to you. Witness the pain of this moment. Witness the horror of admitting that I can never belong to you. As Luke Bradley, I would have happily—oh, how happily!—been your bride. As Sir Luke Rookwood"—and she shuddered as she said the name—"I can never be that."

"Then, by Heaven! Luke Bradley will I remain. But wherefore—wherefore not as Sir Luke Rookwood?"

"Then, by God! I will stay as Luke Bradley. But why—not as Sir Luke Rookwood?"

"Because," replied Sybil, with reluctance—"because I am no longer your equal. The gipsy'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, with which you, alas! too soon will mingle, and which will regard even me 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 contumely, this heart would break with agony. For myself, I have pride sufficient—perchance too much. Perchance 'tis pride that actuates me now. I know not. But for you I am all weakness. As you were heretofore, I would have been to you the tenderest and truest wife that ever breathed; as you are now——"

"Because," Sybil replied reluctantly, "because I'm no longer your equal. The daughter of a lowborn gypsy is no match for Sir Luke Rookwood. Love can't blind me, dear Luke. It can't change who I am; it can't boost my self-esteem or how the world sees me. You, sadly, will soon mix with that world, which will view even me as—no matter what!—it won't hold me in high regard as your bride. I won’t bring shame and disgrace upon you. Oh! If the proud people of this world were to treat you poorly because of me, my heart would break in agony. For myself, I have enough pride—maybe even too much. Maybe it’s pride that's driving me now. I don't know. But for you, I feel completely weak. If you were the same as before, I would have been the most loving and devoted wife that ever lived; but as you are now——"

"Hear me, Sybil."

"Listen to 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 that is. I cannot explain it. For your own sake; I implore you, be satisfied with my refusal."

"Hear me out, dear Luke. There’s one more reason behind my actions right now that would be enough on its own, even if everything else were resolved. Don’t ask me what it is. I can’t explain it. For your own good, I beg you to accept my refusal."

"What a destiny is mine!" exclaimed Luke, striking his forehead with his clenched hand. "No choice is left me. Either way I destroy my own happiness. On the one hand[214] stands love—on the other, ambition; yet neither will conjoin."

"What a fate I have!" Luke exclaimed, hitting his forehead with his fist. "I have no choice left. Either way, I ruin my own happiness. On one side stands love—on the other, ambition; yet neither will come together."

"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."

"Pursue your ambitions," Sybil said energetically, "if you can hesitate. Forget that I ever existed; forget that you ever loved; forget that such passion exists within the human heart, and you might still find happiness, even if you're 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 former love, I charge you tell me what has wrought this change in you! Why do you now refuse me?"

"And do you really think," replied Luke, with desperate urgency, "that I can do this; that I can forget I ever loved you; that I can forget you? No matter the cost, I will try. Yet by our past love, I ask you to tell me what has caused 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?"

"I've said you are Sir Luke Rookwood," Sybil replied, her voice filled with emotion. "Does that name mean nothing to you?"

"Imports it aught of ill?"

"Does it bring any harm?"

"To me, everything of ill. It is a fated house. Its line are all predestined."

"To me, everything is wrong. It's a cursed house. Its fate is already set."

"To what?" demanded Luke.

"To what?" asked 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."

"To murder!" Sybil replied, with a serious tone. "To the murder of their wives. I'm sorry, Luke, if I've overstepped by saying this. You made me do it."

Amazement, horror, wrath, kept Luke silent for a few moments. Starting to his feet, he cried:

Amazement, horror, and anger left Luke silent for a moment. Jumping to his feet, he shouted:

"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 aught so horrible?"

"And can you really suspect me of such a terrible crime? Do you think that just because I take on the name, I’ll also adopt the nature of my kind? Do you believe I’m capable of something so horrific?"

"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 ancestress should point to the steel, you could not shun it then."

"Oh no, I can’t believe that. I’m sure you wouldn’t do that. Your soul would be horrified by such an act. But if Fate were to lead your hand, if the vengeful spirit of your murdered ancestor were to direct you to the weapon, you wouldn’t be able to avoid it then."

"In Heaven's name! to what do you allude?"

"In Heaven's name! What are you talking about?"

"To a tradition of your house," replied Sybil. "Listen to[215] me, and you shall hear the legend." And with a pathos that produced a thrilling effect upon Luke, she sang the following ballad:

"To a tradition of your house," replied Sybil. "Listen to[215] me, and you shall hear the legend." And with an emotion that created a thrilling impact on Luke, she sang the following ballad:

THE LEGEND OF THE LADY OF ROOKWOOD

THE LEGEND OF THE LADY OF ROOKWOOD

Grim Ranulph has returned home at midnight from the long Wars of the Roses, And the squire, who stands at his old gates, reveals a dark secret; The lord gives no reply to the servant's words, but his face is serious. Grows an eerie white in the pale moonlight, and his eyes burn like a hungry wolf's.
At that lonely hour, Sir Ranulph went to his lady's bower, unannounced; Through the dim hallway, through the secret door, he moves—she is all alone!
Filled with holy enthusiasm, his young lady kneels at the humble Madonna's feet,
Her hands are on her soft chest, and her face is sweetly uplifted.
Beats Ranulph's heart with a joyful rush as he gazes at her innocent face; And the intense fire of his jealous anger is calmed by words of kindness;
His name is intertwined with her whispered prayers—he can breathe more easily; But wow! That look! Why is he pulling his dagger from its sheath?
On a footstool, there lies an expensive gown made of saye and minever. —A lovely cloak for the elegant style of a dapper gentleman,—
And on it hung a bracelet, where a picture catches his eye; "By my father's head!" grim Ranulph said, "false wife, your end is near."
The fierce knight has taken that sweet and deadly promise off its chain; His dark eyes shine with intensity; he doesn't speak a word, but his dagger's edge gleams three times!
Her blood consumes him, and as she falls, his victim hears his scream:
"For the dirty kiss of a lover, adulteress, do you die!"
He stood silently, with his hands covered in blood, and a fiery gaze, So her complaint, in soft tones, reached his unfortunate lady:
"Kind Heaven knows, all too well, that I've loved you, cruel lord;
But now, with hate returned in kind, assassin, you are despised.[216]
"I've loved you for a long time, through uncertainty and mistakes; I've loved you and no one else;
And my love was genuine for my partner, for unfortunately! he was my brother!
The Red, Red Rose shines on your banner, and the White sparkles on his pennon,
The bitter feud that you both regret keeps you from coming together.
"He searched for my hideaway when he thought your jealous followers were asleep,
We dreamed of joy and never thought about the watch those vassals kept; An hour went by way too quickly!—that picture was his blessing:
Ah! That gift means very little to me: he left me way too soon!
"How precious was that hour! Dark destinies loomed when our hands were first joined,
For the truth of my heart, amid tears and sorrow, you have repaid me with death: I've spent many years of my miserable life in sincere prayer; "But I would never give my soul to be under your control!"
With those wild words spoken, her head hung low, and Ranulph felt a chill run through his veins. For the earth opened up, and a terrifying figure emerged from its depths: "Your prayer has been heard, Hell has agreed," yelled the demon, "your soul belongs to me!
"Like fate, every lady may fear she will marry Ranulph or his descendants!"
Inside the tomb, that unfortunate lady lies asleep, waiting for her fate,
And another bride by Ranulph's side is crying through the entire night. This woman declines—a third complains, and fades, like the others, away;
She regrets her fate, pursued by a Rookwood—cursed is her Wedding Day!

"And this is the legend of my ancestress?" said Luke, as Sybil's strains were ended.

"And this is the story of my ancestor?" said Luke, as Sybil's song came to an end.

"It is," replied she.

"It is," she replied.

"An idle tale," observed Luke, moodily.

"Just a pointless story," Luke said, feeling down.

"Not so," answered Sybil. "Has not the curse of blood clung to all your line? Has it not attached to your father—to Sir Reginald—Sir Ralph—Sir Ranulph—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[217] wonder if I shudder at adding to the list of the victims of that ruthless spirit, and that I tremble for you? I would die for you willingly—but not by your hand. I would not that my blood, which I would now pour out for you as freely as water, should rise up in judgment against you. For myself I have no tears—for you, a thousand. My mother, upon her death-bed, told me I should never be yours. I believed her not, for I was happy then. She said that we never should be united; or, if united——?"

"That's not true," Sybil replied. "Hasn't the curse of your blood clung to your entire family? Hasn't it followed your father—Sir Reginald—Sir Ralph—Sir Ranulph—and everyone else? Which one of them has escaped it? And when I say this, dear Luke; when I see you carry the name of this cursed line, can you[217] blame me for shuddering at the thought of adding to the list of that ruthless spirit's victims, and for worrying about you? I would willingly die for you—but not at your hands. I wouldn't want my blood, which I would now spill for you as freely as water, to come back and judge you. For myself, I have no tears—but for you, a thousand. My mother, on her deathbed, told me I would never belong to you. I didn't believe her, because I was happy then. She said we would never be together; or, if we were united—what then?"

"What, in Heaven's name?"

"What on Earth?"

"That you would be my destroyer. How could I credit her words then? How can I doubt them now, when I find you are a 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. It is the faith of my fathers. There are those, methinks, who have an insight into futurity; and such boding words have been spoken, that, be they true or false, I will not risk their fulfilment in my person. I may be credulous; I may be weak; I may be erring; 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 instrument of your perdition. I will love, worship, watch, serve, perish for you—but I'll not wed you."

"That you would be my destroyer. How could I believe her words then? How can I doubt them now, when I find out you are a Rookwood? And don’t think, dear Luke, that I am driven by selfish fears in this decision. Renouncing you might cost me my life; but the choice will be mine. You may call me superstitious or gullible: I have been raised to believe. It’s the faith of my ancestors. There are those, I believe, who have insight into the future; and such ominous words have been spoken that, whether true or false, I will not risk their fulfillment through me. I may be gullible; I may be weak; I may be mistaken; but I am firm in this. Tell me to perish at your feet, and I will do it. I will not be your Fate. I will not be the miserable tool of your destruction. I will love, worship, watch over, serve, and even perish for you—but I won't marry 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.

Exhausted from the intensity of her feelings, she would have collapsed on the ground if Luke hadn't caught her in his arms. Holding her close, he poured out his passionate pleas. Every argument fell flat. Sybil seemed unyielding.

"You love me as you have ever loved me?" said she, at length.

"You love me the way you always have?" she asked finally.

"A thousand-fold more fervently," replied Luke; "put it to the test."

"A thousand times more passionately," replied Luke; "try it out."

"How if I dare to do so? Consider well: I may ask too much."[218]

"How could I possibly do that? Think carefully: I might be asking for too much."[218]

"Name it. If it be not to surrender you, by my mother's body I will obey you."

"Name it. If it's not to give you up, I swear on my mother's grave that I will obey you."

"I would propose an oath."

"I suggest taking an oath."

"Ha!"

"Ha!"

"A solemn, binding oath, that; if you wed me not, you will not wed another. Ha! do you start? Have I appalled you?"

"A serious promise that if you don’t marry me, you won't marry anyone else. Ha! Are you surprised? Did I shock you?"

"I start? I will take it. Hear me—by——"

"I'll start? I'll take it. Listen to 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.

"Stop!" a voice called out from behind them. "Don't betray yourself." And right after that, the sexton showed up. He had a wicked smile on his face. The lovers jumped at the unexpected interruption.

"Begone!" cried Luke.

"Go away!" cried Luke.

"Take not that oath," said Peter, "and I leave you. Remember the counsel I gave you on our way hither."

"Don't take that oath," Peter said, "and I'm out of here. Remember the advice I gave you on our way here."

"What counsel did he give you, Luke?" inquired Sybil, eagerly, of her lover.

"What advice did he give you, Luke?" Sybil asked eagerly, looking at her partner.

"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."

"We talked about you, dear girl," Peter replied. "I warned him against the relationship. I didn’t know how you felt, or I would have saved myself the trouble. You've made a wise choice. If he were to marry you, it would end badly. But he has to marry someone else."

"Must!" cried Sybil, her eyes absolutely emitting sparkles of indignation from their night-like depths; and, unsheathing as she spoke the short poniard which she wore at her girdle, she rushed towards Peter, raising her hand to strike.

"Need to!" yelled Sybil, her eyes practically shining with anger from their dark depths; and, as she spoke, she pulled out the short dagger she wore at her waist and charged at Peter, raising her hand to hit him.

"Must wed another! And dare you counsel this?"

"Must marry someone else! And do you actually suggest this?"

"Put 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 lover's kin?"

"Put away your dagger, lovely lady," Peter said, calmly. "If I were younger, your gaze might scare me more than your weapon; as it stands, I'm immune to both. You wouldn't harm an old man like me, and what about your lover's family?"

Sybil's uplifted hand fell to her side.

Sybil's raised hand dropped to her side.

"'Tis true," continued the sexton, "I dared to give him this advice; and when you have heard me out, you will not, I[219] 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 for your lover's weal, do not let the work be incomplete. Bind him not by oaths which he will regard as spiders' webs, to be burst through at pleasure. You see, as well as I do, that he is bent on being lord of Rookwood; and, in truth, to an aspiring mind, such a desire is natural, is praiseworthy. It will be pleasant, as well as honorable, 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; and I, her father, laud his anxiety on that score; though, to speak truth, fair maid, 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——"

“It’s true,” the sexton continued, “I took the liberty of giving him this advice; and when you hear me out, I’m sure you won’t think I’m as unreasonable as I might seem at first. I’ve been an unnoticed listener to your conversation; not because I wanted to invade your privacy—far from it; I just happened to overhear you. I admire your determination; but if you’re willing to sacrifice everything for your lover’s good, make sure the job is done right. Don’t tie him down with oaths he’ll see as flimsy as spiderwebs, easily broken whenever it suits him. You see, just like I do, that he is keen on becoming lord of Rookwood; and honestly, such ambition is both natural and commendable for someone with aspirations. It will be both a pleasure and an honor to erase the stain on his birth. Restoring his mother’s reputation is a duty he should feel towards her; and I, her father, commend his concern for that. However, to tell you the truth, fair maiden, I’m not as strict as your refined moralists when it comes to human nature, and I can offer more leniency to love than their delicate sensibilities will allow. It will be quite an accomplishment for him to triumph over his relentless enemy; and this he can achieve—"

"Without marriage," interrupted Sybil, angrily.

"Without marriage," Sybil interrupted, 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—that if Rook mate not with Rook, his possessions shall pass away from his hands. Listen to this prophetic quatrain:

"True," Peter replied; "but you can't hold onto it. You might gain it, but you can't keep it. You've spoken correctly, the house of Rookwood is doomed; and it's also been said that if he doesn't marry someone from his own family—that if a Rook doesn't mate with a Rook, his possessions will slip away from him. Listen to this prophetic quatrain:

When the stray Rook sits on the highest branch,
There will be noise and screeching, I believe;
But according to the right and rule of the old nest,
The Rook that mates with other Rooks will claim it for himself.

You hear what these quaint rhymes say. Luke is, doubtless, the stray rook, and a fledgeling 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[220] such sayings. I have little faith in prophecy and divination. I know not what Eleanor Mowbray, for so she is called, can have to do with the tenure of the estates of Rookwood. But if Luke Rookwood, after he has lorded it for awhile in splendor, be cast forth again in rags and wretchedness, let him not blame his grandsire for his own want of caution."

You hear what these quirky rhymes say. Luke is definitely the lost rook, and a young bird has flown in from a faraway land. He must take her to his partner, or give her up along with 'the old nest' to his brother. As for me, I ignore[220] those kinds of sayings. I have little faith in prophecies and fortune-telling. I don't know what Eleanor Mowbray, as she is called, has to do with the ownership of the Rookwood estates. But if Luke Rookwood, after enjoying some time in luxury, is thrown out again in rags and misery, he shouldn't blame his grandfather for his own lack 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 this true? Does your fate depend upon Eleanor Mowbray? Who is she? What has she to do with Rookwood? Have you seen her? Do you love her?"

"Luke, please, I need to know," said Sybil, who had listened in horror to the sexton, trembling under the cold effect of his sinister gaze. "Is this true? Does your fate depend on Eleanor Mowbray? Who is she? What does she have to do with Rookwood? Have you seen her? Do you love her?"

"I have never seen her," replied Luke.

"I've never seen her," Luke replied.

"Thank Heaven for that!" cried Sybil. "Then you love her not?"

"Thank goodness for that!" exclaimed Sybil. "So you don't love her?"

"How were that possible?" returned Luke. "Do I not say I have not seen her?"

"How is that possible?" Luke replied. "Did I not say I haven't seen her?"

"Who is she, then?"

"Who is she?"

"This old man tells me she is my cousin. She is betrothed to my brother Ranulph."

"This old man tells me she's my cousin. She's engaged to my brother Ranulph."

"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 must wrest from him that which he has long deemed his own? And if he has falsely deemed it so, it will not make his loss the 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 aghast at such a deed. His snake-like eyes are buried on the ground. See, I have moved even him."

"How?" Sybil exclaimed. "Are you really going to take his fiancée from your brother? Would you do him this terrible wrong? Is it not enough that you would take away something he's always considered his own? And even if he’s mistakenly thought so, it won’t make his loss any less painful. If you betray your brother like this, don’t expect to find happiness; don’t expect respect, because you won’t have either. Even this cold-hearted old man is appalled by such an act. His snake-like eyes are fixed on the ground. Look, I have even moved him.”

And in truth Peter did appear, for an instant, strangely moved.

And honestly, Peter did show up, for a moment, surprisingly affected.

"'Tis nothing," returned he, mastering his emotion by a strong effort. "What is all this to me? I never had a brother. I never had aught—wife, child, or relative, that loved me.[221] 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 Mowbray. The hand that grasps hers, grasps those lands; thus saith the prophecy."

"'It’s nothing,' he replied, controlling his emotions with a strong effort. 'What does any of this matter to me? I never had a brother. I’ve never had anything—wife, child, or relative—who loved me.[221] And I don’t love the world, or its possessions, or the people in it. But I understand what drives the world and its people; and that is, Self and self-interest! Let Luke think about this. The key to Rookwood is Eleanor Mowbray. The hand that holds hers holds those lands; that’s what the prophecy says.'"

"It is a lying prophecy."

"It’s a false prophecy."

"It was uttered by one of your race."

"It was said by someone from your kind."

"By whom?"

"Who did that?"

"By Barbara Lovel," said Peter, with a sneer of triumph.

"By Barbara Lovel," Peter said, sneering with triumph.

"Ha!"

"LOL!"

"Heed him not," exclaimed Luke, as Sybil recoiled at this intelligence. "I am yours."

"Heed him not," shouted Luke, as Sybil pulled back at this news. "I am yours."

"Not mine! not mine!" shrieked she; "but, oh! not hers!"

"Not mine! Not mine!" she screamed; "but, oh! not hers!"

"Whither go you?" cried Luke, as Sybil, half bewildered, tore herself from him.

"Where are you going?" shouted Luke, as Sybil, half confused, pulled away from him.

"To Barbara Lovel."

"To Barbara Lovel."

"I will go with you."

"I'll 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 am sick at heart. Follow me not; I implore you, follow me not."

"No! Let me go alone. I have a lot to ask her; but please don't stick around with this old man, dear Luke, or listen to his tricky words. Stay away from him. Oh, I’m so upset. Please don’t follow me; I beg you, don’t follow me."

And with distracted air she darted amongst the mouldering cloisters, leaving Luke stupefied with anguish and surprise. The sexton maintained a stern and stoical composure.

And with a distracted look, she rushed through the decaying cloisters, leaving Luke stunned with pain and shock. The sexton kept a serious and indifferent demeanor.

"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."

"She is a woman, after all," he muttered; "all her lofty intentions disappear like snow in the sun at the thought of a competitor. I congratulate you, grandson Luke; you are free from your bonds."

"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."

"Free!" Luke shouted. "Get out of my sight; I can't stand to look at you. You've shattered the most sincere heart that ever existed in a woman's chest."

"Tut, tut," returned Peter; "it is not broken yet. Wait till we hear what old Barbara has got to say; and, meanwhile,[222] we must arrange with Dick Turpin the price of that certificate. The knave knows its value well. Come, be a man. This is worse than womanish."

"Tut, tut," Peter replied; "it's not broken yet. Let's see what old Barbara has to say; and in the meantime,[222] we need to negotiate with Dick Turpin about the price of that certificate. The villain knows its worth. Come on, be a man. This is worse than being overly emotional."

And at length he succeeded, half by force and half by persuasion, in dragging Luke away with him.

And finally, he managed, partly through force and partly through persuasion, to pull Luke away with him.


CHAPTER IV

BARBARA LOVEL

Los Gitanos son encantadores, adivinos, magos, chyromanticos, que dicen por las rayas de las manos lo Futuro, que ellos llaman Buenaventura, y generalmente son dados à toda supersticion.

Los gitanos son encantadores, adivinos, magos, quirománticos, que dicen por las líneas de las manos lo que será el futuro, que ellos llaman Buenaventura, y generalmente son propensos a toda superstición.

Doctor Sancho de Moncada.
Discurso sobre Espulsion de los Gitanos.

Dr. Sancho de Moncada.
Talk on the Expulsion of the Gypsies.

Like a dove escaped from the talons of the falcon, Sybil 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. She felt as one may feel who tries to strain his nerves, shattered by illness, to the endurance of some dreadful, yet necessary pain.

Like a dove that has escaped from a falcon's grasp, Sybil ran away from the sexton's hold. Her mind was spinning, her blood boiling. She couldn't clearly see what was around her or understand what she was about to do, moving more like a fleeting spirit than a living woman through the ruined corridor. Her hair was a mess, falling over her face. She didn't stop to fix it but pushed the obstructive strands aside with desperate impatience. She felt like someone trying to gather their shattered nerves after an illness to face some terrible, yet unavoidable pain.

Sybil loved her granddame, old Barbara; but it was with a 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 for the Obeah woman. They acknowledged her power, unhesitatingly obeyed her commands, and shrank with terror[223] 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, Sybil reached a flight of steps. A door, studded with iron nails, stayed her progress; it was an old, strong oaken frame, surmounted by a Gothic arch, in the keystone of which leered one of those grotesque demoniacal faces with which the fathers of the church delighted to adorn their shrines. Sybil 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 then that 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.

Sybil loved her grandmother, old Barbara, but her love was mixed with fear. Barbara wasn't someone who inspired respect or affection. The wild tribe she led saw her as their queen, feeling a kind of unexplainable awe similar to that felt by the African slave for the Obeah woman. They acknowledged her power, followed her orders without question, and were terrified of her curses, which she rarely issued; when she did, it was seen as a death sentence. She viewed her tribe as her flock and kept a maternal eye over them, ready to nurture or punish; having already outlived one generation, the next had grown up with a superstitious reverence for the "cunning woman," as they called her, and that respect could never be completely erased. Navigating past roofless halls and through broken pieces of fallen pillars, Sybil came to a flight of steps. A door, fortified with iron nails, blocked her way; it was a sturdy old oaken frame topped by a Gothic arch, featuring one of those grotesque demonic faces that the church fathers loved to use in their decorations. Sybil looked up and met the bizarre face, which reminded her of the sexton and seemed to mock her. In that moment, her courage left her. Her fingers were on the door handle, but she hesitated and even pulled back, thinking of leaving, as she realized she couldn't face Barbara. It was too late—she had already moved the handle. A deep voice from inside called her name. She couldn't ignore that call—she stepped inside.

The room in which Sybil 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 outstrip 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 oriel window, commanding a lovely view of the scenery around, and paneled with oak, richly wrought in ribs and groins; and from overhead depended a molded ceiling of honeycomb plaster-work. This room had something, even now, in the days of its desecration, of monastic beauty about it. Where the odor of sanctity had breathed forth, the fumes of idolatry prevailed; but imagination, ever on the wing, flew back to that period—and a tradition to that effect warranted[224] the supposition—when, perchance, it had been the sanctuary and the privacy of the prior's self.

The room where Sybil found herself was the only complete apartment still left in the priory. It had withstood the wear and tear of time and had avoided the destruction caused by humans, which is even worse than time itself. Octagonal, tall, yet narrow, it was clear that it was part of a turret. A small oriel window let in light, offering a beautiful view of the surrounding scenery, and the walls were paneled with intricately designed oak. Above, there was a molded ceiling made of honeycomb plaster. This room still held a hint of monastic beauty, even in its current state of decay. Where the scent of holiness once lingered, the smell of idolatry now filled the air; but imagination, always eager, transported one back to a time—supported by tradition—that could have been when it served as the sanctuary and private space of the prior himself.[224]

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 coiffed, in folds like those of an Asiatic turban, a rich, though faded shawl, and her waist was encircled with the magic zodiacal zone—proper to the sorceress—the Mago Cineo of the Cingara—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 manufacture. 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 finger tips, 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, so 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-illumine that precious lamp! And that Barbara's vital spark was fast waning, was evident from her heavy, blood-shot eyes, once of a swimming black, and lengthy as a witch's, which were now sinister and sunken.

Wrapped in a cloak made from various animal skins, sitting on a low pallet covered with stained red cloth, was Barbara. She wore a rich, though faded shawl styled like an Asian turban around her head, and her waist was decorated with the magical zodiacal zone—typical of a sorceress—the Mago Cineo of the Cingara—hence the name Zingaro, according to Moncada—which Barbara had brought from Spain. Long golden earrings hung from her ears, featuring a unique antique design; and her withered fingers, resembling a pile of lizards, were adorned with numerous silver rings, made of the purest and simplest form. They looked almost like solid, unrefined metal. Her skin was yellow like a toad's body and wrinkled like its back. She could have been dipped in saffron, from her fingertips and the same-colored nails to the visible parts of her neck, which was wrinkled like a turtle's throat. At first glance, one might have thought that the embalmer had practiced her art on herself. So pale, so lifeless, so darkened seemed the flesh, where there was any left; her skin could hardly have been tougher than leather. She resembled an animated mummy. A body so tanned seemed built to last for ages; and perhaps it could have. But, alas! the soul cannot be preserved. No oil can rekindle that precious light! That Barbara's spirit was quickly fading was clear from her heavy, bloodshot eyes—once a deep black and long like a witch's—which were now dark and sunken.

The atmosphere of the room was as strongly impregnated as a museum with volatile odors, 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 gipsy's head, hissed a token of recognition as[225] Sybil 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 pellucid liquid, in which a small snake, the Egyptian aspic, described perpetual gyrations.

The atmosphere of the room was as saturated as a museum with strong odors coming from the shelves stocked with drugs, as well as various stuffed birds and wild animals. Barbara's only living companion was a huge owl, which, perched over the old gypsy's head, hissed a greeting as[225] Sybil approached. Hanging from a hook in the plaster ceiling was a crystal globe, about the size and shape of a large gourd, filled with clear liquid, in which a small snake, the Egyptian aspic, constantly twisted and turned.

Dim were the eyes of Barbara, yet not altogether sightless. The troubled demeanor of her grandchild struck her as she entered. She felt the hot drops upon her hand as Sybil stooped to kiss it; she heard her vainly-stifled sobs.

Dim were the eyes of Barbara, yet not altogether sightless. The troubled demeanor of her grandchild struck her as she entered. She felt the hot drops upon her hand as Sybil stooped to kiss it; she heard her vainly-stifled sobs.

"What ails you, child?" said Barbara, in a voice that rattled in her throat, and hollow as the articulation of a phantom. "Have you heard tidings of Luke Bradley? Has any ill befallen him? I said you would either hear of him or see him this morning. He is not returned, I see. What have you heard?"

"What’s wrong, kid?" Barbara asked, her voice shaky and eerie, like a ghost's. "Have you gotten any news about Luke Bradley? Has something bad happened to him? I told you that you would either hear from him or see him this morning. I can see he hasn’t come back. What do you know?"

"He is returned," replied Sybil, faintly; "and no ill hath happened to him."

"He is back," replied Sybil, faintly; "and nothing bad has happened to him."

"He is returned, and you are here," echoed Barbara. "No ill hath happened to him, thou sayest—am I to understand there is—to you?"

"He is back, and you’re here," Barbara echoed. "Nothing bad has happened to him, you say—should I understand that there is something wrong with you?"

Sybil answered not. She could not answer.

Sybil didn't respond. She couldn't respond.

"I see, I see," said Barbara, more gently, her head and hand shaking with paralytic affection: "a quarrel, a lover's quarrel. Old 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 a 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; for though, 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 is gone. Nay, take it not so to heart, wench. Luke has a hasty temper. 'Tis 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? Heed it not. Trust me, you will have[226] him seek your forgiveness ere the shadows shorten 'neath the noontide sun."

"I see, I see," Barbara said gently, her head and hand shaking with overwhelming affection. "A fight, a lover's spat. Even at my age, I haven’t forgotten how it feels to be a girl. What woman ever does, if she really is a woman? And you, like your poor mother, are a true-hearted girl. She loved her husband the way a husband should be loved, Sybil; and although she loved me well, she loved him more, as was right. Ah! It was a tough day when she left me for Spain; because, for someone like us who wanders, all places feel the same, yet the land where we were born is special to us, and being with our family is even more precious. Well, well, I won’t dwell on that. She’s gone. No, don’t take it to heart, dear. Luke has a quick temper. It’s not the first time I’ve said this. He can’t handle criticism, and you probed him a bit too sharply about his absence, didn’t you? Don’t worry about it. Trust me, he’ll come looking for your forgiveness before the shadows grow long in the midday sun."

"Alas! alas!" said Sybil, sadly, "this is no lover's quarrel, which may, at once, be forgotten and forgiven—would it were so!"

"Alas! alas!" said Sybil, sadly, "this is not a lover's quarrel that can be easily forgotten and forgiven—if only 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, if your wrong requires revenge. Are you blood of mine, and think I will not do this for you, girl? None of the blood of Barbara Lovel were ever unrevenged. When Richard Cooper stabbed my first-born, Francis, he fled to Flanders to escape my wrath. But he did not escape it. I pursued him thither. 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 it shall 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 some one towards her. "He shall wed you within the hour, if you will have it, or if your honor need that it should be so. My power is not departed from me. My people are yet at my command. I am still their queen, and woe to him that offendeth me!"

"What is it, then?" asked Barbara; and without waiting for Sybil's answer, she continued fiercely, "Has he wronged you? Tell me, girl, how? Speak, so I can take revenge for you if you need it. Are you blood of mine and think I won't do this for you? None of Barbara Lovel's blood has ever gone unavenged. When Richard Cooper stabbed my firstborn, Francis, he fled to Flanders to escape my wrath. But he didn't escape it. I chased him there. I hunted him down, drove him back to his own country, and brought him to the gallows. It took a lot of gold. What does it matter? Revenge is worth more than gold. And just like it was with Richard Cooper, so it will be with Luke Bradley. I will catch him, no matter how fast he runs. I will trip him, even if he jumps. I will reach him, no matter how far he flees. I will drag him here by the hair of his head," she added with a grim smile, clutching at the air with her hands as if pulling someone toward her. "He shall marry you within the hour, if you want it, or if your honor requires it to be so. My power hasn’t left me. My people are still under my command. I am still their queen, and woe to anyone who offends me!"

"Mother! mother!" cried Sybil, affrighted at the storm she had unwittingly aroused, "he has not injured me. 'Tis I alone who am to blame, not Luke."

"Mom! Mom!" shouted Sybil, panicked from the storm she had unintentionally stirred up, "he hasn't hurt me. It's just me who is to blame, not Luke."

"You speak in mysteries," said Barbara.

"You talk in riddles," Barbara said.

"Sir Piers Rookwood is dead."

"Sir Piers Rookwood has died."

"Dead!" echoed Barbara, letting fall her hazel rod. "Sir Piers dead!"

"Dead!" Barbara exclaimed, dropping her hazel staff. "Sir Piers is dead!"

"And Luke Bradley——"

"And Luke Bradley—"

"Ha!"[227]

"Ha!"[227]

"Is his successor."

"Is his successor."

"Who told you that?" asked Barbara, with increased astonishment.

"Who told you that?" Barbara asked, her astonishment growing.

"Luke himself. All is disclosed." And Sybil hastily recounted Luke's adventures. "He is now Sir Luke Rookwood."

"Luke himself. Everything is revealed." And Sybil quickly shared Luke's adventures. "He is now Sir Luke Rookwood."

"This is news, in truth," said Barbara; "yet not news to weep for. You should rejoice, 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; ay, to see her well wedded."

"This is news, really," said Barbara; "but it's not news to cry about. You should celebrate, not mourn. Well, well, I saw this coming. I will live to see everything happen; to see my Agatha's child honored; to see her married; yes, to see her happily married."

"Dearest mother!"

"Dear Mom!"

"I can endow you, and I will do it. You shall bring your husband not alone beauty, you shall bring him wealth."

"I can give you what you need, and I will. You will not only bring your husband beauty, but you will also bring him wealth."

"But, mother——"

"But, mom——"

"My Agatha's daughter shall be Lady Rookwood."

"My Agatha's daughter will be Lady Rookwood."

"Never! It cannot be."

"Never! It can't be."

"What cannot be?"

"What can't be?"

"The match you now propose."

"The match you’re proposing now."

"What mean you, silly wench? Ha! I perceive the meaning of those tears. The truth flashes upon me. He has discarded you."

"What do you mean, you silly girl? Ha! I understand those tears. The truth has hit me. He has dumped you."

"No, by the Heaven of Heavens, he is still the same—unaltered in affection."

"No, by the Heaven of Heavens, he is still the same—unchanged in love."

"If so, your tears are out of place."

"If that's the case, your tears aren't appropriate."

"Mother, it is not fitting that I, a gipsy born, should wed with him."

"Mom, it’s not right for me, a gypsy by birth, to marry him."

"Not fitting! Ha! and you my child! Not fitting! Get up, or I will spurn you. Not fitting! This from you to me! I tell you 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, ha! I tell you, girl, that for his one ancestor I can number twenty; for the years in which his lineage hath flourished, my race can boast centuries,[228] and was a people—a kingdom!—ere the 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."

"Not appropriate! Ha! And you, my child! Not appropriate! Get up, or I’ll kick you out. Not appropriate! This from you to me! I’m telling you it is appropriate; you’ll have a dowry as generous as any lady in the land. Not appropriate! Are you saying that because you think he comes from a proud and ancient line—ancient and proud—ha, ha! Let me tell you, girl, for his one ancestor, I can count twenty; for the years his lineage has thrived, my family can boast centuries, [228] and we were a people—a kingdom!—before the land he lives in was even known. What! If, by the curse of Heaven, we were driven away, the curse of hell rests upon his house."

"I know it," said Sybil; "a dreadful curse, which, if I wed him, will alight on me."

"I know it," Sybil said; "a terrible curse that will fall on me if I marry him."

"No; not on you; you shall avoid that curse. I know a means to satisfy the avenger. Leave that to me."

"No; not on you; you will avoid that curse. I know how to satisfy the avenger. Leave it to me."

"I dare not, as it never can be; yet, tell me—you saw the body of Luke's ill-fated mother. Was she poisoned? Nay, you may speak. Sir Piers's death releases you from your oath. How died she?"

"I can't, as it never can be; yet, tell me—you saw the body of Luke's unfortunate mother. Was she poisoned? Go on, you can speak. Sir Piers's death frees you from your vow. How did she die?"

"By strangulation," said the old gipsy, raising her palsied hand to her throat.

"By strangulation," said the old gypsy, raising her shaky hand to her throat.

"Oh!" cried Sybil, gasping with horror. "Was there a ring upon her finger when you embalmed the body?"

"Oh!" shouted Sybil, gasping in horror. "Was there a ring on her finger when you embalmed the body?"

"A ring—a wedding-ring! The finger was crookened. Listen, girl, I could have told Luke the secret of his birth long ago, but the oath imposed by Sir Piers sealed fast my lips. His mother was wedded to Sir Piers; his mother was murdered by Sir Piers. Luke was entrusted to my care by his father. I have brought him up with you. I have affianced you together; and I shall live to see you united. He is now Sir Luke. He is your husband."

"A ring—a wedding ring! The finger was crooked. Listen, girl, I could have told Luke the truth about his birth a long time ago, but the oath imposed by Sir Piers kept me silent. His mother was married to Sir Piers; his mother was killed by Sir Piers. Luke was entrusted to me by his father. I raised him alongside you. I have betrothed you to each other, and I will live to see you united. He is now Sir Luke. He is your husband."

"Do not deceive yourself, mother," said Sybil, with a fearful earnestness. "He is not yet Sir Luke Rookwood; would he had no claim to be so! The fortune that has hitherto been so propitious may yet desert him. Bethink you of a prophecy you uttered."

"Don't kid yourself, mom," said Sybil, with a serious intensity. "He’s not Sir Luke Rookwood yet; I wish he had no reason to be! The luck that’s been on his side so far could still turn against him. Remember the prophecy you spoke."

"A prophecy? Ha!"

"A prophecy? Pfft!"

And with slow enunciation Sybil pronounced the mystic words which she had heard repeated by the sexton.

And with deliberate clarity, Sybil said the mysterious words she had heard the sexton repeat.

As she spoke, a gloom, like that of a thunder-cloud, began to gather over the brow of the old gipsy. The orbs of her sunken eyes expanded, and wrath supplied her frame with vigor. She arose.[229]

As she spoke, a darkness, like that of a thundercloud, started to form over the old gypsy's brow. The depths of her sunken eyes widened, and anger filled her with energy. She stood up.[229]

"Who told you that?" cried Barbara.

"Who told you that?" shouted Barbara.

"Luke's grandsire, Peter Bradley."

"Luke's grandfather, Peter Bradley."

"How learnt he it?" said Barbara. "It was to one who hath long been in his grave I told it; so long ago, it had passed from my memory. 'Tis strange! old Sir Reginald had a brother, I know. But there is no other of the house."

"How did he find out?" said Barbara. "I told it to someone who's been in his grave for a long time; it was so long ago that I had forgotten. It's strange! Old Sir Reginald had a brother, I know. But there isn’t anyone else in the family."

"There is a cousin, Eleanor Mowbray."

"There is a cousin, Eleanor Mowbray."

"Ha! 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 compel the future and 'the will be' as with chains of brass. They must be fulfilled, yet not by Ranulph. He shall never wed Eleanor."

"Ha! I get it; you're the daughter of that Eleanor Rookwood who ran away from her father's house. What a fool I am. Am I stuck in my own traps? Those words carry truth and strength, binding the future and what is meant to be like chains of brass. They have to come true, but not through Ranulph. He will never marry Eleanor."

"Whom then shall she wed?"

"Who will she marry?"

"His elder brother."

"His older brother."

"Mother!" shrieked Sybil. "Do you say so? Oh! recall your words."

"Mom!" yelled Sybil. "Is that what you really mean? Oh! take back what you said!"

"I may not; it is spoken. Luke shall wed her."

"I might not; it has been decided. Luke will marry her."

"Oh God, support me!" exclaimed Sybil.

"Oh God, help me!" Sybil exclaimed.

"Silly wench, be firm. It must be as I say. He shall wed her—yet shall he wed her not. The nuptial torch shall be quenched as soon as lighted; the curse of the avenger shall fall—yet not on thee."

"Silly girl, stand strong. It has to be as I say. He will marry her—but he won't really. The wedding torch will be extinguished as soon as it's lit; the avenger's curse will fall—but not on you."

"Mother," said Sybil, "if sin must fall upon some innocent head, let it be on mine—not upon hers. I love him, I would gladly die for him. She is young—unoffending—perhaps happy. Oh! do not let her perish."

"Mom," Sybil said, "if someone has to suffer for a sin, let it be me—not her. I love him, and I would gladly die for him. She’s young, innocent, and maybe even happy. Please don’t let her go through this."

"Peace, I say!" cried Barbara, "and mark me. This is your birthday. Eighteen summers have flown over your young head—eighty 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. We may foresee, but not avert our destiny. What will be, shall be. This is your eighteenth[230] birthday, Sybil: 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 Saturn sheds his lurid glance upon it. Let me see your hand. The line of life is drawn out distinct and clear—it runs—ha! what means that intersection? Beware—beware, my Sybil. Act as I tell you, and you are safe. I will make another trial, by the crystal bowl. Attend."

"Peace, listen!" Barbara exclaimed. "And pay attention. Today is your birthday. Eighteen summers have passed over your young head—eighty winters have left their mark on mine. You still have a lot to learn. The years have brought wrinkles, but they've also brought wisdom. To fight against fate is like wrestling with a higher power. We can predict what's coming, but we can't change our destiny. What will happen, will happen. This is your eighteenth[230] birthday, Sybil: it's a pivotal day for you; your planetary hour is here—an hour of fortune or misfortune, depending on how you act. I've looked at your horoscope. I've observed your natal star; it's under the harmful influence of Scorpio, and fiery Saturn casts a dark light on it. Let me see your hand. The life line is clear and distinct—it extends—ah! What does that intersection mean? Be careful—be careful, my Sybil. Follow my advice, and you'll be safe. I'll try again with the crystal ball. Pay attention."

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 sides of a septilateral figure. This figure she studied intently for a few moments. She then raised her wand and touched the owl with it. The bird unfolded its wings, and arose in flight; then slowly circled round the pendulous globe. Each time it drew nearer, until at length it touched the glassy bowl with its flapping pinions.

Muttering some strange words that sounded like a spell, Barbara, with the forked hazel staff she used as a divining rod, drew a circle on the floor. Inside this circle, she made more lines from corner to corner, creating seven triangles, the bases of which formed the sides of a seven-sided shape. She focused on this shape intently for a few moments. Then, she raised her wand and touched the owl with it. The bird spread its wings and took off; then it slowly circled around the hanging globe. Each time it came closer until finally, it touched the glassy bowl with its flapping wings.

"Enough!" ejaculated Barbara. And at another motion from her rod the bird stayed its flight and returned to its perch.

"Enough!" Barbara exclaimed. At another wave of her rod, the bird stopped flying and returned to its 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.

Barbara stood up. She hit the globe with her staff. The clear fluid immediately turned red, as if blood had mixed in. The small serpent was visible inside, coiled and tangled, as if it were in the throes of death.

"Again I say, beware!" ejaculated Barbara, solemnly. "This is ominous of ill."

"Once again, I warn you, be careful!" Barbara exclaimed seriously. "This is a sign of trouble."

Sybil had sunk, from faintness, on the pallet. A knock was heard at the door.

Sybil had collapsed from dizziness onto the mat. A knock came at the door.

"Who is without?" cried Barbara.

"Who is out there?" cried Barbara.

"'Tis I, Balthazar," replied a voice.

"'It's me, Balthazar," replied a voice.

"Thou mayest enter," answered Barbara; and an old man with a long beard, white as snow, reaching to his girdle, and a costume which might be said to resemble the raiment of a[231] Jewish high priest, made his appearance. This venerable personage was no other than the patrico, or hierophant of the Canting Crew.

"You may come in," replied Barbara; and an old man with a long beard, as white as snow and reaching to his waist, dressed in a way that resembled the clothing of a[231] Jewish high priest, entered. This distinguished figure was none other than the patriarch, or hierophant, of the Canting Crew.

"I come to tell you that there are strangers—ladies—within the priory," said the patrico, gravely. "I have searched for you in vain," continued he, addressing Sybil; "the younger of them seems to need your assistance."

"I’m here to tell you that there are strangers—women—inside the priory," said the patron solemnly. "I’ve been looking for you without success," he continued, speaking to Sybil; "the younger one appears to need your help."

"Whence come they?" exclaimed Barbara.

"Where do they come from?" exclaimed Barbara.

"They have ridden, I understand, from Rookwood," answered the patrico. "They were on their way to Davenham, when they were prevented."

"They came, I heard, from Rookwood," replied the patrico. "They were headed to Davenham when something stopped them."

"From Rookwood?" echoed Sybil. "Their names—did you hear their names?"

"From Rookwood?" Sybil repeated. "Did you catch their names?"

"Mowbray is the name of both; they are a mother and a daughter; the younger is called——"

"Mowbray is the name of both; they are a mother and a daughter; the younger is called——"

"Eleanor?" asked Sybil, with an acute foreboding of calamity.

"Eleanor?" Sybil asked, feeling a strong sense of impending doom.

"Eleanor is the name, assuredly," replied the patrico, somewhat surprised. "I heard the elder, whom I guess to be her mother, so address her."

"Eleanor is definitely the name," replied the patrico, a bit surprised. "I heard the elder, who I assume is her mother, call her that."

"Gracious God! She here!" exclaimed Sybil.

"Gracious God! She's here!" exclaimed Sybil.

"Here! Eleanor Mowbray here," cried Barbara; "within my power. Not a moment is to be lost. Balthazar, hasten round the tents—not a man must leave his place—above all, Luke Bradley. See that these Mowbrays are detained within the abbey. Let the bell be sounded. Quick, quick; leave this wench to me; she is not well. I have much to do. Away with thee, man, and let me know when thou hast done it." And as Balthazar departed on his mission, with a glance of triumph in her eyes, Barbara exclaimed, "Soh, 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 nerved to the task," added she, regarding the senseless form of Sybil. "Here is that will stimulate her," opening the cupboard,[232] and taking a small phial; "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. Ha, ha!"

"Here! Eleanor Mowbray here," shouted Barbara; "it's within my power. We can't waste a moment. Balthazar, hurry around the tents—not a single man can leave his spot—especially Luke Bradley. Make sure these Mowbrays are kept inside the abbey. Ring the bell. Quickly, quickly; leave this girl to me; she isn’t well. I have a lot to do. Get going, man, and let me know when you’ve done it." And as Balthazar left to carry out her orders, a look of triumph in her eyes, Barbara exclaimed, "Well, no sooner do I have the thought than the means to make it happen appear. I'll do it right away. I will tie the knot. I will untie it, and then re-tie it. This weak girl needs to be pushed to the task," she said, looking at the unconscious Sybil. "Here’s something that will energize her," she said, opening the cupboard,[232] and taking out a small vial; "this will strengthen her; and this," she added with a creepy smile, placing her hand on another container, "this will get rid of her rival once everything is settled; this liquid will compel her lover to be her titled, land-owning husband. Ha, ha!"


CHAPTER V

THE INAUGURATION

Beggar. Concert, sir! we have musicians, too, among us. True, merry beggars, indeed, that, being within the reach of the lash for singing libellous songs at London, were fain to fly into one cover, and here they sing all our poets' ditties. They can sing anything, most tunably, sir, but psalms. What they may do hereafter, under a triple tree, is much expected; but they live very civilly and genteelly among us.

Beggar. Concert, sir! We have musicians among us too. True, joyful beggars indeed, who, having to avoid punishment for singing slanderous songs in London, were eager to seek refuge here, where they belt out our poets' tunes. They can sing anything beautifully, sir, except psalms. What they might do later, under a triple tree, is highly anticipated; but they live very politely and decently among us.

Spring. But what is here—that solemn old fellow, that neither speaks of himself, or any for him?

Spring. But what’s going on with that serious old guy who doesn't say anything about himself or anyone else?

Beggar. O, sir, the rarest man of all: he is a prophet. See how he holds up his prognosticating nose. He is divining now.

Beggar. Oh, sir, the most remarkable man of all: he is a prophet. Look at how he raises his predicting nose. He is reading the future right now.

Spring. How, a prophet?

Spring. How, a visionary?

Beggar. Yes, sir; a cunning man, and a fortune-teller; a very ancient stroller all the world over, and has travelled with gipsies: and is a patrico.

Beggar. Yes, sir; a clever guy and a fortune-teller; an old wanderer from all around the world who has traveled with gypsies: and is a true original.

The Merry Beggars.

The Merry Beggars.

In consequence of some few words which the sexton let fall in the presence of the attendants, during breakfast, more perhaps by design than accident, it was speedily rumored throughout the camp that the redoubted Richard Turpin was for the time its inmate. This intelligence produced some such sensation as is experienced by the inhabitants of a petty town on the sudden arrival of a prince of the blood, a commander-in-chief, or other illustrious and distinguished personage, whose fame has been vaunted abroad amongst his fellowmen by Rumor, "and her thousand tongues;" and who, like our highwayman, has rendered himself sufficiently notorious to be[233] an object of admiration and emulation amongst his contemporaries.

As a result of a few words the sexton let slip in front of the guests during breakfast, more likely on purpose than by accident, it quickly spread throughout the camp that the legendary Richard Turpin was staying there. This news created a buzz similar to what the people in a small town feel when a royal, a top general, or another famous figure arrives unexpectedly, someone whose reputation has been talked about far and wide by Rumor and her thousand tongues; and who, like our notorious highwayman, had become an object of admiration and envy among his peers.

All started up at the news. The upright man, the chief of the crew, arose from his chair, donned his gown of state, a very ancient brocade dressing-gown, filched, most probably, from the wardrobe of some strolling player, grasped his baton of office, a stout oaken truncheon, and sallied forth. The ruffler, who found his representative in a very magnificently equipped, and by no means ill-favored knave, whose chin was decorated with a beard as lengthy and as black as Sultan Mahmoud's, together with the dexterous hooker, issued forth from the hovel which they termed their boozing ken, eager to catch a glimpse of the prince of the high-tobygloaks. The limping palliard tore the bandages from his mock wounds, shouldered his crutch, and trudged hastily after them. The whip-jack unbuckled his strap, threw away his timber leg, and "leapt exulting, like the bounding roe." "With such a sail in sight," he said, "he must heave to, like the rest." The dummerar, whose tongue had been cut out by the Algerines, suddenly found the use of it, and made the welkin ring with his shouts. Wonderful were the miracles Dick's advent wrought. The lame became suddenly active, the blind saw, the dumb spoke; nay, if truth must be told, absolutely gave utterance to "most vernacular execrations." Morts, autem morts, walking morts, dells, doxies, kinching morts, and their coes, with all the shades and grades of the Canting Crew, were assembled. There were, to use the words of Brome—

All started with the news. The upright man, the leader of the group, got up from his chair, put on his formal robe, an old brocade dressing gown probably stolen from some traveling actor, took his staff—a sturdy oak club—and headed out. The ruffler, represented by a very well-dressed and not unattractive guy with a beard as long and as black as Sultan Mahmoud's, along with the skilled pickpocket, came out of the place they called their drinking den, eager to catch a glimpse of the prince of the high-tobygloaks. The limping beggar ripped off the bandages from his fake wounds, picked up his crutch, and hurried after them. The beggar unbuckled his strap, threw away his wooden leg, and "leapt up joyfully, like a bouncing deer." "With such a sight ahead," he said, "he must stop, just like everyone else." The dumb guy, whose tongue had been cut out by the Algerians, suddenly found he could use it and made the air ring with his shouts. The miracles brought by Dick's arrival were incredible. The lame suddenly became active, the blind could see, the mute spoke; in fact, to be honest, they even let loose with "the most colorful curses." Women, and others, living dead, sleeping maidens, local girls, and their types, along with all the different characters of the Canting Crew, were gathered. There were, to use the words of Brome—

Stark, reckless, outright beggars. Sure,
No doubt, statute beggars, Lying down and walking, watching, standing up beggars; Current and homeless, wandering, and aggressive beggars![25]

Each sunburnt varlet started from his shed; each dusky dame, with her brown, half-naked urchins, followed at his heels;[234] each "ripe young maiden, with the glossy eye," lingered but to sleek her raven tresses, and to arrange her straw bonnet, and then overtook the others; each wrinkled beldame hobbled as quickly after as her stiffened joints would permit; while the ancient patrico, the priest of the crew—who joined the couples together by the hedge-side, "with the nice custom of dead horse between"[26]—brought up the rear; all bent on one grand object, that of having a peep at the "foremost man of all this prigging world!"

Each sunburned guy started from his shed; each dark-skinned woman, with her brown, half-naked kids, followed close behind him; each "ripe young maiden, with the shiny eye," paused only to smooth her black hair and fix her straw hat, then caught up with the others; each wrinkled old woman limped along as fast as her stiff joints would allow; while the old priest of the group—who married the couples by the hedge, "with the nice custom of dead horse between"—brought up the rear; all focused on one main goal, which was to catch a glimpse of the "foremost man of all this prigging world!"[234]

Dick Turpin, at the period of which we treat, was in the zenith of his reputation. His deeds were full blown; his exploits were in every man's mouth; and a heavy price was set upon his head. That he should show himself thus openly, where he might be so easily betrayed, excited no little surprise among the craftiest of the crew, and augured an excess of temerity on his part. Rash daring was the main feature of Turpin's character. Like our great Nelson, he knew fear only by name; and when he thus trusted himself in the hands of strangers, confident in himself and in his own resources, he felt perfectly easy as to the result. He relied also in the continuance of his good fortune, which had as yet never deserted him. Possessed of the belief that his hour was not yet come, he cared little or nothing for any risk he might incur; and though he might, undoubtedly, have some presentiment of the probable termination of his career, he never suffered it to militate against his present enjoyment, which proved that he was no despicable philosopher.

Dick Turpin, during the time we’re discussing, was at the peak of his fame. His deeds were well-known; his exploits were the talk of the town, and a hefty bounty was placed on his head. That he would appear so openly, where he could easily be betrayed, surprised even the craftiest of his crew and indicated a high level of recklessness on his part. Boldness was a key trait of Turpin's character. Like our great Nelson, he only knew fear by name; and when he placed his trust in strangers, confident in himself and his abilities, he felt completely at ease about the outcome. He also relied on his streak of good luck, which had never failed him. Believing that his time had not yet come, he cared little about any risk he might face; and although he might have had some inkling about the likely end of his journey, he never let that affect his current enjoyment, showing that he was quite a philosopher in his own right.

Turpin was the ultimus Romanorum, the last of a race, which—we were almost about to say we regret—is now altogether extinct. Several successors he had, it is true, but no name worthy to be recorded after his own. With him expired the chivalrous spirit which animated successively the bosoms of so many knights of the road; with him died away that passionate love of enterprise, that high spirit of devotion to the fair sex, which was first breathed upon the highway by the gay, gallant[235] Claude Du-Val, the Bayard of the road—Le filou sans peur et sans reproche—but which was extinguished at last by the cord that tied the heroic Turpin to the remorseless tree. It were a subject well worthy of inquiry, to trace this decline and fall of the empire of the tobymen to its remoter causes; to ascertain the why and the wherefore, that with so many half-pay captains; so many poor curates; so many lieutenants, of both services, without hopes of promotion; so many penny-a-liners, and fashionable novelists; so many damned dramatists, and damning critics; so many Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviewers; so many detrimental brothers, and younger sons; when there are horses to be hired, pistols to be borrowed, purses to be taken, and mails are as plentiful as partridges—it were worth serious investigation, we repeat, to ascertain why, with the best material imaginable for a new race of highwaymen, we have none, not even an amateur. Why do not some of these choice spirits quit the salons of Pall-Mall, and take to the road? the air of the heath is more bracing and wholesome, we should conceive, than that of any "hell" whatever, and the chances of success incomparably greater. We throw out this hint, without a doubt of seeing it followed up. Probably the solution of our inquiry may be, that the supply is greater than the demand; that, in the present state of things, embryo highwaymen may be more abundant than purses; and then, have we not the horse-patrol? With such an admirably-organized system of conservation, it is vain to anticipate a change. The highwaymen, we fear, like their Irish brothers, the Rapparees, went out with the Tories. They were averse to reform, and eschewed emancipation.

Turpin was the ultimus Romanorum, the last of his kind, which—we almost say with regret—is now completely gone. He had several successors, it’s true, but none whose name is worth remembering after his. With him ended the chivalrous spirit that had inspired so many road knights; with him faded that passionate love for adventure, that noble dedication to the ladies, which was first brought to life on the highway by the dashing, gallant [235] Claude Du-Val, the Bayard of the road—Le filou sans peur et sans reproche—but which was finally extinguished by the rope that tied the heroic Turpin to the merciless tree. This decline and fall of the highwaymen’s empire deserves serious investigation; it would be worthwhile to understand why, with so many retired captains, so many struggling curates, numerous lieutenants from both services with no hopes for advancement, countless penny-a-liners and trendy novelists, so many damned playwrights and their harsh critics, and a plethora of Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviewers, as well as many younger sons and less fortunate brothers—when horses are available to rent, pistols can be borrowed, wallets are ripe for taking, and post coaches are as common as partridges—it deserves serious scrutiny, we insist, to figure out why, despite having the best resources for a new generation of highwaymen, we see none, not even an enthusiast. Why don’t some of these promising individuals leave the salons of Pall-Mall and hit the road? The fresh air of the heath seems far more invigorating and healthier than any “hell” imaginable, and the chance of success is vastly greater. We put this suggestion out there, confident it will be explored. Perhaps the reason for our inquiry lies in the fact that supply exceeds demand; that in today’s reality, aspiring highwaymen may be more numerous than available purses; and let's not forget the horse patrols! With such an excellently organized system in place, expecting a change is futile. We fear that highwaymen, like their Irish counterparts, the Rapparees, have disappeared along with the Tories. They were resistant to reform and shunned liberation.

Lest any one should think we have overrated the pleasures of the highwayman's existence, they shall hear what "the right villainous" Jack Hall, a celebrated tobyman of his day, has got to say on the subject. "His life—the highwayman's—has, generally, the most mirth and the least care in it of any man's breathing, and all he deals for is clear profit: he has[236] that point of good conscience, that he always sells as he buys, a good pennyworth, which is something rare, since he trades with so small a stock. The fence[27] and he are like the devil and the doctor, they live by one another; and, like traitors, 'tis best to keep each other's counsel. He has this point of honesty, that he never robs the house he frequents"—Turpin had the same scruples respecting the Hall of Rookwood in Sir Piers's lifetime—; "and perhaps pays his debts better than some others, for he holds it below the dignity of his employment to commit so ungenteel a crime as insolvency, and loves to pay nobly. He has another quality, not much amiss, that he takes no more than he has occasion for"—Jack, we think, was a little mistaken here—; "which he verifies this way: he craves no more while that lasts. He is a less nuisance in a commonwealth than a miser, because the money he engrosses all circulates again, which the other hoards as though 'twere only to be found again at the day of judgment. He is the tithe-pig of his family, which the gallows, instead of the parson, claims as its due. He has reason enough to be bold in his undertakings, for, though all the world threaten him, he stands in fear of but one man in it, and that's the hangman; and with him, too, he is generally in fee: however, I cannot affirm he is so valiant that he dares look any man in the face, for in that point he is now and then, a little modest. Newgate may be said to be his country-house, where he frequently lives so many months in the year; and he is not so much concerned to be carried thither for a small matter, if 'twere only for the benefit of renewing his acquaintance there. He holds a petit larceny as light as a nun does auricular confession, though the priest has a more compassionate character than the hangman. Every man in this community is esteemed according to his particular quality, of which there are several degrees, though it is contrary often to public government; for here a man shall be valued purely for his merit, and rise by it too, though it be but to a halter, in which there is a great deal of glory in dying[237] like a hero, and making a decent figure in the cart to the last two staves of the fifty-first psalm."[28]

To prevent anyone from thinking we've exaggerated the pleasures of a highwayman's life, let's listen to what "the right villainous" Jack Hall, a famous robber of his time, has to say about it. "A highwayman's life generally has the most fun and the least worry compared to any other person alive, and all he aims for is clear profit: he has that sense of good conscience that he always gives value for what he takes, which is quite rare since he operates with such a small stock. The fence and he are like the devil and the doctor; they depend on each other, and like traitors, it’s best to keep each other's secrets. He has this point of honesty: he never robs the place he visits regularly"—Turpin had the same scruples regarding the Hall of Rookwood during Sir Piers's lifetime—; "and he might even pay his debts better than some others, as he thinks it beneath his dignity to commit such an ungenteel crime as going bankrupt, and he likes to pay fairly. He has another quality that’s not too bad: he only takes what he really needs"—Jack, we believe, was a little off-base here—; "which he proves by asking for no more as long as what he has lasts. He is less of a nuisance to society than a miser because the money he takes always goes back into circulation, while the miser hoards it as if it were only meant to be found again on Judgment Day. He’s the family's tax pig, which the gallows, instead of the priest, claims as its due. He has good reason to be bold in his actions, for although the whole world threatens him, he only fears one man, and that’s the hangman; he usually has a deal with him too. However, I can't say he’s so brave that he dares to look anyone in the eye, as in that regard he can sometimes be a bit shy. Newgate can be considered his country house, where he often spends several months a year; he doesn't mind being taken there for a minor issue, even just to catch up. He treats petty theft as lightly as a nun treats confession, though the priest has a more compassionate reputation than the hangman. Everyone in this community is valued based on their specific qualities, which come in various degrees, even if it's often at odds with public order; for here, a person can be appreciated purely for their merit and rise because of it, even if it's only to end up on the gallows, where there’s a lot of glory in dying like a hero and making a respectable appearance in the cart until the last two lines of the fifty-first psalm."

This, we repeat, is the plain statement of a practical man, and again we throw out the hint for adoption. All we regret is, that we are now degenerated from the grand tobyman to the cracksman and the sneak, about whom there are no redeeming features. How much lower the next generation of thieves will dive it boots not to conjecture:

This is, as we said, the straightforward statement of a practical person, and once more we suggest it for consideration. All we regret is that we've now declined from the noble toby character to the petty thief and the sneak, who have no redeeming qualities. It's impossible to predict how much lower the next generation of thieves will sink.

Parents' age was worse, Nos nequiores; soon to give,
Progeny of the wicked.

"Cervantes laughed Spain's chivalry away," sang Byron; and if Gay did not extinguish the failing flame of our night errantry—unlike the "Robbers" of Schiller, which is said to have inflamed the Saxon youth with an irrepressible mania for brigandage—, the "Beggar's Opera" helped not to fan the dying fire. That laugh was fatal, as laughs generally are. Macheath gave the highwayman his coup de grâce.

"Cervantes laughed away Spain's chivalry," sang Byron; and if Gay didn't completely snuff out the fading spark of our night errantry—unlike Schiller's "Robbers," which is said to have inspired Saxon youth with an uncontrollable urge for banditry—the "Beggar's Opera" certainly didn't revive the dwindling flame. That laugh was deadly, as laughs often are. Macheath delivered the highwayman his coup de grâce.

The last of this race—for we must persist in maintaining that he was the last—, Turpin, like the setting sun, threw up some parting rays of glory, and tinged the far highways with a luster that may yet be traced like a cloud of dust raised by his horse's retreating heels. Unequalled in the command of his steed, the most singular feat that the whole race of the annals of horsemanship has to record, and of which we may have more to say hereafter, was achieved by him. So perfect was his jockeyship, so clever his management of the animal he mounted, so intimately acquainted was he with every cross-road in the neighborhood of the metropolis—a book of which he constructed, and carried constantly about his person—, as well as with many other parts of England, particularly the counties of Chester, York, and Lancaster, that he outstripped every pursuer, and baffled all attempts at capture. His reckless daring, his restless[238] rapidity—for so suddenly did he change his ground, and renew his attacks in other quarters, that he seemed to be endowed with ubiquity,—his bravery, his resolution, and, above all, his generosity, won for him a high reputation amongst his compatriots, and even elicited applauses from those upon whom he levied his contributions.

The last of this group—for we have to insist that he was the last—Turpin, like the setting sun, cast some final rays of glory and lit up the distant roads with a shine that can still be seen like a cloud of dust stirred up by his horse's fading hooves. Unmatched in his control of the horse, the most remarkable feat in the entire history of horsemanship was accomplished by him, and we might discuss it more later. His riding skills were so exceptional, his handling of the horse he rode so smart, and he was so well-versed in every back road around the city—a mental map of which he built and kept with him all the time—along with many other areas of England, especially the counties of Chester, York, and Lancaster, that he outpaced every pursuer and thwarted all attempts to catch him. His reckless daring, his unceasing speed—so quickly did he change locations and launch his attacks in other places that he seemed to be everywhere at once—his bravery, his determination, and, most importantly, his generosity, earned him a great reputation among his peers and even drew praise from those he took from.

Beyond dispute, he ruled as master of the road. His hands were, as yet, unstained with blood; he was ever prompt to check the disposition to outrage, and to prevent, as much as lay in his power, the commission of violence by his associates. Of late, since he had possessed himself of his favorite mare, Black Bess, his robberies had been perpetrated with a suddenness of succession, and at distances so apparently impracticable, that the idea of all having been executed by one man, was rejected as an impossibility; and the only way of reconciling the description of the horse and rider, which tallied in each instance, was the supposition that these attacks were performed by confederates similarly mounted and similarly accoutred.

Without a doubt, he was in charge of the road. His hands were still clean; he was always quick to stop any violence and to prevent, as much as he could, his friends from committing acts of aggression. Lately, since he had gotten his favorite mare, Black Bess, his robberies had been carried out with such speed and at such far-off places that the idea of one person being responsible seemed impossible; the only way to explain the consistent descriptions of the horse and rider in each case was to assume that these attacks were carried out by accomplices who were similarly mounted and equipped.

There was, in all this, as much of the "famæ sacra fames" as of the "auri;" of the hungering after distinction, as well as of the appetite of gain. Enamored of his vocation, Turpin delighted to hear himself designated as the Flying Highwayman; and it was with rapturous triumph that he found his single-handed feats attributed to a band of marauders. But this state of things could not long endure; his secret was blown; the vigilance of the police was aroused; he was tracked to his haunts; and, after a number of hairbreadth 'scapes, which he only effected by miracle, or by the aid of his wonder-working mare, he reluctantly quitted the heathy hills of Bagshot, the Pampas plains of Hounslow—over which like an archetype of the galloping Sir Francis Head, he had so often scoured,—the gorsy commons of Highgate, Hampstead, and Finchley, the marshy fields of Battersea, almost all of which he had been known to visit in a single night, and leaving these[239] beaten tracks to the occupation of younger and less practised hands, he bequeathed to them, at the same time, his own reversionary interest in the gibbets thereupon erected, and betook himself to the country.

There was, in all this, as much of the "famæ sacra fames" as of the "auri;" a hunger for recognition, as well as a desire for profit. Passionate about his job, Turpin enjoyed being referred to as the Flying Highwayman; and it filled him with joyous pride to see his solo exploits credited to a gang of thieves. However, this situation couldn’t last long; his secret was exposed; the police became alert; he was tracked down to his hideouts; and after several narrow escapes, which he only achieved by sheer luck or with the help of his amazing horse, he reluctantly left the heathy hills of Bagshot, the plains of Hounslow—over which he had often galloped like an icon of Sir Francis Head—the rough commons of Highgate, Hampstead, and Finchley, and the marshy fields of Battersea, almost all of which he had managed to cover in a single night. He left these beaten paths to be taken over by younger, less experienced hands, passing on to them, at the same time, his own future claim to the gallows that were erected, and made his way to the countryside.

After a journey of more or less success, our adventurer found himself at Rookwood, whither he had been invited after a grand field-day by its hospitable and by no means inquisitive owner. Breach of faith and good fellowship formed no part of Turpin's character; he had his lights as well as his shades; and as long as Sir Piers lived, his purse and coffers would have been free from molestation, except, "so far," Dick said, "as a cog or two of dice went. My dice, you know, are longs for odd and even, a bale of bar'd cinque deuces," a pattern of which he always carried with him; beyond this, excepting a take-in at a steeple chase, Rookwood church being the mark, a "do" at a leap, or some such trifle, to which the most scrupulous could not raise an objection, Dick was all fair and above-board. But when poor Sir Piers had "put on his wooden surtout," to use Dick's own expressive metaphor, his conscientious scruples evaporated into thin air. Lady Rookwood was nothing to him; there was excellent booty to be appropriated—

After a somewhat successful journey, our adventurer found himself at Rookwood, where he had been invited after a big field day by its friendly and definitely not nosy owner. Breaking faith and friendship wasn’t part of Turpin's character; he had both his good and bad sides. As long as Sir Piers lived, his wallet and riches would be safe from any trouble, except, as Dick said, "as far as a roll or two of dice went. My dice, you know, are for odd and even, a bunch of barred five-dots," a pattern he always carried with him. Beyond this, aside from a little trickery at a steeple chase, Rookwood church being the target, a "bet" at a jump, or some minor thing that even the most careful person couldn’t object to, Dick was all above board. But when poor Sir Piers had "put on his wooden coat," to use Dick's own colorful phrase, his moral reservations just disappeared. Lady Rookwood meant nothing to him; there was great treasure to be seized—

The wise convey it call.

The wise share it broadly.

He began to look about for hands; and having accidentally encountered his old comrades, Rust and Wilder, they were let into the business, which was imperfectly accomplished in the manner heretofore described.

He started to look around for help, and by chance came across his old friends, Rust and Wilder. They were brought into the project, which was partially completed in the way described earlier.

To return from this digression. When Turpin presented himself at the threshold of the door, on his way to inquire after his mare, to his astonishment he found it closely invested. A cheering shout from the tawny throng, succeeded by a general clapping of hands, and attended by a buzzing susurration of applause, such as welcomes the entrance of a popular actor upon the stage, greeted the appearance of the highwayman.[240] At the first sight of the crowd he was a little startled, and involuntarily sought for his pistols. But the demonstrations of admiration were too unequivocal to be for a moment mistaken; his hand was drawn from his pocket to raise his hat from his brow.

To get back from this side note. When Turpin arrived at the door, on his way to check on his mare, he was surprised to find a crowd gathered. A loud cheer from the group, followed by clapping and a buzzing wave of applause, like what you hear for a beloved actor walking onstage, welcomed the appearance of the highwayman.[240] At the sight of the crowd, he was a bit taken aback and instinctively reached for his pistols. But the signs of admiration were too clear to misinterpret; he pulled his hand from his pocket to lift his hat from his forehead.

Thunders of applause.

Thunderous applause.

Turpin's external man, we have before said, was singularly prepossessing. It was especially so in the eyes of the sex—fair we certainly cannot say upon the present occasion—, amongst whom not a single dissentient voice was to be heard. All concurred in thinking him a fine fellow; could plainly read his high courage in his bearing; his good breeding in his débonnaire deportment; and his manly beauty in his extravagant red whiskers. Dick saw the effect that he produced. He was at home in a moment. Your true highwayman has ever a passion for effect. This does not desert him at the gallows; it rises superior to death itself, and has been known to influence the manner of his dangling from the gibbet! To hear some one cry, "There goes a proper handsome man," saith our previously quoted authority, Jack Hall, "somewhat ameliorates the terrible thoughts of the meagre tyrant death; and to go in a dirty shirt were enough to save the hangman a labor, and make a man die with grief and shame at being in that deplorable condition." With a gracious smile of condescension, like a popular orator—with a look of blarney like that of O'Connell, and of assurance like that of Hume—he surveyed the male portion of the spectators, tipped a knowing wink at the prettiest brunettes he could select, and finally cut a sort of fling with his well-booted legs, that brought down another appeal of rapturous applause.

Turpin's outward appearance, as we’ve mentioned before, was strikingly charming. This was especially true in the eyes of the ladies—fair we can’t really say on this occasion—among whom not a single dissenting voice was heard. Everyone agreed he was a great guy; they could easily see his high spirits in his posture, his good manners in his easygoing demeanor, and his masculine attractiveness in his flashy red whiskers. Dick noticed how he affected those around him. He instantly felt at home. A true highwayman always has a flair for show. This passion doesn’t leave him even at the gallows; it rises above death itself and has been known to influence the way he meets his end on the gibbet! To hear someone shout, "There goes a truly handsome man," as our earlier quoted source, Jack Hall, says, "somewhat eases the dreadful thoughts of that lean tyrant death; and going in a dirty shirt could save the hangman effort and make a man die feeling grief and shame for being in such a sorry state." With a charming smile of condescension, like a popular speaker—with a flirty look like O'Connell's, and confidence like Hume's—he scanned the male audience, gave a playful wink to the prettiest brunettes he could find, and finally struck a pose with his well-booted legs, which drew another round of enthusiastic applause.

"A rank scamp!"[29] cried the upright man; and this exclamation, however equivocal it may sound, was intended, on his part, to be highly complimentary.

"A total troublemaker!"[29] exclaimed the honest man; and this remark, despite how ambiguous it may seem, was meant by him to be very flattering.

"I believe ye," returned the ruffler, stroking his chin—"one may see that he's no half swell by the care with which he[241] cultivates the best gifts of nature, his whiskers. He's a rank nib."[30]

"I believe you," the tough guy replied, stroking his chin. "You can tell he's not just some show-off by the way he takes care of his best natural features, his whiskers. He's a total show-off."

"Togged out to the ruffian, no doubt," said the palliard, who was incomparably the shabbiest rascal in the corps. "Though a needy mizzler mysel, I likes to see a cove vot's vel dressed. Jist twig his swell kickseys and pipes;[31] if they ain't the thing, I'm done. Lame Harry can't dance better nor he—no, nor Jerry Juniper neither."

"Togged out to a thug, for sure," said the beggar, who was definitely the scruffiest guy in the group. "Even though I'm broke myself, I like to see a guy who's well-dressed. Just check out his fancy shoes and style; if they’re not on point, I’m finished. Lame Harry can’t dance any better than he can—no, not even Jerry Juniper."

"I'm dumb founded," roared the dummerar, "if he can't patter romany[32] as vel as the best on us! He looks like a rum 'un."

"I'm speechless," shouted the dummerar, "if he can't speak Romani just as well as the best of us! He seems like a shady character."

"And a rum 'un he be, take my word for it," returned the whip-jack, or sham sailor. "Look at his rigging—see how he flashes his sticks[33]—those are the tools to rake a three-decker. He's as clever a craft as I've seen this many a day, or I'm no judge."

"And he's a real character, believe me," replied the whip-jack, or fake sailor. "Look at his outfit—check out how he shows off his gear[33]—those are the tools to handle a big ship. He's as skilled a sailor as I've seen in a long time, or I'm not judging right."

The women were equally enchanted—equally eloquent in the expression of their admiration.

The women were just as captivated—just as articulate in expressing their admiration.

"What ogles!" cried a mort.

"What a stare!" cried a mortal.

"What pins!" said an autem mort, or married woman.

"What pins!" said a married woman.

"Sharp as needles," said a dark-eyed dell, who had encountered one of the free and frolicsome glances which our highwayman distributed so liberally among the petticoats.

"Sharp as needles," said a dark-eyed girl, who had come across one of the free and playful glances that our highwayman generously shared with the ladies.

It was at this crisis Dick took off his hat. Cæsar betrayed his baldness.

It was at this moment that Dick took off his hat. Cæsar revealed his baldness.

"A thousand pities!" cried the men, compassionating his thinly covered skull, and twisting their own ringlets, glossy and luxuriant, though unconscious of Macassar. "A thousand pities that so fine a fellow should have a sconce like a cocoanut!"

"A thousand pities!" exclaimed the men, feeling sorry for his thinly covered head, while they twisted their own curls, shiny and thick, completely unaware of Macassar. "It's such a shame that such a great guy has a head like a coconut!"

"But then his red whiskers," rejoined the women, tired of the uniformity of thick black heads of hair; "what a warmth of coloring they impart to his face; and then only look how beautifully bushy they make his cheeks appear!"[242]

"But then his red whiskers," the women replied, tired of the sameness of thick black hair; "what a warm color they add to his face; and just look at how beautifully bushy they make his cheeks look!"[242]

La Fosseuse and the court of the Queen of Navarre were not more smitten with the Sieur de Croix's jolly pair of whiskers.

La Fosseuse and the court of the Queen of Navarre weren't any more taken with the Sieur de Croix's cheerful mustache.

The hawk's eye of Turpin ranged over the whole assemblage. Amidst that throng of dark faces there was not one familiar to him.

The hawk's eye of Turpin scanned the entire crowd. Amidst that sea of dark faces, there wasn't a single one he recognized.

Before him stood the upright man, Zoroaster—so was he called—, a sturdy, stalwart rogue, whose superior strength and stature—as has not unfrequently been the case in the infancy of governments that have risen to more importance than is likely to be the case with that of Lesser Egypt—had been the means of his elevation to his present dignified position. Zoroaster literally fought his way upwards, and had at first to maintain his situation by the strong arm; but he now was enabled to repose upon his hard-won laurels, to smoke "the calumet of peace," and quaff his tipple with impunity. For one of gipsy blood, he presented an unusually jovial, liquor-loving countenance: his eye was mirthful; his lip moist, as if from oft potations; his cheek mellow as an Orleans plum, which fruit, in color and texture, it mightily resembled. Strange to say, also, for one of that lithe race, his person was heavy and hebetudinous; the consequence, no doubt, of habitual intemperance. Like Cribb, he waxed obese upon the championship. There was a kind of mock state in his carriage, as he placed himself before Turpin, and with his left hand twisted up the tail of his dressing-gown, while the right thrust his truncheon into his hip, which was infinitely diverting to the highwayman.

Before him stood the upright man, Zoroaster—so he was called—a strong, sturdy rogue whose impressive strength and height—like many early leaders of governments that eventually grew more significant than Lesser Egypt—had helped him rise to his current respectable position. Zoroaster literally fought his way up and initially had to defend his place through sheer force; but now he could enjoy the benefits of his hard-earned success, smoke “the calumet of peace,” and drink freely without worry. For someone of gypsy heritage, he had an unusually cheerful, drink-loving face: his eyes sparkled with joy; his lips were wet, as if from frequent drinks; and his cheeks were plump like an Orleans plum, resembling the fruit in both color and texture. Interestingly, unlike others from his nimble background, his body was heavy and sluggish—a result, no doubt, of constant drinking. Like Cribb, he grew overweight due to his success. There was a kind of playful grandeur in his posture as he stood before Turpin, twisting the tail of his dressing gown with his left hand while his right hand rested on his hip, which was extremely amusing to the highwayman.

Turpin's attention, however, was chiefly directed towards his neighbor, the ruffler, in whom he recognized a famous impostor of the day, with whose history he was sufficiently well acquainted to be able at once to identify the individual. We have before stated, that a magnificent coal-black beard decorated the chin of this worthy; but this was not all—his costume was in perfect keeping with his beard, and consisted of a very theatrical-looking tunic, upon the breast of which was[243] embroidered, in golden wire, the Maltese cross; while over his shoulders were thrown the folds of an ample cloak of Tyrian hue. To his side was girt a long and doughty sword, which he termed, in his knightly phrase, Excalibur; and upon his profuse hair rested a hat as broad in the brim as a Spanish sombrero.

Turpin's focus, however, was mainly on his neighbor, the ruffler, whom he recognized as a notorious fraud of the time. He was familiar enough with his backstory to identify him instantly. We've mentioned before that this character sported a magnificent coal-black beard; but that wasn’t all—his outfit perfectly matched his beard, consisting of a very theatrical-looking tunic, adorned on the chest with[243] an embroidered Maltese cross in golden thread. Draped over his shoulders was a flowing cloak in a rich Tyrian hue. At his side was a long and formidable sword, which he grandly referred to as Excalibur; and on his abundant hair rested a hat with a brim as wide as a Spanish sombrero.

Exaggerated as this description may appear, we can assure our readers that it is not overdrawn; and that a counterpart of the sketch we have given of the ruffler certainly "strutted his hour" upon the stage of human life, and that the very ancient and discriminating city of Canterbury—to which be all honor—was his theatre of action. His history is so far curious, that it exemplifies, more strongly than a thousand discourses could do, how prone we are to be governed by appearances, and how easily we may be made the dupes of a plausible impostor. Be it remembered, however, that we treat of the eighteenth century, before the march of intellect had commenced; we are much too knowing to be similarly practised upon in these enlightened times. But we will let the knight of Malta, for such was the title assumed by the ruffler, tell his own story in his own way hereafter; contenting ourselves with the moral precepts we have already deduced from it.

Exaggerated as this description may seem, we assure our readers that it’s not exaggerated; and that a counterpart of the sketch we've provided of the ruffler definitely "strutted his hour" on the stage of human life, and that the very ancient and discerning city of Canterbury—where all honor is due—was his place of action. His story is particularly interesting, as it clearly shows, more than a thousand discussions could, how likely we are to be swayed by appearances, and how easily we can fall for a convincing fraud. Keep in mind, however, that we are talking about the eighteenth century, before the spread of enlightenment began; we are far too aware to be similarly deceived in these modern times. But we will allow the knight of Malta, which is the title taken by the ruffler, to tell his own story in his own way later; for now, we are satisfied with the moral lessons we’ve already drawn from it.

Next to the knight of Malta stood the whip-jack, habited in his sailor gear—striped shirt and dirty canvas trousers; and adjoining him was the palliard, a loathsome tatterdemalion, his dress one heap of rags, and his discolored skin one mass of artificial leprosy and imposthumes.

Next to the knight of Malta stood the whip-jack, dressed in his sailor gear—a striped shirt and dirty canvas pants; and beside him was the beggar, a disgusting ragtag figure, his clothes a pile of rags, and his discolored skin covered in fake leprosy and sores.

As Turpin's eye shifted from one to another of these figures, he chanced upon an individual who had been long endeavoring to arrest his attention. This personage was completely in the background. All that Dick could discern of him was a brown curly head of hair, carelessly arranged in the modern mode; a handsome, impudent, sun-freckled face, with one eye closed, and the other occupied by a broken bottle-neck, through which, as a substitute for a lorgnette, the individual reconnoitered him. A cocked hat was placed in a very dégagée[244] manner under his arm, and he held an ebony cane in his hand, very much in the style of a "fassionable," as the French have it, of the present day. This glimpse was sufficient to satisfy Turpin. He recognized in this whimsical personage an acquaintance.

As Turpin's gaze moved from one figure to another, he suddenly noticed someone who had been trying to get his attention for a while. This person was completely in the background. All Dick could see was a messy brown curly head of hair styled in a contemporary way; a good-looking, cheeky face with sun freckles, one eye shut, and the other eye peering through a broken bottle neck, using it as a substitute for a lorgnette to spy on him. A cocked hat rested casually under his arm, and he held an ebony cane in his hand, very much like a "fassionable," as the French say, of today. This brief glimpse was enough for Turpin. He recognized this quirky character as an acquaintance.

Jerry Juniper was what the classical Captain Grose would designate a "gentleman with three outs," and, although he was not entirely without wit, nor, his associates avouched, without money, nor, certainly, in his own opinion, had that been asked, without manners; yet was he assuredly without shoes, without stockings, without shirt. This latter deficiency was made up by a voluminous cravat, tied with proportionately large bows. A jaunty pair of yellow breeches, somewhat faded; a waistcoat of silver brocade, richly embroidered, somewhat tarnished and lack-lustre; a murrey-colored velvet coat, somewhat chafed, completed the costume of this beggar Brummell, this mendicant macaroni!

Jerry Juniper was what the classic Captain Grose would call a "gentleman with three outs," and while he wasn't completely lacking in wit, and his friends claimed he wasn't short on money, and he certainly believed, if asked, that he had manners; he was definitely missing shoes, stockings, and a shirt. This latter absence was compensated for by a large cravat tied with proportionately big bows. He wore a stylish pair of slightly faded yellow breeches; a waistcoat made of silver brocade, richly embroidered but somewhat tarnished and dull; and a maroon velvet coat, a bit worn out, completing the outfit of this beggar Brummell, this homeless macaroni!

Jerry Juniper was a character well known at the time, as a constant frequenter of all races, fairs, regattas, ship-launches, bull-baits, and prize-fights, all of which he attended, and to which he transported himself with an expedition little less remarkable than that of Turpin. You met him at Epsom, at Ascot, at Newmarket, at Doncaster, at the Roodee of Chester, at the Curragh of Kildare. The most remote as well as the most adjacent meeting attracted him. The cock-pit was his constant haunt, and in more senses than one was he a leg. No opera-dancer could be more agile, more nimble; scarcely, indeed, more graceful, than was Jerry, with his shoeless and stockingless feet; and the manner in which he executed a pirouette, or a pas, before a line of carriages, seldom failed to procure him "golden opinions from all sorts of dames." With the ladies, it must be owned, Jerry was rather upon too easy terms; but then, perhaps, the ladies were upon too easy terms with Jerry; and if a bright-eyed fair one condescended to jest with him, what marvel if he should sometimes slightly transgress[245] the laws of decorum. These aberrations, however, were trifling; altogether he was so well known, and knew everybody else so well, that he seldom committed himself; and, singular to say, could on occasions even be serious. In addition to his other faculties, no one cut a sly joke, or trolled a merry ditty, better than Jerry. His peculiarities, in short, were on the pleasant side, and he was a general favorite in consequence.

Jerry Juniper was a well-known character back in the day, always showing up at races, fairs, regattas, ship launches, bull-baiting events, and prize fights. He attended them all and got there with a speed that was almost as remarkable as that of Turpin. You'd spot him at Epsom, Ascot, Newmarket, Doncaster, the Roodee in Chester, and the Curragh in Kildare. He was drawn to both the most distant and the nearest events. The cock-pit was his regular haunt, and in more ways than one, he was quite the character. No opera dancer could be more agile, nimble, or, indeed, graceful than Jerry, with his bare feet. The way he performed a pirouette or a dance move in front of a line of carriages rarely failed to earn him "golden opinions from all sorts of ladies." It must be said that Jerry was a bit too comfortable with the ladies, but perhaps they were too easygoing with him as well. If a bright-eyed beauty decided to joke around with him, is it any surprise that he occasionally bent the rules of decorum? However, these slip-ups were minor; overall, he was so well-known and connected that he rarely got himself into trouble, and strangely enough, he could even be serious at times. Besides his other talents, no one could tell a clever joke or sing a cheerful tune better than Jerry. In short, his quirks were endearing, and that made him a general favorite.

No sooner did Jerry perceive that he was recognized, than, after kissing his hand, with the air of a petit-maître, to the highwayman, he strove to edge his way through the crowd. All his efforts were fruitless; and, tired of a situation in the rear rank, so inconsistent, he conceived, with his own importance, he had recourse to an expedient often practised with success in harlequinades, and not unfrequently in real life, where a flying leap is occasionally taken over our heads. He ran back a few yards to give himself an impetus, returned, and, placing his hands upon the shoulders of a stalwart vagabond near to him, threw a summerset upon the broad cap of a palliard, who was so jammed in the midst that he could not have stirred to avoid the shock; thence, without pausing, he vaulted forwards, and dropped lightly upon the ground in front of Zoroaster, and immediately before the highwayman.

No sooner did Jerry realize he was recognized than, after kissing his hand like a petit-maître to the highwayman, he tried to make his way through the crowd. All his efforts were in vain, and tired of being stuck in the back, which he felt didn’t match his importance, he resorted to a trick often used successfully in theatrical performances and not infrequently in real life, where someone sometimes takes a flying leap over our heads. He ran back a few yards to gain some momentum, then returned and, placing his hands on the shoulders of a strong beggar nearby, performed a somersault onto the wide cap of a beggar who was so crammed in the crowd that he couldn't move to escape the impact; from there, without stopping, he leaped forward and landed lightly on the ground in front of Zoroaster, right before the highwayman.

Dick laughed immoderately at Jerry's manœuvre. He shook his old chum cordially by the hand, saying, in a whisper, "What the devil brings you here, Jerry?"

Dick laughed a lot at Jerry's move. He shook his old friend's hand warmly and said in a whisper, "What on earth brings you here, Jerry?"

"I might retort, and ask you that question, Captain Turpin," replied Jerry, sotto voce. "It is odd to see me here, certainly—quite out of my element—lost amongst this canaille—this Canting Crew—all the fault of a pair of gipsy eyes, bright as a diamond, dark as a sloe. You comprehend—a little affair, ha! Liable to these things. Bring your ear closer, my boy; be upon your guard—keep a sharp look out—there's a devil of a reward upon your head—I won't answer for all those rascals."

"I could ask you the same question, Captain Turpin," replied Jerry, sotto voce. "It’s certainly strange to see me here—completely out of my element—lost among this canaille—this Canting Crew—all because of a pair of gypsy eyes, bright as a diamond, dark as a sloe. You know how it is—a little incident, ha! You’re susceptible to these things. Lean in a bit, my boy; stay on your guard—keep a close watch—there’s a hefty reward on your head—I can’t guarantee the safety from all those rascals."

"Thank you for the hint, Jerry," replied Dick, in the same[246] tone. "I calculated my chances pretty nicely when I came here. But if I should perceive any symptoms of foul play—any attempt to snitch or nose, amongst this pack of peddlers—I have a friend or two at hand, who won't be silent upon the occasion. Rest assured I shall have my eye upon the gnarling scoundrels. I won't be sold for nothing."

"Thanks for the tip, Jerry," Dick replied, in the same[246] tone. "I figured out my chances pretty well when I arrived. But if I notice any signs of trouble—any attempts to rat me out or snoop around, among this group of vendors—I have a couple of friends nearby who won’t stay quiet about it. You can count on me to keep an eye on those sneaky crooks. I won't be taken advantage of."

"Trust you for that," returned Juniper, with a wink. "Stay," added he; "a thought strikes me. I have a scheme in petto which may, perhaps, afford you some fun, and will, at all events, insure your safety during your stay."

"Count on that," Juniper replied with a wink. "Stay," he added; "an idea just came to me. I have a plan in petto that might give you some entertainment and will definitely keep you safe while you're here."

"What is it?" asked Dick.

"What is it?" Dick asked.

"Just amuse yourself with a flirtation for a moment or two with that pretty damsel, who has been casting her ogles at you for the last five minutes without success, while I effect a master-stroke."

"Just have a little fun flirting for a moment with that cute girl who’s been checking you out for the last five minutes without any luck, while I pull off something impressive."

And as Turpin, nothing loth, followed his advice, Jerry addressed himself to Zoroaster. After a little conference, accompanied by that worthy and the knight of Malta, the trio stepped forward from the line, and approached Dick, when Juniper, assuming some such attitude as our admirable Jones, the comedian, is wont to display, delivered himself of the following address. Turpin listened with the gravity of one of the distinguished persons alluded to, at the commencement of the present chapter, upon their receiving the freedom of the city at the hands of a mayor and corporation. Thus spoke Jerry:

And as Turpin, not really reluctant, took his advice, Jerry turned to Zoroaster. After a brief discussion, joined by that respected figure and the knight of Malta, the three stepped out from the line and approached Dick. Juniper, striking a pose similar to that of our great comedian Jones, delivered the following speech. Turpin listened with the seriousness of those notable individuals mentioned at the beginning of this chapter when they received the freedom of the city from the mayor and corporation. Thus spoke Jerry:

"Highest of High-Tobymen! rummest of rum Padders, and most scampish of Scampsmen! We, in the name of Barbara, our most tawny queen; in the name of Zoroaster, our Upright Man, Dimber Damber, or Olli Campolli, by all which titles his excellency is distinguished; in our own respective names, as High Pads and Low Pads, Rum Gills and Queer Gills, Patricos, Palliards, Priggers, Whip-Jacks, and Jarkmen, from the Arch Rogue to the Needy Mizzler, fully sensible of the honor you have conferred upon us in gracing Stop-Hole Abbey with your presence; and conceiving that we can in no way evince our[247] sense of your condescension so entirely as by offering you the freedom of our crew, together with the privileges of an Upright Man,[34] which you may be aware are considerable, and by creating you an honorary member of the Vagrant Club, which we have recently established; and in so doing, we would fain express the sentiments of gratification and pride which we experience in enrolling among our members one who has extended the glory of roguery so widely over the land, and who has kicked up such a dust upon the highways of England, as most effectually to blind the natives—one who is in himself a legion—of highwaymen! Awaiting, with respectful deference, the acquiescence of Captain Richard Turpin, we beg to tender him the freedom of our crew."

"Highest of High-Tobymen! Rummest of rum Padders, and most scampish of Scampsmen! We, in the name of Barbara, our most tawny queen; in the name of Zoroaster, our Upright Man, Dimber Damber, or Olli Campolli, by all these titles his excellency is known; in our own respective names, as High Pads and Low Pads, Rum Gills and Queer Gills, Patricos, Palliards, Priggers, Whip-Jacks, and Jarkmen, from the Arch Rogue to the Needy Mizzler, fully aware of the honor you've given us by gracing Stop-Hole Abbey with your presence; and believing that we can best show our appreciation for your kindness by offering you the freedom of our crew, along with the privileges of an Upright Man, which you may know are quite significant, and by making you an honorary member of the Vagrant Club, which we've recently founded; and in doing so, we would like to express the gratitude and pride we feel in welcoming among our members someone who has spread the fame of roguery so extensively across the land, and who has stirred up such a ruckus on the highways of England, as to completely blind the locals—someone who is a legion in himself—of highwaymen! While we await, with respectful deference, the agreement of Captain Richard Turpin, we offer him the freedom of our crew."

"Really, gentlemen," said Turpin, who did not exactly see the drift of this harangue, "you do me a vast deal of honor. I am quite at a loss to conceive how I can possibly have merited so much attention at your hands; and, indeed, I feel myself so unworthy——" Here Dick received an expressive wink from Juniper, and therefore thought it prudent to alter his expression. "Could I suppose myself at all deserving of so much distinction," continued the modest speaker, "I should at once accept your very obliging offer; but——"

"Honestly, gentlemen," said Turpin, who didn’t quite understand the point of this speech, "you really honor me. I’m not sure how I could possibly deserve so much attention from you; and, to be honest, I feel so unworthy——" At this point, Dick got an expressive wink from Juniper, so he thought it best to change his tone. "If I thought I really deserved such recognition," continued the humble speaker, "I would gladly accept your very kind offer; but——"

"None so worthy," said the upright man.

"None are as worthy," said the upright man.

"Can't hear of a refusal," said the knight of Malta.

"Can't accept a refusal," said the knight of Malta.

"Refusal—impossible!" reiterated Juniper.

"Absolutely not!" reiterated Juniper.

"No; no refusal," exclaimed a chorus of voices. "Dick Turpin must be one of us. He shall be our dimber damber."

"No way; no refusing," a chorus of voices shouted. "Dick Turpin has to be one of us. He'll be our dimber damber."

"Well, gentlemen, since you are so pressing," replied Turpin, "even so be it. I will be your dimber damber."

"Well, gentlemen, since you're being so insistent," replied Turpin, "then so be it. I will be your dimber damber."

"Bravo! bravo!" cried the mob, not "of gentlemen."

"Well done! Well done!" shouted the crowd, not "of gentlemen."

"About it, pals, at once," said the knight of Malta, flourishing Excalibur. "By St. Thomas à Becket, we'll have as fine a scene as I myself ever furnished to the Canterbury lieges."

"Right then, friends, let's get to it," said the knight of Malta, waving Excalibur. "By St. Thomas à Becket, we'll create a scene that's as great as any I’ve ever put together for the Canterbury folks."

"About what?" asked Dick.

"About what?" Dick asked.

"Your matriculation," replied Jerry. "There are certain[248] forms to be gone through, with an oath to be taken, merely a trifle. We'll have a jolly booze when all's over. Come bing avast, my merry pals; to the green, to the green: a Turpin! a Turpin! a new brother!"

"Your enrollment," replied Jerry. "There are some[248] forms to fill out, and an oath to take, just a small thing. We'll have a great drink once it's all done. Come on, my cheerful friends; to the green, to the green: a Turpin! a Turpin! a new brother!"

"A Turpin! a Turpin! a new brother!" echoed the crew.

"A Turpin! a Turpin! a new brother!" echoed the crew.

"I've brought you through," said Jerry, taking advantage of the uproar that ensued to whisper to his chum; "none of them will dare to lift a finger against you now. They are all your friends for life."

"I've got your back," Jerry said, using the chaos around them to lean in and whisper to his buddy. "None of them will dare to lay a finger on you now. They’re all your friends for life."

"Nevertheless," returned Turpin, "I should be glad to know what has become of Bess."

"Still," Turpin replied, "I'd really like to know what happened to Bess."

"If it's your prancer you are wanting," chirped a fluttering creature, whom Turpin recognized as Luke's groom, Grasshopper, "I gave her a fresh loaf and a stoup of stingo, as you bade me, and there she be, under yon tree, as quiet as a lamb."

"If it’s your horse you’re looking for," chirped a fluttering creature, whom Turpin recognized as Luke's groom, Grasshopper, "I gave her a fresh loaf and a mug of beer, just like you asked, and there she is, under that tree, as quiet as a lamb."

"I see her," replied Turpin; "just tighten her girths, Grasshopper, and bring her after me, and thou shalt have wherewithal to chirp over thy cups at supper."

"I see her," replied Turpin; "just tighten her girths, Grasshopper, and bring her after me, and you'll have something to celebrate over your drinks at supper."

Away bounded the elfin dwarf to execute his behest.

Away ran the little elf to carry out his task.

A loud shout now rent the skies, and presently afterwards was heard the vile scraping of a fiddle, accompanied by the tattoo of a drum. Approaching Turpin, a host of gipsies elevated the highwayman upon their shoulders, and in this way he was carried to the centre of the green, where the long oaken table, which had once served the Franciscans for refection, was now destined for the stage of the pageant.

A loud shout suddenly echoed through the skies, and soon after, the awful sound of a fiddle was heard, paired with the beat of a drum. As Turpin was approached, a crowd of gypsies lifted the highwayman onto their shoulders, carrying him to the center of the green, where the long oak table that once served the Franciscans for meals was now set to be the stage of the event.

Upon this table three drums were placed; and Turpin was requested to seat himself on the central one. A solemn prelude, more unearthly than the incantation in the Freyschütz, was played by the orchestra of the band, conducted by the Paganini of the place, who elicited the most marvellous notes from his shell. A couple of shawms[35] emitted sepulchral sounds, while the hollow rolling of a drum broke ever and anon upon the ear. The effect was prodigiously fine. During this[249] overture the patrico and the upright man had ascended the rostrum, each taking his place; the former on the right hand of Turpin, the latter upon his left. Below them stood the knight of Malta, with Excalibur drawn in his hand, and gleaming in the sunshine. On the whole, Dick was amused with what he saw, and with the novel situation in which he found himself placed. Around the table were congregated a compact mass of heads; so compact, indeed, that they looked like one creature—an Argus, with each eye upturned upon the highwayman. The idea struck Turpin that the restless mass of parti-colored shreds and patches, of vivid hues and varied tintings, singularly, though accidentally, disposed to produce such an effect, resembled an immense tiger-moth, or it might be a Turkey carpet spread out upon the grass!

On this table, three drums were set up, and Turpin was asked to sit on the middle one. A serious prelude, more otherworldly than the chant in the Freyschütz, was played by the band’s orchestra, led by the local Paganini, who produced the most incredible sounds from his instrument. A couple of shawms[35] let out eerie sounds, while the deep thumping of a drum occasionally echoed in the air. The effect was spectacular. During this[249] opening, the patrico and the upright man had climbed up to the stand, each taking his place; the patrico on Turpin’s right and the upright man on his left. Below them stood the knight of Malta, holding Excalibur, which was shining in the sunlight. Overall, Dick was entertained by what he saw and by the unusual situation he found himself in. Around the table, a dense cluster of heads had gathered; so dense that they seemed like a single creature—an Argus, with every eye fixed on the highwayman. Turpin had the thought that the restless mass of colorful scraps and patches, in bright shades and varied tones, oddly, though coincidentally, creating such an effect, looked like a giant tiger moth, or maybe a Turkish carpet spread out on the grass!

The scene was a joyous one. It was a brilliant sunshiny morning. Freshened and purified by the storm of the preceding night, the air breathed a balm upon the nerves and senses of the robber. The wooded hills were glittering in light; the brook was flowing swiftly past the edge of the verdant slope, glancing like a wreathed snake in the sunshine—its "quiet song" lost in the rude harmony of the mummers, as were the thousand twitterings of the rejoicing birds; the rocks bared their bosoms to the sun, or were buried in deep-cast gloom; the shadows of the pillars and arches of the old walls of the priory were projected afar, while the rose-like ramifications of the magnificent marigold window were traced, as if by a pencil, upon the verdant tablet of the sod.

The scene was a cheerful one. It was a bright, sunny morning. Freshened and cleared by the storm from the night before, the air felt refreshing to the nerves and senses of the robber. The wooded hills sparkled in the light; the brook flowed swiftly past the edge of the green slope, shimmering like a curled snake in the sunshine—its "quiet song" drowned out by the loud harmonies of the performers, just as the joyful chirping of the birds was lost; the rocks opened up to the sun or lay shaded in deep gloom; the shadows of the pillars and arches of the old priory walls stretched out far, while the rose-shaped patterns of the stunning marigold window were traced like a sketch on the lush ground.

The overture was finished. With the appearance of the principal figures in this strange picture the reader is already familiar. It remains only to give him some idea of the patrico. Imagine, then, an old superannuated goat, reared upon its hind legs, and clad in a white sheet, disposed in folds like those of a simar about its limbs, and you will have some idea of Balthazar, the patrico. This resemblance to the animal before mentioned was rendered the more striking by his huge, hanging, goat-like[250] under lip, his lengthy white beard, and a sort of cap, covering his head, which was ornamented with a pair of horns, such as are to be seen in Michael Angelo's tremendous statue of Moses. Balthazar, besides being the patrico of the tribe, was its principal professor of divination, and had been the long-tried and faithful minister of Barbara Lovel, from whose secret instructions he was supposed to have derived much of his magical skill.

The overture was finished. With the appearance of the main characters in this unusual scene, the reader is already familiar. Now, it’s time to give them an idea of the patrico. Picture, then, an old retired goat standing on its hind legs, dressed in a white sheet draped like a robe around its limbs, and you’ll get a sense of Balthazar, the patrico. This resemblance to the aforementioned animal was made even more striking by his large, drooping, goat-like underlip, his long white beard, and a sort of cap that covered his head, adorned with a pair of horns like those seen in Michelangelo's impressive statue of Moses. Balthazar, besides being the patrico of the tribe, also served as its main professor of divination and had been the long-serving and loyal minister of Barbara Lovel, from whom he was believed to have learned much of his magical skills.

Placing a pair of spectacles upon his "prognosticating nose," and unrolling a vellum skin, upon which strange characters were written, Balthazar, turning to Turpin, thus commenced in a solemn voice:

Putting a pair of glasses on his "prognosticating nose," and unrolling a parchment with strange symbols written on it, Balthazar, turning to Turpin, began in a serious tone:

You who want to be our brother,
How should we enter you? Choose the name you want to use
Before you wear our uniform?

"I see no reason why I should alter my designation," replied the noviciate; "but as popes change their titles on their creation, there can be no objection to a scampsman following so excellent an example. Let me be known as the Night Hawk."

"I don't see any reason to change my title," replied the novice; "but since popes change their titles when they're appointed, there's no reason a scampsman can't follow such a great example. From now on, call me the Night Hawk."

"The Night Hawk—good," returned the hierophant, proceeding to register the name upon the parchment. "Kneel down," continued he.

"The Night Hawk—great," replied the hierophant, continuing to write the name on the parchment. "Kneel down," he added.

After some hesitation, Turpin complied.

After some hesitation, Turpin agreed.

"You must repeat the 'salamon,' or oath of our creed, after my dictation," said the patrico; and Turpin, signifying his assent by a nod, Balthazar propounded the following abjuration:

"You have to recite the 'salamon,' or oath of our belief, after I dictate it," said the patrico; and Turpin, indicating his agreement with a nod, Balthazar presented the following abjuration:

OATH OF THE CANTING CREW

Oath of the Street Crew

I, Crank-Cuffin, promise to be
True to this brotherhood; That I will obey in everything. Rules and regulations for the community.
[251] Never spill the beans, or gossip; Never inform on a bum or a cop;
But consistently maintain Power of those in charge Over Stop-Hole Abbey Green, Whether they're a tawny king or queen. They will fight solely for their cause;
Consider their perspective, whether it's right or wrong; Serve them honestly, and nobody else,
And be loyal to my brother; Suffer none, whether far away or close by,
With their right to intervene;
No weird Abram, ruffler crack,
Hooker from another team,
Rogue or troublemaker, bro, rambler,
Irish traveler, or other wanderer; No dimber damber, angler, dancer, Prude of the ratter, prude of the dancer;
No swigman, swaddler, clapperdudgeon; Cadge cloak, curtal, or grump; No whip-jack, palliard, patrico; No jarkman, whether he's high or low;
No dummerar or romany; No member of "the Family;" No ballad basket, bouncing buffer,
Nor will I endure any others; But stall-off now and forever,
All outliers:
And as I stick to the past, So help me God![36]

"So help me Salamon!" repeated Turpin, with emphasis.

"So help me Salamon!" Turpin said again, stressing each word.

"Zoroaster," said the patrico to the upright man, "do thy part of this ceremonial."

"Zoroaster," the patriarch said to the honest man, "complete your part of this ceremony."

Zoroaster obeyed; and, taking Excalibur from the knight of Malta, bestowed a hearty thwack with the blade upon the shoulders of the kneeling highwayman, assisting him afterwards to arise.

Zoroaster complied; and, taking Excalibur from the knight of Malta, gave a solid whack with the sword on the shoulders of the kneeling highwayman, helping him up afterwards.

The inauguration was complete.

The inauguration is complete.

"Well," exclaimed Dick, "I'm glad it's all over. My leg[252] feels a little stiffish. I'm not much given to kneeling. I must dance it off;" saying which, he began to shuffle upon the boards. "I tell you what," continued he, "most reverend patrico, that same 'salmon' of yours has a cursed long tail. I could scarce swallow it all, and it's strange if it don't give me an indigestion. As to you, sage Zory, from the dexterity with which you flourish your sword, I should say you had practised at court. His majesty could scarce do the thing better, when, slapping some fat alderman upon the shoulder, he bids him arise Sir Richard. And now, pals," added he, glancing round, "as I am one of you, let's have a booze together ere I depart, for I don't think my stay will be long in the land of Egypt."

"Well," exclaimed Dick, "I’m glad that’s all behind us. My leg[252] feels a bit stiff. I'm not really one for kneeling. I need to dance it off;" with that, he started shuffling on the floor. "You know," he continued, "most revered friend, that 'salmon' you served had a seriously long tail. I could barely finish it, and it’s a wonder it doesn’t give me indigestion. And you, wise Zory, with how skillfully you handle your sword, I’d say you’ve practiced at court. His majesty couldn’t do it much better, when he claps a fat alderman on the shoulder, telling him to rise as Sir Richard. And now, friends," he added, looking around, "since I’m one of you, let’s have a drink together before I leave, because I don’t expect to stick around in the land of Egypt for long."

This suggestion of Turpin was so entirely consonant to the wishes of the assemblage, that it met with universal approbation; and upon a sign from Zoroaster, some of his followers departed in search of supplies for the carousal. Zoroaster leaped from the table, and his example was followed by Turpin, and more leisurely by the patrico.

This suggestion from Turpin matched the desires of the group so perfectly that everyone approved it; and at a signal from Zoroaster, some of his followers left to gather supplies for the party. Zoroaster jumped off the table, and Turpin followed him, with the patrico joining them more slowly.

It was rather early in the day for a drinking bout. But the Canting Crew were not remarkably particular. The chairs were removed, and the jingling of glasses announced the arrival of the preliminaries of the matutine symposion. Poles, canvas, and cords were next brought; and in almost as short a space of time as one scene is substituted for another in a theatrical representation, a tent was erected. Benches, stools, and chairs appeared with equal celerity, and the interior soon presented an appearance like that of a booth at a fair. A keg of brandy was broached, and the health of the new brother quaffed in brimmers.

It was still pretty early in the day for a drinking session. But the Canting Crew didn’t really care. The chairs were cleared away, and the sound of clinking glasses signaled the start of their morning gathering. Poles, canvas, and ropes were soon brought in; and within no time, a tent was set up, almost as quickly as scenes change in a play. Benches, stools, and chairs followed just as fast, and the inside started to look like a booth at a fair. A keg of brandy was tapped, and everyone raised their glasses to toast the new member.

Our highwayman returned thanks. Zoroaster was in the chair, the knight of Malta acting as croupier. A second toast was proposed—the tawny queen. This was drunk with a like enthusiasm, and with a like allowance of the potent spirit; but as bumpers of brandy are not to be repeated with impunity, it became evident to the president of the board that he must[253] not repeat his toasts quite so expeditiously. To create a temporary diversion, therefore, he called for a song.

Our highwayman expressed his gratitude. Zoroaster was in the chair, with the knight of Malta serving as the dealer. A second toast was suggested—the tawny queen. This was raised with the same enthusiasm and the same generous pouring of the strong drink; however, since downing glasses of brandy can't be done without consequences, it became clear to the board's president that he needed[253] to slow down on his toasts a bit. To change the subject for a moment, he decided to ask for a song.

The dulcet notes of the fiddle now broke through the clamor; and, in answer to the call, Jerry Juniper volunteered the following:

The sweet notes of the fiddle now cut through the noise, and in response to the call, Jerry Juniper stepped up to share this:

JERRY JUNIPER'S CHANT

JERRY JUNIPER'S SONG

In a box__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ of the stone jug__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__ I was born,
Of a hemp widow__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ the kid was left alone. Fake it,
And my father, as I've heard it said,
Fake it till you make it.
Was a capers merchant gay,
Who ended his last escapade to loud applause, Forget my doll friends, just pretend.[41]
Who ended his last adventure to loud applause,[42]
To the tune of a "lively cough with caper sauce."
Fake it till you make it.
The knucks in jail__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ did my teachers play, Fake it away, And let me know the current time; Until finally, there was no one so wise, Forget my doll friends, pretend it’s not real.
Until finally, there was no one left who understood, No such sneak or buzgloak going. Fake it till you make it.
Fogles__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ and fawnies__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__ soon left. Fake it,
To the spout__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ with the sneeze-makers__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__ in full display.
No fake hunter__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ had forks__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__ so cool; Forget my doll friends, pretend instead.
No inexperienced hunter had forks that flew, No knuckler__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ could fake a cly as skillfully.[53] Fake it.
No slow hoxter__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ my snipes__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__ could stay,
Fake it.
No one can grab a reader__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ like I can in the area. Soon after, I got on the high swell street. Forget my doll friends, pretend instead.
[254]
Soon, I climbed up high in Swell Street, And wore my flashiest outfit__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__,
Fake it out.
Determined, I would get my work done, Fake it,
As Mercury's star emitted a single beam; And never was there seen such a stylish thief,[58]
Forget my doll friends, pretend instead.
And never has there been such a stylish thief,
With my strummel faked in the latest twig.[59]
Fake it.
With my loved ones,__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ and my cheerful thoughts,[61]
Fake it till you make it;
My thimble of ridge__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, and my driz kemesa__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__; All my clothes were so stylish and eye-catching, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ and splash, Forget my doll friends, just pretend.
All my clothes were so cute and flashy,
I could easily smash the strange screens; [65]
Fake it.
But my wildest girl,__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ one nice day,
Livin' a lie,
To the beaks__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ did her boyfriend betray,
And so, I was finally bowled out[68]
Forget my doll friends, pretend all you want.
And so I was finally out. And into the jug for a drink was poured;[69]
Fake it.
But I got out of my restraints __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ one morning in May,
Fake it,
And gave the dubsman__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ a day off. And here I am, friends, happy and free,
A fun-loving traveler.[72]
Forget my doll friends, let's pretend.

Much laughter and applause rewarded Jerry's attempt to please; and though the meaning of his chant, even with the aid of the numerous notes appended to it, may not be quite obvious to our readers, we can assure them that it was perfectly[255] intelligible to the Canting Crew. Jerry was now entitled to a call; and happening, at the moment, to meet the fine dark eyes of a sentimental gipsy, one of that better class of mendicants who wandered about the country with a guitar at his back, his election fell upon him. The youth, without prelude, struck up a

Much laughter and applause rewarded Jerry's effort to entertain; and although the meaning of his chant, even with the numerous notes attached to it, may not be entirely clear to our readers, we can assure them that it was completely[255] understandable to the Canting Crew. Jerry was now due for a call; and just then, he locked eyes with the beautiful dark eyes of a sentimental gypsy, one of those higher-class vagabonds who roamed the country with a guitar slung over his shoulder, and he was chosen. The young man, without any introduction, began to play a

GIPSY SERENADE

Gypsy Serenade

Cheerful maid, cheerful maid, will you walk with me? We'll wander through the forest, the meadow, and the field; We will roam the sunny gardens, and when the day starts to fade,
Our couch will be the ferny thicket, and our canopy will be the tree. Happy maid, happy maid, come and stroll with me!
No life is like a gypsy's, so joyful and free!
Happy maid, happy maid, even though we lead a wandering life,
We'll laugh through the fun and quickly passing hours;
Our hearts are free, just like the open sky above,
And we understand what calmer souls do not, how lovers should love.
Happy maid, happy maid, come and explore with me!
No life is as joyful and free as a gypsy's!

Zoroaster now removed the pipe from his upright lips to intimate his intention of proposing a toast.

Zoroaster now took the pipe out of his mouth to signal that he intended to propose a toast.

A universal knocking of knuckles by the knucklers[73] was followed by profound silence. The sage spoke:

A universal knocking of knuckles by the knucklers[73] was followed by deep silence. The wise person spoke:

"The city of Canterbury, pals," said he; "and may it never want a knight of Malta."

"The city of Canterbury, my friends," he said; "and may it always have a Knight of Malta."

The toast was pledged with much laughter, and in many bumpers.

The toast was made with a lot of laughter and many cheerful drinks.

The knight, upon whom all eyes were turned, rose, "with stately bearing and majestic motion," to return thanks.

The knight, the center of everyone's attention, stood up, "with a dignified presence and impressive grace," to express his gratitude.

"I return you an infinitude of thanks, brother pals," said he, glancing round the assemblage; and bowing to the president, "and to you, most upright Zory, for the honor you have done me in associating my name with that city. Believe me, I sincerely appreciate the compliment, and echo the sentiment[256] from the bottom of my soul. I trust it never will want a knight of Malta. In return for your consideration, but a poor one you will say, you shall have a ditty, which I composed upon the occasion of my pilgrimage to that city, and which I have thought proper to name after myself."

"I give you endless thanks, my brother friends," he said, looking around the crowd; and bowing to the president, "and to you, the honorable Zory, for the honor you've given me by linking my name with that city. Trust me, I truly appreciate the compliment and share the sentiment[256] from the bottom of my heart. I hope it never lack a knight of Malta. In return for your kindness, although it may seem insignificant, I will share a song I wrote during my journey to that city, which I've decided to name after myself."

THE KNIGHT OF MALTA

Maltese Knight

A Canterbury Tale[74]

A Canterbury Tale __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Listen to me, and you'll get what you need, no beating around the bush, gentlemen,
A Canterbury pilgrimage, far better than the old one by Chaucer.
It's about a prank I once pulled on that clever city,
I hope the memory of this will last forever. With my black beard and purple cloak, jack boots and wide-brimmed hat Hey there! for the knight of Malta!
To achieve my goal, first and foremost, you need to know, gentlemen,
I let my hair hang down my neck—my beard and sideburns grow, gentlemen;
I then threw on a purple cloak, with a sword hanging at my side, sirs,
And riding on a black horse, I rode to the town, gentlemen. With my black beard, etc.
Two pages were by my side, riding on two little ponies,
Dressed in a bright red uniform, as neat as a pin; My horse was decked out just as grandly as his owner, And over my long, curly hair, I wore a wide-brimmed beaver hat.
With my jet-black beard, &c.
The crowd gathered, astonished to see a man with so much hair,
Oh, I had never seen such a sight in Canterbury before!
My long robe, my long beard, my horse with a flowing mane, gentlemen!
They stared— they believed the days of chivalry had returned, gentlemen!
With my jet-black beard, etc.
I shared a long, complicated love story that didn't stop at a Wow, they saw me as a true knight of Malta!
I had sworn by Thomas Becket, that saint and martyr revered, I have no doubt about the bait they would have taken. With my jet-black beard, &c.[257]
I rode around, gave speeches, and everyone was impressed,
The tavern owners cheated, and the authorities intimidated; Like puppets, the townsfolk were led in that spectacle they call a raree; The wise men of Gotham were a joke to the people of Canterbury.
With my black beard, etc.
The theater I performed at next, where I spoke to the audience, gentlemen,
I talked extensively and passionately about cuts and reforms, gentlemen; I spoke at length about tithes and taxes with skill and enthusiasm, everyone. Who is more capable than a knight of Malta to repeal the malt tax, gentlemen? With my black beard, etc.
As a candidate, I then came forward to represent their city,
Not getting elected to that position was definitely a shame;
For surely I was the most suitable and very appropriate, very, To showcase the wisdom and wit of Canterbury.
With my jet-black beard, etc.
During the trial of some smugglers next, I did something quite strange. And I literally confronted the justices on the bench;
I swear I saw some casks, and it's as clear as day, guys,
At that time, I happened to be about fifty miles away, gentlemen. With my jet-black beard, &c.
I have to admit that this last statement was a bit of a mistake,
And for perjury, they charged me and forced me to give in;
This minor mistake brought my successful career to a halt, gentlemen,
And so, the knight of Malta finally had to jump, gentlemen. With his jet-black beard and purple cloak, jack boots and wide-brimmed hat Goodbye to the knight of Malta.

The knight sat down amidst the general plaudits of the company.

The knight took a seat among the enthusiastic applause of the crowd.

The party, meanwhile, had been increased by the arrival of Luke and the sexton. The former, who was in no mood for revelry, refused to comply with his grandsire's solicitation to enter, and remained sullenly at the door, with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed upon Turpin, whose movements he commanded through the canvas aperture. The sexton walked up to Dick, who was seated at the post of honor, and, clapping[258] him upon the shoulder, congratulated him upon the comfortable position in which he found him.

The party had gotten bigger with the arrival of Luke and the sexton. Luke, not in the mood to celebrate, refused his grandfather's request to come in and stayed sulking at the door, arms crossed and eyes locked on Turpin, whose actions he could see through the canvas opening. The sexton approached Dick, who was sitting in the place of honor, and, patting him on the shoulder, congratulated him on how well he was doing.

"Ha, ha! Are you there, my old death's-head on a mop-stick?" said Turpin, with a laugh. "Ain't we merry mumpers, eh? Keeping it up in style. Sit down, old Noah—make yourself comfortable, Methusalem."

"Ha, ha! Are you there, my old skull on a stick?" said Turpin, laughing. "Aren't we having a good time, huh? Having fun in style. Sit down, old man—get comfortable, Methuselah."

"What say you to a drop of as fine Nantz as you ever tasted in your life, old cove?" said Zoroaster.

"What do you think about a taste of some of the best Nantz you've ever had in your life, old buddy?" said Zoroaster.

"I have no sort of objection to it," returned Peter, "provided you will all pledge my toast."

"I don't have any objections," Peter replied, "as long as you all agree to raise a toast to me."

"That I will, were it old Ruffin himself," shouted Turpin.

"That I will, even if it’s old Ruffin himself," shouted Turpin.

"Here's to the three-legged mare," cried Peter. "To the tree that bears fruit all the year round, and yet has neither bark nor branch. You won't refuse that toast, Captain Turpin?"

"Cheers to the three-legged mare," shouted Peter. "To the tree that produces fruit every season but doesn't have any bark or branches. You won't turn down that toast, Captain Turpin?"

"Not I," answered Dick; "I owe the gallows no grudge. If, as Jerry's song says, I must have a 'hearty choke and caper sauce' for my breakfast one of these fine mornings, it shall never be said that I fell to my meal without appetite, or neglected saying grace before it. Gentlemen, here's Peter Bradley's toast: 'The scragging post—the three-legged mare,' with three times three."

"Not me," replied Dick; "I don’t have a problem with the gallows. If, as Jerry's song goes, I have to have a 'hearty choke and caper sauce' for breakfast one of these fine mornings, it will never be said that I had my meal without an appetite or skipped saying grace before it. Gentlemen, here’s to Peter Bradley: 'The scragging post—the three-legged mare,' with three cheers."

Appropriate as this sentiment was, it did not appear to be so inviting to the party as might have been anticipated, and the shouts soon died away.

Appropriate as this sentiment was, it didn't seem as inviting to the party as one might have expected, and the shouts quickly faded away.

"They like not the thoughts of the gallows," said Turpin to Peter. "More fools they. A mere bugbear to frighten children, believe me; and never yet alarmed a brave man. The gallows, pshaw! One can but die once, and what signifies it how, so that it be over quickly. I think no more of the last leap into eternity than clearing a five-barred gate. A rope's end for it! So let us be merry, and make the most of our time, and that's true philosophy. I know you can throw off a rum chant," added he, turning to Peter. "I heard you sing last night at the hall. Troll us a stave, my antediluvian file,[259] and, in the meantime, tip me a gage of fogus,[75] Jerry; and if that's a bowl of huckle-my-butt[76] you are brewing, Sir William," added he, addressing the knight of Malta, "you may send me a jorum at your convenience."

"They don't like the thought of the gallows," said Turpin to Peter. "Fools, really. It's just a scary story to frighten kids, believe me; it has never scared a brave man. The gallows, psh! You only die once, and it doesn't matter how, as long as it happens quickly. I think no more of the last leap into eternity than jumping over a five-barred gate. A rope's end for it! So let’s have fun and make the most of our time, and that’s real philosophy. I know you can sing a good tune," he added, turning to Peter. "I heard you singing last night at the hall. Give us a verse, my ancient friend,[259] and, in the meantime, pour me a drink of fogus,[75] Jerry; and if that's a bowl of huckle-my-butt[76] you’re brewing, Sir William," he added, addressing the knight of Malta, "you can send me a serving whenever you're ready."

Jerry handed the highwayman a pipe, together with a tumbler of the beverage which the knight had prepared, which he pronounced excellent; and while the huge bowl was passed round to the company, a prelude of shawms announced that Peter was ready to break into song.

Jerry handed the robber a pipe, along with a glass of the drink that the knight had made, which he said was excellent; and while the big bowl was passed around to everyone, a tune from shawms signaled that Peter was about to start singing.

Accordingly, after the symphony was ended, accompanied at intervals by a single instrument, Peter began his melody, in a key so high, that the utmost exertions of the shawm-blower failed to approach its altitudes. The burden of his minstrelsy was

Accordingly, after the symphony ended, occasionally accompanied by a single instrument, Peter started his melody in such a high key that even the best efforts of the shawm player couldn't reach those heights. The main theme of his song was

THE MANDRAKE[77]

THE MANDRAKE __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

The gods call him Moly, and it's said to dig up the ground. Gods can do anything for mortal men. Homer.
The mandrake grows under the gallows tree,
And its leaves are vibrant green to see;
Green and lush, like the grass that sways Over the smooth soil of graves; And even though everything around it is grim and empty,
The mandrake grows freely there. Maranatha—Cursed! Dread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasia!
At the base of the gallows, the mandrake grows; Just where the creaking body swings; Some think it caused From the fat that drips from the bones of the dead;
Some have considered it a human trait; But this is a pointless fantasy.
Maranatha—Cursed! Dread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasia!
[260]
A withered leaf does the mandrake wear,
The mandrake produces a chilling fruit; But none have as much power as the mandrake, True virtue doesn't come from herbs or flowers; Aconite, hemlock, or moonshade, I think, None has a poison so subtle and sharp. Maranatha—Cursed!
Fear is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasia!
And whether the mandrake is created Flesh with the power to incorporate, I don't know; but if it's taken from the earth, Screams and moans come from the root; Screams and moans, and sweat like blood
Seeps and drips from the damp center.
Maranatha—Cursed!
Dread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasia!
Whoever gathers the mandrake will surely die;
His fate is blood for blood.
Some who have picked it have died in pain,
Like the dying cries of the mandrake; Some have died in madness, and some alongside—
With repentant prayers—but everyone has died.
Jesus! Save us both day and night!
From the awful death of mandragora!
Euthanasia!

"A queer chant that," said Zoroaster, coughing loudly, in token of disapprobation.

"A weird chant that," said Zoroaster, coughing loudly to show his disapproval.

"Not much to my taste," quoth the knight of Malta. "We like something more sprightly in Canterbury."

"Not really my thing," said the knight of Malta. "We prefer something a bit livelier in Canterbury."

"Nor to mine," added Jerry; "don't think it's likely to have an encore. 'Pon my soul, Dick, you must give us something yourself, or we shall never cry Euthanasy at the Triple Tree."

"Neither do I," added Jerry; "I don't think it's going to happen again. Honestly, Dick, you have to share something yourself, or we will never shout Euthanasy at the Triple Tree."

"With all my heart," replied Turpin. "You shall have—but what do I see, my friend Sir Luke? Devil take my tongue,[261] Luke Bradley, I mean. What, ho! Luke—nay, nay, man, no shrinking—stand forward; I've a word or two to say to you. We must have a hob-a-nob glass together for old acquaintance sake. Nay, no airs, man; damme you're not a lord yet, nor a baronet either, though I do hold your title in my pocket; never look glum at me. It won't pay. I'm one of the Canting Crew now; no man shall sneer at me with impunity, eh, Zory? Ha, ha! here's a glass of Nantz; we'll have a bottle of black strap when you are master of your own. Make ready there, you gut-scrapers, you shawm-shavers; I'll put your lungs in play for you presently. In the meantime—charge, pals, charge—a toast, a toast! Health and prosperity to Sir Luke Rookwood! I see you are surprised—this, gemmen, is Sir Luke Rookwood, somewhile Luke Bradley, heir to the house of that name, not ten miles distant from this. Say, shall we not drink a bumper to his health?"

"With all my heart," replied Turpin. "You'll have it—but what do I see, my friend Sir Luke? Damn my tongue, Luke Bradley, I mean. Hey, Luke—no, no, man, don’t hold back—step up; I have a thing or two to say to you. We have to share a drink together for old times’ sake. Come on, don’t act all high and mighty; damn it, you're not a lord yet, nor a baronet either, though I do have your title in my pocket; don’t look so gloomy at me. It won't do you any good. I’m part of the Canting Crew now; no one can mock me without consequences, right, Zory? Ha, ha! Here’s a glass of Nantz; we’ll get a bottle of black strap when you’re in charge of your own. Get ready there, you scalawags, you fancy-pants; I’ll make sure to keep you entertained shortly. In the meantime—let's raise a toast, pals, a toast! Here’s to health and prosperity for Sir Luke Rookwood! I see you’re surprised—gentlemen, this is Sir Luke Rookwood, formerly Luke Bradley, heir to that estate not ten miles from here. So, shall we not drink a full glass to his health?"

Astonishment prevailed amongst the crew. Luke himself had been taken by surprise. When Turpin discovered him at the door of the tent, and summoned him to appear, he reluctantly complied with the request; but when, in a half-bantering vein, Dick began to rally him upon his pretensions, he would most gladly have retreated, had it been in his power. It was then too late. He felt he must stand the ordeal. Every eye was fixed upon him with a look of inquiry.

Astonishment filled the crew. Luke himself had been caught off guard. When Turpin found him at the tent door and called him to come in, he reluctantly agreed to the request; but when Dick started to tease him about his claims, he would have loved to back away if he could. It was too late for that. He knew he had to face the situation. Every eye was on him, filled with curiosity.

Zoroaster took his everlasting pipe from his mouth.

Zoroaster took his eternal pipe out of his mouth.

"This ain't true, surely?" asked the perplexed Magus.

"This isn't true, rightly?" asked the confused Magus.

"He has said it," replied Luke; "I may not deny it."

"He said it," Luke replied. "I can't deny it."

This was sufficient. There was a wild hubbub of delight amongst the crew, for Luke was a favorite with all.

This was enough. There was a crazy buzz of excitement among the crew, since Luke was a favorite with everyone.

"Sir Luke Rookwood!" cried Jerry Juniper, who liked a title as much as Tommy Moore is said to dote upon a lord. "Upon my soul I sincerely congratulate you; devilish fortunate fellow. Always cursed unlucky myself. I could never find out my own father, unless it were one Monsieur des Capriolles, a French dancing-master, and he never left anything behind[262] him that I could hear of, except a broken kit and a hempen widow. Sir Luke Rookwood, we shall do ourselves the pleasure of drinking your health and prosperity."

"Sir Luke Rookwood!" shouted Jerry Juniper, who loved a title just as much as Tommy Moore is said to adore a lord. "I truly congratulate you; you're a very lucky guy. I've always been incredibly unlucky myself. I could never figure out who my own father was, unless it was one Monsieur des Capriolles, a French dance teacher, and he didn’t leave anything behind that I know of, except a broken violin and a widow in mourning. Sir Luke Rookwood, let's raise a glass to your health and success."

Fresh bumpers and immense cheering.

New bumpers and huge cheers.

Silence being in a measure restored, Zoroaster claimed Turpin's promise of a song.

Silence partly restored, Zoroaster asked Turpin for his promise of a song.

"True, true," replied Dick; "I have not forgotten it. Stand to your bows, my hearties."

"That's right," replied Dick. "I haven’t forgotten that. Get ready with your bows, my friends."

THE GAME OF HIGH TOBY

High Toby Game

Now Oliver__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ puts on his black nightcap, And every star’s light __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ is hidden,
And now the troublemaker__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ has gone to the heath,
His unmatched cherry-black__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ horse riding; Joyfully, he glides over the common,
Quick and free like the rush of a rocket,
His hat with a black veil pulled down over his eyes, His tol__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ next to him, and his pops__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__ in his pocket.

CHORUS

CHORUS

Then who can name So joyful a game, The ultimate game—high toby?[84]
The traveler hears him, go away! He scurries across the vast heath; He doesn't pay attention to the thunderbolt's call to stop, But he keeps hurrying faster and faster. But what daisy-cutter can compare to that black tit?
He’s caught—he has to "stand and deliver;"
Then get rid of the dummy__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, and take off the bit,[86]
Oh! the game of high toby forever!

CHORUS

CHORUS

Then who can name Such a fun game,
Is this the ultimate game—high toby?
[263]
Believe me, there isn't a game, my brave boys,
To compare with the game of high toby; No joy can match the tobyman's happiness,
To blue devils, blue plums__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ look the other way; And what if, after a while, guys, he ends up in trouble![88]
Even rack punch has some bitterness in it,
As for the mare with three legs__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, boys, I don't care at all,
It will be over in less than a minute.

GRAND CHORUS

BIG CHORUS

Then yay! Throw care away!
Cheers for the game of high toby!

"And now, pals," said Dick, who began to feel the influence of these morning cups, "I vote that we adjourn. Believe me I shall always bear in mind that I am a brother of your band. Sir Luke and I must have a little chat together ere I take my leave. Adieu!"

"And now, friends," said Dick, feeling the effects of the morning cups, "I suggest we wrap things up. Trust me, I will always remember that I'm part of your group. Sir Luke and I need to have a quick chat before I head out. Goodbye!"

And taking Luke by the arm, he walked out of the tent. Peter Bradley rose, and followed them.

And grabbing Luke by the arm, he walked out of the tent. Peter Bradley got up and followed them.

At the door they found the dwarfish Grasshopper with Black Bess. Rewarding the urchin for his trouble, and slipping the bridle of his mare over his hand, Turpin continued his walk over the green. For a few minutes he seemed to be lost in rumination.

At the door, they found the small Grasshopper with Black Bess. After giving the kid a tip for his trouble and putting the bridle of his mare in his hand, Turpin carried on walking over the green. For a few minutes, he appeared to be deep in thought.

"I tell you what, Sir Luke," said he; "I should like to do a generous thing, and make you a present of this bit of paper. But one ought not to throw away one's luck, you know—there is a tide in the affairs of thieves, as the player coves say, which must be taken at the flood, or else——no matter! Your old dad, Sir Piers—God help him!—had the gingerbread, that I know; he was, as we say, a regular rhino-cerical cull. You won't feel a few thousands, especially at starting; and besides, there are two others, Rust and Wilder, who row in the same boat with me, and must therefore come in for their share of[264] the reg'lars. All this considered, you can't complain, I think if I ask five thousand for it. That old harridan, Lady Rookwood, offered me nearly as much."

"I'll tell you what, Sir Luke," he said; "I'd really like to do something nice and give you this piece of paper as a gift. But you shouldn't waste your luck, you know—there's a wave in a thief's life, as the players say, that should be taken when it's strong, or else——never mind! Your old man, Sir Piers—God bless him!—had the goods, that I know; he was, as we say, a real heavy hitter. You won't miss a few thousand, especially at the start; and besides, there are two others, Rust and Wilder, who are in the same situation as me and will need to get their share of[264] the regulars. All things considered, I don't think you can complain if I ask for five thousand. That old hag, Lady Rookwood, offered me almost as much."

"I will not talk to you of fairness," said Luke; "I will not say that document belongs of right to me. It fell by accident into your hands. Having possessed yourself of it, I blame you not that you dispose of it to the best advantage. I must, perforce, agree to your terms."

"I won't discuss fairness with you," said Luke; "I won't claim that document rightfully belongs to me. It accidentally ended up in your hands. Now that you have it, I can't blame you for using it to your best advantage. I have no choice but to accept your terms."

"Oh, no," replied Dick, "it's quite optional; Lady Rookwood will give as much, and make no mouths about it. Soho, lass! What makes Bess prick her ears in that fashion?—Ha! carriage-wheels in the distance! that jade knows the sound as well as I do. I'll just see what it's like!—you will have ten minutes for reflection. Who knows if I may not have come in for a good thing here?"

"Oh, no," Dick replied, "it's totally up to you; Lady Rookwood will contribute just as much, and she won't complain about it. Hey, girl! Why is Bess perked up like that?—Ah! Those are carriage wheels in the distance! That sly one knows that sound just like I do. I’ll go check it out!—You’ll have ten minutes to think it over. Who knows, I might have stumbled onto something good here?"

At that instant the carriage passed the angle of a rock some three hundred yards distant, and was seen slowly ascending the hill-side. Eager as a hawk after his quarry, Turpin dashed after it.

At that moment, the carriage went past the corner of a rock about three hundred yards away and was seen slowly going up the hillside. As eager as a hawk hunting its prey, Turpin raced after it.

In vain the sexton, whom he nearly overthrew in his career, called after him to halt. He sped like a bolt from the bow.

In vain the gravekeeper, whom he almost knocked over in his rush, called after him to stop. He took off like a shot.

"May the devil break his neck!" cried Peter, as he saw him dash through the brook; "could he not let them alone?"

"May the devil break his neck!" shouted Peter, as he watched him dash through the stream; "couldn’t he just leave them alone?"

"This must not be," said Luke; "know you whose carriage it is?"

"This can't be," said Luke. "Do you know whose carriage this is?"

"It is a shrine that holds the jewel that should be dearest in your eyes," returned Peter; "haste, and arrest the spoiler's hand."

"It’s a shrine that holds the jewel that should be most precious to you," Peter replied; "hurry, and stop the thief's hand."

"Whom do you mean?" asked Luke.

"Who are you talking about?" asked Luke.

"Eleanor Mowbray," replied Peter. "She is there. To the rescue—away."

"Eleanor Mowbray," Peter replied. "She's there. To the rescue—let's go."

"Eleanor Mowbray!" echoed Luke—"and Sybil?——"

"Eleanor Mowbray!" Luke echoed—"and Sybil?——"

At this instant a pistol-shot was heard.[265]

At that moment, a gunshot rang out.[265]

"Will you let murder be done, and upon your cousin?" cried Peter, with a bitter look. "You are not what I took you for."

"Are you really going to let a murder happen, especially to your cousin?" Peter exclaimed, his expression full of bitterness. "You're not who I thought you were."

Luke answered not, but, swift as the hound freed from the leash, darted in the direction of the carriage.

Luke didn't reply, but, as quick as the dog released from the leash, ran straight toward the carriage.


CHAPTER VI

ELEANOR MOWBRAY

Mischiefs Are like the visits from Franciscan friars,
They never come to hunt us down alone.

Devil's Law Case.

Devil's Law Case.

The course of our tale returns now to Eleanor Mowbray. After she had parted from Ranulph Rookwood, and had watched him disappear beneath the arches of the church porch, her heart sank, and, drawing herself back within the carriage, she became a prey to the most poignant affliction. In vain she endeavored to shake off this feeling of desolation. It would not be. Despair had taken possession of her; the magic fabric of delight melted away, or only gleamed to tantalize, at an unreachable distance. A presentiment that Ranulph would never be hers had taken root in her imagination, and overshadowed all the rest.

The story now shifts back to Eleanor Mowbray. After she said goodbye to Ranulph Rookwood and watched him walk away under the church porch, her heart sank. As she pulled back into the carriage, she was overwhelmed by deep sadness. She tried to shake off this feeling of emptiness, but it wouldn’t go away. Despair had taken hold of her; the once enchanting feeling of joy faded away or only shimmered in the distance, teasing her. A sense that Ranulph would never be hers settled in her mind and overshadowed everything else.

While Eleanor pursued this train of reflection, the time insensibly wore away, until the sudden stoppage of the carriage aroused the party from their meditation. Major Mowbray perceived that the occasion of the halt was the rapid advance of a horseman, who was nearing them at full speed. The appearance of the rider was somewhat singular, and might have created some uneasiness as to the nature of his approach, had not the major immediately recognized a friend; he was, nevertheless, greatly surprised to see him, and turned[266] to Mrs. Mowbray to inform her that Father Ambrose, to his infinite astonishment, was coming to meet them, and appeared, from his manner, to be the bearer of unwelcome tidings.

While Eleanor was lost in thought, time passed without anyone noticing until the sudden stop of the carriage brought everyone back to reality. Major Mowbray noticed that they had stopped because a horseman was approaching them at full speed. The rider looked a bit unusual, and it might have caused some concern about his intentions, but the major quickly recognized him as a friend. Still, he was quite surprised to see him and turned to Mrs. Mowbray to let her know that Father Ambrose, much to his shock, was coming to meet them and seemed to have some bad news based on his demeanor.

Father Ambrose was, perhaps, the only being whom Eleanor disliked. She had felt an unaccountable antipathy towards him, which she could neither extirpate nor control, during their long and close intimacy. It may be necessary to mention that her religious culture had been in accordance with the tenets of the Romish Church, in whose faith—the faith of her ancestry—her mother had continued; and that Father Ambrose, with whom she had first become acquainted during the residence of the family near Bordeaux, was her ghostly adviser and confessor. An Englishman by birth, he had been appointed pastor to the diocese in which they dwelt, and was, consequently, a frequent visitor, almost a constant inmate of the château; yet though duty and respect would have prompted her to regard the father with affection, Eleanor could never conquer the feelings of dislike and distrust which she had at first entertained towards him; a dislike which was increased by the strange control in which he seemed to hold her mother, who regarded him with a veneration approaching to infatuation. It was, therefore, with satisfaction that she bade him adieu. He had, however, followed his friends to England under a feigned name as—being a recusant Romish priest, and supposed to have been engaged in certain Jesuitical plots, his return to his own country was attended with considerable risk—, and had now remained domesticated with them for some months. That he had been in some way, in early life, connected with a branch of the house of Rookwood, Eleanor was aware—she fancied he might have been engaged in political intrigue with Sir Reginald, which would have well accorded with his ardent, ambitious temperament—, and the knowledge of this circumstance made her doubly apprehensive lest the nature of his present communication should have reference to her lover, towards whose cause the father had never been[267] favorable, and respecting whose situation he might have made some discovery, which she feared he might use to Ranulph's disadvantage.

Father Ambrose was probably the only person Eleanor didn’t like. She felt an inexplicable aversion towards him that she couldn’t shake off or control throughout their long and close relationship. It’s worth mentioning that her religious upbringing aligned with the teachings of the Catholic Church, which was also the faith of her ancestors that her mother adhered to. Father Ambrose, whom she first met when her family was near Bordeaux, served as her spiritual advisor and confessor. Originally from England, he had been appointed pastor of the diocese where they lived and was therefore a frequent visitor, nearly a permanent resident of the château. However, despite the duty and respect that would typically inspire affection, Eleanor could never overcome her feelings of dislike and distrust towards him; this aversion grew stronger with the strange influence he seemed to hold over her mother, who regarded him with a reverence bordering on obsession. So, she felt relief when she said goodbye to him. However, he had followed his friends to England under a false name—being a defiant Catholic priest, suspected of being involved in certain Jesuit plots, his return to his home country carried significant risk—and had been living with them for several months. Eleanor knew that he had been connected in some way to a branch of the Rookwood family in his early life; she suspected he might have been involved in political schemes with Sir Reginald, which would align with his ambitious nature. Knowing this made her even more anxious that his current communication could be related to her lover, for whom the father had never shown any support, and she worried that he might have uncovered something that could jeopardize Ranulph’s situation.

Wrapped in a long black cloak, with a broad-brimmed hat drawn closely over his brows, it was impossible to distinguish further of the priest's figure and features beyond the circumstance of his height, which was remarkable, until he had reached the carriage window, when, raising his hat, he disclosed a head that Titian might have painted, and which, arising from the dark drapery, looked not unlike the visage of some grave and saturnine Venetian. There was a venerable expanse of forehead, thinly scattered with hair, towering over black pent-house-like brows, which, in their turn, shadowed keen penetrating eyes; the temples were hollow, and blue veins might be traced beneath the sallow skin; the cheek-bones were high, and there was something in the face that spoke of self-mortification; while the thin livid lips, closely compressed, and the austere and sinister expression of his countenance, showed that his self-abasement, if he had ever practised it, had scarcely prostrated the demon of pride, whose dominion might still be traced in the lines and furrows of his haughty physiognomy. The father looked at Mrs. Mowbray, and then glanced suspiciously at Eleanor. The former appeared to understand him.

Wrapped in a long black cloak, with a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his brows, it was impossible to make out much of the priest's figure and features beyond his remarkable height, until he reached the carriage window. When he lifted his hat, he revealed a face that Titian might have painted, which, rising from the dark fabric, resembled the serious and solemn appearance of a Venetian. He had a grand expanse of forehead, thinly populated with strands of hair, looming over thick brows that cast shadows over his sharp, penetrating eyes. His temples were sunken, and blue veins could be seen under his sallow skin; his cheekbones were prominent, and there was something in his expression that hinted at self-denial. Meanwhile, his thin, pale lips were tightly closed, and the stern, foreboding look on his face suggested that while he may have practiced self-humiliation, it had hardly subdued the prideful spirit, which could still be discerned in the lines and creases of his proud features. The priest looked at Mrs. Mowbray, then glanced suspiciously at Eleanor. Mrs. Mowbray seemed to understand his gaze.

"You would say a word to me in private," said Mrs. Mowbray; "shall I descend?"

"You want to talk to me privately," said Mrs. Mowbray; "should I come down?"

The priest bowed assent.

The priest nodded in agreement.

"It is not to you alone that my mission extends," said he, gravely; "you are all in part concerned; your son had better alight with you."

"It’s not just you that my mission involves," he said seriously; "you’re all partially accountable; your son should get down with you."

"Instantly," replied the major. "If you will give your horse in charge to the postilion, we will attend you at once."

"Right away," the major replied. "If you hand your horse over to the driver, we'll join you immediately."

With a feeling of renewed apprehension, connected, she knew not why, with Ranulph, Eleanor beheld her relatives descend from the carriage; and, in the hope of gaining some clue from their gestures to the subject of their conversation,[268] she watched their motions as narrowly as her situation permitted. From the earnest manner of the priest, and the interest his narrative seemed to excite in his hearers, it was evident that his communication was of importance.

With a sense of renewed anxiety, somehow tied to Ranulph, Eleanor watched her relatives get out of the carriage. Hoping to pick up some hints from their gestures about what they were discussing,[268] she observed their movements as closely as she could. From the priest's serious demeanor and the interest his story seemed to spark in those listening, it was clear that what he had to say was significant.

Presently, accompanied by Father Ambrose, Mrs. Mowbray returned to the carriage, while the major, mounting the priest's horse, after bidding a hasty adieu to his sister, adding, with a look that belied the consolation intended to be conveyed by his words, that "all was well," but without staying to offer her any explanation of the cause of his sudden departure, rode back the way they had just traversed, and in the direction of Rookwood. Bereft of the only person to whom she could have applied for information, though dying with curiosity and anxiety to know the meaning of this singular interview and of the sudden change of plans which she felt so intimately concerned herself, Eleanor was constrained to preserve silence, as, after their entrance into the carriage, her mother again seemed lost in painful reflection, and heeded her not; and the father, drawing from his pocket a small volume, appeared intently occupied in its perusal.

Currently, Mrs. Mowbray returned to the carriage with Father Ambrose, while the major, getting on the priest's horse, quickly said goodbye to his sister. He added, with a look that contradicted the comfort his words were meant to provide, that "everything was fine," but without stopping to explain the reason for his sudden departure, he rode back the way they had just come, heading toward Rookwood. Without the only person she could have asked for information, and filled with curiosity and anxiety about the strange meeting and the abrupt change in plans that she felt deeply involved in, Eleanor had to remain silent. After they got into the carriage, her mother seemed lost in painful thought again and didn't pay her any attention, while her father took out a small book from his pocket and appeared to be thoroughly focused

"Dear mother," said Eleanor, at length, turning to Mrs. Mowbray, "my brother is gone——"

"Dear mom," said Eleanor, finally turning to Mrs. Mowbray, "my brother is gone——"

"To Rookwood," said Mrs. Mowbray, in a tone calculated to check further inquiry; but Eleanor was too anxious to notice it.

"To Rookwood," said Mrs. Mowbray, in a tone meant to stop any more questions; but Eleanor was too worried to notice.

"And wherefore, mother?" said she. "May I not be informed?"

"And why, mom?" she asked. "Can’t you tell me?"

"Not as yet, my child—not as yet," replied Mrs. Mowbray. "You will learn all sufficiently early."

"Not yet, my child—not yet," replied Mrs. Mowbray. "You'll learn everything soon enough."

The priest raised his cat-like eyes from the book to watch the effect of this speech, and dropped them instantly as Eleanor turned towards him. She had been about to appeal to him, but having witnessed this look, she relinquished her scarce-formed purpose, and endeavored to divert her tristful thoughts by gazing through the glimmering medium of her tears upon[269] the soothing aspect of external nature—that aspect which, in sunshine or in storm, has ever relief in store for a heart embittered by the stormy coldness of the world.

The priest lifted his cat-like eyes from the book to see the impact of his words, but quickly dropped them as Eleanor turned to him. She had been about to seek his help, but after noticing his expression, she abandoned her half-formed intention and tried to shift her sad thoughts by looking through her tears at[269] the calming beauty of the outside world— that beauty which, whether in sunshine or storm, always offers comfort to a heart hardened by the harshness of life.

The road, meanwhile, led them through a long woody valley, and was now climbing the sides of a steep hill. They were soon in the vicinity of the priory, and of the gipsies' encampment. The priest leaned forward, and whispered something in Mrs. Mowbray's ear, who looked towards the ruined shrine, part of the mouldering walls being visible from the road.

The road, meanwhile, took them through a long wooded valley and was now climbing up the steep hill. They were soon near the priory and the gypsies' camp. The priest leaned forward and whispered something in Mrs. Mowbray's ear, who then looked towards the ruined shrine, part of the crumbling walls visible from the road.

At the moment the clatter of a horse's hoofs, and the sound of a loud voice, commanding the postilion, in a menacing tone, to stop, accompanied by a volley of imprecations, interrupted the conference, and bespoke the approach of an unwelcome intruder, and one whom all, too truly, feared would not be readily dismissed. The postilion did his best to rid them of the assailant. Perceiving a masked horseman behind him, approaching at a furious rate, he had little doubt as to his intentions, and Turpin, for it was our highwayman, soon made his doubts certainties. He hallooed to him to stop; but the fellow paid no attention to his command, and disregarded even the pistol which he saw, in a casual glimpse over his near side, presented at his person. Clapping spurs into his horse's flanks, he sought succor in flight. Turpin was by his side in an instant. As the highwayman endeavored to catch his reins, the lad suddenly wheeled the carriage right upon him, and but for the dexterity of Turpin, and the clever conduct of his mare, would inevitably have crushed him against the roadside. As it was, his left leg was slightly grazed. Irritated at this, Turpin fired over the man's head, and with the butt-end of the pistol felled him from his seat. Startled by the sound, and no longer under the governance of their rider, the horses rushed with frantic violence towards a ditch that bounded the other side of the highway, down which the carriage was precipitated, and at once overturned. Turpin's first act, after he had ascertained that no mischief had been[270] occasioned to those within, beyond the alarm incident to the shock, was to compel the postilion, who had by this time gained his legs, to release the horses from their traces. This done, with the best grace he could assume, and, adjusting his mask, he opened the carriage, and proceeded to liberate the captives.

At that moment, the sound of a horse's hooves and a loud voice, threatening the driver to stop, filled with curses, interrupted the meeting and signaled the arrival of an unwelcome intruder, one whom everyone feared wouldn’t be easily sent away. The driver tried hard to get rid of the attacker. Noticing a masked rider behind him approaching quickly, he had no doubt about his intentions, and Turpin, our highwayman, quickly confirmed those suspicions. He shouted for him to stop, but the guy ignored him and didn’t even flinch at the gun that was briefly visible over his shoulder. Digging his spurs into his horse, he tried to escape. Turpin was right beside him in an instant. As the highwayman tried to grab his reins, the young driver suddenly turned the carriage toward him, and if it weren't for Turpin's quick reflexes and the smart moves of his mare, he would have been crushed against the roadside. Instead, his left leg got nicked. Annoyed by this, Turpin fired over the man’s head and knocked him out of his seat with the butt of his pistol. Startled by the gunshot and now no longer under their rider’s control, the horses bolted toward a ditch on the other side of the road, causing the carriage to crash and overturn. Once Turpin confirmed that no serious harm had come to the passengers inside, aside from the shock of the crash, his first action was to force the driver, who had managed to get to his feet by now, to free the horses from their harness. After that, with as much composure as he could muster and adjusting his mask, he opened the carriage and began to free the captives.

"Beg pardon, ma'am," said he, as soon as he had released Mrs. Mowbray; "excessively sorry, upon my soul, to have been the cause of so much unnecessary alarm to you—all the fault, I assure you, of that rascal of a postilion; had the fellow only pulled up when I commanded him, this botheration might have been avoided. You will remember that, when you pay him—all his fault, I assure you, ma'am."

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said as soon as he let go of Mrs. Mowbray. "I'm really sorry, honestly, for causing you so much unnecessary worry—it's all the fault of that idiot of a driver; if only he had stopped when I told him to, this whole mess could have been avoided. Just remember that when you pay him—it's all his fault, I assure you, ma'am."

Receiving no reply, he proceeded to extricate Eleanor, with whose beauty the inflammable highwayman was instantly smitten. Leaving the father to shift for himself, he turned to address some observation of coarse gallantry to her; but she eluded his grasp, and flew to her mother's side.

Receiving no reply, he moved to rescue Eleanor, whose beauty immediately captivated the eager highwayman. Leaving her father to fend for himself, he turned to make a rather crude flirtation towards her; but she slipped away from him and ran to her mother's side.

"It is useless, sir," said Mrs. Mowbray, as Turpin drew near them, "to affect ignorance of your intentions. You have already occasioned us serious alarm; much delay and inconvenience. I trust, therefore, that beyond our purses, to which, though scantily supplied, you are welcome, we shall sustain no molestation. You seem to have less of the ruffian about you than the rest of your lawless race, and are not, I should hope, destitute of common humanity."

"It’s pointless, sir," Mrs. Mowbray said as Turpin approached them, "to pretend you don’t know what you’re doing. You’ve already caused us serious concern, along with a lot of delays and trouble. So I hope that aside from our wallets, which you’re welcome to even though they're not full, we won’t face any more harassment. You seem to be less of a thug than the others in your lawless group, and I hope you’re not lacking in basic human decency."

"Common humanity!" replied Turpin: "bless you, ma'am, I'm the most humane creature breathing—would not hurt a fly, much less a lady. Incivility was never laid to my charge. This business may be managed in a few seconds; and as soon as we have settled the matter, I'll lend your stupid jack-boy a hand to put the horses to the carriage again, and get the wheels out of the ditch. You have a banker, ma'am, I suppose, in town—perhaps in the country; but I don't like country bankers; besides, I want a little ready cash in Rumville—beg pardon, ma'am, London I mean. My ears have been so[271] stunned with those Romany patterers, I almost think in flash. Just draw me a check; I've pen and ink always ready: a check for fifty pounds, ma'am—only fifty. What's your banker's name? I've blank checks of all the best houses in my pocket; that and a kiss from the pretty lips of that cherry-cheeked maid," winking to Eleanor, "will fully content me. You see you have neither an exorbitant nor uncivil personage to deal with."

"Common humanity!" replied Turpin. "Bless you, ma'am, I'm the most compassionate person alive—I wouldn't harm a fly, let alone a lady. Incivility has never been attributed to me. We can sort this out in just a few moments, and once we do, I'll help your clueless boy get the horses back in the carriage and pull the wheels out of the ditch. You have a banker in town, I assume—maybe even in the country; but I’m not a fan of country bankers. Besides, I need some quick cash in Rumville—sorry, I mean London. My ears have been so [271] bombarded by those Romany speakers that I almost think in their slang. Just write me a check; I always carry pen and ink with me: a check for fifty pounds, just fifty. What’s your banker's name? I've blank checks from all the best banks in my pocket; that and a kiss from those pretty lips of that rosy-cheeked maid," he said, winking at Eleanor, "will completely satisfy me. You see, you have neither an unreasonable nor rude person to deal with."

Eleanor shrank closer towards her mother. Exhausted by previous agitation of the night, greatly frightened by the shock which she had just sustained, and still more alarmed by the words and gestures of the highwayman, she felt that she was momentarily in danger of fainting, and with difficulty prevented herself from falling. The priest, who had succeeded in freeing himself from the carriage, now placed himself between Turpin and the ladies.

Eleanor huddled closer to her mother. Worn out from the earlier chaos of the night, deeply shaken by the shock she'd just experienced, and even more unnerved by the words and actions of the robber, she felt like she might faint at any moment and struggled to keep herself upright. The priest, having managed to get free from the carriage, now positioned himself between Turpin and the ladies.

"Be satisfied, misguided man," said the father, in a stern voice, offering a purse, which Mrs. Mowbray hastily extended towards him, "with the crime you have already committed, and seek not to peril your soul by deeper guilt; be content with the plunder you now obtain, and depart; for, by my holy calling, I affirm to you, that if you advance one footstep towards the further molestation of these ladies, it shall be at the hazard of your life."

"Be satisfied, misguided man," the father said in a stern voice, offering a purse that Mrs. Mowbray quickly extended to him. "Be content with the crime you’ve already committed and don’t risk your soul with even deeper guilt. Take what you’ve stolen and leave; because, I assure you, if you take one step closer to bothering these ladies again, it will be at the risk of your life."

"Bravo!" exclaimed Turpin. "Now this is what I like; who would have thought the old autem-bawler had so much pluck in him? Sir, I commend you for your courage, but you are mistaken. I am the quietest man breathing, and never harm a human being; in proof of which, only look at your rascal of a postilion, whom any one of my friends would have sent post-haste to the devil for half the trouble he gave me. Easy as I am, I never choose to be balked in my humors. I must have the fifty and the buss, and then I'm off, as soon as you like; and I may as well have the kiss while the old lady signs the check, and then we shall have the seal as well[272] as the signature. Poh—poh—no nonsense! Many a pretty lass has thought it an honor to be kissed by Turpin."

"Bravo!" Turpin shouted. "Now this is what I like; who would have thought the old auto-bawler had so much guts in him? Sir, I commend you for your bravery, but you're wrong. I’m the calmest person around and would never hurt a soul; just look at your scoundrel of a postilion, whom any of my friends would have sent packing for half the trouble he gave me. As easygoing as I am, I won’t be stopped in my way. I need the fifty and the kiss, and then I'll be off whenever you like; I might as well grab the kiss while the old lady signs the check, and then we'll have the seal along with the signature. Come on—no nonsense! Many a pretty girl has thought it an honor to be kissed by Turpin."

Eleanor recoiled with deepest disgust, as she saw the highwayman thrust aside the useless opposition of the priest, and approach her. He had removed his mask; his face, flushed with insolent triumph, was turned towards her. Despite the loathing, which curdled the blood within her veins, she could not avert her eyes. He drew near her; she uttered a shrill scream. At that moment a powerful grasp was laid upon Turpin's shoulder; he turned and beheld Luke.

Eleanor pulled back in utter disgust as she watched the highwayman shove the useless priest aside and come toward her. He had taken off his mask; his face, flushed with arrogant victory, was directed at her. Despite the revulsion that churned in her blood, she couldn't look away. He got closer; she let out a piercing scream. Just then, a strong hand landed on Turpin's shoulder; he turned and saw Luke.

"Save me! save me," cried Eleanor, addressing the new comer.

"Help me! Help me," shouted Eleanor, speaking to the newcomer.

"Damnation!" said the highwayman, "what has brought you here? one would think you were turned assistant to all distressed damsels. Quit your hold, or, by the God above us, you will repent it."

"Damnation!" said the highwayman, "what are you doing here? You’d think you’ve become a helper for every distressed damsel. Let go of me, or, I swear to God above us, you’ll regret it."

"Fool!" exclaimed Luke, "talk thus to one who heeds you." And as he spoke he hurled Turpin backwards with so much force that, staggering a few yards, the highwayman fell to the ground.

"Idiot!" shouted Luke, "talk like that to someone who cares." As he said this, he threw Turpin backward with such force that, stumbling a few yards, the highwayman fell to the ground.

The priest stood like one stunned with surprise at Luke's sudden appearance and subsequent daring action.

The priest stood there in shock at Luke's unexpected arrival and bold move.

Luke, meanwhile, approached Eleanor. He gazed upon her with curiosity mixed with admiration, for his heart told him she was very fair. A deathlike paleness had spread over her cheeks; yet still, despite the want of color, she looked exquisitely beautiful, and her large blue eyes eloquently thanked her deliverer for her rescue. The words she wanted were supplied by Mrs. Mowbray, who thanked him in appropriate terms, when they were interrupted by Turpin, who had by this time picked himself up, and was drawing near them. His countenance wore a fierce expression.

Luke, meanwhile, walked over to Eleanor. He looked at her with a mix of curiosity and admiration, because he felt in his heart that she was stunning. A deathly pale color had spread across her cheeks; yet still, despite the lack of color, she looked incredibly beautiful, and her large blue eyes silently thanked her savior for rescuing her. The words she wanted were provided by Mrs. Mowbray, who thanked him appropriately, but they were interrupted by Turpin, who had by now gotten back on his feet and was approaching them. His face had a fierce expression.

"I tell you what," said he, "Luke Bradley, or Luke Rookwood, or whatever else you may call yourself, you have taken a damned unfair advantage of me in this matter, and deserve[273] nothing better at my hands than that I should call you to instant account for it—and curse me, if I don't too."

"I'll tell you something," he said, "Luke Bradley, or Luke Rookwood, or whatever name you choose, you've really taken an unfair advantage of me in this situation, and you deserve[273] nothing less than for me to hold you accountable for it—and believe me, I will."

"Luke Bradley!" interrupted Mrs. Mowbray—"are you that individual?"

"Luke Bradley!" interrupted Mrs. Mowbray—"are you that person?"

"I have been so called, madam," replied Luke.

"I've been called that, ma'am," replied Luke.

"Father Ambrose, is this the person of whom you spoke?" eagerly asked the lady.

"Father Ambrose, is this the person you were talking about?" the lady asked eagerly.

"So I conclude," returned the priest, evasively.

"So I conclude," replied the priest, dodging the question.

"Did he not call you Luke Rookwood?" eagerly demanded Eleanor. "Is that also your name?"

"Didn't he call you Luke Rookwood?" Eleanor asked eagerly. "Is that your name too?"

"Rookwood is my name, fair cousin," replied Luke, "if I may venture to call you so."

"Rookwood is my name, dear cousin," Luke replied, "if I can dare to call you that."

"And Ranulph Rookwood is——"

"And Ranulph Rookwood is—"

"My brother."

"My bro."

"I never heard he had a brother," rejoined Eleanor, with some agitation. "How can that be?"

"I never heard he had a brother," Eleanor replied, a bit agitated. "How is that possible?"

"I am his brother, nevertheless," replied Luke, moodily—"his ELDER BROTHER!"

"I am his brother, though," Luke replied gloomily—"his OLDER BROTHER!"

Eleanor turned to her mother and the priest with a look of imploring anguish; she saw a confirmation of the truth of this statement in their glances. No contradiction was offered by either to his statement; both, indeed, appeared in some mysterious manner prepared for it. This, then, was the dreaded secret. This was the cause of her brother's sudden departure. The truth flashed with lightning swiftness across her brain.

Eleanor turned to her mother and the priest, her face filled with desperate anguish; she saw their eyes confirming the truth of his words. Neither of them contradicted him; they both seemed somehow prepared for this moment. So, this was the dreaded secret. This was why her brother had left so suddenly. The truth struck her with lightning speed.

Chagrined and mortified, Luke remarked that glance of inquiry. His pride was hurt at the preference thus naturally shown towards his brother. He had been struck, deeply struck, with her beauty. He acknowledged the truth of Peter's words. Eleanor's loveliness was without parallel. He had seen naught so fair, and the instant he beheld her, he felt that for her alone could he cancel his vows to Sybil. The spirit of rivalry and jealousy was instantly aroused by Eleanor's exclamations.[274]

Chagrined and mortified, Luke noted her questioning glance. His pride was wounded by the evident preference shown towards his brother. He was deeply moved by her beauty. He recognized the truth in Peter's words. Eleanor's loveliness was unmatched. He had never seen anything so beautiful, and the moment he laid eyes on her, he realized that he could forsake his vows to Sybil for her alone. The spirit of rivalry and jealousy was quickly stirred by Eleanor's remarks.[274]

"His elder brother!" echoed Eleanor, dwelling upon his words, and addressing Luke—"then you must be—but no, you are not, you cannot be—it is Ranulph's title—it is not yours—you are not——"

"His older brother!" echoed Eleanor, reflecting on his words and speaking to Luke—"then you must be—but no, you are not, you can't be—it’s Ranulph's title—it’s not yours—you are not——"

"I am Sir Luke Rookwood," replied Luke, proudly.

"I am Sir Luke Rookwood," Luke replied, proudly.

Ere the words were uttered Eleanor had fainted.

Before the words were spoken, Eleanor had fainted.

"Assistance is at hand, madam, if you will accept it, and follow me," said Luke, raising the insensible girl in his arms, and bearing her down the hill towards the encampment, whither he was followed by Mrs. Mowbray and the priest, between whom, during the hurried dialogue we have detailed, very significant glances had been exchanged. Turpin, who, as it may be supposed, had not been an incurious observer of the scene passing, burst into his usual loud laugh on seeing Luke bear away his lovely burden.

"Help is here, ma'am, if you're willing to take it and come with me," said Luke, lifting the unconscious girl in his arms and carrying her down the hill toward the camp, with Mrs. Mowbray and the priest following him. During the quick conversation we’ve mentioned, they exchanged some very telling looks. Turpin, who, as you can imagine, had been watching the situation closely, burst into his typical loud laugh when he saw Luke carry off his beautiful prize.

"Cousin! Ha, ha!" said he. "So the wench is his cousin. Damme, I half suspect he has fallen in love with his new-found cousin; and if so, Miss Sybil, or I'm mistaken, will look as yellow as a guinea. If that little Spanish devil gets it into her pretty jealous pate that he is about to bring home a new mistress, we shall have a tragedy-scene in the twinkling of a bed-post. However, I shan't lose sight of Sir Luke until I have settled my accounts with him. Hark ye, boy," continued he, addressing the postilion; "remain where you are; you won't be wanted yet awhile, I imagine. There's a guinea for you, to drink Dick Turpin's health."

"Cousin! Ha, ha!" he said. "So the girl is his cousin. Damn, I suspect he’s fallen for his newly discovered cousin; and if that’s the case, Miss Sybil, or I’m wrong, is going to look as jealous as can be. If that little Spanish troublemaker thinks he’s about to bring home a new girlfriend, we’re in for a dramatic scene in no time. Anyway, I won’t take my eyes off Sir Luke until I’ve settled my business with him. Listen, boy," he said to the driver, "stay where you are; I don’t think you’ll be needed just yet. Here’s a guinea for you, to toast to Dick Turpin's health."

Upon which he mounted his mare, and walked her easily down the hill.

Upon which he hopped on his mare and casually walked her down the hill.

"And so that be Dick Turpin, folks talk so much about," soliloquized the lad, looking curiously after him; "well, he's as civil-speaking a chap as need be, blow my boots if he ain't! and if I'd had a notion it were he, I'd have pulled up at first call, without more ado. Nothing like experience—I shall know better another time," added he, pocketing the douceur.[275]

"And so that's Dick Turpin, the guy everyone talks about," the boy mused, watching him curiously. "Well, he’s as polite as anyone could be, I swear! If I had known it was him, I would have stopped right away, no questions asked. Nothing like experience—I’ll know better next time," he said, putting the money in his pocket.[275]

Rushing swiftly down the hill, Luke tarried at the river's brink, to sprinkle some of the cool element upon the pale brow of Eleanor. As he held her in his arms, thoughts which he fain would have stifled in their birth took possession of his heart. "Would she were mine!" murmured he. "Yet no! the wish is unworthy." But that wish returned unbidden.

Rushing down the hill, Luke stopped at the river's edge to splash some of the cool water on Eleanor's pale forehead. As he held her in his arms, thoughts he wished he could suppress filled his heart. "I wish she were mine!" he murmured. "But no! That desire is unworthy." Yet that wish came back uninvited.

Eleanor opened her eyes. She was still too weak to walk without support, and Luke, raising her once more in his arms, and motioning Mrs. Mowbray to follow, crossed the brook by means of stepping-stones, and conducted his charge along a bypath towards the priory, so as to avoid meeting with the crew assembled upon the green.

Eleanor opened her eyes. She was still too weak to walk on her own, so Luke lifted her up in his arms again and signaled for Mrs. Mowbray to come along. They crossed the brook using the stepping-stones and guided Eleanor along a side path toward the priory to avoid running into the group gathered on the green.

They had gained one of the roofless halls, when he encountered Balthazar. Astonished at the sight of the party, the patrico was about to address the priest as an acquaintance, when his more orthodox brother raised his finger to his lips, in token of caution. The action passed unobserved.

They had made it to one of the open halls when he ran into Balthazar. Surprised to see the group, the patrician was about to greet the priest as a friend, but his more traditional brother raised a finger to his lips as a sign to be quiet. The gesture went unnoticed.

"Hie thee to Sybil," said Luke to the patrico. "Bid her haste hither. Say that this maiden—that Miss Mowbray is here, and requires her aid. Fly! I will bear her to the refectory."

"Hurry to Sybil," Luke said to the patrico. "Tell her to come quickly. Say that this young lady—that Miss Mowbray is here and needs her help. Go! I will take her to the dining hall."

As Balthazar passed the priest, he pointed with a significant glance towards a chasm in the wall, which seemed to be an opening to some subterraneous chamber. The father again made a gesture of silence, and Balthazar hastened upon his mission.

As Balthazar walked by the priest, he gave a meaningful glance toward a gap in the wall that looked like an entrance to some underground chamber. The priest signaled for silence again, and Balthazar quickly continued with his task.

Luke led them to the refectory. He brought a chair for Eleanor's support; but so far from reviving, after such attention as could be afforded her, she appeared to become weaker. He was about to issue forth in search of Sybil, when to his surprise he found the door fastened.

Luke took them to the dining hall. He got a chair for Eleanor to help her, but instead of getting better, she seemed to grow weaker after the care she received. He was about to go out looking for Sybil when, to his surprise, he found the door was locked.

"You cannot pass this way," said a voice, which Luke instantly recognized as that of the knight of Malta.

"You can't go this way," said a voice that Luke immediately recognized as the knight of Malta.

"Not pass!" echoed Luke. "What does this mean?"

"Not pass!" shouted Luke. "What does that mean?"

"Our orders are from the queen," returned the knight.

"Our orders are from the queen," replied the knight.

At this instant the low tone of a muffled bell was heard.[276]

At that moment, the soft sound of a muted bell could be heard.[276]

"Ha!" exclaimed Luke; "some danger is at hand."

"Ha!" Luke exclaimed, "some danger is coming."

His heart smote him as he thought of Sybil, and he looked anxiously towards Eleanor.

His heart ached as he thought of Sybil, and he glanced worriedly at Eleanor.

Balthazar rushed into the room.

Balthazar rushed into the room.

"Where is Sybil?" cried Luke. "Will she not come?"

"Where's Sybil?" Luke shouted. "Is she not coming?"

"She will be here anon," answered the patrico.

"She will be here soon," replied the patron.

"I will seek her myself, then," said Luke. "The door by which you entered is free."

"I'll go find her myself, then," Luke said. "The door you came in through is open."

"It is not free," replied Balthazar. "Remain where you are."

"It is not free," replied Balthazar. "Stay where you are."

"Who will prevent my going forth?" demanded Luke, sternly.

"Who will stop me from going out?" demanded Luke, sternly.

"I will," said Barbara Lovel, as she suddenly appeared in the doorway. "You stir not, excepting at my pleasure. Where is the maiden?" continued she, looking around with a grim smile of satisfaction at the consternation produced by her appearance. "Ha! I see; she faints. Here is a cordial that shall revive her. Mrs. Mowbray, you are welcome to the gipsies' dwelling—you and your daughter. And you, Sir Luke Rookwood, I congratulate you upon your accession of dignity." Turning to the priest, who was evidently overwhelmed with confusion, she exclaimed, "And you too, sir, think you I recognize you not? We have met ere this, at Rookwood. Know you not Barbara Lovel? Ha, ha! It is long since my poor dwelling has been so highly honored. But I must not delay the remedy. Let her drink of this," said she, handing a phial to Mrs. Mowbray. "It will instantly restore her."

"I will," said Barbara Lovel as she suddenly appeared in the doorway. "You move only at my request. Where’s the girl?" she continued, looking around with a grim smile of satisfaction at the chaos caused by her entrance. "Ah! I see; she’s fainted. Here’s a tonic that will bring her back to life. Mrs. Mowbray, you and your daughter are welcome to the gypsies' home. And you, Sir Luke Rookwood, congrats on your new title." Turning to the priest, who looked clearly flustered, she exclaimed, "And you too, sir, do you think I don't recognize you? We've met before at Rookwood. Don’t you remember Barbara Lovel? Ha, ha! It’s been a while since my humble home has been so honored. But I shouldn’t hold up the remedy. Let her drink this," she said, handing a vial to Mrs. Mowbray. "It will bring her back right away."

"It is poison," cried Luke. "She shall not drink it."

"It’s poison," Luke shouted. "She’s not drinking that."

"Poison!" reiterated Barbara. "Behold!" and she drank of the liquid. "I would not poison your bride," added she, turning to Luke.

"Poison!" Barbara repeated. "Look!" and she drank from the liquid. "I wouldn’t poison your bride," she added, looking at Luke.

"My bride!" echoed Luke.

"My future wife!" echoed Luke.

"Ay, your bride," repeated Barbara.

"Yeah, your bride," repeated Barbara.

Luke recoiled in amazement. Mrs. Mowbray almost felt inclined to believe she was a dreamer, so visionary did the[277] whole scene appear. A dense crowd of witnesses stood at the entrance. Foremost amongst them was the sexton. Suddenly a shriek was heard, and the crowd opening to allow her passage, Sybil rushed forward.

Luke stepped back in shock. Mrs. Mowbray almost thought she was imagining things, as the whole scene looked so surreal. A large crowd of onlookers gathered at the entrance. At the front was the sexton. Suddenly, a scream pierced the air, and as the crowd parted to let her through, Sybil rushed ahead.


CHAPTER VII

MRS. MOWBRAY

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

Well, go your way, old Nick Machiavelli, there will never be anyone like you for wise strategies and good advice: you worked hard to outline for people the dark paths and hidden schemes of murder and deceit, and no one has the courage to follow you. The times are ungrateful, your principles are completely forgotten, and have faded from memory.

Shakerley Marmion's Antiquary.

Shakerley Marmion's Antiquary.

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

Sybil's sudden entrance shocked the group gathered around Miss Mowbray. But she didn’t notice them. Her attention was completely focused on Eleanor, toward whom she hurried; and as her gaze took in Eleanor's beauty, she pushed the braided hair away from her forehead, exposing her smooth, clear skin. Feelings of wonder, awe, devotion, and pity replaced any sense of hatred. The fierce look that had flashed in her dark eyes gave way to a gentle sympathy. She turned to Barbara with a pleading expression.

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

“Ay, ay,” said the old gypsy, holding out the vial at the same time; “I get it. This will bring color back to her pale cheeks and spark the fire in her eyes. Give her this.”

The effect of the potion was almost instantaneous, amply attesting Barbara's skill in its concoction. Stifled respiration first proclaimed Eleanor's recovery. She opened her large and languid eyes; her bosom heaved almost to bursting; her pulses throbbed quickly and feverishly; and as the stimulant[278] operated, the wild lustre of excitement blazed in her eyes.

The potion took effect almost immediately, clearly showing Barbara's expertise in making it. Eleanor’s breathing, which had been shallow, indicated that she was coming back to life. She opened her big, tired eyes; her chest rose and fell with urgency; her heart was racing quickly and frantically; and as the stimulant[278] worked its magic, a wild spark of excitement lit up her eyes.

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

Sybil warmed her hand. The eyes of the two young women met. They looked at each other intently and in silence. Eleanor didn't know who she was looking at, but she couldn't miss that look of sympathy; she couldn't overlook the gentle pressure of her hand; she felt the silent tears falling. She returned the sympathetic gaze and looked with equal amazement at the caring figure, for that’s what she almost seemed like, kneeling before her. As her gaze shifted from Sybil's kind look to the worn and ominous appearance of the gypsy queen, and then to the dark figures of her attendants, now filled with renewed fear, she exclaimed, "Who are these people, and where am I?"

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

"You’re safe here," Luke replied. "This is the ruined priory of St. Francis, and those unusual people are a group of gypsies. You don’t need to worry about them harming you."

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

"My savior!" Eleanor whispered; when suddenly the memory that he had declared himself a Rookwood, and the older brother of Ranulph, struck her. "Gypsies! Didn't you say these people were gypsies? Your outfit is just like theirs. You are not, you can't be, the brother of Ranulph."

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

"I’m not from the same mother," Luke replied proudly, "but my father was Sir Piers Rookwood, and I’m his eldest son."

He turned away. Dark thoughts swept across his brain. Maddened by the beauty of Eleanor, stung by her slights, and insensible to the silent agony of Sybil, who sought in vain to catch his eye, he thought of nothing but of revenge, and the accomplishment of his purposes. All within was a wild and fearful turmoil. His better principles were stifled by the promptings of evil. "Methinks," cried he, half aloud, "if the Tempter were near to offer the maiden to me, even at the peril of my soul's welfare, I could not resist it."[279]

He turned away. Dark thoughts raced through his mind. Driven mad by Eleanor's beauty, hurt by her insults, and oblivious to the silent pain of Sybil, who tried desperately to get his attention, he focused only on revenge and achieving his goals. Inside, there was a chaotic and frightening turmoil. His better instincts were drowned out by the urges of darkness. "I swear," he said to himself, "if the Tempter were here to offer me the girl, even at the risk of my soul, I don't think I could say no."[279]

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

The Tempter was right there. He's rarely missing during moments like this. The sexton stood next to his grandson. Luke jumped. He looked Peter up and down, almost expecting to see the cloven foot that’s supposed to belong to the devil. Peter grinned in a creepy mockery.

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

"Soh! You would call on hell for help; and look! The devil is right next to you. Well, she’s yours."

"Make good your words," cried Luke, impatiently.

"Keep your promise," Luke shouted, impatiently.

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

"Easy—easy," Peter replied. "Calm yourself, and your wishes will come true. Your desires align with those of others; actually, they align with Barbara's too. She wants you to marry Miss Mowbray. You're shocked. But it's true. This is just a cover for some bigger scheme; it doesn't matter. It will be tough, despite her cleverness, if I don’t beat her at her own game. That old woman has more tricks up her sleeve than ever came from a crocodile's egg; yet she'll meet her match. Don’t interfere with her; leave everything to me. She's at it right now," he added, noticing Barbara and Mrs. Mowbray talking together. "Be patient—I’ll keep an eye on her." With that, he left his grandson to closely observe the old gypsy's moves.

Barbara, meanwhile, had not remained inactive.

Barbara, on the other hand, had not been idle.

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

"You don’t have to worry about your daughter relapsing; I’ll take care of that," said the old gypsy to Mrs. Mowbray. "Sybil will look after her. Don’t leave the girl’s side," she said to her granddaughter, then added in a whisper, "Be careful—don’t scare her—I'll be watching you—don’t say a word."

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

So saying, she moved a short distance away with Mrs. Mowbray, keeping Sybil in sight and observing every move, like a panther watching a fawn play.

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

"Do you know who’s speaking to you?" said the old woman, in the unique low and secretive tone that her people use with strangers. "Have you forgotten the name Barbara Lovel?"

"I have no distinct remembrance of it," returned Mrs. Mowbray.[280]

"I don't have a clear memory of it," replied Mrs. Mowbray.[280]

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

"Think again," Barbara said. "And even though years have gone by, you might remember the black gypsy woman who, when you were surrounded by charming gentlemen in their fancy hats, read your palm and whispered the name of your favored suitor in your ear. Stay with me for a moment, ma'am," Barbara continued, noticing that Mrs. Mowbray flinched at the memory. "I’m old—very old; I’ve seen through the empty compliments, and having been given some authority over my people, I might be prone to assume too much with others." The old gypsy paused here, then shifted to a more familiar tone and exclaimed, "The estates of Rookwood are extensive——"

"Woman, what mean you?"

"Woman, what do you mean?"

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

"They should have belonged to you, ma'am, and they would have, if it weren't for that marriage. You would have worn them well. Sir Reginald was stubborn and took away the daughter's name to replace it with his son's. It's a shame that such a beautiful person as Miss Mowbray has to miss out on the fortune her looks and lineage should guarantee her. It's a shame that Ranulph Rookwood will lose his title just when he thought it was finally coming to him. It's a shame that those vast lands will slip away from you and your children, as they will, if Ranulph and Eleanor end up together."

"They never shall be united," replied Mrs. Mowbray, hastily.

"They will never be united," Mrs. Mowbray replied quickly.

"'Twere indeed to wed your child to beggary," said Barbara.

"'It would truly be marrying your child to poverty," said Barbara.

Mrs. Mowbray sighed deeply.

Mrs. Mowbray let out a deep sigh.

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

"There is a way," the old woman continued in a low whisper, "that the estates could still be yours and hers."

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Mowbray, eagerly.

"Absolutely!" said Mrs. Mowbray, eagerly.

"Sir Piers Rookwood had two sons."

"Sir Piers Rookwood had two sons."

"Ha!"

"LOL!"

"The elder is here."

"The elder is present."

"Luke—Sir Luke. He brought us hither."[281]

"Luke—Sir Luke. He brought us here."[281]

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

"He loves your daughter. I just saw the way he looked at her with so much passion. I may be old now, but I can still recognize a lover's gaze. Why not let them get married? I can read palms—understand hearts, you know. They were meant to be together. So, ma'am, do you get what I'm saying?"

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

"But," replied Mrs. Mowbray, hesitantly, "even if I might want to— even if I could support this, Eleanor is engaged to Ranulph—she loves him."

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

"Don't think about her if you're happy. She can't judge for herself as well as you can for her. She's a child and doesn't know what she truly loves. Her feelings will soon belong to Luke. He's a great young man—the spitting image of his grandfather, your father, Sir Reginald; and if your daughter is engaged to anyone, it’s to the heir of Rookwood. That was a key part of the agreement. Why shouldn't the marriage happen right away, and here?"

"Here! How were that possible?"

"Here! How was that possible?"

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

"You are inside sacred walls. I will take you to where an altar stands. There’s no shortage of holy priests to join their hands together. Your companion, Father Ambrose, as you call him, will perform the ceremony properly. He has already demonstrated his clerical skills with others from your household."

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

"To what are you referring, mysterious woman?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, with anxiety.

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

"To Sir Piers and Susan Bradley," Barbara replied. "That priest brought them together."

"Indeed! He never told me this."

"Wow! He never mentioned this to me."

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

"He couldn't bring himself to do that; he had an oath that required him to keep things secret. The time is coming when bigger mysteries will be uncovered."

"'Tis strange I should not have heard of this before," said Mrs. Mowbray, musingly; "and yet I might have guessed as much from his obscure hints respecting Ranulph. I see it all now. I see the gulf into which I might have been plunged; but I am warned in time. Father Ambrose," continued she,[282] to the priest, who was pacing the chamber at some little distance from them, "is it true that my brother was wedded by you to Susan Bradley?"

"It's strange I haven't heard about this before," said Mrs. Mowbray, thoughtfully. "But I could have guessed from his vague hints about Ranulph. I understand it all now. I see the deep trouble I could have fallen into, but I'm being warned in time. Father Ambrose," she went on, addressing the priest who was walking around the room a bit away from them, "is it true that you married my brother to Susan Bradley?"[282]

Ere the priest could reply the sexton presented himself.

Before the priest could respond, the sexton appeared.

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

"Ha, the dad of the girl!" said Mrs. Mowbray, "whom I encountered in our family vault, and who seemed so oddly affected when I mentioned Alan Rookwood. Is he here too?"

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

"Alan Rookwood!" Barbara exclaimed, as if a light had suddenly dawned on her. "Ha! What did he say about him?"

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

"Bad omen, raven," Peter said fiercely, "be satisfied with what you know about the living, and don’t disturb the peace of the dead. Let them rest in their disgrace."

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

"The dead!" echoed Barbara with a sarcastic laugh. "Ha! Ha! So he’s dead, then. And what happened to his beautiful wife—his brother's favorite? It was a terrible act, I admit, but there was atonement. Blood was shed—blood——"

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

"Shut up, you night witch!" shouted Peter, "or I'll have you burned at the stake for the magic you're using. Watch out," he added in a serious tone—"I'm on your side."

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

Barbara's shriveled face showed a flash of deep anger at the sexton's threat. The curse almost slipped from her lips; she raised her staff to strike him but stopped herself. In the same tone, with a sharp, suspicious glance, she replied, "My friend, are you saying that? Make sure it is so, or watch out for me."

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

And, with an evil scowl, the gypsy queen slowly shuffled toward her followers, who were standing at the door.


CHAPTER VIII

THE PARTING

I don't value any marriage where the friends Impose love on their children; where the virgin It's not truly given; it's more like it's betrayed. I wouldn't have engaged people—for __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ I can't really call them lovers—make Their rituals aren't for marriage, but a sacrifice.

Combat of Love and Friendship.

Battle of Love and Friendship.

Eleanor Mowbray had witnessed her mother's withdrawal from her side with much uneasiness, and was with difficulty prevented by Sybil from breaking upon her conference with the gipsy queen. Barbara's dark eye was fixed upon them during the whole of the interview, and communicated an indefinite sense of dread to Eleanor.

Eleanor Mowbray had watched her mother pull away from her with a lot of anxiety, and Sybil had a hard time stopping her from interrupting her conversation with the gipsy queen. Barbara's piercing dark eye was focused on them throughout the entire meeting, filling Eleanor with a vague sense of fear.

"Who—who is that old woman?" asked Eleanor, under her breath. "Never, even in my wildest dreams, have I seen aught so terrible. Why does she look so at us? She terrifies me; and yet she cannot mean me ill, or my mother—we have never injured her?"

"Who—who is that old woman?" Eleanor whispered. "I've never seen anything so horrifying, even in my wildest dreams. Why is she staring at us? She scares me, but she can't mean any harm to me or my mom—we've never done anything to her, right?"

"Alas!" sighed Sybil.

"Ugh!" sighed Sybil.

"You sigh!" exclaimed Eleanor, in alarm. "Is there any real danger, then? Help us to avoid it. Quick, warn my mother; she seems agitated. Oh, let me go to her."

"You sigh!" Eleanor exclaimed, alarmed. "Is there real danger? Help us avoid it. Quick, warn my mom; she seems upset. Oh, let me go to her."

"Hush!" whispered Sybil, maintaining an unmoved demeanor under the lynx-like gaze of Barbara. "Stir not, as you value your life; you know not where you are, or what may befall you. Your safety depends upon your composure. Your life is not in danger; but what is dearer than life, your love, is threatened with a fatal blow. There is a dark design to wed you to another."[284]

"Hush!" whispered Sybil, keeping a calm expression under Barbara's intense gaze. "Don't move, if you care about your life; you have no idea where you are or what could happen. Your safety relies on your calmness. Your life isn't in danger, but what matters more than life, your love, is at risk of a deadly blow. There’s a sinister plot to marry you off to someone else."[284]

"Heavens!" ejaculated Eleanor, "and to whom?"

"Heavens!" exclaimed Eleanor, "and to whom?"

"To Sir Luke Rookwood."

"To Sir Luke Rookwood."

"I would die sooner! Marry him? They shall kill me ere they force me to it!"

"I'd rather die! Marry him? They’ll have to kill me before I do that!"

"Could you not love him?"

"Can't you love him?"

"Love him! I have only seen him within this hour. I knew not of his existence. He rescued me from peril. I would thank him. I would love him, if I could, for Ranulph's sake; and yet for Ranulph's sake I hate him."

"Love him! I just saw him for the first time an hour ago. I didn't even know he existed. He saved me from danger. I want to thank him. I would love him if I could, for Ranulph's sake; and yet for Ranulph's sake, I hate him."

"Speak not of him thus to me," said Sybil, angrily. "If you love him not, I love him. Oh! forgive me, lady; pardon my impatience—my heart is breaking, yet it has not ceased to beat for him. You say you will die sooner than consent to this forced union. Your faith shall not be so cruelly attested. If there must be a victim, I will be the sacrifice. God grant I may be the only one. Be happy! as happy as I am wretched. You shall see what the love of a gipsy can do."

"Don't talk about him like that to me," Sybil said, angrily. "If you don't love him, I do. Oh! Please forgive me, lady; excuse my impatience—my heart is breaking, but it hasn’t stopped beating for him. You say you'd rather die than agree to this forced union. Your faith won’t be tested so cruelly. If someone has to be a victim, I’ll be the one to sacrifice. God help me to be the only one. Be happy! Just as happy as I am miserable. You’ll see what a gypsy's love can do."

As she spoke, Sybil burst into a flood of passionate tears. Eleanor regarded her with the deepest commiseration; but the feeling was transient; for Barbara, now advancing, exclaimed: "Hence to your mother. The bridegroom is waiting: to your mother, girl!" And she motioned Eleanor fiercely away. "What means this?" continued the old gipsy. "What have you said to that girl? Did I not caution you against speech with her? and you have dared to disobey me. You, my grandchild—the daughter of my Agatha, with whom my slightest wish was law. I abandon you! I curse you!"

As she spoke, Sybil broke down in a wave of heartfelt tears. Eleanor looked at her with the deepest sympathy, but the feeling was short-lived; for Barbara, who was now approaching, shouted: "Go to your mother. The bridegroom is waiting: to your mother, girl!" And she aggressively waved Eleanor away. "What does this mean?" the old gypsy continued. "What have you said to that girl? Didn’t I warn you not to talk to her? And you’ve dared to disobey me. You, my granddaughter—the daughter of my Agatha, for whom my slightest wish was law. I disown you! I curse you!"

"Oh, curse me not!" cried Sybil. "Add not to my despair."

"Oh, please don't curse me!" cried Sybil. "Don't make my despair worse."

"Then follow my advice implicitly. Cast off this weakness; all is in readiness. Luke shall descend into the vaulted chapel, the ceremony shall there take place—there also shall Eleanor die—and there again shall you be wedded. Take this phial, place it within the folds of your girdle. When all is over, I will tell you how to use it. Are you prepared? Shall we set out?"[285]

"Then follow my advice completely. Let go of this weakness; everything is ready. Luke will go down into the vaulted chapel, the ceremony will happen there—Eleanor will also die there—and then you will be married again. Take this vial and tuck it into your belt. When it’s all done, I’ll tell you how to use it. Are you ready? Shall we go?"[285]

"I am prepared," replied Sybil, in accents hollow as despair; "but let me speak with Luke before we go."

"I’m ready," Sybil replied, her voice sounding empty like despair; "but let me talk to Luke before we leave."

"Be brief, then—each moment is precious. Keep a guard upon your tongue. I will to Mrs. Mowbray. You have placed the phial in safety. A drop will free you from your troubles."

"Be quick, then—every moment matters. Watch what you say. I’m going to Mrs. Mowbray. You’ve put the vial somewhere safe. A drop will relieve you of your troubles."

"'Tis in that hope I guard it," replied Sybil, as she departed in the direction of Luke. Barbara watched her join him, and then turned shortly towards Mrs. Mowbray and her daughter.

"'It's in that hope I keep it safe,' replied Sybil, as she left toward Luke. Barbara watched her join him, and then quickly turned to Mrs. Mowbray and her daughter."

"You are ill, dear Luke," said Sybil, who had silently approached her faithless lover; "very ill."

"You’re sick, dear Luke," said Sybil, who had quietly walked up to her unfaithful lover; "really sick."

"Ill!" echoed Luke, breaking into frantic laughter. "Ill! Ha, ha!—upon my wedding-day. No, I am well—well. Your eyes are jaundiced by jealousy."

"Ill!" Luke exclaimed, bursting into frantic laughter. "Ill! Ha, ha!—on my wedding day. No, I’m fine—really fine. Your eyes are yellow from jealousy."

"Luke, dear Luke, laugh not thus. It terrifies me. I shall think you insane. There, you are calmer—you are more like yourself—more human. You looked just now—oh God! that I should say it of you—as if you were possessed by demons."

"Luke, dear Luke, please don’t laugh like that. It scares me. I might think you’re crazy. There, you seem calmer—you seem more like yourself—more human. Just now, you looked—oh God! I can’t believe I’m saying this about you—as if you were possessed by demons."

"And if I were possessed, what then?"

"And if I were possessed, what would that mean?"

"Horrible! hint not at it. You almost make me credit the dreadful tales I have heard, that on their wedding-day the Rookwoods are subject to the power of the 'Evil One.'"

"Horrible! Don’t even mention it. You almost make me believe the awful stories I’ve heard that on their wedding day, the Rookwoods fall under the influence of the 'Evil One.'"

"Upon their wedding-day—and I look thus?"

"On their wedding day—and I look like this?"

"You do—you do. Oh! cast this frenzy from you."

"You really do—you really do. Oh! get this madness away from you."

"She is mine—she is mine! I care not though fiends possess me, if it is my wedding-day, and Eleanor is my bride. And you say I look like a Rookwood. Ha, ha!"

"She’s mine—she’s mine! I don’t care if demons take hold of me; it’s my wedding day, and Eleanor is my bride. And you say I look like a Rookwood. Ha, ha!"

"That wild laughter again. Luke, I implore you, hear me one word—my last——"

"That wild laughter again. Luke, I beg you, listen to me—just one word—my last—"

"I will not bear reproaches."

"I won't tolerate blame."

"I mean not to reproach you. I come to bless you—to forgive you—to bid you farewell. Will you not say farewell?"

"I don't mean to blame you. I'm here to bless you—to forgive you—to say goodbye. Won't you say goodbye?"

"Farewell."

"Goodbye."

"Not so—not so. Mercy! my God! compassionate him and me! My heart will break with agony. Luke, if you would[286] not kill me, recall that word. Let not the guilt of my death be yours. 'Tis to save you from that remorse that I die!"

"Not that—please, no. Oh my God! Have mercy on us both! My heart is aching with pain. Luke, if you don’t want to kill me, remember what I said. Don't let my death be on your conscience. I’m dying to save you from that guilt!"

"Sybil, you have said rightly, I am not myself. I know not what demons have possession of my soul, that I can behold your agonies without remorse; that your matchless affection should awaken no return. Yet so it is. Since the fatal moment when I beheld yon maid, I have loved her."

"Sybil, you’re right, I’m not myself. I don’t know what demons have taken over my soul that I can watch you suffer without feeling any guilt; that your incredible love doesn’t inspire any feelings in me. But that’s the way it is. Ever since the moment I saw that girl, I have loved her."

"No more. Now I can part with you. Farewell!"

"No more. Now I can say goodbye to you. Farewell!"

"Stay, stay! wretch that I am. Stay, Sybil! If we must part—and that it must be so I feel—let me receive your pardon, if you can bestow it. Let me clasp you once more within my arms. May you live to happier days—may you——"

"Stay, stay! What a fool I am. Stay, Sybil! If we have to part—and I know we do—please forgive me, if you can. Let me hold you in my arms one more time. I hope you live to see happier days—may you——"

"Oh, to die thus!" sobbed Sybil, disengaging herself from his embrace. "Live to happier days, said you? When have I given you reason to doubt, for an instant, the sincerity of my love, that you should insult me thus?"

"Oh, to die like this!" Sybil cried, pulling away from him. "Live to happier days, you say? When have I ever given you a reason to question my love, even for a moment, that you would insult me like this?"

"Then live with me—live for me."

"Then be with me—be for me."

"If you can love me still, I will live as your slave, your minion, your wife; aught you will have me be. You have raised me from wretchedness. Oh!" continued she in an altered tone, "have I mistaken your meaning? Did you utter those words in false compassion for my sufferings?—Speak, it is not yet too late—all may be well. My fate—my life is in your hands. If you love me yet—if you can forsake Eleanor, speak—if not, be silent."

"If you can still love me, I will live as your servant, your subordinate, your wife; whatever you want me to be. You’ve lifted me from misery. Oh!" she continued in a changed tone, "Have I misunderstood you? Did you say those words out of insincere pity for my pain?—Please speak, it’s not too late—all could be okay. My destiny—my life is in your hands. If you still love me—if you can leave Eleanor, say something—if not, stay quiet."

Luke averted his head.

Luke turned his head away.

"Enough!" continued Sybil, in a voice of agony; "I understand. May God forgive you! Fare you well! We shall meet no more."

"That’s enough!" Sybil exclaimed, her voice filled with pain. "I get it. May God forgive you! Goodbye! We won’t see each other again."

"Do we part for ever?" asked Luke, without daring to regard her.

"Are we saying goodbye forever?" Luke asked, not daring to look at her.

"For ever!" answered Sybil.

"Forever!" answered Sybil.

Before her lover could reply, she shot from his side, and plunging amidst the dark and dense assemblage near the door, disappeared from view. An instant after, she emerged into[287] the open air. She stood within the roofless hall. It was filled with sunshine—with the fresh breath of morn. The ivied ruins, the grassy floor, the blue vault of heaven, seemed to greet her with a benignant smile. All was riant and rejoicing—all, save her heart. Amid such brightness, her sorrow seemed harsh and unnatural; as she felt the glad influence of day, she was scarcely able to refrain from tears. It was terrible to leave this beautiful world, that blue sky, that sunshine, and all she loved—so young, so soon.

Before her lover could respond, she rushed away from his side and dashed into the dark crowd near the door, disappearing from sight. A moment later, she stepped into[287] the open air. She found herself in a roofless hall filled with sunshine and the fresh morning breeze. The ivy-covered ruins, the grassy ground, and the blue sky above seemed to welcome her with a gentle smile. Everything was bright and joyful—everything except for her heart. In the midst of such brightness, her sadness felt jarring and out of place; as she soaked in the cheerful warmth of the day, she could barely hold back her tears. It was heartbreaking to leave this beautiful world, that blue sky, that sunshine, and everything she loved—so young, and so soon.

Entering a low arch that yawned within the wall, she vanished like a ghost at the approach of morn.

Entering a low arch that gaped in the wall, she disappeared like a ghost at the break of dawn.


CHAPTER IX

THE PHILTER

You have used dark magic on her—
Misused her fragile youth with drugs and substances.

Shakspeare: Othello.

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 round her neck, besought her 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 vacuity was succeeded by one of frenzied excitement. A film had, for an instant or two, dimmed her eyes; they now gleamed with unnatural lustre. She smiled—the smile was singular; it was not the playful, pleasurable lighting up of the face that it used to be; but it was a smile, and the mother's heart was satisfied.

To return to Eleanor Mowbray. In a distracted state of mind, she rushed to her mother and flung her arms around her neck, pleading for protection. Mrs. Mowbray looked anxiously at her daughter's changed face, but after a few moments, some of her worry eased. The expression of pain slowly faded, and the vacant look was replaced by a wild excitement. For a brief moment, her eyes appeared clouded; now they shone with an unnatural brightness. She smiled—the smile was unusual; it wasn’t the playful, joyful expression it used to be, but it was a smile, and the mother’s heart felt reassured.

Mrs. Mowbray knew not to what circumstance she could attribute this wondrous change. She looked at the priest. He[288] was more apt in divining the probable cause of the sudden alteration in Eleanor's manner.

Mrs. Mowbray didn't know what caused this amazing change. She looked at the priest. He[288] was better at figuring out the likely reason for Eleanor's sudden shift in behavior.

"What if 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 St. Jerome himself relates an instance of similar sorcery, in his life of Hilarius; and these people are said to compound them."

"What if she’s taken some kind of love potion?" he said, walking over to Mrs. Mowbray and speaking softly. "I’ve heard of these terrible mixtures; in fact, the saintly St. Jerome himself mentions a similar magic in his account of Hilarius, and it’s said that these people create 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."

"It might be true," Mrs. Mowbray replied in the same tone. "I believe that the unusual softness in the eye is more than just 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.

"I'll at least try an experiment to prove whether my guess is right or wrong," the father replied. "Do you see your intended groom over there?" he continued, speaking to 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 Ranulph; 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 and Mrs. Mowbray watched her in silence.

She followed Father Ambrose's指指示, her gaze landing on Luke. We can't really describe what she felt at that moment. She didn't think about Ranulph; if she did, it was just a distant thought. Lost in a sort of mental haze, she surrendered to the pleasant urge that led her wandering thoughts to Luke. For a few moments, she couldn't tear her eyes away from him. The priest and Mrs. Mowbray observed 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.

Nothing was said between the group until Luke joined them. Eleanor kept looking at him, and the apparent warmth in her gaze gave Luke the courage to approach her. However, the soft fire in those eyes was as cold as the shining wing of a firefly.

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.

Luke walked over to her; he took her hand—she didn’t pull it away. He kissed it. Still, she didn’t pull it away, but looked at him with softly shining eyes.

"My daughter is yours, Sir Luke Rookwood," exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray.

"My daughter belongs to you, Sir Luke Rookwood," Mrs. Mowbray exclaimed.

"What says the maid herself?" asked Luke.

"What does the maid herself say?" asked Luke.

Eleanor answered not. Her eyes were still fixed on him.[289]

Eleanor didn't respond. Her gaze remained locked on him.[289]

"She will not refuse me her hand," said Luke.

"She won't refuse my offer for her hand," said Luke.

The victim resisted not.

The victim didn’t resist.

"To the subterranean shrine," cried Barbara. And she gave the preconcerted signal to the band.

"To the underground shrine," shouted Barbara. And she signaled the band as agreed.

The signal was repeated by the gipsy 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. Zoroaster took long odds that the match was off—offering a bean to half-a-quid—in other words, a guinea to a half-guinea—that Sybil would be the bride. His offer was taken at once by Jerry Juniper, and backed by the knight of Malta.

The signal was echoed by the gypsy crew. It’s worth mentioning that the crew wasn’t just uninterested or quiet observers of what was happening; instead, they enjoyed making all kinds of guesses about how things might turn out. Several bets were being placed on whether or not it would end up being a match after all. Zoroaster bet heavily that the match was off—offering a bean for half-a-quid—that is, a guinea against half a guinea—that Sybil would be the bride. His offer was quickly accepted by Jerry Juniper, and supported by the knight of Malta.

"Ha! there's the signal," cried the knight; "I'll trouble you for the bean."

"Ha! there's the signal," shouted the knight; "I'll need the bean."

"And I," added Jerry Juniper, "for another."

"And I," added Jerry Juniper, "for another."

"See 'em fairly spliced first," replied the Magus; "that's vot I betted."

"Make sure they're properly connected first," replied the Magus; "that's what I bet on."

"Vell, vell, a few minutes will settle that. Come, pals, to the autem ken. Avay. Mind and obey orders."

"Well, well, a few minutes will take care of that. Come on, guys, to the auto place. Let's go. Make sure to follow the instructions."

"Ay, ay," answered the crew.

"Yeah, yeah," answered the crew.

"Here's a torch for the altar of Hymen," said the knight, flashing his torch in the eyes of the patrico as he passed him.

"Here's a torch for the altar of Hymen," said the knight, shining his torch in the eyes of the patrician as he walked by him.

"For the halter of Haman, you might say," returned Balthazar, sulkily. "It's well if some of us don't swing for it."

"For the noose of Haman, you might say," Balthazar replied, sulking. "It's a good thing some of us won't end up paying for it."

"You don't say," rejoined the perplexed Magus, "swing! Egad I fear it's a ticklish business. But there's no fighting shy, I fear, with Barbara present; and then there's that infernal autem-bawler; it will be so cursedly regular. If you had done the job, Balty, it would not have signified a brass farden. Luckily there will be no vitnesses to snitch upon us. There will be no one in the vault besides ourselves."

"You don't say," replied the confused Magus, "swing! Wow, I worry it's a tricky situation. But there's no backing out, I guess, with Barbara around; and then there's that annoying autem-bawler; it's going to be so frustratingly routine. If you'd taken care of it, Balty, it wouldn't have mattered at all. Luckily, there won't be any witnesses to rat us out. There will be no one in the vault except us."

"There will be a silent and a solemn witness," returned Balthazar, "and one whom you expect not."[290]

"There will be a quiet and serious witness," Balthazar replied, "and one you don't expect."[290]

"Eh! Vot's that you say? a spy?"

"Hey! What did you say? A spy?"

But the patrico was gone.

But the patron 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.

"Move aside—make room, friends, for the bride and groom," shouted the knight of Malta, pulling out Excalibur and getting ready 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 train started to move. Eleanor rested against her mom's arm. Next to them walked Barbara, looking triumphant. Luke followed with the priest. One by one, the group left the apartment.

The sexton alone lingered. "The moment is at hand," said he, musingly, "when all shall be consummated."

The sexton stayed behind. "The moment is here," he said thoughtfully, "when everything will be settled."

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.

A few steps brought him into the courtyard. The crowd was still there. There had been a brief delay. The knight of Malta then entered the mouth of the vault. He held his torch to reveal a broken flight of steps that seemed to lead to areas of endless darkness. This is what Eleanor thought as she shudderingly looked into the abyss. She hesitated; she trembled; she refused. But her mother’s pleas and Barbara’s threatening glares eventually led her to reluctantly comply. Finally, the place was empty. Peter was about to follow when he heard the sound of a horse’s hooves. He paused for a moment, and the figure of the highwayman on horseback appeared within the courtyard.

"Ha, ha! old earthworm," cried Dick, "my Nestor of the churchyard, alone! Where the devil are all the folks gone? Where's Sir Luke and his new-found cousin, eh?"

"Ha, ha! old earthworm," shouted Dick, "my Nestor of the graveyard, all by yourself! Where the heck did everyone go? Where's Sir Luke and his newfound cousin, huh?"

Peter hastily explained.

Peter quickly explained.

"A wedding under ground? famous! the thing of all others I should like to see. I'll hang Bess to this ivy tod, and grub my way with you thither, old mole."

"A wedding underground? Amazing! That’s something I would love to see. I’ll hang Bess from this ivy tree and dig my way with you there, old mole."

"You must stay here, and keep guard," returned Peter.

"You need to stay here and keep watch," replied Peter.

"May I be hanged if I do, when such fun is going on."

"May I be hanged if I do, when so much fun is happening."

"Hanged, in all probability, you will be," returned Peter; "but I should not, were I you, desire to anticipate my destiny. Stay here you must, and shall—that's peremptory. You will[291] be the gainer by it. Sir Luke will reward you nobly. I will answer for him. You can serve him most effectually. Ranulph Rookwood and Major Mowbray are expected here."

"Hanged, you probably will be," Peter replied; "but if I were you, I wouldn’t want to guess my fate. You have to stay here, and you will—that's non-negotiable. You'll benefit from it. Sir Luke will reward you handsomely. I’ll vouch for him. You can help him in a big way. Ranulph Rookwood and Major Mowbray are expected here."

"The devil they are. But how, or why——"

"The devil they are. But how, or why——"

"I have not time to explain. In case of a surprise, discharge a 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."

"I don't have time to explain. If there's a surprise, fire a pistol; they must not get into the vault. Do you have a whistle? Because you'll need to play two roles, and we might need your help downstairs."

"Sir Luke may command me. Here's a pipe as shrill as the devil's own cat-call."

"Sir Luke can order me around. Here's a whistle that's as sharp as the devil's own cat-call."

"If it will summon you to our assistance below, 'tis all I need. May we rely on you?"

"If it will call you to help us down here, that’s all I need. Can we count on you?"

"When did Dick Turpin desert his friends? Anywhere on this side the Styx the sound of that whistle will reach me. I'll ride about the court, and stand sentry."

"When did Dick Turpin betray his friends? Anywhere on this side of the Styx, that whistle will reach me. I'll ride around the court and keep watch."

"Enough," replied the sexton, as he dived under ground.

"That's enough," said the sexton as he went 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—flints 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 while snatches of a ballad, the theme of which was his own calling.

"Watch your shins," yelled Dick. "That's a really tricky turn, but he's used to the dark. Surprise, right! Let's check my snappers—flints are all good. Now I'm ready for them, whenever they show up." After making a round of the area, he stopped near the entrance of the underground chapel, close enough to hear Peter's whistle. He casually threw his right leg over his saddle and calmly lit a short pipe—cigars weren't a thing back then—while humming bits of a ballad about his own job.

THE SCAMPSMAN

THE SCAMPSMAN

Quis verè rex?

Who is the real king?

Seneca.

Seneca.

There isn't a king, no matter how far you search the world,
So carefree like the king of the road can be found; His pistol is his scepter, and his saddle is his throne,
From where he collects resources or demands a loan. Derry down.[292]
To this monarch, the highway offers a vast expanse,
Where each passing subject must pay tribute; His palace—the tavern!—welcomes him at night,
Where sweet lips and good drinks bring joy to everything. Derry down.
The soldier and the sailor, both thieves by profession,
Soon to be placed on the shelf, if disabled, are laid;
One gets a patch, and the other gets a peg,
But, as long as luck holds, the highwayman takes a chance!
Derry down.
Most birds wake up at dawn, but the owl wakes in the evening,
And there’s no happier bird to be seen anywhere; Like the owl, our cozy scampsman takes his nap during the day,
And when night falls, he rushes after his target!
Derry down.
The life of a highwayman is filled with excitement,
So the highwayman's death is the quickest and best; He doesn't die like other men do, gradually!
But right away! without flinching, and totally relaxed!
Derry down.

And thus, for the present, we leave him. O rare Dick Turpin!

And so, for now, we leave him. O rare Dick Turpin!


CHAPTER X

SAINT CYPRIAN'S CELL

Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch' entrate.

Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch' entrate.

Dante.

Dante.

Cyprian de Mulverton, fifth prior of the monastery of Saint 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, nor to dwell longer[293] with his fellowmen; but, relinquishing his spiritual dignity, "the world forgetting, by the world forgot," to immure himself, while living, within the tomb.

Cyprian de Mulverton, the fifth prior of the monastery of Saint Francis, was a prelate of exceptional holiness. In his later years, he suffered from a deep despair that neither penance nor fasting could alleviate. He vowed never again to see the blessed light of heaven with earthly eyes or to live among people. Instead, he gave up his spiritual position, "the world forgetting, by the world forgot," to shut himself away, even while alive, within a tomb.[293]

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 kept his promise. From the living rock that supported the holy building, beneath the monastery chapel, another chapel was made. After saying an eternal goodbye to the world and giving his blessing to his followers, whom he entrusted to his successor's care, the holy man withdrew.

Never, save at midnight, and then only during the performance of masses for his soul's repose, did he ascend from his cell: and as 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, save in muttered syllables, what effect must the lustre emanating from a thousand tapers, the warm and pungent odors of the incense-breathing shrine, contrasted with the earthy vapors 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!

Never, except at midnight, and only during the masses for the peace of his soul, did he leave his cell. The only light allowed in the dark dungeon he chose was from a sepulchral lamp, and as no one spoke with him there except in hushed tones, what effect must the glow from a thousand candles, the warm and fragrant smells of the incense-filled shrine, contrasted with the musty air of his prison, and the solemn rise of the Sanctus, have had on his heightened senses? Surely, it must have felt like a glimpse of the heaven he was trying to reach!

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 prior's 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[294] 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 declined assistance. He appeared not, as had been his wont, at the midnight mass; the door of his cell was thrown open at that hour; the light streamed down like a glory upon his reverend head; he heard the distant reverberations of the deep Miserere; and breathed odors as if wafted from Paradise.

Ascetic to the extreme limit of what nature could endure, Cyprian even denied himself rest. He didn’t pursue sleep and only realized it when it caught him off guard. His bed was a hard rock, and long after, when the devoted visited the saint's cell and were shown those sharp, jagged stones, they marveled at how someone like them could rest, or even lean against them without pain, until it was explained that surely, He who calms the winds for the helpless lamb had made that hard bed feel as soft to the holy sufferer as a down mattress. His body was wrapped in coarse horsehair; his drink was the damp drops that seeped from the porous walls of his cell; and his food consisted of the scraps given to him by the poor—the only outsiders allowed to approach him. No fire was allowed, where perpetual winter prevailed. No one was admitted to his nightly vigils; no one witnessed any act of penance; nor were any groans heard coming from that dreary cave; but the knotted, bloodstained cord, found near his bed, clearly revealed how those long lonely nights were spent. Thus, a year went by. Signs of his suffering were evident in his declining strength. He could barely crawl but humbly refused help. He didn’t appear, as was his custom, at the midnight mass; the door of his cell was opened at that hour; the light poured in like a blessing upon his reverend head; he heard the distant echoes of the deep Miserere; and inhaled scents as if carried 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, as 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's spirit fled.

One morning, those who were looking for him found him with his head resting on his chest, kneeling before the image of the virgin patroness of his shrine. Afraid to interrupt his prayers, they stood by quietly watching; and so they waited in silence for an hour. However, as he hadn’t moved during that time, fearing the worst, they cautiously approached him. He was as cold as the marble he knelt before. In the act of the most humble prayer—perhaps hoping for grace—Cyprian's spirit had departed.

"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.

"Blessed are those who die in the Lord," exclaimed his brothers, looking at his remains with deep reverence. When 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.

Under the arches of the sacred building were his bones buried, with a level of grandeur and showiness that hardly matched the humility and self-effacement of this man who had experienced so much pain.

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[295] 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 gloom of a wintry cell, had shed its slender radiance over the brow of the Virgin Thecla, 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:

This chapel, at the time we're discussing, was pretty much in the same state as it was during the days of its holy resident. Carved out of solid rock, the roof, vaults, and floor were all made of granite. Three massive cylindrical pillars, shaped from the native stone and rough like the trunks of gnarled oak trees, supported the ceiling. However, support wasn't really necessary; an earthquake would hardly have been able to shake down those sturdy rafters. Only in one corner, where water seeped through a crevice in the rock, dripping like tears, was there any sign of decay. Here, the stone, worn from the constant dripping, had, in some areas, crumbled. The vault was circular in shape, and the space between each massive pillar formed a pointed arch. From each pillar sprang additional arches, which crossed with diagonal, pointed branches, weaving into each other and radiating from the center, creating those beautifully intricate designs that architectural enthusiasts love to admire. Within the ring formed by these three columns, where the pillars had their own network of arches, there was a stone altar, and next to it, a crucifix made from the same rough material. Here also stood the holy image of the one who had inspired the prior with sacred aspirations, now just a shapeless stone. The dim lamp, which had shone like a star struggling against the thick darkness of a wintry cell, casting its faint light over the brow of the Virgin Thecla, was gone. But around the keystone of the central arches, where a chain had once hung, you could still see, in ancient characters half-worn by time, the inscription:

STA. THECLA ORA PRO NOBIS.

St. Thecla, pray for us.

One outlet only was there from the chapel—that which led by winding steps to the monastery; one only recess—the prior's 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 orisons of the anchorite. One uniform sad coloring prevailed throughout. The gray granite was grown hoar with age, and had a ghostly look; the columns were ponderous, and projected heavy shadows. Sorrow and[296] superstition had their tale, and a moral gloom deepened the darkness of the spot. Despair, which had inspired its construction, seemed to brood therein. Hope shunned its inexorable recesses.

Only one exit led from the chapel—through winding steps to the monastery; and there was only one alcove—the prior's cell. The former faced the altar; the latter gaped like the mouth of a tomb at its back. Overall, it was a bleak place. Its walls were as silent as when they refused to echo the whispered prayers of the hermit. A uniform, sad color dominated the space. The gray granite was aged and had a ghostly appearance; the columns were heavy and cast deep shadows. Sorrow and superstition had their story, and a sense of moral gloom darkened the area. Despair, which had inspired its creation, seemed to linger there. Hope avoided its relentless recesses.

Alone, within this dismal sanctuary, with hands outstretched towards the desecrated image of its tutelar saint, knelt Sybil. All was darkness. Neither the heavy vapors 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 tutelar saint of the spot:

Alone in this gloomy refuge, with her hands stretched out toward the defiled image of its guardian saint, Sybil knelt. Everything was shrouded in darkness. Neither the thick mist around her nor the shrine she was kneeling at could be seen; but, familiar with the bleak place, she knew she was in the right spot. Her touch confirmed that she was bowing before the stone altar; her dim vision was directed at the shattered image of the saint, even though it was now shrouded in the deepest shadows. With her hands clasped and tears streaming down her face, she quietly and sorrowfully addressed the guardian saint of the place in the following hymn:

HYMN TO SAINT THECLA

Hymn to Saint Thecla

In my struggles, in my pain,
In my darkest moments,
As I suffer in grief and pain, I lift up my prayer to you.
Holy virgin! Martyr maiden! Let your face lean Upon one with heavy burdens,
Kneeling low at your shrine; That in pain, in fear,
In her confused state,
Wandering weakly in doubt and confusion,
Calls weakly to you.
Sinful thoughts, dear saint, weigh heavy on me,
Thoughts that can't be ignored;
Dark temptations possess me, Which my strength cannot withstand.
I am filled with pain and exhausted. Of my life; I gladly would die:
To me, the world feels gloomy; I fly to the grave for rest.[297] For a break!—oh! could I borrow Your bright wings, celestial dove!
They should lift me out of my sorrow, Where peace resides in the lush areas above.
On someone burdened with troubles,
Kneeling humbly at your shrine; Holy virgin! martyred woman! Let your face show it!
Mei miserere Virgo, Grant them eternal rest!
By your beauty, your purity,
Clean, untouched,
In peaceful security Smiled at earth's temptations;—
By the chains that held you back,
By your flame-tested faith,
By the passion that kept you going,
By your angel-guided death;—
By your soul's divine joy,
'In your pain assuring Of your sacred translation To lasting happiness;—
By the mystical blending Of your spirit with the rays,
That in always bright abundance Round the Throne Eternal fire;—
By your share now taken,
With the pain perfected just; Look for a glimmer of hope lost,
From the gates, mercy flows. Upon one with heavy woes,
Kneeling humbly at your shrine,
Holy virgin! martyr maiden!
Let your face show!
Pray for me at death's hour!
Holy Virgin, I pray to you!
Kyrie Eleison!

The sweet, sad voice of the singer died faintly away. The sharpness of her sorrow was assuaged. Seldom, indeed, is[298] it that fervent supplication fails to call down solace to the afflicted. Sybil became more composed. She still, however, trembled at the thoughts of what remained to be done.

The sweet, sad voice of the singer gradually faded away. The intensity of her sorrow eased. Rarely does heartfelt prayer fail to bring comfort to those in pain. Sybil became more composed. Still, she trembled at the thoughts of what was left 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 my 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.

"They will be here before my prayer is finished," she murmured. "Before the purpose for which I came here alone is fulfilled. Let me, oh! let me make my peace with my Creator, before I give my life into His hands, and then let them handle me as they wish." And she bowed her head in humble 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.

Again raising her hands and looking up at the black ceiling, she pleaded, through song, for the saintly man's intercession, the one who had given his name to the cell.

HYMN TO SAINT CYPRIAN

Hymn to Saint Cyprian

Listen! Oh! listen to me, holy sufferer,
Who made your home 'Among these rocks, dedicating fully
Life is one long atonement Regarding your guilt, and only By extreme embarrassment Did you deliver me? Oh! hear me!
In my last moments, bring me comfort. Through your penance, self-denial, Help me in my time of need.
May, through you, my prayers be heard. On the Glory of Heaven,
Across the armies of hell, attacking
My soul, during this dark hour, be pushed forward!
So my spirit, when breathing out,
May sinfulness be forgiven,
And His gift to the Giver
May it be as pure as ever!
By your own dark, terrifying possession,
Help me with your support!

Scarcely had she concluded this hymn, when the torch of the knight of Malta in part dissipated the gloom that hung around the chapel.

Scarcely had she finished this hymn when the torch of the knight of Malta partially brightened the darkness that surrounded the chapel.


CHAPTER XI

THE BRIDAL

Cari. I won’t die; I can’t. I have a commitment.
To a young man.
Executioner. Here's your wedding ring.

Duchess of Malfy.

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 ruddily-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 color, and almost of animation, had fled; and a bridegroom, with a countenance yet more haggard, and demeanor yet more distracted—the beholder must have imagined that the spectacle was some horrible ceremonial, practised by demons rather than human beings. The arched vault, the pillars, the torchlight, the deep shadows, and the wild figures, formed a picture worthy of Rembrandt or Salvator.

The train slowly descended; solemnly and in silence, as if the ceremony they were about to attend was a funeral, not a wedding. Indeed, to see those wild and fierce faces illuminated by the flickering torchlight, which gave each a harsh and savage look; to witness those scowling features surrounding a bride whose pale cheeks had lost all color and almost all life; and a groom with an even more haggard face and an even more distracted demeanor—the observer would have thought that the scene was some horrific ritual performed by demons rather than humans. The arched ceiling, the columns, the torchlight, the deep shadows, and the wild figures created a picture worthy of Rembrandt or Salvator.

"Is Sybil within the chapel?" asked Barbara.

"Is Sybil in the chapel?" Barbara asked.

"I am here," returned a voice from the altar.

"I’m here," replied a voice from the altar.

"Why do we tarry?" said the gipsy queen. "We are all assembled. To the altar."

"Why are we waiting?" said the gypsy queen. "We're all here. To the altar."

"To the altar!" shrieked Eleanor. "Oh! no—no——"

"To the altar!" shouted Eleanor. "Oh! no—no——"

"Remember my threat, and obey," muttered Barbara. "You are in my power now."

"Remember my warning and do as I say," Barbara whispered. "You’re in my control now."

A convulsive sob was all the answer Eleanor could make.

A gasping sob was all Eleanor could manage.

"Our number is not complete," said the priest, who had looked in vain for the sexton. "Peter Bradley is not with us."[300]

"Our group isn't complete," said the priest, who had searched in vain for the sexton. "Peter Bradley isn't with us."[300]

"Ha!" exclaimed Barbara. "Let him be sought for instantly."

"Ha!" Barbara exclaimed. "Let's find him right away."

"Their search need not extend beyond this spot," said Peter, stepping forward.

"Their search doesn't have to go beyond this spot," said Peter, stepping forward.

The knight 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 Sybil, who stood beside it. Suddenly, as the light approached her, an object, hitherto hidden from view, was revealed. Sybil uttered a prolonged and fearful shriek; the knight 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 neighbor, anxious to learn the occasion of this tumult, and vague fears were communicated to those behind, from the terrified glances, which were the only answers returned by their comrades in front.

The knight of Malta walked toward the altar. The torchlight cast a red glow on the massive stone pillars. It illuminated the shrine and the terrifying face of Sybil, who stood beside it. Suddenly, as the light came closer to her, an object that had been hidden from sight was revealed. Sybil let out a long, fear-filled scream; the knight also stepped back in horror; and a collective gasp of surprise escaped the lips of those at the front of the group. Everyone rushed forward, and panic spread throughout the crowd. Each person looked at their neighbor, eager to understand the cause of the chaos, and vague fears were passed along to those in the back, based solely on the terrified expressions of their friends 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 to 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 aghast—that you tremble before it? It is a clod—ay, less than a clod. Away with it! away, I say."

"Who has the nerve to bring that body here?" Barbara demanded, her voice a mix of anger and fear as she pointed to the horrific corpse of a woman with disheveled hair at the altar's feet. "Who did this, I want to know? Hurry! Get rid of it. What are you staring at? Cowards! Is this your first time seeing a dead body, that you’re so shocked and trembling? It’s just a lifeless thing—less than that, really. Get it out of here! I said, get it away!"

"Touch it not," cried Luke, lifting a cloud of black hair from off the features; "it is my mother's body."

"Don't touch it," Luke exclaimed, pushing aside a bunch of black hair from the face. "It's my mother's body."

"My daughter!" exclaimed the sexton.

"My daughter!" the sexton exclaimed.

"What!" vociferated Barbara, "is that your daughter—is that the first Lady Rookwood? Are the dead arisen to do honor to these nuptials? Speak! you can, perchance, explain how she came hither."

"What!" shouted Barbara, "is that your daughter—is that the first Lady Rookwood? Have the dead come back to honor this wedding? Speak! Maybe you can explain how she got here."

"I know not," returned Peter, glancing fiercely at Barbara; "I may, anon, demand that question of you. How came this body here?"[301]

"I don't know," replied Peter, shooting a fierce look at Barbara; "I might ask you that question soon. How did this body end up here?"[301]

"Ask of Richard Checkley," said Barbara, turning to the priest. "He can, perchance, inform you. Priest," added she, in a low voice, "this is your handiwork."

"Ask Richard Checkley," Barbara said, turning to the priest. "He might be able to tell you. Priest," she added in a quiet voice, "this is your doing."

"Checkley!" screamed Peter. "Is that Richard Checkley? is that——"

"Checkley!" yelled Peter. "Is that Richard Checkley? Is that——"

"Peace!" thundered Barbara; "will none remove the body? Once more I ask you, do you fear the dead?"

"Peace!" shouted Barbara; "will no one take away the body? I ask you again, are you afraid of the dead?"

A murmur arose. Balthazar alone ventured to approach the corpse.

A quiet buzz spread through the crowd. Only Balthazar dared to get closer to the body.

Luke started to his feet as he advanced, his eyes glaring with tiger fury.

Luke sprang to his feet as he moved forward, his eyes burning with fierce anger.

"Back, old man," cried he, "and dare not, any of you, to lay a sacrilegious finger on her corse, 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'er 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.

"Step back, old man," he shouted, "and none of you dare to touch her body, or I will strike down anyone who gets closer than my mother's head lies. It doesn't matter when or how it got here. It's been laid at the altar, and no one will move it. The dead will witness my wedding. Destiny has made this happen—my destiny! over which the dead have control. Her ring will connect me to my bride. I didn't know, when I took it from her cold finger, what I was keeping it for. But I understand now. It's here." And he held out a ring.

"'Tis a fatal boon, that twice-used ring," cried Sybil; "such a ring my mother, on her death-bed, said should be mine. Such a ring she said should wed me——"

"'It’s a deadly gift, that twice-used ring,' Sybil exclaimed; 'my mother said on her deathbed that it should be mine. She said such a ring was meant to marry me——"

"Unto whom?" fiercely demanded Luke.

"Who?" fiercely demanded Luke.

"Unto Death!" she solemnly rejoined.

"To 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 as sank into the hearts of each who heard her—hearts, few of them framed of penetrable stuff—the despairing maiden burst into the following strain:[302]

Luke's expression soured. He looked away, really embarrassed, unable to handle her gaze any longer; and in a voice filled with deep emotion that touched everyone who heard her—though few had soft hearts—the heartbroken girl began to sing the following words:[302]

THE TWICE-USED RING

The Recycled Ring

"Beware your wedding day!" On her deathbed, my mother sighed; "Watch out, I say,
Death will marry you, and no one else.
Cold hands will grasp you,
Cold arms will embrace you,
Colder lips will cover your kiss!
Beware of your bridal kiss!
"Your wedding ring shall be
From a cold clay finger taken; From someone who, like you, Was abandoned by her love. For a secondhand ring Is a deadly thing;
Those who wore it share in its grief—,
Beware of that deadly ring!
"The altar and the grave" Many steps are not apart; Bright banners wave over you,
Hidden horror lies beneath.
Blithe may ring the bell, Yet it will toll your bell; Your crown was damaged by the thunder—
"Watch out for that cursed wreath!"
Beware my wedding day!
Dying lips have predicted my fate; Deep tones draw me away;
A token is sent from the grave. Cold, icy fingers bring That cursed ring; Soon a second heart will be broken; This is my wedding day.

There was a deep, profound silence as the last melancholy cadence died away, and many a rugged heart was melted, even[303] to tears. Eleanor, meanwhile, remained in a state of passive stupefaction, vacantly gazing at Sybil, upon whom alone her eyes were fixed, and appearing indistinctly to apprehend the meaning of her song.

There was a deep, profound silence as the last sad note faded away, and many tough hearts were softened, even to tears. Eleanor, meanwhile, was in a state of passive shock, staring blankly at Sybil, the only person her eyes were on, and seeming to vaguely understand the meaning of her song.

"This is my bridal day," murmured she, in a low tone, when Sybil had finished. "Said not that sweet voice so? I know 'tis my bridal day. What a church you have chosen, mother! A tomb—a sepulchre—but 'tis meet 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."

"This is my wedding day," she whispered softly after Sybil finished. "Didn't that sweet voice say so? I know it’s my wedding day. What a church you picked, mom! A tomb—a grave—but it fits such a wedding as mine—and what wedding guests! Was that pale woman in her shroud-like dress invited here by you? Please tell me, mom."

"My God, her senses are gone!" cried Mrs. Mowbray. "Why did I venture into this horrible place?"

"My God, she’s lost her mind!" yelled Mrs. Mowbray. "Why did I step into this awful 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."

"Don't ask why right now, ma'am," the priest replied. "The time for thinking is over. We need to take action. Let's go ahead with the marriage, no matter what; then we'll find a way to get ourselves out of this cursed place."

"Remove that horrible object," said Mrs. Mowbray; "it fascinates the vision of my child."

"Take away that ugly thing," said Mrs. Mowbray; "it keeps captivating my child's attention."

"Lend me your hand, Richard Checkley," said Peter, sternly regarding the priest.

"Lend me your hand, Richard Checkley," Peter said, looking seriously at the priest.

"No, no," replied the priest, shuddering; "I will not, cannot touch it. Do you alone remove it."

"No, no," the priest said, shuddering; "I won't, I can't touch it. You remove it yourself."

Peter approached Luke. The latter now offered no further opposition, and the body was taken away. The eyes of Eleanor followed it into the dark recesses of the vault; and when she could no longer distinguish the white flutter of the cereclothes, her laboring bosom seemed torn asunder with the profound sigh that burst from it, and her head declined upon her shoulder.

Peter walked over to Luke. Luke didn't put up any more resistance, and the body was taken away. Eleanor's eyes tracked it into the dark corners of the vault; when she could no longer see the white cloth moving, a deep sigh escaped her, and her head dropped onto her shoulder.

"Let me see that ring," said the priest, addressing Luke, who still held the wedding-ring between his fingers.

"Let me see that ring," said the priest, looking at Luke, who was still holding the wedding ring between his fingers.

"I am not naturally superstitious," said Mrs. Mowbray; "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."[304]

"I’m not really superstitious," said Mrs. Mowbray; "I don’t know if it’s just the creepy vibes of this place, but I really dread that ring. She’s not going to use it."[304]

"Where no other can be found," said the priest, with a significant and peculiar look at Mrs. Mowbray, "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—as how should there be, to a harmless piece of gold?—my benediction, and aspersion with holy lymph, will have sufficient power to exorcise and expel it. To remove your fears it shall be done at once."

"Wherever else you look," the priest said, giving Mrs. Mowbray a meaningful and unusual look, "I don't see why this should be dismissed. I wouldn't have thought you capable of such weakness. Even if there were an evil spell or charm attached to it—which, believe me, there isn’t, since how could there be with a harmless piece of gold?—my blessing and sprinkling with holy water will be strong enough to drive it away. To ease your worries, I'll take care of it right now."

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 and of eternity; in that, being itself incorruptible, it preserves all else from corruption,—and, with the customary Romish 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 circlet; uttered another and more potent exorcism to eradicate and expel every device of Satan, and delivered it back to Luke.

A cup of water was brought in, along with a plate of salt—which is said to be disliked by the devil and represents immortality and eternity; since it doesn’t spoil, it keeps everything else from going bad. Following the usual Catholic prayers and exorcisms, the priest mixed the crystal particles with the pure water three times; then, holding the ring with great seriousness, he sprinkled it with a few drops of the blessed water, made the sign of the cross on the golden ring, recited a stronger exorcism to remove and drive away any evil influence, and handed it back to Luke.

"She may wear it now in safety," said the sexton, with strong contempt. "Were the snake himself coiled round that consecrated bauble, the prayers of the devout Father Checkley would unclasp his lithest folds. But wherefore do we tarry now? Naught lies between us and the altar. The path is clear. The bridegroom grows impatient."

"She can wear it now safely," the sexton said with strong contempt. "Even if the snake itself was wrapped around that holy trinket, the prayers of the devout Father Checkley would free it from his tight grip. But why are we waiting? There’s nothing stopping us from reaching the altar. The way is clear. The groom is getting impatient."

"And the bride?" asked Barbara.

"And the bride?" Barbara asked.

"Is ready," replied the priest. "Madam, delay not longer. Daughter, your hand."

"Is ready," replied the priest. "Ma'am, please don't wait any 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 they 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, dishonorable act he was about to commit, strike him with its[305] full force. He saw it in its darkest colors. It was one of those terrible moments when the headlong wheel of passion stands suddenly still.

Eleanor extended her hand. It felt clammy and cold. With her mother’s support, she slowly walked toward the altar, just a few steps away from where they stood. She offered no resistance but kept her head down. Luke was beside her. That was when the weight of the cruel, dishonorable act he was about to commit hit him full force. He saw it in its darkest light. It was one of those awful moments when the wild rush of passion suddenly comes to a halt.[305]

"There is yet time," groaned he. "Oh! let me not damn myself perpetually! Let me save her; save Sybil; save myself."

"There’s still time," he groaned. "Oh! I can’t keep condemning myself forever! Let me save her; save Sybil; save myself."

They were at the altar—that wild wedding train. High over 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. Mowbray; it fell upon the salient points of the Gothic arches; upon one molded pillar; upon the marble image of the virgin Thecla; and on the scarcely less marble countenance of Sybil who stood behind 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.

They were at the altar—that chaotic wedding setup. High above, the torch was held up. The red light flashed on the groom and the bride, making their pale features look almost ghostly; it lit up the thin figure of the sexton, revealing the smirk of triumph and malice on his face; it illuminated Barbara's extravagant outfit and the proud yet anxious expression of Mrs. Mowbray; it highlighted the sharp angles of the Gothic arches; a sculpted pillar; the marble statue of the virgin Thecla; and the nearly marble-like face of Sybil, who stood silently behind the altar, still and motionless. The way the light and shadows played on different parts of the scene, on the wild drapery and the harsh features of many in the group, was also striking.

Just as the priest was about to commence the marriage service, a yelling chorus, which the gipsies 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.

Just as the priest was about to start the marriage ceremony, a loud chorus, which the gypsies typically sang at the weddings of their own people, erupted. Nothing could be more horribly out of tune than their song.

WEDDING CHORUS OF GIPSIES

Gypsy Wedding Chorus

Scrape the catgut! Pass the drinks!
Let your fast feet move even faster.
Ta-ra-la!
Dance and sing in a cheerful group,
The bride and groom are here in front of us,
And the patron looks over us.
See ya!
[306]
He's ready to join their hands; Hold on a second, friends; Stop your drinking,
Dancing and laughing; Leave off the riot, And be silent, While it’s being done.
It's begun,
It's all over!
Two are ONE!
The patrico has linked them; Daddy Hymen's torch has blinked at them.
Amen! To do it again!
Now for drinks,
Now for some laughs,
Stocking toss, Drinks pouring; For our weddings have no limits, and our altars never change; We don't shy away from the flagon, and we never stumble in the dance. No! that's not our way, for we Are loyal guys from Romany.
For our wedding, hooray!
Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

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 syllabled the responses. You could scarcely have seen Miss Mowbray's lips move. But the answers were given, and the priest was satisfied.

This awkward singing finished, the wedding continued. Sybil had vanished. Had she run away? No! she was beside the bride. Eleanor blankly took her spot. A soft voice muttered the responses. You could barely see Miss Mowbray's lips move. But the answers were given, and the priest was happy.

He took the ring, and sprinkled it once again with the holy water, in the form of the cross. He pronounced the prayer: "Benedic, Domine, annulum hunc, quem nos in tuo nomine benedicimus, ut quæ eum gestaverit, fidelitatem integram suo sponso tenens, in pace et voluntate tua permaneat atque in mutua charitate semper vivat."

He took the ring and sprinkled it again with holy water, making the sign of the cross. He said the prayer: "Benedic, Domine, annulum hunc, quem nos in tuo nomine benedicimus, ut quæ eum gestaverit, fidelitatem integram suo sponso tenens, in pace et voluntate tua permaneat atque in mutua charitate semper 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[307] 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. Hoarsely above the clamor arose the voice of Barbara.

He was about to give the ring back to Luke when the torch, held by the Knight of Malta, was knocked to the ground by[307] some unseen force, and it instantly went out. The chaotic scene vanished just as quickly as images from a slide projector disappear when the slide is taken out. A loud commotion followed. Above the noise, Barbara's voice shouted out hoarsely.

"To the door, quickly!—to the door! Let no one pass, I will find out the author of this mishap anon. Away!"

"To the door, quickly!—to the door! Don't let anyone through, I’ll figure out who caused this mess soon. Go!"

She was obeyed. Several of the crew stationed themselves at the door.

She was obeyed. A few members of the crew positioned themselves at the door.

"Proceed now with the ceremony," continued Barbara. "By darkness, or by light, the match shall be completed."

"Let's continue with the ceremony," Barbara said. "Whether it's dark or light, the match will be finalized."

The ring was then placed upon the finger of the bride; and as Luke touched it, he shuddered. It was cold as that of the corpse which he had clasped but now. The prayer was said, the blessing given, the marriage was complete.

The ring was then placed on the bride's finger; and as Luke touched it, he shuddered. It was as cold as the corpse he had just held. The prayer was said, the blessing given, and the marriage was complete.

Suddenly there issued from the darkness deep dirge-like tones, and a 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.

Suddenly, deep from the darkness came mournful sounds, and a voice solemnly sang a melody that everyone recognized as the death song of their people, sung by grieving women over a dying sister. The music felt like it was floating in the air.

THE SOUL-BELL

THE SOUL BELL

Quickly, the sand of life is slipping away,
Fast her latest sigh out,
Fast, fast, is she okay?
Her limbs are trembling with the cold of death,
With death's final breath, the lips tremble,
Her soul is flying away quickly.
Over the mountain-top it fleeteth,
And the sky's wonders greet,
Singing loudly as the stars it meets On the way.
Listen! the sad Soul-bell tolling,
Hollowly in rolling echoes,
Seems to indicate—
[308]
"She will open her eyes—oh, never!
Extinguished their dark light—gone forever!
She has passed away.

The marriage group yet lingered near the altar, awaiting, it would seem, permission from the gipsy 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 grasp prevented his departure.

The marriage group still hung around the altar, seemingly waiting for permission from the gypsy queen to leave the cell. Luke didn't move. Held by his own, the cold hand of his bride kept him there; when he tried to move, her grip tightened, stopping him from leaving.

Mrs. Mowbray'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."

Mrs. Mowbray's patience was worn out by the delay. She wasn't completely free from worry. "Why are we stuck here?" she whispered to the priest. "You go first, Father."

"The crowd is dense," replied Checkley. "They resist my effort."

"The crowd is thick," Checkley replied. "They’re pushing back against what I’m trying to do."

"Are we prisoners here?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, in alarm.

"Are we trapped here?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, worried.

"Let me make the attempt," cried Luke, with fiery impatience. "I will force a passage out."

"Let me give it a try," Luke shouted, filled with intense impatience. "I'll break my way out."

"Quit not your bride," whispered Peter, "as you value her safety. Heed not aught 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."

"Don’t let go of your bride," Peter whispered, "if you care about her safety. Ignore everything else. She's the only one in danger. Don’t allow her to be pulled away from you, or you might lose her. Stay here. I’ll sort this out quickly."

"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 he touched them, but she resisted not his embrace.

"That's enough," Luke said; "I’m not going anywhere." He pulled his bride closer to him and leaned down to kiss her lips. She felt a cold shiver pass through her body when he touched them, but she didn't push him away.

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.

Peter's attempt to escape was just as unsuccessful as the priest's. Holding Excalibur close to his chest, the knight of Malta challenged him to stay put.

"You cannot pass," exclaimed the knight; "our orders are peremptory."

"You can't pass," the knight exclaimed; "our orders are strict."

"What am I to understand by this?" said Peter, angrily. "Why are we detained?"[309]

"What am I supposed to understand by this?" Peter said, angrily. "Why are we being held up?"[309]

"You will learn all anon," returned Barbara. "In the meantime you are my prisoners—or, if you like not the phrase, my wedding guests."

"You'll find out everything soon," Barbara replied. "In the meantime, you’re my prisoners—or, if you prefer, 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."

"The wedding is over," the sexton replied; "the bride and groom are eager to leave, and we, the guests—although some of us don’t mind the dark—don’t want to keep celebrating here."

"Sybil's wedding has not taken place," said Barbara; "you must tarry for that."

"Sybil's wedding hasn't happened yet," Barbara said; "you need to wait for that."

"Ha! now it comes," thought Peter. "And who, may I ask," said he, aloud, "amongst this goodly company, is to be her bridegroom?"

"Ha! now it comes," thought Peter. "And who, if I may ask," he said out loud, "among this fine group, is going to be her groom?"

"The best amongst them," returned Barbara—"Sir Luke Rookwood."

"The best among them," replied Barbara—"Sir Luke Rookwood."

"He has a bride already," replied Peter.

"He already has a bride," Peter replied.

"She may be removed," said Barbara, with bitter and peculiar emphasis. "Dost understand my meaning now?"

"She might be removed," Barbara said, with a bitter and unusual emphasis. "Do you understand what I mean now?"

"I will not understand it," said Peter. "You cannot mean to destroy her who now stands at the altar?"

"I can't wrap my head around this," said Peter. "You can't be planning to hurt her while she's standing at the altar?"

"She who now stands at the altar must make way for a successor. She who grasps the bridegroom's hand shall die. I swear it by the oath of my tribe."

"She who now stands at the altar must make way for a successor. She who holds 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. Mowbray, in an agony of terror. "Think you that I will stand by and see my child slaughtered before my face; that my friends will suffer it? Think you that even your own tribe will dare to execute your horrible purpose? They will not. They will side with us. Even now they murmur. What can you hope to gain by an act so wild and dreadful? What object can you have?"

"And you really think you'll be able to carry out your murderous plan without facing any consequences?" Mrs. Mowbray screamed in sheer terror. "Do you believe I’ll just stand by and watch my child be killed in front of me, that my friends will let it happen? Do you think your own people will dare to carry out your terrible intentions? They won't. They'll side with us. Even now, they're starting to complain. What do you think you can achieve by doing something so reckless and horrifying? What’s your goal?"

"The same as your own," reiterated Barbara—"the advancement of my child. Sybil is as dear to me as Eleanor is to you. She is my child's child, the daughter of my best beloved daughter. I have sworn to marry her to Sir Luke Rookwood. The means are in my power. I will keep my vow; I[310] will wed her to him. You did not hesitate to tear 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 Sir Luke—has loved him long and truly; therefore shall she have him. What to me is your child, or your feelings, except they are subservient to my wishes? She stands in my way. I remove her."

"The same as your own," Barbara insisted. "The future of my child. Sybil is as precious to me as Eleanor is to you. She's my grandchild, the daughter of my beloved daughter. I've promised to marry her to Sir Luke Rookwood. I have the means to make it happen. I will keep my promise; I will unite her with him. You didn't hesitate to tear your daughter away from the man she loved and give her to the man she hated; and for what? For wealth—for power—for status. I have the same motivation. I love my child, and she loves Sir Luke—has loved him deeply and truly; therefore, she will be with him. What does your child or your feelings matter to me unless they serve my desires? She’s in my way. I will remove her."

"Who placed her in your path?" asked the sexton. "Did you not lend a helping hand to create that obstacle yourself?"

"Who put her in your way?" asked the sexton. "Did you not contribute to creating 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 Rookwood, that kills the first fair bride each generation leads to the altar. Have you never heard of it?"

"I did," Barbara replied. "Do you know why? I'll tell you. I had two reasons for it. There's a curse on the Rookwood family that kills the first beautiful bride each generation brings to the altar. Haven't you ever heard of it?"

"I have! And did that idle legend sway you?"

"I have! And did that useless rumor influence you?"

"And do you call it idle? You! Well—I had another motive—a prophecy."

"And do you call it lazy? You! Well—I had another reason—a prophecy."

"By yourself uttered," replied Peter.

"Spoken by yourself," replied Peter.

"Even so," replied Barbara. "The prophecy is fulfilled. The stray rook is found. The rook hath with rook mated. Luke hath wedded Eleanor. He will hold possession of his lands. The prophecy is fulfilled."

"Even so," replied Barbara. "The prophecy has been fulfilled. The stray rook is found. The rook has mated with the rook. Luke has married Eleanor. He will keep his lands. The prophecy has been fulfilled."

"But how?" asked Peter; "will your art tell you how and why he shall now hold possession? Can you tell me that?"

"But how?" asked Peter; "will your skill reveal how and why he will hold onto what he has now? Can you explain that to me?"

"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.

"My art doesn't reach that far. I predicted the event. It has happened. I am satisfied. He married her. It's up to me to free him from that burden." And Barbara laughed triumphantly.

The sexton approached the old crone, and laid his hand with violence upon her shoulder.

The sexton walked up to the old woman and forcefully placed his hand on her shoulder.

"Hear me," cried he, "and I will tell you that which your juggling art refuses to reveal. Eleanor Mowbray is heir to the lands of Rookwood! The estates are hers! They were bequeathed to her by her grandsire, Sir Reginald."[311]

"Hear me," he shouted, "and I will tell you what your tricks won’t reveal. Eleanor Mowbray is the rightful heir to the lands of Rookwood! The estates belong to her! They were passed down to her by her grandfather, Sir Reginald."[311]

"She was unborn when he died," cried Mrs. Mowbray.

"She wasn't born yet when he died," cried Mrs. Mowbray.

"True," replied Peter; "but the lands were left to your issue female, should such issue be born."

"True," replied Peter; "but the lands were left to your female heirs, if any are born."

"And did Sir Piers, my brother, know of this? did he see this will," asked Mrs. Mowbray, with trembling impatience.

"And did my brother Sir Piers know about this? Did he see this will?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, with anxious impatience.

"He did; and withheld the knowledge of it from you and yours."

"He did, and kept that information from you and your family."

"Ah! why knew I not this before? Why did you not tell me ere that was done which cannot be undone? I have sacrificed my child."

"Ah! Why didn’t I know this before? Why didn’t you tell me before that which has been done can’t be undone? I have sacrificed my child."

"Because it did not chime with my purposes to tell you," replied Peter, coldly.

"Since it didn't align with my goals to tell you," replied Peter, coolly.

"It is false—it is false," cried Mrs. Mowbray, 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?"

"It’s not true—it’s not true," shouted Mrs. Mowbray, her anger and frustration overpowering her fear. "I refuse to believe it. Who are you to claim you know the secrets of our home?"

"One of that house," replied the sexton.

"One from that house," replied the sexton.

"Your name?"

"What's your name?"

"Would you know my name?" answered Peter, sternly. "The time is come when I will no longer conceal it. I am Alan Rookwood."

"Would you know my name?" Peter replied, seriously. "The time has come when I will no longer hide it. I am Alan Rookwood."

"My father's brother!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray.

"My uncle!" shouted Mrs. Mowbray.

"Ay, Alan Rookwood. The sworn enemy of your father—of you—of all of ye: your fate—your destiny—your curse. I am that Alan Rookwood 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!—ha, ha! I saw his sons die: one fell in battle—I was with him there. The other expired in his bed. I was with Sir Piers when he breathed his last, and listened to his death agonies. 'Twas I who counselled him to keep the lands from you and from your child, and he withheld 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 Rookwood. And even he shall minister[312] 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;—ha, ha!" And he laughed till he became convulsed with the paroxysm of fiendish exultation.

"Ay, Alan Rookwood. The sworn enemy of your father—of you—of all of you: your fate—your destiny—your curse. I am that Alan Rookwood whose name you whispered in the vault. I am he, the avenger—the avenged. I saw your father die. I heard his groans—his groans!—ha, ha! I witnessed your brothers die: one fell in battle—I was there with him. The other passed away in his bed. I was with Sir Piers when he took his last breath and listened to his dying struggles. It was I who advised him to keep the lands from you and your child, and he did. Only one among the family, whose name I have abandoned, have I loved; and him—because,” he added, showing a hint of emotion, “because he was my daughter’s child—Luke Rookwood. And even he will serve my vengeance. He will be your curse—your daughter’s curse—for he does not love her. Yet he is her husband and holds her land;—ha, ha!” And he laughed until he was wracked with fits of wicked delight.

"Mine ears are stunned," cried Mrs. Mowbray.

"Your ears are shocked," cried Mrs. Mowbray.

"The bride is mine; relinquish her to me," said Barbara. "Advance and seize her, my children."

"The bride is mine; give her to me," said Barbara. "Go ahead and take her, my children."

Alan Rookwood—for so we shall henceforth denominate the sexton—suddenly grew calm: he raised the whistle to his lips, and blew a call so loud and shrill, that those who were advancing hung back irresolute.

Alan Rookwood—this is what we’ll now call the sexton—suddenly became calm: he brought the whistle to his lips and blew a call so loud and piercing that those who were coming forward hesitated and held back, unsure of what to do.

There was a rush at the door of the vault. The sentinels were struck down; and with pistols in each hand, and followed by two assistants, Dick Turpin sprang into the thick of the crew.

There was a rush at the vault door. The guards were taken out; and with a gun in each hand and followed by two helpers, Dick Turpin jumped right into the heart of the group.

"Here we are," cried he, "ready for action. Where is Sir Luke Rookwood? where my churchyard pal, Peter?"

"Here we are," he shouted, "ready to go. Where's Sir Luke Rookwood? Where's my graveyard buddy, Peter?"

"Here," cried the sexton and Luke simultaneously.

"Here," shouted the sexton and Luke at the same time.

"Then stand aside," cried Dick, pushing in the direction of the sounds, and bearing down all opposition. "Have a care there—these triggers are 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 whid."

"Then step aside," shouted Dick, moving towards the sounds and pushing through any resistance. "Be careful—these triggers are sensitive. Whether you're a friend or a foe, anyone who touches me will get a bullet. Here I am, buddy Peter; and these are my two friends, Rust and Wilder. Cut the chatter."

"Have we license to pass scathless now?" asked the sexton; "or shall we make good our way?"

"Do we have permission to pass through safely now?" asked the sexton; "or should we find our own way?"

"You shall not pass," cried Barbara, furiously. "Think you to rob me of my prey? What, cowards! do you hesitate? Ha!"

"You can't get past," Barbara shouted angrily. "Do you really think you can steal my prize? What, afraid? Come on!"

"Kindle the torches," cried several voices. "We fight not in the dark."

"Light the torches," shouted several voices. "We're not fighting in the dark."

A pistol was flashed. The torch again blazed. Its light fell upon a tumultuous group.

A gun was shown. The flashlight lit up again. Its beam fell on a chaotic crowd.

"Seize the bride," cried Barbara.

"Grab the bride," shouted Barbara.

"Hold!" exclaimed a voice from the altar. The voice was that of Sybil.[313]

"Wait!" shouted a voice from the altar. It was Sybil's voice.[313]

Her hand was clasped in that of Luke. Eleanor had fainted in the arms of the gipsy girl Handassah.

Her hand was held tightly by Luke. Eleanor had fainted in the arms of the gypsy girl Handassah.

"Are you my bride?" ejaculated Luke, in dismay.

"Are you my bride?" Luke exclaimed, shocked.

"Behold the ring upon my finger! Your own hand placed it there."

"Look at the ring on my finger! Your own hand put it there."

"Betrayed!" screamed Alan, in a voice of anguish. "My schemes annihilated—myself undone—my enemies triumphant—lost! lost! All is destroyed—all!"

"Betrayed!" Alan screamed, filled with anguish. "My plans are destroyed—I'm finished—my enemies have won—lost! Lost! Everything is ruined—all!"

"Joy! joy!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray: "my child is saved."

"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."

"And mine destroyed," groaned Barbara. "I have sworn by the cross to kill the bride—and Sybil is that bride."


CHAPTER XII

ALAN ROOKWOOD

The wolf will find her grave and dig it up;
Not to consume the corpse, but to uncover The awful murder.

Webster.

Webster.

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

"Bravo! That's brilliant!" cried Turpin, laughing loudly and for a long time like a god from Olympus. "Has this clever girl outsmarted all of you? Turned the tables on the whole group of schemers, huh? Amazing! Ha, ha, ha! The next time you get married, Sir Luke, let me give you some advice: don’t pick a wife in the dark. A man should be fully aware during these moments. Make love when you're drinking; marry when you're sober, and, most importantly, do it with your eyes wide open. This is better than cock-fighting—ha, ha, ha!—you'll have to forgive me, but honestly, I can’t help myself." And his laughter seemed endless.

"Take your men without," whispered Alan Rookwood; "keep watch as before, and let the discharge of a pistol[314] bespeak the approach of danger as agreed upon; much yet remains to be done here."

"Take your men outside," whispered Alan Rookwood; "keep watch like before, and let the sound of a gunshot[314] signal the approach of danger as we agreed; there's still a lot left to do 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——"

"How’s that?" asked Dick. "It seems to me the job’s completely settled—even if it’s not to your satisfaction. I’m always happy to help my friend, Sir Luke; but I swear I won’t assist with any shady business. Stay away from foul play, or Dick Turpin won’t be involved with you. And if you plan to hurt that poor girl, I swear I won’t—"

"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."

"No harm is meant here," Alan replied. "I admire your generosity," he added sarcastically; "such feelings are, I must admit, perfectly aligned with your behavior."

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

"In keeping or not," replied Turpin, seriously, "cold-blooded murder is completely out of my expertise, and I'm done with it. A shot or two in self-defense is a different story; and when——"

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

"A break from this," interrupted Alan; "the girl is safe. Will you keep watch again?"

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

"If that's the case, then," replied Dick. "I’ll be happy to return to Bess. I couldn't bring her with me into this dark place. A couple of shots will confirm it’s Ranulph Rookwood. But listen, don't harm the gypsy girl—or Lady Rookwood, I should say. She's a gem, believe me, which Sir Luke must be crazy to throw away." And calling his friends, he left.

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

Alan Rookwood made his way toward the gypsy queen. Dark thoughts quickly clouded his mind. He smiled as he got closer to Barbara—a smile that was

That wrinkled up his skin even to the hair.

That wrinkled his skin all the way 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.[315]

Barbara initially regarded him with suspicion, but as he revealed his hidden intentions, that smile began to show on her face too. They held their discussion privately. We'll happily leave them to go back to the altar.[315]

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.

Mrs. Mowbray and the priest were still there. Both were busy trying unsuccessfully to bring Eleanor back to consciousness. She came to after fainting; but it was clear her mind was still wandering, and no matter how much Mrs. Mowbray showered her child with her most loving gestures, Eleanor didn't respond.

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

Luke, on the other hand, was consumed by rage. He shook off Sybil’s hold; he pushed her away; he looked at her with scornful glares; he bombarded her with accusations. She endured his aggression with quiet resignation; she looked at him pleadingly—but she didn’t respond to his insults. Once more, she clung to the edge of his garment when he rejected her. Luke seemed unfazed; we won’t delve into what he was feeling inside. He started to calm down; his calmness was more frightening to Sybil than his earlier anger 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."

"You are my wife," he said; "so what? Through deception and schemes, you've gotten that title, and you’ll have to hold onto it. But that's all you’ll keep—the title only. You’ll never have any real rights as a wife. You can call yourself Lady Rookwood—you'll have that name—but nothing else."

"I shall not bear it long," murmured Sybil.

"I can't take this for much longer," murmured Sybil.

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

Luke laughed mockingly, "You’ve said that before," he replied. "And yet I don’t see why you’d be likely to change your mind. Time will tell. So far, you’ve fooled me, and I don’t trust your words anymore. I offered you my hand; you turned me down. Now, when I want to give it to someone else, you grab it secretly. Should I believe you now? The wind will shift—the weather vane will turn with it."

"It will not veer from you," she meekly answered.

"It won't stray from you," she replied softly.

"Why did you step between me and my bride?"

"Why did you get between me and my bride?"

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

"To save her life; to give up 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[316] assistance; my own arm would have sufficed to protect Eleanor."

"An empty excuse. You know very well that you're not at risk of being asked to do anything. Your life is not in jeopardy. The sacrifice wasn't needed. I could have managed without your[316] help; my own strength would have been enough to keep Eleanor safe."

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

"Your one arm wouldn't have stood a chance against so many: they would have taken you down too."

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

"Tush!" said Luke, fiercely. "Not only have you taken away my bride, you've also stolen my rightful lands, everything except my empty title, and even that, you have tarnished."

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

"That's true," sighed Sybil. "I didn't know the land belonged to her; otherwise, I would have never done it."

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

"You're lying, you're lying," Luke shouted. "You're just as fake as the others. They will belong to Ranulph. She will be with Ranulph. I’ll still be alone, while Ranulph enjoys my home—holding her close. Don’t cling to me. Go away! Or I’ll push you away myself. You’ve ruined me, ruined me, you cursed one."

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

"Oh, please don’t curse me! Your words hurt enough."

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

"Would they could kill you," Luke shouted, filled with rage. "You've put up a barrier between me and my future that nothing can remove—nothing but—ha!" His face turned pale and he looked terrified. "By Heaven, you almost awaken the dark spirit that's said to live in the hearts of my people. I feel like I could stab you."

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

"No, no!" screamed Sybil; "for heaven's sake, for your own good, don’t stab me. It's not too late. I can make things right!"

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

"Always deceiving! You’re trying to trick me again. You can’t fix it. There’s only one way left, and that——"

"I will pursue," responded Sybil, sadly, but firmly.

"I will pursue," Sybil replied, sadly but firmly.

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

"Never!" shouted Luke. "You won't! Ha!" he exclaimed as he felt his arms suddenly restrained behind him. "What new betrayal is this? By whose orders am I bound like this?"

"By mine," said Alan Rookwood, stepping forward.[317]

"By mine," said Alan Rookwood, stepping forward.[317]

"By yours?" echoed Luke. "And wherefore? Release me."

"By yours?" Luke replied, surprised. "And why? Let me go."

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

"Be patient," Alan replied. "You'll hear everything soon. In the meantime, you have to accept being my prisoner. Don't let go," he added, speaking to the gypsies who were keeping watch over Luke.

"Their lives shall answer for their obedience," said Barbara.

"Their lives will reflect their obedience," said Barbara.

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

Upon another signal from Alan, Eleanor was pulled away from her mother's embrace, and a bandage was quickly placed over Mrs. Mowbray's face, so that before she could cry out for help, she was completely silenced. Only the priest remained free.

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

Barbara grabbed Eleanor's hand and pulled her over to Sybil.

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

"You are Lady Rookwood," she whispered; "but she has your lands. I give her to you."

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

"She is the only barrier between your husband and his rights," whispered Alan Rookwood, in a tone of terrible irony; "it's not too late to fix your mistake."

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

"Away with you, tempter!" Sybil shouted, shocked. "I know you too well. But," she said, her tone changing, "I will risk everything for him. I’ve wronged him. There’s one way left to make amends; and, terrible as it is, I will accept it. I can't hesitate. Let me have her." And she grabbed Eleanor's unresisting hand.

"Do you need my aid?" asked Barbara.

"Do you need my help?" asked Barbara.

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

"No," replied Sybil; "let no one come near us. A clapping of hands will let you know when it's all over." And she pulled her passive victim further into the vault.

"Sybil, Sybil!" cried Luke, struggling with frantic violence to liberate himself; "hurt her not. I was rash. I was mad. I am calmer now. She hears me not—she will not turn. God of heaven! she will murder her. It will be done while I speak. I am the cause of all. Release me, villains! Would that I had died ere I had seen this day."[318]

"Sybil, Sybil!" shouted Luke, desperately trying to break free; "don’t hurt her. I was reckless. I was out of my mind. I’m calmer now. She can’t hear me—she won’t turn around. God in heaven! She’ll kill her. It’ll happen while I’m speaking. I’m the reason for all this. Let me go, you scoundrels! I wish I had died before I saw this day."[318]

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

At a signal from the caretaker, Luke was also blindfolded. He stopped fighting. But his heaving chest showed the struggle inside.

"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?"

"Criminals!" exclaimed the priest, who had been watching the events unfold in horror. "Why don’t these rocks just fall in and crush you and your wrongdoings? Save her! Oh, save her! Don’t you have any sympathy for the innocent?"

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

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

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

"Heaven is my witness," the priest exclaimed, "that I never harmed her."

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

"Don't take Heaven's name in vain," Alan shouted. "Who was there while it was happening? Whose steady hand helped the murderer with their shaky attempts? Whose grip silenced her desperate screams and muffled her pleas for mercy? Yours—yours; and now you talk to me about pity—you, the killer of the sleeping and the innocent!"

"'Tis false!" exclaimed the priest, in extremity of terror.

"'That's not true!" exclaimed the priest, in a state of extreme terror.

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

"That's not true!" Alan shouted. "I have Sir Piers's own confession. He told me everything. You had plans for Sir Piers, which his wife fought against; you hated her; you were trusted by both of them—how did you maintain that trust? He revealed to me how, by stirring up jealousy and pride that overwhelmed all his better instincts. Not true! He described your evil schemes; your cunning plots; your plans. He was too weak, too feeble a tool for you. You abandoned him, but not before she had left him. Not true! Ha, I have something that will immediately prove you guilty. The body is here, in this cell. Who brought it here?"

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

The priest was quiet: he looked shocked by Alan's aggression.

"I will answer that question," said Barbara. "It was brought hither by that false priest. His agent, Balthazar, has betrayed him. It was brought hither to prevent the discovery of Sir[319] Luke Rookwood's legitimacy. He meant to make his own terms about it. It has come hither to proclaim his guilt—to be a fearful witness against him." Then, turning to Checkley, she added, "You have called Heaven to witness your innocence: you shall attest it by oath upon that body; and should aught indicate your guilt, I will hang you as I would a dog, and clear off one long score with justice. Do you shrink from this?"

"I'll answer that question," said Barbara. "It was brought here by that fake priest. His associate, Balthazar, has betrayed him. It was brought here to prevent the truth about Sir[319] Luke Rookwood's legitimacy from coming out. He intended to set his own terms about it. It has come here to reveal his guilt—to be a damning witness against him." Then, turning to Checkley, she added, "You have called Heaven to witness your innocence: you will confirm it by swearing on that body; and if anything suggests your guilt, I will hang you like a dog and settle one long score with justice. Do you hesitate at this?"

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

"No," replied the priest, his voice hollow and shaky. "Take me to the body."

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

"Grab an arm each," Barbara said to Zoroaster and the knight of Malta, "and take him to the body."

"I will administer the oath," said Alan Rookwood, sternly.

"I'll administer the oath," Alan Rookwood said firmly.

"No, not you," stammered the priest.

"No, not you," the priest stammered.

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

"And why not?" Alan asked. "If you're innocent, you have nothing to fear from her."

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

"I fear nothing from the dead," Checkley replied; "go ahead."

We will now return to Sybil. She was alone with her victim. They were near the mouth of the cell which had been Prior Cyprian's flinty dormitory, and were almost involved in darkness. A broken stream of light glanced through the pillars. Eleanor had not spoken. She suffered herself to be dragged thither without resistance, scarcely conscious, it would seem, of her danger. Sybil gazed upon her for some minutes with sorrow and surprise. "She comprehends not her perilous situation," murmured Sybil. "She knows not that she stands upon the brink of the grave. Oh! would that she could pray. Shall I, her murderess, pray for her? My prayers would not be heard. And yet, to kill her unshriven will be a twofold crime. Let me not look on her. My hand trembles. I can scarce grasp the dagger. Let me think on all he has said. I have wronged him. I am his bane, his curse! I have robbed him of all: there is but one remedy—'tis this!—Oh, God! she recovers. I cannot do it now."[320]

We’ll go back to Sybil. She was alone with her victim. They were close to the entrance of the cell that had been Prior Cyprian's cold dormitory, almost enveloped in darkness. A faint beam of light flickered through the pillars. Eleanor hadn't said a word. She allowed herself to be pulled there without fighting back, barely aware of her danger. Sybil looked at her for a few minutes with sadness and shock. "She doesn’t understand her dangerous situation," Sybil murmured. "She doesn’t realize she’s on the edge of death. Oh! I wish she could pray. Should I, her killer, pray for her? My prayers wouldn’t be heard. And yet, to kill her without giving her absolution will be a double crime. I can’t look at her. My hand is shaking. I can hardly hold the dagger. Let me remember everything he has said. I have wronged him. I am his torment, his curse! I have taken everything from him: there’s only one solution—it's this!—Oh, God! She’s coming to. I can’t do it now."[320]

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

It was a terrifying moment for Eleanor's revival when the bright steel glinted in front of her. Fear instantly brought her back to reality. She threw herself at Sybil's feet.

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

"Please, spare me!" she shouted. "Oh! What a nightmare I just had. And to wake up like this, with a knife at my chest. You won't kill me—you, kind girl, who promised to protect me. I know for sure you won't."

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

"Don't come to me anymore," Sybil said fiercely. "Make your peace with Heaven. You don’t have much time left."

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

"I can't pray," Eleanor said, "while you're here with me."

"Will you pray if I retire and leave you?"

"Will you pray if I step back and leave you?"

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

"No, no. I can’t—won’t," yelled Eleanor, in sheer terror. "Oh! please don’t leave me, or let me go."

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

"If you move," Sybil said, "I’ll stab you in the heart."

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

"I won't move. I'll kneel here forever. Stab me as I kneel—while I pray to you. You can't kill me while I'm holding onto you like this—while I'm kissing your hands—while I'm wetting them with my tears. Those tears won't stain them like my blood."

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

"Girl," Sybil said, trying to pull her hand away, "let go of me—your time is up."

"Mercy!"

"Please!"

"It is in vain. Close your eyes."

"It’s pointless. Just close your eyes."

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

"No, I'll hold onto you like this—you can’t hit me then. I’ll cling to you—hold you tight. You’re not a cruel person—your soul is full of compassion. It softens—those tears—you will show mercy. You can’t intentionally kill me."

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

"I can't—I can't!" Sybil exclaimed, overwhelmed with grief. "You have to live, but only on one condition."

"Name it."

"Say its name."

"That you wed Sir Luke Rookwood."

"That you marry Sir Luke Rookwood."

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

"Ah!" exclaimed Eleanor, "everything comes flooding back to me at that name; the entire terrifying scene replays in my mind."

"Do you reject my proposal?"[321]

"Do you accept my proposal?"[321]

"I dare not."

"I'm not going to."

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

"I need your promise. Swear by all the hopes of eternity that you won't marry anyone but him."

"By every hope, I swear it."

"By everything I hope, I swear it."

"Handassah, you will bear this maiden's oath in mind, and witness its fulfilment."

"Handassah, remember this maiden's oath and see it fulfilled."

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

"I will," said the gypsy girl, stepping forward from a spot where she had been unnoticed until now.

"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——"

"That's enough. I'm satisfied. Stay with me. Don't move—don't scream, no matter what you see or hear. Your life depends on your steadiness. When I'm gone——"

"No more?" echoed Eleanor, in horror.

"No more?" echoed Eleanor, shocked.

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

"Stay calm," said Sybil. "When I’m gone, clap your hands together. They will come looking for you—they will find me instead. Then hurry to him—to Sir Luke Rookwood. He will keep you safe. Tell him later that I died for the wrong I did to him—that I died, and blessed him."

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

"Can't you just live and save me?" Eleanor cried.

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

"Don't ask. As long as I'm alive, your life is at risk. When I'm gone, no one will want to hurt you. Take care! Keep your promise, and you too, Handassah, remember it. Also—ha! that groan!"

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

All began, as a deep groan echoed in their ears.

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

"Where is that sound coming from?" Sybil exclaimed. "Shh!—a voice?"

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

"It’s the priest,” Eleanor exclaimed. “Listen! He’s moaning. They’ve killed him! Dear God, take his soul!”

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

"Pray for me," cried Sybil: "pray hard; turn away; get down on your knees—down—down! Goodbye, Handassah!" And breaking away from them, she dashed into the darkest corners of the vault.

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

We must now leave this painful situation for another one that's almost as painful, and go back to the unfortunate priest.

Checkley had been brought before the body of Susan Rookwood. Even in the gloom, the shimmer of the white cereclothes,[322] and the pallid features of the corpse, were ghastly enough. The torchlight made them terrible.

Checkley had been brought in front of Susan Rookwood's body. Even in the dim light, the shine of the white burial clothes,[322] and the pale features of the corpse were horrifying enough. The torchlight made them look even more dreadful.

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

"Kneel!" said Alan Rookwood. The priest obeyed. Alan knelt next to him.

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

"Do you recognize these features?" he asked. "Look closely. Fix your gaze on them. Do you know them?"

"I do."

"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."

"Put your hand on her chest. Doesn’t her skin crawl and shrink under your touch? Now lift your hand—make the sign of your faith on her chest. By that faith, you promise you are innocent."

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

"I do," replied the priest. "Are you satisfied now?"

"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."

"No," Alan replied. "Take away the torch. We need to prove your innocence more thoroughly," he continued as the light was taken away. "This evidence won't let us down. Wrap your fingers around her throat."

"Have I not done enough?"

"Have I not done enough?"

"Your hesitation proves your guilt," said Alan.

"Your hesitation shows you're guilty," said Alan.

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

"You're saying there's no proof, then?" the priest replied. "My hand is on her throat—what else do you want?"

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

"As you seek mercy in your time of need, promise that you never plotted against her life or denied her mercy."

"I swear it."

"I promise."

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

"May the dead prove you're lying if you have sworn falsely," said Alan; "you're free. Take your hand away!"

"Ha! what is this?" exclaimed the priest. "You have put some jugglery upon me. I cannot withdraw my hand. It sticks to her throat, as though 'twere glued by blood. Tear me away. I have not force enough to liberate myself. Why do you grin at me? The corpse grins likewise. It is jugglery. I am innocent. You would take away my life. Tear me away, I say: the veins rise; they blacken; they are filling with new blood. I feel them swell; they coil like living things around my fingers. She is alive."[323]

"Ha! What is this?" the priest exclaimed. "You've done some kind of trick on me. I can't pull my hand away. It’s stuck to her throat like it’s glued with blood. Pull me away. I don’t have the strength to free myself. Why are you laughing at me? The corpse is grinning too. It’s a trick. I'm innocent. You want to take my life. Pull me away, I’m telling you: the veins are rising; they’re turning black; they’re filling with fresh blood. I can feel them swell; they coil around my fingers like living things. She is alive."[323]

"And you are innocent?"

"And you're innocent?"

"I am—I am. Let not my ravings convict me. For Jesu's sake, release me."

"I am—I am. Please don’t let my outbursts be used against me. For Jesus' sake, set me free."

"Blaspheme not, but arise. I hold you not."

"Don't blaspheme, just get up. I'm not holding you back."

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

"You do," the priest groaned. "Your grip is tightening around my throat; your bony fingers are there—I can’t breathe—help!"

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

"Your own fears are holding you back. My hand is at my side," replied Alan calmly.

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

"Villain, you’re lying. Your grip is like a vice. The strength of a thousand demons is in your hand. Will no one help? I’ve never pushed so hard. Your daughter never went through this kind of torture—never—never. I can’t breathe—can’t breathe—oh!" And the priest fell heavily backward.

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

There was a deep groan, a shaky rattle in the throat, and then everything went silent.

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

"He’s dead—strangled," yelled several voices, lowering the torch. The priest's face was dark and twisted; his eyes bulged from their sockets; his tongue was nearly bitten through from his desperate struggle to break free from Alan's grip; his hair stood up in horror. It was a gruesome sight.

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

A whisper spread among the gypsies. Barbara thought it wise to calm them down.

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

"He was guilty," she exclaimed. "He was the murderer of Susan Rookwood."

"And I, her father, have avenged her," said Alan, sternly.

"And I, her father, have avenged her," Alan said 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.

The awful silence that came after this speech was interrupted by the sound of a gunshot. The noise, although shocking, was experienced almost as a relief.

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

"We're surrounded," shouted Alan. "Some of you go scout ahead."

"To your posts," cried Barbara.

"To your posts," shouted Barbara.

Several of the crew flocked to the entrance.[324]

Several crew members gathered at the entrance.[324]

"Unbind the prisoners," shouted Alan.

"Free the prisoners," shouted Alan.

Mrs. Mowbray and Luke were accordingly set free.

Mrs. Mowbray and Luke were then released.

Two almost simultaneous reports of a pistol were now heard.

Two nearly simultaneous reports of a gunshot were now heard.

"'Tis Ranulph Rookwood," said Alan; "that was the preconcerted signal."

"'Tis Ranulph Rookwood," said Alan; "that was the agreed-upon signal."

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

"Ranulph Rookwood," Eleanor echoed, catching the exclamation: "he's here to save me."

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

"Remember your promise," a fading voice whispered. "He’s not yours anymore."

"Alas! alas!" sobbed Eleanor, tremblingly.

"Oh no!" sobbed Eleanor, trembling.

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

A moment later, a soft sound of clapping reached Barbara's ears.

"All is over," muttered she.

"Everything's over," she muttered.

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

"Ha!" exclaimed Alan Rookwood, with a terrified expression. "Is it finished?"

Barbara motioned him towards the further end of the vault.

Barbara signaled for him to move to the far end of the vault.


CHAPTER XIII

MR. COATES

Grimm. Hey, captain, here comes one of the justice hounds.
Schw. Get rid of him. Don't let him say anything.
Moor. Silence, I'll hear him.

Schiller: The Robbers.

Schiller: The Robbers.

Gladly do we now exchange the dank atmosphere of Saint Cyprian's cell, and the horrors which have detained us there so long, for balmy 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 highwayman had left it. Dick wended towards his mare. Black Bess uttered an affectionate whinnying sound as he approached her, and yielded her sleek neck to his caresses. No Bedouin Arab ever loved his horse more tenderly than Turpin.[325]

We are happy to leave behind the damp atmosphere of Saint Cyprian's cell and the horrors that have kept us there for so long in exchange for fresh air, warm sunshine, and the great company of Dick Turpin. When we returned to the overgrown ruins of the old priory, everything looked pretty much the same as when our highwayman had left it. Dick walked over to his mare. Black Bess let out a loving whinny when he approached her and offered her sleek neck for his affection. No Bedouin Arab ever loved his horse as deeply as Turpin did.[325]

"'Twill be a hard day when thou and I part!" murmured he, affectionately patting her soft and silky cheeks. Bess 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 Houyhnhnms. "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 thou 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 gipsy wench, Sybil; but may I be scragged 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 shadow falls from behind the wall?"

“It’ll be a tough day when you and I part!” he murmured, affectionately stroking her soft and silky cheeks. Bess nudged her nose into his hand, playfully biting him, as if to say, “That day will never come.” Turpin, at least, understood the sentiment; he was fluent in the feelings of the Houyhnhnms. “I’d rather lose my right hand than let that happen,” he sighed; “but who knows: even the best of friends must part, and you and I might one day be separated: your fate is the knacker’s—mine, perhaps, the gallows. We’re clearly not meant for old age, that’s for sure. I can't figure it out; since I’ve been in that vault, I’ve got some strange thoughts running through my head. I can’t help but compare you to that poor gypsy girl, Sybil; but may I be hanged if I’d treat you the way her lover treated her. Ha!” he exclaimed, suddenly drawing a pistol, startling his companions, Rust and Wilder, “we’re being watched. Don’t you see that shadow falling from behind the wall?”

"I do," replied Rust.

"I do," Rust replied.

"The varmint shall be speedily unearthed," said Wilder, rushing to the spot.

"The creature will be dug up quickly," 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.

In another moment, the shadow turned into a small, solid figure, wearing boots, spurs, and covered in mud. He was brought before our highwayman, who had, in the meantime, jumped onto his saddle.

"Mr. Coates!" cried Dick, bursting into a loud laugh at the ridiculous figure presented to his view, "or the mud deceives me."

"Mr. Coates!" shouted Dick, bursting into a loud laugh at the ridiculous sight before him, "or the mud is tricking me."

"It does not deceive you, Captain Turpin," replied the attorney; "you do, indeed, behold that twice unfortunate person."

"It’s not misleading you, Captain Turpin," the attorney replied; "you really are seeing that twice unfortunate person."

"What brings you here?" asked Dick. "Ah! I see, you are come to pay me my wager."

"What brings you here?" asked Dick. "Ah! I see, you’ve come to settle my bet."

"I thought you gave me a discharge for that," rejoined Coates, unable, even in his distress, to resist the too-tempting quibble.[326]

"I thought you gave me a discharge for that," Coates replied, unable to resist the tempting wordplay even in his distress.[326]

"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, pals. Let us see what he has about him."

"True, but it was blank," Turpin replied quickly; "and that doesn't count in law, you know. You've wasted a second chance. Play or pay, everywhere you go. I won’t let you off so easily this time, mark my words. Come on, post the pony, or take your chances on that ground. No more back and forth, sir, down with the dust. Get his belongings, guys. Let’s see what he has on him."

"In the twinkling of a bed-post," 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 bull, three hogs, and a kick; a d—d dicky concern, captain."

"In the blink of an eye," Rust responded. "We'll flip him upside down. What's this?" he exclaimed, rummaging through the attorney's pockets. "A couple of guns," he said, handing a pair of pistols to Turpin, "a useless fish, I believe; one pound, two coach wheels, half a beef, three pigs, and a kick; a damn ridiculous situation, captain."

"Three hogs and a kick," muttered Coates; "the knave says true enough."

"Three pigs and a kick," muttered Coates; "the guy is speaking the truth."

"Is there nothing else?" demanded Dick.

"Is that all there is?" asked Dick.

"Only an old snuffy fogle and a pewter sneezer."

"Just an old, stuffy nose and a metal snuff box."

"No reader?[90] Try his hoxter."[91]

"No readers? __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Try his blog." __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__

"Here's a pit-man,[92] captain."

"Here's a pitman,__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ captain."

"Give it me. Ah! this will do," cried Dick, examining the contents of the pocket-book. "This is a glorious windfall indeed; a bill of exchange for 500l., payable on demand, eh, Mr. Coates? Quick! indorse it, sir. Here's 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 indorsed the bill. "Good! good! I'll be off with this bill to London to-night, before you can stop it. No courier can beat Bess—ha, ha! Eh! what's this?" continued Dick, as, unfolding another leaf of the pocket-book, he chanced upon a letter; "My Lady Rookwood's superscription! Excuse me, Mr. Coates, I must have a peep at her ladyship's billet-doux. All's safe with me—man of honor. I must detain your reader a moment longer."

"Give it to me. Ah! this will do," shouted Dick, looking through the pocketbook. "This is an amazing find; a bill of exchange for £500, payable on demand, right, Mr. Coates? Hurry! Endorse it, sir. Here's pen and ink. If you try to tear the bill, I swear I’ll blow your brains out. Steady now, sign. Good!" he added, as Coates reluctantly endorsed the bill. "Good! Good! I’m taking this bill to London tonight, before you can stop me. No messenger can beat Bess—ha, ha! Oh, what’s this?" Dick continued, unfolding another page of the pocketbook and coming across a letter. "My Lady Rookwood’s name on the envelope! Excuse me, Mr. Coates, I have to take a look at her ladyship’s note. Everything’s safe with me—a man of honor. I just need to keep your reader a moment longer."

"You should take charge of yourself, then," replied Coates, sulkily. "You appear to be my reader."[327]

"You should take control of yourself, then," replied Coates, sulkily. "You seem to be my reader."[327]

"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, ineffaceably impressed as your image upon her heart—eh, Coates? Egad! you are a lucky dog, after all, to receive such a favor from such a lady—ha, ha! Meantime, I'll take care of it for you," continued Dick, slipping the ring on his little finger.

"Bravo!" shouted Turpin. "You can joke around now without worrying, Mr. Coates. You've paid enough for your humor, and when should a guy be allowed to have fun if not at his own expense?—ha, ha! What's this?" he exclaimed, opening the letter. "A ring, I can't believe it! And from her ladyship's own pretty finger, I bet, because it has her initials, stamped as clearly as your image on her heart—right, Coates? Wow! You’re a lucky guy, after all, to get that kind of favor from her—ha, ha! In the meantime, I'll take care of it for you," continued Dick, slipping the ring onto 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 as that of her ladyship's self. The letter was hastily indited, 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:

Turpin, as we’ve mentioned before, had a knack for imitation; and Coates felt an overwhelming sense of respectful awe as he listened to the contents of Lady Rookwood's letter being read with an assertiveness and authority that matched her own. The letter was written quickly, in a clear, confident handwriting, reflecting its author's strong personality. Dick had no trouble reading it. The message went as follows:

"Assured of your devotion and secrecy, I commit my own honor, 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 Mowbray 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 it came 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 Ranulph, who has lent a credulous ear to the artful tales of the impostor 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 gipsies who infest the ruins. Now,[328] mark me. That body must not be found! Be it your business to prevent its discovery. Take the fleetest 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 gipsies. 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 honor for your safety. Use all despatch, and calculate upon due requital from

"Confident in your loyalty and discretion, I entrust my honor and that of my son to you. I can’t meet with you in person, or I would, but I put myself completely in your hands. You won’t dare betray my trust. To the point:—A Major Mowbray has just arrived here with news that the body of Susan Bradley—you know who I mean—has been taken from our family vault by a Catholic priest and his helpers. I don’t know how it got there or why it was moved; that's not my concern right now. What's important is that it now rests in a vault beneath the ruins of Davenham Priory. My son, Sir Ranulph, who has foolishly believed the clever stories of the fraud who claims this woman as his mother, is currently gathering some of the household and tenants to seize this body, anticipating resistance from a group of gypsies who roam the ruins. Now,[328] listen carefully. The body must not be discovered! It’s your responsibility to prevent its discovery. Get the fastest horse you can find; don't hold back on the whip or spurs. Rush to the priory; obtain the help of the gypsies by any means necessary and at any cost. Locate the body; hide it, destroy it—do whatever you have to so that my son doesn’t find it. Don’t worry about his anger; I'll protect you from any consequences with him. You’ll be acting on my authority. I assure you, your safety is my promise. Move quickly and expect to be rewarded from

"Maud Rookwood.

"Maud Rookwood."

"Haste, and God speed you!"

"Good luck and take care!"

"God speed you!" echoed Dick, in his own voice, contemptuously. "The devil drive you! would have been a fitter postscript. And it was upon this precious errand you came, Mr. Coates?"

"Good luck to you!" echoed Dick, in his own voice, with disdain. "A curse on you! would have been a more appropriate closing. And this is the important mission you came here for, Mr. Coates?"

"Precisely," replied the attorney; "but I find the premises preoccupied. Fast as I have ridden, you are here before me."

"Exactly," replied the lawyer, "but I see that the place is already taken. No matter how quickly I rode, you got here before me."

"And what do you now propose to do?" asked Turpin.

"And what do you plan to do now?" asked Turpin.

"Bargain with you for the body," replied Coates, in an insinuating tone.

"Bargain with you for the body," Coates replied, in a suggestive tone.

"With me!" said Dick; "do you take me for a resurrection cove; for a dealer in dead stock, eh! sirrah?"

"With me!" said Dick; "do you think I'm some kind of grave robber, or a seller of corpses, huh! buddy?"

"I take you for one sufficiently alive, in a general way, to his own interests," returned Coates. "These gentlemen may not, perhaps, be quite so scrupulous, when they hear my proposals."

"I consider you to be quite alive, generally speaking, to your own interests," Coates replied. "These gentlemen might not be as careful when they hear my proposals."

"Be silent, sir," interrupted Turpin. "Hist! I hear the tramp of horses' hoofs without. Hark! that shout."

"Be quiet, sir," interrupted Turpin. "Listen! I hear the sound of horses' hooves outside. Wait! That shout."

"Make your own terms before they come," said Coates. "Leave all to me. I'll put 'em on a wrong scent."

"Set your own terms before they arrive," said Coates. "Leave everything to me. I'll mislead them."

"To the devil with your terms," cried Turpin; "the signal!" And he pulled the trigger of one of Coates's pistols, the shot of which rang in the ears of the astounded attorney[329] as it whizzed past him. "Drag him into the mouth of the vault," thundered Turpin: "he will be a capital cover in case of attack. Look to your sticks, and be on the alert;—away!"

"To hell with your terms," yelled Turpin; "the signal!" And he fired one of Coates's pistols, the shot echoing in the ears of the shocked attorney[329] as it zipped past him. "Drag him into the vault," bellowed Turpin: "he'll be a great shield if we get attacked. Keep your weapons ready and stay alert;—let's go!"

Vainly did the unfortunate attorney kick and struggle, swear and scream; his hat was pushed over his eyes; his bob-wig 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.

Vainly did the unfortunate attorney kick and struggle, swear and scream; his hat was pushed down over his eyes; his wig was shoved into his mouth; and his legs were tripped out from under him. Thus blind, mute, and half-suffocated, he was rushed into the entrance of the cell.

Dick, meanwhile, dashed to the arched outlet of the ruin. He there drew in the rein, and Black Bess stood motionless as a statue.

Dick, in the meantime, rushed to the arched exit of the ruin. He pulled on the reins, and Black Bess stood still like a statue.


CHAPTER XIV

DICK TURPIN

Many a fine fellow with a genius extensive enough to have effected 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?—Schiller: The Robbers.

Many talented individuals with the genius to bring about widespread change have tragically met their end by hanging. Yet, doesn't such a person's fame last for centuries, even millennia, while many princes would vanish from history if historians weren’t motivated to pad their texts? Indeed, when a traveler sees a gallows, do they not say, "That person was no fool!" and lament the difficulties of their era?—Schiller: The Robbers.

Turpin's quick eye ranged over the spreading sward 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 valor 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[330] shall we do the memory of our undaunted highwayman any such injustice. Turpin was intrepid to a fault. He was rash; apt to run into 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.

Turpin's sharp eyes scanned the grassy area in front of the old priory, and his brow furrowed. But that feeling was brief. In the next moment, he was back to his usual easygoing, reckless self. His cheeks were a bit paler than usual, but his gaze was sharper, and he instinctively tightened his grip on the saddle. No other signs of anxiety were noticeable. It wouldn’t diminish Dick’s bravery to admit that a slight shiver ran through him as he took in the intimidating lineup of his foes. But this admission is unnecessary. Dick would be the last to admit it himself; nor[330] would we do a disservice to the memory of our fearless highwayman. Turpin was brave to a fault. He was reckless; often putting himself in danger just for the thrill of getting out of it. Danger excited him, and the level of thrill was always equal to the risk involved. After his first look, he became, to use his own words, "as cool as a cucumber," and continued, as long as they allowed him, to calmly assess the numbers of his opponents and plan his strategy for resistance.

This troop of horsemen, for such it was, might probably amount in the aggregate to twenty men, and presented an appearance like that of a strong muster at a rustic fox-chase, due allowance being made for the various weapons of offence; to-wit: naked sabers, firelocks, and a 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 had followed after them. The majority of the crew consisted of sturdy yeomen; some of whom, mounted upon wild, unbroken colts, had pretty lives of it to maintain their seats, and curvetted about in "most admired disorder;" others were seated upon more docile, but quite as provoking specimens of the cart-horse breed, whose sluggish sides, reckless alike of hobnailed heel or ash sapling, refused to obey their riders' 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 manœuvres; 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 recognized Ranulph Rookwood. With the features and person of the second of[331] the group he was not entirely unacquainted, and fancied—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 Mowbray, whom he had once eased of a purse on Finchley Common. In the round, rosy countenance and robustious person of the last of the trio he discovered his ancient ally, Titus Tyrconnel.

This group of horsemen, which it was, probably numbered around twenty men and looked like a solid gathering for a country fox hunt, considering the various weapons they carried: bare sabers, guns, and a bunch of big horse pistols that they had with them. This likeness was enhanced by the presence of an old hunter and a couple of gamekeepers in bright red and green jackets, along with some barking hounds tagging along. Most of the group consisted of strong farmers; some of them, riding wild, untrained colts, had a hard time staying in their saddles while they galloped about in “most admired disorder”; others were on more gentle, yet equally obstinate draft horses, whose lazy sides ignored the nudges of their riders to move; and again, some had stubborn little ponies that seemed to prefer spinning in circles to actually going where they were supposed to go. Dick could hardly contain his laughter at these silly antics; but he was mostly focused on three individuals, clearly the leaders of this military venture. He recognized the tall figure of the first as Ranulph Rookwood. The second, whom he somewhat knew and correctly guessed was Major Mowbray, given his military stance, was someone he had once stolen a purse from on Finchley Common. The last of the trio was his old ally, Titus Tyrconnel, who had a round, rosy face and a strong build.

"Ah, Titus, my jewel, are you there?" exclaimed Dick, as he distinguished the Irishman. "Come, I have one friend among them whom I may welcome. So, they see me now. Off they come, pell-mell. Back, Bess, back!—slowly, wench, slowly—there—stand!" And Bess again remained motionless.

"Hey, Titus, my dear, are you there?" shouted Dick, as he spotted the Irishman. "Come on, I have one friend among them that I can greet. So, they see me now. Here they come, all at once. Back, Bess, back!—slowly, girl, slowly—there—stop!" And Bess stood still again.

The report of Turpin's 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 may be 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 oaths and blows, kicks and cuffs, were reciprocated with such hearty good-will, that, had Turpin ever read Ariosto or Cervantes, or heard of the discord of King Agramante's camp, this mêlée must have struck him as its realization. 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 Turpin's 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.

The sound of Turpin's gun reached the troop; and since everyone was on high alert, he had barely shown himself at the gate when a loud shout erupted, and the entire group charged towards him, creating, as you can imagine, complete chaos. Each rider was yelling as he approached the arch and got caught up in the confusion caused by the sudden gathering of forces at that spot, while curses, punches, kicks, and slaps were exchanged with such enthusiasm that if Turpin had ever read Ariosto or Cervantes, or heard of the conflict in King Agramante's camp, this mêlée would have seemed like its version. As it was, feeling little concern about the outcome, he shouted encouragement to them. However, barely had the leading horseman managed to free himself from the crowd and was struggling toward the door, about to aim his pistol at Turpin's head, when a well-placed bullet struck his horse in the brain, causing both horse and rider to tumble to the ground. Swearing vengeance, a second rider took his place and similarly ended up on the ground.

"That will let Old Peter know that Ranulph Rookwood is at hand," exclaimed Dick. "I shan't throw away another shot."

"That will let Old Peter know that Ranulph Rookwood is nearby," exclaimed Dick. "I won't waste another shot."

The scene at the archway was now one of complete confusion. Terrified by the shots, some of the boors would have[332] 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 scene at the archway was pure chaos. Terrified by the gunshots, some of the guys would have[332] pulled back, while others, caught in the moment, charged ahead, pushing them forward. It was like two tidal waves colliding. Here and there, ignoring the bit, and scared by the firing, a wild colt broke free, flinging his rider into the air and bolting off into the fields; or in another instance, it charged forward and stumbled over the fallen cattle blocking the entrance to the priory hall, sending his master tumbling right at the feet of his enemy. Amid all this chaos, a few shots were fired at the highwayman, which, without harming him at all, only added to their own confusion.

The voice of Turpin 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.

The voice of Turpin was now heard above the noise and chaos, calling for a truce; and since he seemed to be willing to offer no resistance, some of his opponents dared to get up off the ground and approach him.

"I demand to be led to Sir Ranulph Rookwood," said Turpin.

"I want to be taken to Sir Ranulph Rookwood," said Turpin.

"He is here," said Ranulph, riding up. "Villain, you are my prisoner."

"He’s here," said Ranulph, riding up. "You’re my prisoner, villain."

"As you list, Sir Ranulph," returned Dick, coolly; "but let me have a word in private with you ere you do aught you may repent hereafter."

"As you say, Sir Ranulph," Dick replied calmly, "but let me have a word with you in private before you do anything you might regret later."

"No words, sir—deliver up your arms, or——"

"No words, sir—surrender your weapons, or——"

"My pistols are at your service," replied Dick. "I have just discharged them."

"My guns are ready for you," replied Dick. "I've just fired them."

"You may have others. We must search you."

"You might have more. We need to search you."

"Hold!" cried Dick; "if you will not listen to me, read that paper." And he handed Ranulph his mother's letter to Mr. Coates. It was without the superscription, which he had thrown aside.

"Stop!" shouted Dick; "if you won't listen to me, read that paper." And he gave Ranulph his mother's letter to Mr. Coates. It didn't have the address on it, which he had tossed aside.

"My mother's hand!" exclaimed Ranulph, reddening with anger, as he hastily perused its contents. "And she sent this to you? You lie, villain—'tis a forgery."

"My mom's hand!" Ranulph shouted, turning red with anger as he quickly read through it. "And she sent this to you? You're lying, you scoundrel—it's a fake."

"Let this speak for me," returned Dick, holding out the[333] finger upon which Lady Rookwood's ring was placed. "Know you that cipher?"

"Let this speak for me," Dick replied, extending the[333] finger with Lady Rookwood's ring on it. "Do you recognize that symbol?"

"You have stolen it," retorted Ranulph. "My mother," added he, in a deep, stern whisper, articulated only for Turpin's hearing, "would never have entrusted her honor to a highwayman's keeping."

"You've taken it," Ranulph shot back. "My mother," he continued in a low, serious whisper meant just for Turpin to hear, "would never have trusted her honor to a highwayman."

"She has entrusted more—her life," replied Dick, in a careless tone. "She would have bribed me to do murder."

"She has trusted me with everything—her life," Dick replied casually. "She would have paid me to commit murder."

"Murder!" echoed Ranulph, aghast.

"Murder!" shouted Ranulph, shocked.

"Ay, 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 honor is pledged for my safety. Of course her son will set me free."

"Yeah, to kill your brother," Dick replied. "But let's move on from that. You read that note. I've acted entirely on your mother's word. Lady Rookwood's honor guarantees my safety. Obviously, her son will let me go."

"Never!"

"Not a chance!"

"Well, as you please. Your mother is in my power. Betray me, and you betray her."

"Well, do as you like. Your mother is under my control. If you betray me, you’re betraying her."

"No more!" returned Ranulph, sternly. "Go your ways. You are free."

"No more!" Ranulph replied firmly. "Go your own way. You're free."

"Pledge me your word of honor I am safe." Ranulph had scarcely given his pledge, when Major Mowbray 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.

"Pledge me your word of honor that I'm safe." Ranulph had barely made his promise when Major Mowbray charged in, furious. His face was flushed with anger, and his sword was drawn. He looked at Turpin as if he wanted to knock him off his horse.

"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? Whither are they gone?—answer!"

"This is the thug," yelled the major angrily, "who attacked me a few months ago, and for whose capture a reward of three hundred pounds has been announced by the king, along with a free pardon for his accomplices. This is Richard Turpin. He has just committed another crime on top of his many previous ones. The postboy recognized him as soon as he arrived. Where are they, you scoundrel? Where have they gone?—answer me!"

"I know not," replied Turpin, calmly. "Did not the lad tell you they were rescued?"

"I don't know," Turpin replied calmly. "Didn't the kid tell you they were saved?"

"Rescued!—by whom?" asked Ranulph, with great emotion.[334]

"Rescued!—by who?" asked Ranulph, with strong emotion.[334]

"By one who calls himself Sir Luke Rookwood," answered Turpin, with a meaning smile.

"By someone who calls himself Sir Luke Rookwood," replied Turpin, with a knowing smile.

"By him!" ejaculated Ranulph. "Where are they now?"

"By him!" Ranulph exclaimed. "Where are they now?"

"I have already answered that question," said Dick. "I repeat, I know not."

"I've already answered that question," said Dick. "I’ll say it again, I don’t know."

"You are my prisoner," cried the major, seizing Turpin's bridle.

"You’re my prisoner," shouted the major, grabbing Turpin's reins.

"I have Sir Ranulph's word for my safety," rejoined Turpin. "Let go my rein."

"I have Sir Ranulph's promise that I'll be safe," Turpin replied. "Release my reins."

"How is this?" asked Major Mowbray, incredulously.

"How is this?" asked Major Mowbray, in disbelief.

"Ask me not. Release him," replied Ranulph.

"Don't ask me. Let him go," replied Ranulph.

"Ranulph," said the major, "you ask an impossibility. My honor—my duty—is implicated in this man's capture."

"Ranulph," said the major, "you're asking the impossible. My honor—my duty—depends on catching this man."

"The honor of all of us is involved in his deliverance," returned Ranulph, 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," added he, addressing Turpin.

"The honor of all of us is at stake with his rescue," Ranulph whispered back. "Let him go. I’ll explain everything later. Let's look for them—for Eleanor. Surely, after this, you'll help us find them," he added, speaking to Turpin.

"I wish, with all my soul, I could do so," replied the highwayman.

"I wish, with all my heart, I could do that," replied the highwayman.

"I see'd the ladies cross the brook, and enter these old ruins," interposed the postboy, who had now joined the party. "I see'd 'em from where I stood on the hill-side; and as I kept a pretty sharp look-out, and have a tolerably bright eye of my own, I don't think as how they ever comed out again."

"I saw the ladies cross the stream and go into those old ruins," the postboy said, as he had now joined the group. "I saw them from where I was standing on the hillside, and since I was keeping a good lookout and have pretty sharp eyesight myself, I don’t think they ever came out again."

"Some one is hidden within yon fissure in the wall," exclaimed Ranulph; "I see a figure move."

"Someone is hiding in that crack in the wall," exclaimed Ranulph; "I see a figure moving."

And he flung himself from his horse, rushing towards the mouth of the cell. Imitating his example, Major Mowbray followed his friend, sword in hand.

And he jumped off his horse, sprinting towards the entrance of the cell. Mimicking his actions, Major Mowbray followed his friend, sword drawn.

"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.

"The game starts now for real," Dick said to himself; "the old fox will be exposed soon. I need to watch my traps." And he quietly slipped his hand into his pocket to look for a gun.

Just as Ranulph and the major reached the recess they were startled by the sudden apparition of the ill-fated attorney.[335]

Just as Ranulph and the major reached the alcove, they were shocked by the sudden appearance of the unfortunate lawyer.[335]

"Mr. Coates!" exclaimed Ranulph, in surprise. "What do you here, sir?"

"Mr. Coates!" Ranulph exclaimed, surprised. "What are you doing here, sir?"

"I—I—that is—Sir Ranulph—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 reflexion 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.

"I—I—that is—Sir Ranulph—you have to forgive me, sir—specific business—can’t say," replied the shaking lawyer; for at that moment his gaze met Turpin's, and he noticed the threatening reflection of a polished-steel barrel, casually pointed at him. He also realized that he was similarly targeted by Rust and Wilder; those courteous gentlemen had warned him with a couple of slugs to his head if he dared to expose their hideout. "I need to be careful with my answers," he murmured.

"Is there any one within that place besides yourself?" said the major, making a movement thither.

"Is there anyone in there besides you?" the major asked, gesturing toward the place.

"No, sir, nobody at all," answered Coates, hastily, fancying at the same time that he heard the click of the pistol that was to be his death-warrant.

"No, sir, nobody at all," Coates replied quickly, thinking at the same time that he heard the click of the pistol that would be his death sentence.

"How came you here, sir?" demanded Ranulph.

"How did you get here, sir?" asked Ranulph.

"Do you mean in this identical spot?" replied Coates, evasively.

"Are you talking about this exact spot?" Coates replied, dodging the question.

"You can have no difficulty in answering that question," said the major, sternly.

"You shouldn't have any trouble answering that question," said the major, firmly.

"Pardon me, sir. I find considerable difficulty in answering any question, situated as I am."

"Excuse me, sir. I'm having a hard time answering any questions given my current situation."

"Have you seen Miss Mowbray?" asked Ranulph, eagerly.

"Have you seen Miss Mowbray?" Ranulph asked eagerly.

"Or my mother?" said the major, in the same breath.

"Or my mom?" said the major, in the same breath.

"Neither," replied Coates, rather relieved by these questions.

"Neither," Coates replied, feeling somewhat 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 round his head.

"I think you’re lying to us, sir," said the major. "Your behavior is all over the place. I’m sure you know more about this than you’re willing to say; and if you don’t clear things up for me right now, completely and clearly, I swear to God——" and the major’s sword swung in a shining arc around his head.

"Are you privy to their concealment?" asked Ranulph. "Have you seen aught of them, or of Luke Bradley?"

"Are you aware of where they’re hiding?" asked Ranulph. "Have you seen anything of them, or of Luke Bradley?"

"Speak, or this moment is your last," said the major.[336]

"Speak, or this is your last moment," said the major.[336]

"If it is my last, I cannot speak," returned Coates. "I can make neither head nor tail of your questions, gentlemen."

"If this is my last, I can’t speak," replied Coates. "I can’t make heads or tails of your questions, gentlemen."

"And you positively assure me you have not seen Mrs. Mowbray and her daughter?" said Ranulph.

"And you really assure me you haven't seen Mrs. Mowbray and her daughter?" said Ranulph.

Turpin here winked at Coates. The attorney understood him.

Turpin winked at Coates. The lawyer got it.

"I don't positively assert that," faltered he.

"I can't say that for sure," he hesitated.

"How!—you have seen them?" shouted Ranulph.

"How!—you *have* seen them?" shouted Ranulph.

"Where are they?—in safety—speak!" added the major.

"Where are they?—safe—speak!" the major added.

Another expressive gesture from the highwayman communicated to the attorney the nature of his reply.

Another expressive gesture from the highwayman conveyed to the attorney the nature of his response.

"Without, sir—without—yonder," he replied. "I will show you myself. Follow, gentlemen, follow." And away scampered Coates, without once venturing to look behind him.

"Outside, sir—outside—over there," he replied. "I'll show you myself. Follow me, gentlemen, follow." And off went Coates, without bothering to look back.

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 gipsy crew.

In a moment, the ruined hall was empty, and Turpin was left behind. In the heat of the moment, no one remembered he was there. Just a moment later, the arena was filled again with just as many people. Rust and Wilder came out from their hiding spots, followed by a crowd of the gypsy gang.

"Where is Sir Luke Rookwood?" asked Turpin.

"Where's Sir Luke Rookwood?" asked Turpin.

"He remains below," was the answer returned.

"He’s still down there," was the reply.

"And Peter Bradley?"

"And what about Peter Bradley?"

"Stays there likewise."

"Stays there too."

"No matter. Now make ready, pals. Give 'em one shout—Hurrah!"

"No worries. Now get ready, guys. Give them one shout—Hurrah!"

"Hurrah!" replied the crowd, at the top of their voices.

"Hooray!" shouted the crowd at the top of their lungs.

Ranulph Rookwood and his companions heard this shout. Mr. Coates had already explained the stratagem practised 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 clamor, it was evident that considerable reinforcement must have arrived from some unlooked-for quarter; and, although burning to be[337] 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 Ranulph, 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. Coates 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 troop 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 gipsy-gang drawn out in battle array within the abbey walls. Each party scanned the other's movements in silence and wonder, anxiously awaiting, 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. Fire arms were discharged on both sides, without much damage to either party. But a rush being made by a detachment of horse, headed by Major Mowbray, the conflict soon became more serious. The gipsies, 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, Ranulph Rookwood was at hand, and with the butt-end of a heavy-handled pistol felled the ruffian to the earth, just as he was upon the point of repeating the thrust.

Ranulph Rookwood and his companions heard the shout. Mr. Coates had already explained the trick played on them by the cunning highwayman, as well as the dangerous situation he had found himself in; and they were about to return to secure his capture when the loud yells from the crew stopped them. From the noise, it was clear that significant reinforcements had arrived from an unexpected direction; and, although determined to take revenge on the bold highwayman, the major realized it would be a challenging task, and that extreme caution was necessary for success. With difficulty keeping Ranulph's impatience in check, who could hardly tolerate this brief necessary delay, Major Mowbray gave detailed instructions to each of the men and had several of them dismount. This arrangement allowed Mr. Coates to get a horse and a pair of pistols, with which he swore to take vengeance on some of his recent tormentors. After spending a short time in this way, the troop advanced slowly toward the postern, in much better order than before; but even the bravest among them shrank back at the sight of the large gipsy gang lined up for battle within the abbey walls. Each side observed the other's movements in silence and awe, anxiously waiting for, yet somewhat dreading, their leader's signal to start. That signal didn't take long to come. A shot from the ranks of Rookwood caused instant and devastating results. Rob Rust lay lifeless on the ground. Nothing more was needed. The fight became general. Firearms were fired from both sides, causing little damage to either party. But when a detachment of horse, led by Major Mowbray, charged, the conflict quickly escalated. The gipsies, after the first volley, discarded their pistols and fought with long knives, inflicting serious wounds on both men and horses. Major Mowbray was slightly injured in the thigh, and his horse took the blow meant for him, stumbling and throwing him off. Luckily for the major, Ranulph Rookwood was nearby, and with the butt of a heavy pistol, he knocked the ruffian down just as he was about to strike again.

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 Tyrconnel,[338] 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 Coates, 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.

Turpin, on the other hand, had taken a relatively small role in the conflict. He seemed to be content with playing defense, and aside from the incident with Titus Tyrconnel,[338] whom he startled by shooting a bullet through his wig, he didn't fire a single shot. He also managed to unseat Coates by skillfully throwing an empty pistol at his head. Even though he appeared unconcerned in the skirmish, he stood his ground firmly. He seemed to have "a charmed life"; despite the hail of bullets, many of which were specifically aimed at him, he emerged unharmed.

"He that's born to be hanged will never be drowned, that's certain," said Titus. "It's no use trying to bring him down. But, by Jasus! he's spoiled my best hat and wig, anyhow. There's a hole in my beaver as big as a crown piece."

"He who is meant to be hanged will never drown, that's for sure," said Titus. "There's no point in trying to take him down. But, by Jasus! he's ruined my best hat and wig, anyway. There's a hole in my beaver as big as a coin."

"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 could only get behind him."

"Your own crown is fine, and that's some comfort," said Coates; "while mine has a dent in it that's as big as a swan's egg. Ah! if we could just 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 herself. The gipsies, though by far the greater 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 Mowbray and Ranulph, the troop of yeomen pressed on undauntedly; and where the sturdy farmers could get a firm gripe 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 favor of the gipsies, but courage was equally distributed, and, perhaps, what is emphatically called "bottom," was in favor of the rustics. Be this as it may, from what had[339] already occurred, there was every prospect of a very serious termination to the fray.

The battle kept raging without a break, and even though there were now several clear signs of its brutality, with injured men and slaughtered or maimed horses, whose open wounds drenched the ground with blood, it was still hard to tell which side would end up winning. The gypsies, though suffering far more than the others, held their ground. Soaked in the blood of the horses they had hurt and waving their long knives, they looked both intimidating and terrifying, a feeling that was only amplified by their wild shouts and fierce gestures. On the other side, led by Major Mowbray and Ranulph, the group of yeomen pressed forward fearlessly; and whenever the strong farmers could get a solid grip on their agile opponents or land a hit with their powerful fists, they typically took advantage of their superior weight and strength. It was clear that both sides were closely matched. The numbers favored the gypsies, but courage was evenly spread, and perhaps what is often called "stamina" leaned in favor of the farmers. Regardless, based on what had already happened, there was every indication that the fight could end very seriously.

From time to time Turpin glanced to the entrance of the cell, in the expectation of seeing Sir Luke Rookwood make his appearance; and, as he was constantly disappointed in his expectation, he could not conceal his chagrin. At length he resolved to despatch a messenger to him, and one of the crew accordingly departed upon this errand. He returned presently with a look of blank dismay.

From time to time, Turpin glanced at the entrance of the cell, hoping to see Sir Luke Rookwood show up; and since he was always disappointed, he couldn't hide his frustration. Finally, he decided to send a messenger to him, and one of the crew left to do just that. He came back soon after with a look of total shock.

In our hasty narrative of the fight we have not paused to particularize, neither have we enumerated, the list of the combatants. Amongst them, however, were Jerry Juniper, the knight of Malta, and Zoroaster. Excalibur, as may be conceived, had not been idle; but that trenchant blade had been shivered by Ranulph Rookwood in the early stage of the business, and the knight left weaponless. Zoroaster, 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 honors thick upon him." Jerry, like Turpin, had remained tolerably quiescent. "The proper moment," 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 gipsies. They took to their heels at once, to a man, leaving only a few desperately wounded behind them; and, flying along the[340] 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 roe over the heads of his adversaries, and made good his escape. Turpin alone remained. He stood like a lion at bay, quietly regarding the huntsmen hurtling around him. Ranulph Rookwood rode up and bade him surrender.

In our quick recap of the fight, we didn't take the time to detail or list the combatants. Among them were Jerry Juniper, the Knight of Malta, and Zoroaster. Excalibur, as you can imagine, had been busy, but that sharp blade had been shattered by Ranulph Rookwood early on, leaving the knight without a weapon. Zoroaster, who was not just a fire worshipper but also a skilled fighter, had been actively involved in a boxing match with the locals; after several rounds, he was now "wearing his colorful honors proudly." Jerry, like Turpin, had mostly stayed out of it. "The right moment hasn't come yet," he said. A sense of doom seemed to hang over Turpin's immediate companions. Rust was the first to go down; Wilder was also among the casualties. This was the situation when the messenger came back. A noticeable change in Turpin's demeanor was immediately evident. He no longer appeared indifferent. He looked angry and mistrustful. He bit his lip, which was always a sign of his frustration. After exchanging a few words with those nearby, he spoke louder to the rest of the crew. Using the slang of the local tribe, his words weren't clear to the opposing party, but their meaning quickly became obvious as all the gipsies promptly abandoned the field. They took off running, leaving only a few severely injured behind them; as they fled through the[340] complex ruins of the priory, they evaded capture wherever it was attempted. Jerry Juniper was the last to retreat; but when he got a signal from Dick, he leaped over his opponents like a deer and managed to escape. Turpin was the only one left. He stood like a cornered lion, calmly watching the hunters surrounding him. Ranulph Rookwood rode up and ordered him to 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."

"Don’t hold me back," he shouted, his voice booming. "If you want to save the one you care about, go down into that vault. Now, move!"

And Turpin shook away, with ease, the grasp that Ranulph had laid upon him.

And Turpin easily shrugged off the grip that Ranulph had placed on him.

"Villain! you do not escape me this time," said Major Mowbray, interposing himself between Turpin and the outlet.

"Villain! You're not getting away from me this time," said Major Mowbray, stepping in between Turpin and the exit.

"Major Mowbray, I would not have your blood upon my head," said Dick. "Let me pass," and he levelled a pistol.

"Major Mowbray, I don’t want your blood on my hands," said Dick. "Let me go," and he aimed a pistol.

"Fire, if you dare!" said the major, raising his sword. "You pass not. I will die rather 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."

"Go ahead, try it!" the major said, raising his sword. "You won’t get through. I’d rather die than let you get away. Block the door. Take him down if he tries to get past. Richard Turpin, I’m arresting you in the king's name. You hear that, lads? In his majesty's name, I’m ordering you to help me catch this highwayman. There's a reward of two hundred pounds for his capture."

"Two hundred devils!" exclaimed Dick, with a laugh of disdain. "Go, seek your mother and sister within yon vault, Major Mowbray; you will find employment enough there."

"Two hundred devils!" Dick exclaimed with a laugh of contempt. "Go, look for your mother and sister in that vault over there, Major Mowbray; you'll have plenty to do."

Saying which, he suddenly forced Bess to back a few yards; then, striking his heels sharply into her sides, ere his purpose could be divined 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.

Saying that, he suddenly made Bess back up a few yards; then, digging his heels sharply into her sides, before the onlookers could figure out what he was up to, he charged forward and jumped over the lower part of the crumbling priory walls. This move seemed to be done with ease by his remarkable and unmatched 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,[341] too. Why, Mr. Coates, that wall must be higher than a five-barred gate, or any stone wall in my own country. It's just the most extraordinary lepp I ever set eyes on!"

"By the gods!" shouted Titus, "and he managed to escape us after all. Just when we thought we had him for sure,[341] too. Honestly, Mr. Coates, that wall must be taller than a five-barred gate or any stone wall back home. It's just the most incredible leap I've ever seen!"

"The devil's in the fellow, certainly, or in his mare," returned Coates; "but if he escapes me, I'll forgive him. I know whither 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 up a scent. Recollect the hare and the tortoise. The race is not always to the swift. What say you? 'Tis 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 for London, Mr. Tyrconnel? Shall we start at once?"

"The devil's definitely in that guy or his horse," Coates replied. "But if he gets away from me, I’ll let it go. I know where he’s headed. He’s off to London with my bill of exchange. I’ll catch up to him. I’ll track him like a bloodhound, slowly and surely, just like my father, the thief-taker, used to follow a trail. Remember the story of the hare and the tortoise? The race isn’t always won by the fastest. What do you think? It’s a bet for five hundred pounds; no, make it five thousand: because there’s a marriage certificate in play—a glorious golden opportunity! You’ll get half if we win. We’ll get him, dead or alive. What do you say about heading to London, Mr. Tyrconnel? Should we leave right now?"

"With all my sowl," replied Titus. "I'm with you." And away this par nobile scoured.

"With all my soul," replied Titus. "I'm with you." And off this par nobile sped away.

Ranulph, meantime, plunged into the vault. The floor was slippery, and he had nigh stumbled. Loud and deep lamentations, and a 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 as 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.[342]

Ranulph, meanwhile, rushed into the vault. The floor was slippery, and he almost stumbled. Loud, deep wails echoed in his ears, like a mourning for the dead. A light at the far end of the vault caught his attention. He was filled with dread, but the worst reality wasn’t as bad as the anxiety of not knowing. He sprinted towards the light. He passed by the massive pillars and found two women by the flickering torchlight. One was an old woman, dressed in a bizarre outfit, wringing her hands and moaning or babbling wildly in broken, jarring, yet sorrowful tones. The other was Mrs. Mowbray. Both were embodiments of despair. Before them lay a motionless figure. He barely noticed the old woman; he hardly saw Mrs. Mowbray; he focused only on that horrifying object. It was the lifeless body of a woman. The light barely illuminated the face; he couldn’t make out the features, but the veil draped over her was Eleanor's! He needed no further confirmation.[342]

With a wild cry he rushed forward. "Eleanor, my beloved!" shrieked he.

With a wild shout, he rushed forward. "Eleanor, my love!" he screamed.

Mrs. Mowbray started at his voice, but appeared stunned and helpless.

Mrs. Mowbray jumped at his voice but looked stunned and helpless.

"She is dead," said Ranulph, stooping towards the body. "Dead—dead!"

"She's dead," Ranulph said, leaning down toward the body. "Dead—dead!"

"Ay," echoed the old woman, in accents of equal anguish—"dead—dead!"

"Yes," the old woman echoed, her voice filled with equal pain—"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 is scarce dead. The hand I clasp is yet warm—the fingers are pliant."

"But this is not Eleanor," he exclaimed, studying the features more closely. "This face, though beautiful, isn't hers. This messy hair is black. The long eyelashes that cast shadows on her cheek are the same color. She’s hardly dead. The hand I’m holding is still warm—the fingers are flexible."

"Yet she is dead," said the old woman, in a broken voice, "she is slain."

"Yet she's dead," said the old woman, in a shaky voice, "she was killed."

"Who hath slain her?" asked Ranulph.

"Who has killed her?" asked Ranulph.

"I—I—her mother, slew her."

"I killed her mother."

"You!" exclaimed Ranulph, horror-stricken. "And where is Eleanor?" asked he. "Was she not here?"

"You!" exclaimed Ranulph, horrified. "And where's Eleanor?" he asked. "Wasn't she here?"

"Better she were here now, even though she were as that poor maid," groaned Mrs. Mowbray, "than where she is."

"She'd be better off here now, even if she were like that poor maid," groaned Mrs. Mowbray, "than where she is."

"Where is she, then?" asked Ranulph, with frantic eagerness.

"Where is she, then?" asked Ranulph, eagerly frantic.

"Fled. Whither I know not."

"Fled. Where to, I don’t know."

"With whom?"

"Who with?"

"With Sir Luke Rookwood—with Alan Rookwood. They have borne her hence. Ranulph, you are too late."

"With Sir Luke Rookwood—and Alan Rookwood. They have taken her away. Ranulph, you’re too late."

"Gone!" cried Ranulph, fiercely springing to his feet. "How escaped they? There appears to be but one entrance to this vault. I will search each nook and cranny."

"Gone!" shouted Ranulph, jumping to his feet in anger. "How did they get away? There's only one entrance to this vault. I’ll check every corner and space."

"'Tis vain," replied Mrs. Mowbray. "There is another outlet through yon cell. By that passage they escaped."

"That’s useless," replied Mrs. Mowbray. "There’s another exit through that cell. They escaped through that passage."

"Too true, too true," shouted Ranulph, who flew to examine the cell. "And wherefore followed you not?"[343]

"You're absolutely right," shouted Ranulph, who rushed to check the cell. "And why didn't you follow?"[343]

"The stone rolled to its mouth, and resisted my efforts. I could not follow."

"The stone rolled to its edge and resisted my attempts. I couldn't move forward."

"Torture and death! She is lost to me for ever!" cried Ranulph, bitterly.

"Torture and death! She's lost to me forever!" cried Ranulph, bitterly.

"No!" exclaimed Barbara, clutching his arm. "Place your trust in me, and I will find her for you."

"No!" Barbara said, grabbing his arm. "Trust me, and I’ll find her for you."

"You!" ejaculated Ranulph.

"You!" exclaimed Ranulph.

"Even I," replied Barbara. "Your wrongs shall be righted—my Sybil be avenged."

"Even I," Barbara replied. "Your wrongs will be made right—my Sybil will be avenged."


BOOK IV

THE RIDE TO YORK

Then one shout, guys! one loud cheering shout!
To the fastest of horses, the brave and the loyal,
May the memory bless the unborn athlete. Of the highwayman's horse, beautiful Black Bess.

Richard Turpin.

Richard Turpin.


CHAPTER I

THE RENDEZVOUS AT KILBURN

Hind.   Drink up, my brave boys, from the bastinado; Of stramazons, tinctures, and sly passatas;
Of the carricado and the rare embrocado; Of swords, and the best-protected rapier handles; Of the Vincentio and Burgundian district.
Haven't we boldly thrown away this pretentious fake-button? Win gold and wear gold, guys; we deserve it.

Prince of Prigs' Revels.

Prince of Prigs' Parties.

An excellent Comedy, replete with various conceits and Tarltonian mirth.

A great comedy, full of clever ideas and Tarlton-like humor.

The present straggling suburb at the north-west of the metropolis, known as Kilburn, had scarcely been called into existence a century ago, and an ancient hostel, with a few detached farmhouses, were the sole habitations to be found in the present populous vicinage. The place of refreshment for the ruralizing cockney of 1737 was a substantial-looking tenement of the good old stamp, with great bay windows, and a balcony in front, bearing as its ensign the jovial visage of the lusty knight, Jack Falstaff. Shaded by a spreading elm, a circular bench embraced the aged trunk of the tree, sufficiently tempting, no doubt, to incline the wanderer on those dusty ways to "rest and be thankful," and to cry encore to a frothing tankard of the best ale to be obtained within the chimes of Bow bells.

The current sprawling suburb in the northwest of the city, known as Kilburn, barely existed a century ago. Back then, an old inn along with a few detached farmhouses were the only places to live in what is now a bustling area. The spot where locals went to unwind in 1737 was a sturdy-looking building built in the classic style, featuring large bay windows and a balcony out front, proudly displaying the cheerful face of the boisterous knight, Jack Falstaff. A broad elm tree provided shade, and a circular bench wrapped around its thick trunk, surely inviting to travelers on those dusty paths to "rest and be thankful," and to ask for another round of the best ale available within the sound of Bow bells.

Upon a table, green as the privet and holly that formed the walls of the bower in which it was placed, stood a great china bowl, one of those leviathan memorials of bygone wassailry which we may sometimes espy—reversed in token of its desuetude—perched on the top of an old japanned closet, but seldom, if ever, encountered in its proper position at the genial[348] board. All the appliances of festivity were at hand. Pipes and rummers strewed the board. Perfume, subtle, yet mellow, as of pine and lime, exhaled from out the bowl, and, mingling with the scent of a neighboring bed of mignonette and the subdued odor of the Indian weed, formed altogether as delectable an atmosphere of sweets as one could wish to inhale on a melting August afternoon. So, at least, thought the inmates of the arbor; nor did they by any means confine themselves to the gratification of a single sense. The ambrosial contents of the china bowl proved as delicious to the taste as its bouquet was grateful to the smell; while the eyesight was soothed by reposing on the smooth sward of a bowling-green spread out immediately before it, or in dwelling upon gently undulating meads, terminating, at about a mile's distance, in the woody, spire-crowned heights of Hampstead.

On a table, green like the privet and holly that formed the walls of the bower it was in, stood a large china bowl, one of those huge reminders of past celebrations that we sometimes spot—turned upside down as a sign of disuse—sitting on top of an old painted closet, but rarely, if ever, found in its rightful place at the cheerful[348] table. Everything needed for a celebration was there. Pipes and glasses were scattered across the table. A subtle yet rich scent, like pine and lime, wafted from the bowl, and mixed with the fragrance of a nearby bed of mignonette and the faint smell of tobacco, creating a delightful atmosphere of sweetness that one could hope to breathe in on a warm August afternoon. At least, that's what the people in the arbor thought; they didn't just limit themselves to indulging one sense. The delicious contents of the china bowl were as tempting to the taste as its aroma was pleasing to the nose; while the eyes were calmed by resting on the smooth green lawn of a bowling green stretching out in front of it, or by gazing at gently rolling fields that ended, about a mile away, at the wooded, spire-topped heights of Hampstead.

At the left of the table was seated, or rather lounged, a slender, elegant-looking young man, with dark, languid eyes, sallow complexion, and features wearing that peculiarly pensive expression often communicated by dissipation; an expression which, we regret to say, is sometimes found more pleasing than it ought to be in the eyes of the gentle sex. Habited in a light summer riding-dress, fashioned according to the taste of the time, of plain and unpretending material, and rather under than overdressed, he had, perhaps, on that very account, perfectly the air of a gentleman. There was, altogether, an absence of pretension about him, which, combined with great apparent self-possession, contrasted very forcibly with the vulgar assurance of his showy companions. The figure of the youth was slight, even to fragility, giving little outward manifestation of the vigor of frame he in reality possessed. This spark was a no less distinguished personage than Tom King, a noted high-tobygloak of his time, who obtained, from his appearance and address, the sobriquet of the "Gentleman Highwayman."

At the left side of the table sat, or rather lounged, a slender, elegant-looking young man with dark, languid eyes, a pale complexion, and features that showed a uniquely thoughtful expression often brought on by a life of excess; an expression that, unfortunately, is sometimes found more attractive than it should be in the eyes of women. Dressed in a light summer riding outfit that matched the style of the time, made from simple and unpretentious fabric, and slightly more understated than flashy, he, perhaps because of this, had the unmistakable air of a gentleman. There was a complete lack of pretension about him, which, combined with his apparent self-assurance, sharply contrasted with the brash confidence of his flashy companions. The young man's figure was slight, almost fragile, giving little indication of the strength he actually possessed. This intriguing figure was none other than Tom King, a well-known highwayman of his time, who earned the nickname "Gentleman Highwayman" because of his appearance and demeanor.

Tom was indeed a pleasant fellow in his day. His career was brief, but brilliant: your meteors are ever momentary.[349] He was a younger son of a good family; had good blood in his veins, though not a groat in his pockets. According to the old song—

Tom was definitely a nice guy back in the day. His career was short but amazing: like meteors, they’re always fleeting.[349] He was the younger son from a respectable family; he had good lineage, even though he didn’t have a penny to his name. According to the old song—

When he arrived at man's estate,
It was all the estate he had;

When he got to adulthood,
It was all the wealth he had;

and all the estate he was ever likely to have. Nevertheless, if he had no income, he contrived, as he said, to live as if he had the mines of Peru at his control—a miracle not solely confined to himself. For a moneyless man, he had rather expensive habits. He kept his three nags; and, if fame does not belie him, a like number of mistresses; nay, if we are to place any faith in certain scandalous chronicles to which we have had access, he was for some time the favored lover of a celebrated actress, who, for the time, supplied him with the means of keeping up his showy establishment. But things could not long hold thus. Tom was a model of infidelity, and that was the only failing his mistress could not overlook. She dismissed him at a moment's notice. Unluckily, too, he had other propensities which contributed to involve him. He had a taste for the turf—a taste for play—was well known in the hundreds of Drury, and cut no mean figure at Howell's, and the faro tables there-anent. He was the glory of the Smyrna, D'Osyndar's, and other chocolate houses of the day; and it was at this time he fell into the hands of certain dexterous sharpers, by whom he was at first plucked and subsequently patronized. Under their tuition he improved wonderfully. He turned his wit and talent to some account. He began to open his eyes. His nine days' blindness was over. The dog saw. But, in spite of his quickness, he was at length discovered, and ejected from Howell's in a manner that left him no alternative. He must either have called out his adversary, or have gone out himself. He preferred the latter, and took to the road; and in his new line he was eminently successful. Fortunately, he had[350] no scruples to get over. Tom had what Sir Walter Scott happily denominates "an indistinct notion of meum and tuum," and became confirmed in the opinion that everything he could lay hands upon constituted lawful spoil. And then, even those he robbed, admitted that he was the most gentlemanlike highwayman they had ever the fortune to meet with, and trusted they might always be so lucky. So popular did he become upon the road, that it was accounted a distinction to be stopped by him; he made a point of robbing none but gentlemen, and—Tom's shade would quarrel with us were we to omit them—ladies. His acquaintance with Turpin was singular, and originated in a rencontre. Struck with his appearance, Dick presented a pistol, and bade King deliver. The latter burst into a laugh, and an explanation immediately ensued. Thenceforward they became sworn brothers—the Pylades and Orestes of the road; and though seldom seen together in public, had many a merry moonlight ride in company.

and all the estate he was ever likely to have. Nevertheless, if he had no income, he managed, as he said, to live as if he had the mines of Peru at his disposal—a feat not limited to him alone. For a broke man, he had quite expensive habits. He kept his three horses; and, if reputation doesn't deceive him, he had just as many mistresses; in fact, if we are to trust certain scandalous stories we've come across, he was for a time the favored lover of a famous actress, who, at that time, provided him with the means to maintain his lavish lifestyle. But this situation couldn't last long. Tom was notoriously unfaithful, and that was the only flaw his mistress couldn't tolerate. She kicked him to the curb in an instant. Unfortunately, he also had other vices that got him into trouble. He had a taste for horse racing—an interest in gambling—was well known in the hundreds of Drury, and made quite the impression at Howell's and the faro tables there. He was the pride of the Smyrna, D'Osyndar's, and other chocolate houses of the era; and it was during this time that he fell into the hands of crafty con artists, who first exploited him and then took him under their wing. Under their guidance, he improved tremendously. He began to put his wit and talent to good use. He started to see things clearly. His nine days of blindness were over. The man was awake. But, despite his newfound awareness, he was eventually discovered and thrown out of Howell's in a way that left him with no choice. He could either challenge his foe or leave himself. He chose the latter and hit the road; and in this new line of work, he was extremely successful. Fortunately, he had no moral qualms to hold him back. Tom had what Sir Walter Scott aptly calls "a vague understanding of meum and tuum," and he became convinced that everything he could get his hands on was fair game. Even those he robbed admitted he was the most gentlemanly highwayman they had ever encountered, and they hoped they might always be so fortunate. He became so popular on the road that it was considered a privilege to be stopped by him; he only robbed gentlemen and—Tom's spirit would be upset with us if we left them out—ladies. His connection with Turpin was unique, starting from a chance encounter. Impressed by his appearance, Dick aimed a pistol at him and ordered him to hand over his valuables. The latter burst into laughter, and they quickly explained themselves. From that moment on, they became sworn brothers—the Pylades and Orestes of the road; and although they were rarely seen together in public, they had many fun moonlit rides together.

Tom still maintained three mistresses, his valet, his groom—tiger, we should have called him,—"and many a change of clothes besides," says his biographer, "with which he appeared more like a lord than a highwayman." And what more, we should like to know, would a lord wish to have? Few younger sons, we believe, can boast so much; and it is chiefly on their account, with some remote view to the benefit of the unemployed youth of all professions, that we have enlarged so much upon Tom King's history. The road, we must beg to repeat, is still open; the chances are greater than they ever were; we fully believe it is their only road to preferment, and we are sadly in want of highwaymen!

Tom still had three mistresses, his valet, and his groom—tiger, we should have called him—and "many changes of clothes besides," as his biographer puts it, "which made him look more like a lord than a highwayman." And what more, we’d like to know, would a lord want? We believe few younger sons can claim as much; it’s mainly for their sake, with some long-term hope for the benefit of unemployed young people in all fields, that we’ve elaborated so much on Tom King's story. The road, we must remind you, is still open; the opportunities are greater than ever; we genuinely believe it’s their only way to rise in status, and we are sadly in need of highwaymen!

Fancy Tom lounging at D'Osyndar's, carelessly tapping his boots on the steps; there he stands! Is he not a devilish good-looking, gentlemanlike sort of fellow? You could never have taken him for a highwayman but for our information. A waiter appears—supper is ordered at twelve—a broiled chicken[351] and a bottle of Burgundy—his groom brings his nags to the door—he mounts. It is his custom to ride out on an evening—he is less liable to interruption.[93] At Marylebone Fields—now the Regent's Park,—his groom leaves him. He has a mistress in the neighborhood. He is absent for a couple of hours, and returns gay or dispirited, as his luck may have turned out. At twelve he is at supper, and has the night before him. How very easy all this seems. Can it be possible we have no Tom Kings?

Picture Tom hanging out at D'Osyndar's, casually tapping his boots on the steps; there he is! Isn't he a seriously good-looking, classy guy? You would never guess he’s a highwayman if you didn’t know better. A waiter shows up—supper is set for twelve—a grilled chicken[351] and a bottle of Burgundy—his groom brings his horses to the door—he gets on. It’s his routine to ride out in the evening—he’s less likely to be interrupted.[93] At Marylebone Fields—now the Regent's Park,—his groom leaves him. He has a mistress nearby. He’s gone for a couple of hours, returning either cheerful or down, depending on how his luck has been. By twelve he’s at supper, ready for the night ahead. It all seems so easy. Is it really possible we have no Tom Kings?

To return to Tom as he was in the arbor. Judging from his manner, he appeared to be almost insensible to the presence of his companions, and to be scarcely a partaker in their revelry. His back was towards his immediate neighbor; his glass sparkled untouched at his elbow; and one hand, beautifully white and small, a mark of his birth and breeding—crede Byron—rested upon the edge of the table, while his thin, delicate digits, palpably demonstrative of his faculty of adaptation—crede James Hardy Vaux—were employed with a silver toothpick. In other respects, he seemed to be lost in reverie, and was, in all probability, meditating new exploits.

To go back to Tom as he was in the arbor. From his behavior, he seemed almost unaware of his friends and barely engaged in their celebration. He had his back to his closest neighbor; his drink sat untouched next to him; and one hand, beautifully white and small—a sign of his upbringing—trust Byron— rested on the edge of the table, while his thin, delicate fingers, clearly showing his ability to adapt—trust James Hardy Vaux—were occupied with a silver toothpick. In other ways, he appeared to be lost in thought and was likely contemplating new adventures.

Next to King sat our old friend Jerry Juniper; not, however, the Jerry of the gipsies, but a much more showy-looking personage. Jerry was no longer a gentleman of "three outs"—the difficulty would now have been to say what he was "without." Snakelike he had cast his slough, and rejoiced in new and brilliant investiture. His were "speaking garments, speaking pockets too." His linen was of the finest, his hose of the smartest. Gay rings glittered on his fingers; a crystal snuff-box underwent graceful manipulation; a handsome gold repeater was sometimes drawn from its location with a monstrous bunch of onions—anglicè, seals—depending from its massive chain. Lace adorned his wrists, and shoes—of which they had been long unconscious,—with buckles nearly as large as themselves, confined his feet. A rich-powdered peruke and silver-hilted sword completed the gear of the transmogrified[352] Jerry, or, as he now chose to be designated, Count Albert Conyers. The fact was, that Jerry, after the fracas, apprehensive that the country would be too hot for him, had, in company with Zoroaster, quitted the ranks of the Canting Crew, and made the best of his way to town. A lucky spice on the road set them up; and having some acquaintance with Tom King, the party, on their arrival, sought him out at his customary haunt, D'Osyndar's, and enlisted under his banners.

Next to King sat our old friend Jerry Juniper; but this wasn't the Jerry of the gipsies, rather a much flashier version. Jerry was no longer a gentleman in "three outs"—it would be hard to pinpoint what he was "without." He had shed his old skin and was now enjoying a new and vibrant look. His clothes were "eye-catching, and so were his pockets." His shirt was the finest, and his socks were the trendiest. Bright rings sparkled on his fingers; he played gracefully with a crystal snuff-box; and he occasionally pulled out a beautiful gold watch from its spot, with a massive bunch of onions—translated, seals—hanging from its thick chain. Lace decorated his wrists, and shoes—which they hadn't been aware of for a long time—had buckles nearly the size of the shoes themselves. A richly powdered wig and a silver-hilted sword completed the outfit of the transformed Jerry, or as he now preferred to be called, Count Albert Conyers. The truth was, after the incident, Jerry worried that the country would be too dangerous for him, so he, along with Zoroaster, left the ranks of the Canting Crew and headed to town. A lucky find on the road helped them out; and since he knew Tom King, the group sought him out at his usual spot, D'Osyndar's, and joined his crew.

Tom received them with open arms, gave them unlimited use of his wardrobe, and only required a little trifling assistance in return. He had a grand scheme in petto, in the execution of which they could mainly assist him. Jerry was a Greek by nature, and could land a flat as well as the best of them. Zoroaster was just the man to lose a fight; or, in the language of the Fancy, to play a cross. No two legs could serve Tom's purposes better. He welcomed them with fraternal affection.

Tom welcomed them wholeheartedly, offered them unlimited access to his wardrobe, and only asked for a bit of minor help in return. He had a big plan in petto, where they could mainly assist him. Jerry was a true Greek at heart and could land a flat as well as anyone. Zoroaster was exactly the guy who could lose a fight; or, in the terms of the Fancy, to play a cross. No two legs could meet Tom's needs better. He greeted them with brotherly affection.

We will now proceed to reconnoitre Jerry's opposite neighbor, who was, however, no other than that Upright Man,

We will now go check out Jerry's neighbor, who was none other than that Upright Man,

The Magus Zoroaster, that great name.

The Magus Zoroaster, that legendary figure.

Changed as was Juniper, the Magus was yet more whimsically metamorphosed. Some traces of Jerry still remained, but not a vestige was left of the original Dimber Damber. His tawny mother had not known her son. This alteration, however, was not owing to change of dress; it was the result of the punishment he had received at the "set-to" at the priory. Not a feature was in its place; his swollen lip trespassed upon the precincts of his nose; his nose trod hard upon his cheek; while his cheek again, not to be behind the rest, rose up like an apple-dumpling under his single eye,—single, we say—for, alas! there was no speculation in the other. His dexter daylight was utterly darkened, and, indeed, the orb that remained was as sanguinary a luminary as ever struggled through a London[353] fog at noonday. To borrow a couplet or so from the laureate of the Fancy:

Changed as Juniper was, the Magus had undergone an even more whimsical transformation. Some hints of Jerry still lingered, but there was not a trace left of the original Dimber Damber. His tawny mother didn’t recognize her son. This change, however, wasn’t just about different clothes; it was the result of the punishment he received at the "set-to" at the priory. Not a feature was in its right place; his swollen lip was encroaching on his nose; his nose was pressed hard against his cheek; and his cheek, not wanting to be outdone, bulged like an apple dumpling under his single eye—single, we say, because, unfortunately, there was no sight in the other. His left eye was completely darkened, and indeed, the eye that remained was as bloodshot as any light trying to break through a London[353] fog at midday. To borrow a couplet or so from the laureate of the Fancy:

One of his eyes was injured
On the bankruptcy list, with his store windows closed,
While the other created almost as loud a spectacle,
All surrounded by black like the Courier in sorrow.

One black patch decorated his rainbow-colored cheek; another adorned his chin; a grinder having been dislodged, his pipe took possession of the aperture. His toggery was that of a member of the prize-ring; what we now call a "belcher" bound his throat; a spotted fogle bandaged his jobbernowl, and shaded his right peeper, while a white beaver crowned the occiput of the Magus. And though, at first sight, there would appear to be some incongruity in the association of such a battered character as the Upright Man with his smart companions, the reader's wonder will rapidly diminish, when he reflects that any distinguished P. C. man can ever find a ready passport to the most exclusive society. Viewed in this light, Zoroaster's familiarity with his swell acquaintance occasioned no surprise to old Simon Carr, the bottle-nosed landlord of the Falstaff, who was a man of discernment in his way, and knew a thing or two. Despite such striking evidences to the contrary, the Magus was perfectly at his ease, and sacrificing as usual to the god of flame. His mithra, or pipe, the symbol of his faith, was zealously placed between his lips, and never did his Chaldean, Bactrian, Persian, Pamphylian, Proconnesian, or Babylonian namesake, whichever of the six was the true Zoroaster—vide Bayle,—respire more fervently at the altar of fire, than our Magus at the end of his enkindled tube. In his creed we believe Zoroaster was a dualist, and believed in the co-existence and mystical relation of the principles of good and ill; his pipe being his Yezdan, or benign influence; his empty pouch his Ahreman, or the devil. We shall not pause[354] to examine his tenets; we meddle with no man's religious opinions, and shall leave the Magus to the enjoyment of his own sentiments, be they what they may.

One black mark decorated his colorful cheek; another adorned his chin. A grinder had come loose, and his pipe filled the gap. He was dressed like a boxer; a scarf known as a "belcher" wrapped around his neck. A spotted fogle bandaged his head and shaded his right eye, while a white hat sat atop the back of the Magus's head. At first glance, it might seem strange for someone as rough-looking as the Upright Man to hang out with his stylish friends, but that confusion quickly fades when you realize that a noteworthy person can easily move in the most exclusive circles. Seen this way, Zoroaster's familiarity with his well-dressed companions didn't surprise old Simon Carr, the bottle-nosed landlord of the Falstaff, who was perceptive in his own right and knew a thing or two. Despite the obvious signs to the contrary, the Magus was completely relaxed, as usual, making offerings to the fire god. His mithra, or pipe, which symbolized his faith, was diligently placed between his lips, and never did his Chaldean, Bactrian, Persian, Pamphylian, Proconnesian, or Babylonian namesake—whichever one was the true Zoroaster—vide Bayle—breathe more passionately at the altar of fire than our Magus at the end of his lit pipe. We believe Zoroaster was a dualist and believed in the coexistence and mystical connection between the principles of good and evil; his pipe representing his Yezdan, or positive influence, and his empty pouch symbolizing his Ahreman, or the devil. We won’t stop to delve into his beliefs; we don’t interfere with other people's religious views, and we’ll leave the Magus to enjoy his own sentiments, whatever they may be.

One guest alone remains, and him we shall briefly dismiss. The reader, we imagine, will scarcely need to be told who was the owner of those keen gray eyes; those exuberant red whiskers; that airy azure frock. It was

One guest remains, and we'll quickly send him on his way. We imagine the reader hardly needs to be told who owned those sharp gray eyes, those flashy red whiskers, and that light blue dress. It was

Our courageous travel partner. Skilled surveyor of roads and boundaries;

in a word—Dick Turpin!

simply put—Dick Turpin!

Dick had been called upon to act as president of the board, and an excellent president he made, sedulously devoting himself to the due administration of the punch-bowl. Not a rummer was allowed to stand empty for an instant. Toast, sentiment, and anacreontic song, succeeded each other at speedy intervals; but there was no speechifying—no politics. He left church and state to take care of themselves. Whatever his politics might be, Dick never allowed them to interfere with his pleasures. His maxim was to make the most of the passing moment; the dum vivimus vivamus was never out of his mind; a precautionary measure which we recommend to the adoption of all gentlemen of the like, or any other precarious profession.

Dick had been asked to serve as president of the board, and he excelled in the role, fully committing himself to managing the punch bowl. Not a glass was allowed to stay empty for even a moment. Toasts, heartfelt sentiments, and lively songs followed one after the other quickly; however, there were no speeches—no discussions about politics. He let church and state handle themselves. No matter what his political views were, Dick never let them get in the way of his enjoyment. His philosophy was to make the most of the moment; the dum vivimus vivamus was always on his mind—a wise approach that we suggest all gentlemen of similar professions, or any uncertain job, adopt.

Notwithstanding all Dick's efforts to promote conviviality, seconded by the excellence of the beverage itself, conversation, somehow or other, began to flag; from being general it became particular. Tom King, who was no punch-bibber, especially at that time of day, fell into a deep reverie; your gamesters often do so; while the Magus, who had smoked himself drowsy, was composing himself to a doze. Turpin seized this opportunity of addressing a few words on matters of business to Jerry Juniper, or, as he now chose to be called, Count Conyers.[355]

Despite all of Dick's efforts to create a friendly atmosphere, supported by the quality of the drink itself, the conversation started to dwindle; it shifted from being general to more specific. Tom King, who wasn't much of a drinker, especially at that time of day, fell into a deep thought; gamblers often do this. Meanwhile, the Magus, having smoked himself into a daze, was settling down for a nap. Turpin took this chance to say a few words about business to Jerry Juniper, who now preferred to be called Count Conyers.[355]

"My dear count," said Dick, in a low and confidential tone, "you are aware that my errand to town is accomplished. I have smashed Lawyer Coates's screen, pocketed the dimmock—here 'tis," continued he, parenthetically, slapping his pockets,—"and done t'other trick in prime twig for Tom King. With a cool thousand in hand, I might, if I chose, rest awhile on my oars. But a quiet life don't suit me. I must be moving. So I shall start to Yorkshire to-night."

"My dear count," Dick said, in a low and confidential tone, "you know my mission to town is complete. I’ve smashed Lawyer Coates's screen, pocketed the dimmock—here it is," he added, patting his pockets, "and pulled off another job perfectly for Tom King. With a cool thousand in hand, I could take a break if I wanted to. But a quiet life isn’t for me. I have to keep moving. So I'm heading to Yorkshire tonight."

"Indeed!" said the soi-disant count, in a languid tone—"so soon?"

"Really!" said the self-proclaimed count, in a relaxed tone—"so soon?"

"I have nothing to detain me," replied Dick. "And, to tell you the truth, I want to see how matters stand with Sir Luke Rookwood. I should be sorry if he went to the wall for want of any assistance I can render him."

"I have nothing holding me back," replied Dick. "And, to be honest, I want to check on how things are with Sir Luke Rookwood. I would feel terrible if he suffered because I didn't offer any help."

"True," returned the count; "one would regret such an occurrence, certainly. But I fear your assistance may arrive a little too late. He is pretty well done up, I should imagine, by this time."

"True," replied the count; "one would definitely regret such an occurrence. But I worry your help might come a bit too late. He’s probably in pretty rough shape by now."

"That remains to be seen," said Turpin. "His case is a bad one, to be sure, but I trust not utterly hopeless. With all his impetuosity and pride, I like the fellow, and will help him, if I can. It will be a difficult game to set him on his legs, but I think it may be done. That underground marriage was sheer madness, and turned out as ill as such a scheme might have been expected to do. Poor Sybil! if I could pipe an eye for anything, it should be for her. I can't get her out of my head. Give me a pinch of snuff. Such thoughts unman one. As to the priest, that's a totally different affair. If he strangled his daughter, old Alan did right to take the law into his own hands, and throttle him in return. I'd have done the same thing myself; and, being a proscribed Jesuit, returned, as I understand, without the king's license for so doing, why Father Checkley's murder—if it must be so called, I can't abide hard terms—won't lie very heavy at Alan's door. That, however, has nothing to do with Sir Luke. He was neither[356] accessory nor principal. Still he will be in danger, at least from Lady Rookwood. The whole county of York, I make no doubt, is up in arms by this time."

"That’s something we’ll have to see," Turpin said. "His situation is really bad, that’s for sure, but I hope it’s not completely hopeless. Despite his impulsiveness and pride, I actually like the guy and want to help him if I can. It’s going to be a tough task to get him back on his feet, but I believe it’s possible. That underground marriage was absolute madness, and it ended as poorly as anyone could have expected. Poor Sybil! If I could shed a tear for anything, it would be for her. I can’t stop thinking about her. Hand me a pinch of snuff. Thoughts like these weaken a man. As for the priest, that’s a whole different story. If he harmed his daughter, old Alan was right to take the law into his own hands and strangle him in return. I would have done the same; and being a proscribed Jesuit, he returned, as I understand it, without the king's permission to do so. So, Father Checkley's murder—if we must call it that; I don’t like calling it hard names—won’t weigh too heavily on Alan’s conscience. That, however, has nothing to do with Sir Luke. He was neither an accomplice nor the main culprit. Still, he will be in danger, at least from Lady Rookwood. I have no doubt the whole county of York is up in arms by now."

"Then why go thither?" asked the count, somewhat ironically; "for my part, I've a strange fancy for keeping out of harm's way as long as possible."

"Then why go there?" asked the count, somewhat ironically; "for me, I have a funny feeling about staying out of trouble for as long as I can."

"Every man to his taste," returned Turpin; "I love to confront danger. Run away! pshaw! always meet your foe."

"Everyone has their own preferences," Turpin replied. "I love facing danger. Run away? No way! Always confront your enemy."

"True," replied the count, "half-way! but you go the whole distance. What prudent man would beard the lion in his den?"

"True," replied the count, "halfway! But you go the whole distance. What sensible person would confront the lion in its den?"

"I never was a prudent man," rejoined Dick, smiling; "I have no superfluous caution about me. Come what will, I shall try to find out this Luke Rookwood, and offer him my purse, such as it is, and it is now better lined than usual; a hand free to act as he lists; and a head which, imprudent though it be, can often think better for others than for its own master."

"I've never been a careful person," Dick replied with a smile; "I don't have any unnecessary caution. No matter what happens, I'm going to look for this Luke Rookwood and offer him my money, which is actually better than usual right now; a hand ready to act as he wants; and a mind that, although reckless, can often think more clearly for others than for myself."

"Vastly fine!" exclaimed the count, with an ill-disguised sneer. "I hope you don't forget that the marriage certificate which you hold is perfectly valueless now. The estates, you are aware——"

"That's really impressive!" the count said, with a barely concealed sneer. "Just remember, the marriage certificate you have is completely worthless now. The estates, you know——"

"Are no longer Sir Luke's. I see what you are driving at, count," returned Dick, coldly. "But he will need it to establish his claim to the title, and he shall have it. While he was Sir Luke, with ten thousand a year, I drove a hard bargain, and would have stood out for the last stiver. Now that he is one of 'us', a mere Knight of the Road, he shall have it and welcome."

"Are no longer Sir Luke's. I see what you're getting at, count," Dick replied coolly. "But he will need it to prove his claim to the title, and he will get it. When he was Sir Luke, with ten thousand a year, I struck a tough deal and would have held out for the last penny. Now that he's one of 'us', just a simple Knight of the Road, he shall have it and be grateful."

"Perhaps Lady Rookwood, or Mrs. Mowbray, might be inclined to treat," maliciously insinuated the count; "the title may be worth something to Ranulph."

"Maybe Lady Rookwood or Mrs. Mowbray would be willing to help," the count said with a hint of malice; "the title could have some value for Ranulph."

"It is worth more to Luke; and if it were not, he gets it. Are you satisfied?"[357]

"It means more to Luke; and if it didn't, he'd get it. Are you satisfied?"[357]

"Perfectly," replied the count, with affected bonhomie; "and I will now let you into a secret respecting Miss Mowbray, from which you may gather something for your guidance in this matter; and if the word of a woman is at all to be trusted, though individually I cannot say I have much faith in it, Sir Luke's planetary hour is not yet completely overcast."

"Absolutely," replied the count, with a fake friendliness; "and now I’ll share a secret with you about Miss Mowbray, which may give you some insight in this situation; and if you can trust a woman’s word at all, though personally I don’t have much faith in it, Sir Luke's favorable time is not completely gone yet."

"That's exactly what I wish to know, my dear fellow," said Turpin, eagerly. "You have already told me you were witness to a singular interview between Miss Mowbray and Sir Luke after my departure from the priory. If I mistook you not, the whole business will hinge upon that. What occurred? Let me have every particular. The whole history and mystery."

"That's exactly what I want to know, my friend," Turpin said eagerly. "You already mentioned that you saw a unique meeting between Miss Mowbray and Sir Luke after I left the priory. If I’m not mistaken, everything will depend on that. What happened? I need to hear all the details. The entire story and mystery."

"You shall have it with pleasure," said the count; "and I hope it may tend to your benefit. After I had quitted the scene of action at the priory, and at your desire left the Rookwood party masters of the field, I fled with the rest of the crew towards the rocks. There we held a council of war for a short time. Some were for returning to the fight; but this was negatived entirely, and in the end it was agreed that those who had wives, daughters, and sisters, should join them as speedily as possible at their retreat in the Grange. As I happened to have none of these attractive ties, and had only a troublesome mistress, who I thought could take care of herself, I did not care to follow them, but struck deeper into the wood, and made my way, guided by destiny, I suppose, towards the cave."

"You can have it with pleasure," said the count; "and I hope it serves you well. After I left the action at the priory, and at your request let the Rookwood group take control of the situation, I ran off with the rest of the crew towards the rocks. We held a quick war council there. Some wanted to go back to the fight; but that idea was completely shot down, and in the end, we agreed that those with wives, daughters, and sisters should join them as quickly as they could at their retreat in the Grange. Since I didn’t have any of those attachments and only had a troublesome mistress, who I believed could take care of herself, I didn’t bother to follow them. Instead, I ventured further into the woods, making my way, guided by fate I suppose, towards the cave."

"The cave!" cried Dick, rubbing his hands; "I delight in a cave. Tom King and I once had a cave of our own at Epping, and I'll have another one of these fine days. A cave is as proper to a high-tobyman as a castle to a baron. Pray go on."

"The cave!" shouted Dick, rubbing his hands together. "I love a cave. Tom King and I used to have our own cave at Epping, and I plan to have another one of those soon. A cave is as fitting for a gentleman as a castle is for a baron. Please continue."

"The cave I speak of," continued the count, "was seldom used, except upon great emergencies, by any of the Stop Hole Abbey crew. It was a sort of retiring den of our old lioness[358] Barbara, and, like all belonging to her, respected by her dupes. However, the cave is a good cave for all that; is well concealed by brushwood, and comfortably lighted from a crevice in the rock above; it lies near the brink of the stream, amongst the woods just above the waterfall, and is somewhat difficult of approach."

"The cave I'm talking about," continued the count, "was rarely used, except in emergencies, by anyone from the Stop Hole Abbey crew. It served as a kind of hideout for our old lioness Barbara, and just like everything connected to her, it was respected by her followers. Still, the cave is a good one; it's well hidden by brushwood and gets nice light from a crack in the rock above. It’s located near the edge of the stream, in the woods just above the waterfall, and is a bit challenging to reach."

"I know something of the situation," said Turpin.

"I know a bit about what's going on," said Turpin.

"Well," returned the count, "not to lose time, into this den I crept, and, expecting to find it vacant, you may imagine my surprise on discovering that it was already occupied, and that Sir Luke Rookwood, his granddad, old Alan, Miss Mowbray, and, worst of all, the very person I wished most to avoid, my old flame Handassah, constituted the party. Fortunately, they did not perceive my entrance, and I took especial care not to introduce myself. Retreat, however, was for the moment impracticable, and I was compelled to be a listener. I cannot tell what had passed between the parties before my arrival, but I heard Miss Mowbray implore Sir Luke to conduct her to her mother. He seemed half inclined to comply with her entreaties; but old Alan shook his head. It was then Handassah put in a word; the minx was ever ready at that. 'Fear not,' said she, 'that she will wed Sir Ranulph. Deliver her to her friends, I beseech you, Sir Luke, and woo her honorably. She will accept you.' Sir Luke stared incredulously, and grim old Alan smiled. 'She has sworn to be yours,' continued Handassah; 'sworn it by every hope of heaven, and the oath has been sealed by blood—by Sybil's blood.'—'Does she speak the truth?' asked Sir Luke, trembling with agitation. Miss Mowbray answered not. 'You will not deny it, lady,' said Handassah. 'I heard that oath proposed. I saw it registered. You cannot deny it.'—'I do not,' replied Miss Mowbray, with much anguish of manner; 'if he claim me, I am his.'—'And he will claim you,' said Alan Rookwood, triumphantly. 'He has your oath, no matter how extorted—you must fulfil your vow.'—'I am prepared to do so,' said Eleanor.[359] 'But if you would not utterly destroy me, let this maid conduct me to my mother, to my friends.'—'To Ranulph?' asked Sir Luke, bitterly.—'No, no,' returned Miss Mowbray, in accents of deepest despair, 'to my mother—I wish not to behold him again.'—'Be it so,' cried Sir Luke; 'but remember, in love or hate, you are mine; I shall claim the fulfilment of your oath. Farewell. Handassah will lead you to your mother.' Miss Mowbray bowed her head, but returned no answer, while, followed by old Alan, Sir Luke departed from the cavern."

"Well," replied the count, "not wanting to waste any time, I snuck into this place, expecting to find it empty, so you can imagine my surprise when I discovered it was already filled with people—Sir Luke Rookwood, his granddad, old Alan, Miss Mowbray, and, worst of all, the one person I wanted to avoid the most, my old flame Handassah. Luckily, they didn't notice me come in, and I made sure to keep myself hidden. However, leaving wasn't feasible at that moment, so I had to just listen in. I don't know what had been said before I got there, but I heard Miss Mowbray asking Sir Luke to take her to her mother. He seemed somewhat willing to agree, but old Alan shook his head. That's when Handassah chimed in; she was always ready to speak up. 'Don't worry,' she said, 'that she will marry Sir Ranulph. Please, Sir Luke, take her to her friends and pursue her properly. She will accept you.' Sir Luke looked at her in disbelief, while grim old Alan smiled. 'She has sworn to be yours,' Handassah continued; 'sworn it by every hope of heaven, and the oath has been sealed by blood—by Sybil's blood.'—'Is that true?' asked Sir Luke, shaking with emotion. Miss Mowbray didn't respond. 'You won't deny it, lady,' said Handassah. 'I heard that oath made. I saw it recorded. You can't deny it.'—'I don't deny it,' Miss Mowbray replied, clearly pained; 'if he claims me, I am his.'—'And he will claim you,' said Alan Rookwood, triumphantly. 'He has your oath, no matter how it was forced—you have to keep your promise.'—'I am ready to do so,' Eleanor said. [359] 'But if you don't want to completely ruin me, let this girl take me to my mother, to my friends.'—'To Ranulph?' Sir Luke asked, bitterly.—'No, no,' Miss Mowbray responded, her voice filled with despair, 'to my mother—I don't want to see him again.'—'Very well,' Sir Luke exclaimed; 'but remember, in love or hate, you belong to me; I will demand you keep your vow. Goodbye. Handassah will take you to your mother.' Miss Mowbray bowed her head, but didn’t say anything in return, while, followed by old Alan, Sir Luke left the cave."

"Whither went they?" demanded Turpin.

"Where did they go?" demanded Turpin.

"That I know not," replied Jerry. "I was about to follow, when I was prevented by the abrupt entrance of another party. Scarcely, I think, could the two Rookwoods have made good their retreat, when shouts were heard without, and young Ranulph and Major Mowbray forced their way, sword in hand, into the cave. Here was a situation—for me, I mean—to the young lady, I make no doubt, it was pleasant enough. But my neck was in jeopardy. However, you know I am not deficient in strength, and, upon the present occasion, I made the best use of the agility with which nature has endowed me. Amidst the joyous confusion—the sobbings, and embracings, and congratulations that ensued—I contrived, like a wild cat, to climb the rocky sides of the cave, and concealed myself behind a jutting fragment of stone. It was well I did so, for scarcely was I hidden, when in came old Barbara, followed by Mrs. Mowbray, and a dozen others."

" I don’t know," Jerry replied. "I was about to follow when another group burst in unexpectedly. I don’t think the two Rookwoods could have escaped, just when we heard shouts outside, and young Ranulph and Major Mowbray charged into the cave, swords in hand. What a situation—for me, that is; I’m sure it was quite enjoyable for the young lady. But my neck was on the line. Still, you know I’m not lacking in strength, and in this instance, I made the best of the agility that nature gave me. Amid the joyful chaos—the crying, hugging, and congratulations that followed—I managed, like a wildcat, to climb the rocky walls of the cave and hide behind a jutting piece of stone. It was a good thing I did, because barely had I concealed myself when old Barbara came in, followed by Mrs. Mowbray and a dozen others."

"Barbara!" ejaculated Dick. "Was she a prisoner?"

"Barbara!" exclaimed Dick. "Was she a prisoner?"

"No," replied Jerry; "the old hell-cat is too deep for that. She had betrayed Sir Luke, and hoped they would seize him and his granddad. But the birds were flown."

"No," Jerry replied; "the old troublemaker is too clever for that. She had betrayed Sir Luke and hoped they would catch him and his grandfather. But the birds were gone."

"I'm glad she was baulked," said Dick. "Was any search made after them?"

"I'm glad she was held back," said Dick. "Was there any search for them?"

"Can't say," replied Jerry. "I could only indistinctly catch the sounds of their voices from my lofty retreat. Before[360] they left the cavern, I made out that Mrs. Mowbray resolved to go to Rookwood, and to take her daughter thither—a proceeding to which the latter demurred."

"Can't say," Jerry replied. "I could only barely hear their voices from my high spot. Before[360] they left the cave, I understood that Mrs. Mowbray decided to go to Rookwood and take her daughter with her—which the daughter was not happy about."

"To Rookwood," said Dick, musingly. "Will she keep her oath, I wonder?"

"To Rookwood," said Dick, thoughtfully. "I wonder if she'll keep her promise?"

"That's more than I can say," said Jerry, sipping his punch. "'Tis a deceitful sex!"

"That's more than I can say," Jerry said, sipping his punch. "It's a deceptive gender!"

"'Tis a deceitful sex, indeed," echoed Dick, tossing off a tumbler. "For one Sybil we meet with twenty Handassahs, eh, count?"

"'It's a deceitful gender, for sure," said Dick, downing a drink. "For every Sybil we encounter, there are twenty Handassahs, right? Count?"

"Twenty!—say rather a hundred," replied Jerry. "'Tis a vile sex."

"Twenty!—or maybe even a hundred," replied Jerry. "It's a terrible gender."


CHAPTER II

TOM KING

Grimm. How gloriously the sun sets to-night.

Grimm. The sunset is so beautiful tonight.

Moor. When I was a boy, my favorite thought was, that I should live and die like yonder glorious orb. It was a boyish thought.

Moor. When I was a kid, my favorite idea was that I would live and die like that amazing sun over there. It was a childish notion.

Grimm. True, captain.

Grimm. True, captain.

The Robbers.

The Thieves.

"Peace, base calumniators," exclaimed Tom King, aroused from his toothpick reverie by these aspersions of the best part of creation. "Peace, I say. None shall dare abuse that dear devoted sex in the hearing of their champion, without pricking a lance with him in their behalf. What do you, either of you, who abuse woman in that wholesale style, know of her? Nothing—less than nothing; and yet you venture, upon your paltry experience, to lift up your voices and decry the sex. Now I do know her; and upon my own experience avouch, that, as a sex, woman, compared with man, is as an angel to a devil. As a sex, woman is faithful, loving, self-sacrificing. We 'tis that make her otherwise; we, selfish, exacting, neglectful men; we teach her indifference, and then blame her apt[361] scholarship. We spoil our own hand, and then blame the cards. No abuse of women in my hearing. Give me a glass of grog, Dick. 'The sex!—three times three!'—and here's a song for you into the bargain." Saying which, in a mellow, plaintive tone, Tom gave the following:

"Hey, calm down, you petty critics," shouted Tom King, pulled from his daydream by these insults against the greatest part of humanity. "I said, calm down. No one should dare disrespect that cherished sex while their supporter is present, without preparing to fight for them. What do either of you, who criticize women so broadly, really know about her? Nothing—less than nothing; and yet you have the nerve, based on your limited experiences, to raise your voices and trash talk the entire gender. Now I actually know her; and from my own experience, I can confidently say that, as a group, women, compared to men, are like angels to devils. Overall, women are faithful, loving, and self-sacrificing. It’s us—selfish, demanding, neglectful men—who make her seem otherwise; we teach her to be indifferent, and then blame her for how well she learns. We mess up our own hands, and then complain about the cards we’ve been dealt. No disrespect to women while I'm around. Pour me a drink, Dick. 'To the women!—three cheers!'—and here’s a song for you as well." With that, in a rich, heartfelt tone, Tom sang the following:

PLEDGE OF THE HIGHWAYMAN

HIGHWAYMAN'S PLEDGE

Come, raise a glass to Eve's most beautiful daughters,
Who have generously shared their smiles with the brave and the free; Toast the sweethearts of Dudley, Hind, Wilmot, and Waters,__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Whatever their appeal, whatever their level. Pledge! Pledge in a bumper, every kind-hearted maiden,
Whose bright eyes were dimmed at the highwayman's downfall; Who stood by the gallows filled with sorrow, Wishing sorrow for the fate of the brave Du-Val!
Here's to every lovely girl that the chance of war brings closer,
Who, with an impassioned manner, we lovingly stop; And to whom, like the lover speaking to his beloved,
When it comes to making a request, that's the question we ask. How often, in this situation, rosy lips have turned out to be sweeter Than the most cheerful book, bright eyes secured a shiny ring; While that one other kiss has resulted in a repeater,
And a bead as a charm—the favorite string.
With our hearts prepared and searching, we go through each pocket, With the true spirit of chivalry inspiring us; The risk of life for our mistress's praise is a small thing;
And each purse as a trophy our tribute attests.
Then raise your glasses to all the spirited girls,
Never let names or numbers trouble your memories; Here's to our toast, guys, honoring every worthy woman,
And, just to make sure we don’t leave anything out, we’ll drink the WHOLE SEX.

"Well," replied Dick, replenishing King's rummer, while he laughed heartily at his ditty, "I shan't refuse your toast, though my heart don't respond to your sentiments. Ah, Tom! the sex you praise so much will, I fear, prove your undoing. Do as you please, but curse me if ever I pin my[362] life to a petticoat. I'd as soon think of neglecting the four cautions."

"Well," replied Dick, refilling King's drink, while he laughed heartily at his song, "I won't turn down your toast, even though I don't feel the same way. Ah, Tom! The women you're praising so much might, I’m afraid, be your downfall. Do whatever you want, but I swear I’ll never tie my life to a woman. I'd just as soon ignore the four warnings."

"The four cautions," said King; "what are they?"

"The four cautions," said the King; "what are they?"

"Did you never hear them?" replied Dick. "Attend, then, and be edified."

"Have you never heard them?" replied Dick. "Listen, then, and learn."

THE FOUR CAUTIONS

THE FOUR WARNINGS

Pay attention to these four cautions,
As you go through life, you'll need very little more,
If you spend your days living for sixty years, Beware of a gun!
Before! before!
Watch out for a pistol!
And when his ears are turned backward,
And his tail is combined with his ham,
Keep in mind the following two cautions:
Watch out for a prancer behind! Back! Back!
Beware of a prancer behind!
Third, when you're in the park, you can ride,
On your best blood, sir, riding high,
Talking casually with your old friend's young wife:
Watch out for a coach on the side!
Move aside! Move aside!
Watch out for a coach on the side!
Lastly, whether in purple or gray, Canter, rant, serious, solemn, or cheerful,
Whatever he may do or say, Watch out for a priest in every situation!
Every path! every path!
Watch out for a priest in every situation!

"Well," said Tom King, "all you can sing or say don't alter my good opinion of the women. Not a secret have I from the girl of my heart. She could have sold me over and[363] over again if she had chosen, but my sweet Sue is not the wench to do that."

"Well," said Tom King, "everything you sing or say doesn’t change my good opinion of women. I don’t have any secrets from the girl I love. She could have traded me in repeatedly if she wanted to, but my sweet Sue isn’t the type to do that."

"It is not too late," said Dick. "Your Delilah may yet hand you over to the Philistines."

"It’s not too late," said Dick. "Your Delilah might still betray you to the Philistines."

"Then I shall die in a good cause," said King; "but

"Then I’ll die for a good reason," said King; "but

The Tyburn Tree
Has no fears for me,
Let better men take the lead—I'm free.

I shall never come to the scragging-post, unless you turn topsman, Dick Turpin. My nativity has been cast, and the stars have declared I am to die by the hand of my best friend—and that's you—eh? Dick?"

I will never end up at the gallows, unless you become the one in charge, Dick Turpin. My fate has been sealed, and the stars say I will die at the hands of my best friend—and that's you, right? Dick?

"It sounds like it," replied Turpin; "but I advise you not to become too intimate with Jack Ketch. He may prove your best friend, after all."

"It sounds like it," replied Turpin; "but I recommend you not to get too close with Jack Ketch. He might end up being your best friend, after all."

"Why, faith, that's true," replied King, laughing; "and if I must ride backwards up Holborn Hill, I'll do the thing in style, and honest Jack Ketch shall never want his dues. A man should always die game. We none of us know how soon our turn may come; but come when it will, I shall never flinch from it.

"Well, that's true," King replied with a laugh; "and if I have to ride backward up Holborn Hill, I'll do it with style, and honest Jack Ketch will always get what he deserves. A man should always face death bravely. None of us know when our time will come; but whenever it does, I will never shy away from it.

The life of a highwayman is filled with excitement,
The highwayman's death is the shortest and the most fitting; He doesn’t die like other men do, slowly, But immediately! without hesitation—and totally relaxed!

as the song you are so fond of says. When I die it will not be of consumption. And if the surgeon's knife must come near me, it will be after death. There's some comfort in that reflection, at all events."[364]

as the song you love so much says. When I die, it won't be from an illness. And if a surgeon's knife has to come near me, it will be after I'm dead. There's some comfort in that thought, at least."[364]

"True," replied Turpin, "and, with a little alteration, my song would suit you capitally:

"True," replied Turpin, "and with a few changes, my song would fit you perfectly:

There is no king, no matter how far you search the world, So carefree as the king's king, Tom King, to be discovered; Dear woman of his empire, each girl is his own,
He'd have a long rule if he just left them alone.

Ha, ha!"

Haha!

"Ha, ha!" laughed Tom. "And now, Dick, to change the subject. You are off, I understand, to Yorkshire to-night. 'Pon my soul, you are a wonderful fellow—an alibi personified!—here and everywhere at the same time—no wonder you are called the flying highwayman. To-day in town—to-morrow at York—the day after at Chester. The devil only knows where you will pitch your quarters a week hence. There are rumors of you in all counties at the same moment. This man swears you robbed him at Hounslow; that on Salisbury Plain; while another avers you monopolize Cheshire and Yorkshire, and that it isn't safe even to hunt without pops in your pocket. I heard some devilish good stories of you at D'Osyndar's t'other day; the fellow who told them to me little thought I was a brother blade."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Tom. "And now, Dick, changing the subject. I hear you're heading off to Yorkshire tonight. Honestly, you're amazing—an alibi brought to life!—here and everywhere at the same time—no wonder people call you the flying highwayman. Today in town—tomorrow in York—the day after in Chester. Who knows where you'll end up a week from now? There are rumors about you in every county at the same time. This guy claims you robbed him at Hounslow; that one on Salisbury Plain; while another insists you’ve got a grip on Cheshire and Yorkshire, and that it’s not even safe to hunt without a few shots in your pocket. I heard some really entertaining stories about you at D'Osyndar's the other day; the guy who told them had no idea I was one of your kind."

"You flatter me," said Dick, smiling complacently; "but it's no merit of mine. Black Bess alone enables me to do it, and hers be the credit. Talking of being everywhere at the same time, you shall hear what she once did for me in Cheshire. Meantime, a glass to the best mare in England. You won't refuse that toast, Tom. Ah! if your mistress is only as true to you as my nag to me, you might set at naught the tightest hempen cravat that was ever twisted, and defy your best friend to hurt you. Black Bess! and God bless her! And now for the song." Saying which, with much emotion, Turpin chanted the following rhymes:[365]

"You’re flattering me," said Dick, smiling with satisfaction; "but it’s not really my doing. Black Bess is what makes it possible, and she deserves the credit. Speaking of being everywhere at once, let me tell you what she did for me in Cheshire. Meanwhile, let’s raise a glass to the best mare in England. You won’t refuse that toast, Tom. Ah! If your lady is as loyal to you as my horse is to me, you could easily brush off the tightest noose ever made and dare your closest friend to hurt you. Black Bess! And God bless her! Now, let’s get to the song." With that, Turpin sang the following verses:[365]

BLACK BESS

BLACK BESS

Let the lover praise his mistress's beauty,
And praise her beauty in flowing poetry; Let it be my simple style, but I aim to convey the truth, The love I have for my beautiful Black Bess.
From the west came her mother, and from the east came her father,
From one came her speed, and from the other her passion; No member of the nobility can have better blood than this. Than flows in the veins of my beautiful Black Bess.
Look! Look! how that eyeball shines bright like a flame!
That neck proudly curves, those nostrils flare!
Look at that wide flowing mane! Each silky strand of it May decorate more beautiful things—though none like Black Bess.
Mark! that skin smooth like velvet and dark like night,
With its jet color unmarked by a single white strand; That throat filled with veins, quick to strike or soothe. Isn't she beautiful?—lovely Black Bess!
Across highways and back roads, in all types of weather, We have traveled thousands of miles together; Our couch is just as uncomfortable, and our meal is just as chaotic. There's no couple more consistent than me and Black Bess.
By moonlight, in darkness, at night, or during the day,
Her rapid career cannot be stopped; She doesn't care about distance, and she doesn't know distress:
Can you show me a horse that matches Black Bess?

"Egad! I should think not," exclaimed King; "you are as sentimental on the subject of your mare, as I am when I think of my darling Susan. But pardon my interruption. Pray proceed."[366]

"Wow! I don’t think so," exclaimed the King; "you’re just as sentimental about your mare as I am about my beloved Susan. But sorry for interrupting. Please continue."[366]

"Let me first clear my throat," returned Dick; "and now to resume:"

"Let me clear my throat first," Dick said; "and now, let’s continue:"

One time in Cheshire, near Dunham, I popped I quickly stopped a lone horseman; You'll easily guess that I took some money from him—
Dick Turpin works quickly when riding Bess.
It looks like the man recognized me. "Dick Turpin," he said, "You'll pay for this, just like you are alive, got it?" I laughed at his threats and his promises to make things right; I was confident I had an alibi then with Black Bess.
The road was a hollow, a sunken ravine,[95]
Completely hidden behind wood like a barrier; I climbed up the bank, and I have to admit, That one touch of the spur brushed against the side of Black Bess.
Brake, stream, field, and plowed land, Bess quickly rode, As the crow flies, we chose our path; We got to Hough Green in five minutes or less—
My neck was saved by the speed of Black Bess.
Carelessly stepping forward, I relax on the green,
Making sure that I am seen by everyone; I want to share a few thoughts about how quickly time passes for the squires. But I won't say a word about the escape of Black Bess.
I mention the time—it was almost four—
Play a rubber at bowls—believe the danger is over;
When facing my next game, like reaching checkmate in chess,
Here come the horsemen looking for the rider of Bess.
What are the details that matter? I came back in triumph; He swears by the hour, and the squires swear the same; I stole from him at four!—while at four they claim I was bowling quietly—all thanks to Black Bess!
Then one loud cheer, boys, one big cheering shout!
To the fastest of horses, the brave and the genuine!
The memory will bless the unborn athlete. Of the highwayman's horse, beautiful Black Bess!

[367]Loud acclamations rewarded Dick's performance. Awakened from his doze, Zoroaster beat time to the melody, the only thing, Jerry said, he was capable of beating in his present shattered condition. After some little persuasion, the Magus was prevailed upon to enliven the company with a strain, which he trolled forth after a maudlin manner:

[367]Thunderous applause greeted Dick's performance. Stirred from his nap, Zoroaster kept time with the music, the only thing, Jerry joked, he was able to keep time with in his current messed-up state. After a bit of convincing, the Magus was encouraged to entertain the group with a tune, which he sang in a sentimental way:

THE DOUBLE CROSS

The Double Cross

Though we all know about crost fights, And certain gains, from certain lost fights, I find it quite interesting that it's news,
How in a mill, both men should lose; For sure the odds are thus made even,
It really messes with the steven;[96]
Besides, they're sinning against all the rules,
Vere has no chance of winning.
Ri, tol, lol, etc.
Two milling coves, each awake, Vere returned to fight for a large stake:
But in the meantime, so it was,
Both kids agreed to play cross; Bold came each buffer__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ to the scratch,
To make it look like a tightish match; They peeled__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ with flair, and bets were being placed,
'Tvos six to four, but few were taking.
Ri, tol, lol, etc.
The mill started cautiously,
For neither of them knew what the other had planned; Each cull__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ totally in the dark,
Of what might be his neighbor's mark; Resolved his lying__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ not to mind,
Nor to repay him in the same way; So they each kept telling each other, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
And fought a bit, and danced about,
Ri, tol, lol, etc.
With mawleys__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ raised, Tom bent his back, As if to deliver a heavy thwack:[368] Vile Jem, with neat left-handed stop. Straight threatened Tommy with a cap;
'Tis all my eye! no wine flows,
No faces sound—no smashing blows—
Five minutes go by, but not a hit,
How can it end, friends?—wait a second.
Ri, tol, lol, etc.
Each cove was teased with double duty,
To satisfy his supporters, yet play booty;[103]
Ven, luckily for Jem, a teller Vos planted right upon his nose;
He dropped down, stunned; then time was called,
Seconds in vain the seconds shouted; The mill is done, the crosser crossed, The loser's von, the winner's lost!
Ri, tol, lol, etc.

The party assumed once more a lively air, and the glass was circulated so freely, that at last a final charge drained the ample bowl of its contents.

The party once again took on a lively atmosphere, and the drinks were passed around so generously that eventually a last round emptied the large bowl of its contents.

"The best of friends must part," said Dick; "and I would willingly order another whiff of punch, but I think we have all had enough to satisfy us, as you milling coves have it, Zory! Your one eye has got a drop in it already, old fellow; and, to speak the truth, I must be getting into the saddle without more delay, for I have a long ride before me. And now, friend Jerry, before I start, suppose you tip us one of your merry staves; we haven't heard your pipe to-day, and never a cross cove of us all can throw off so prime a chant as yourself. A song! a song!"

"The best of friends have to say goodbye," said Dick; "and I’d gladly order another round of punch, but I think we've all had enough to satisfy us, as you guys like to say, Zory! Your one eye already has a bit of a glow to it, buddy; and honestly, I need to get going without any more delays, because I have a long ride ahead of me. And now, friend Jerry, before I head out, how about you share one of your cheerful tunes; we haven’t heard you sing today, and none of us can belt out a song as well as you can. A song! A song!"

"Ay, a song!" reiterated King and the Magus.

"A song!" repeated the King and the Magus.

"You do me too much honor, gemmen," said Jerry, modestly, taking a pinch of snuff; "I am sure I shall be most happy. My chants are all of a sort. You must make all due allowances—hem!" And, clearing his throat, he forthwith warbled[369]

"You honor me too much, gentlemen," Jerry said modestly, taking a pinch of snuff. "I’m sure I’ll be very happy to sing. All my songs are pretty similar. You’ll have to forgive me—hem!" And, clearing his throat, he immediately began to sing[369]

THE MODERN GREEK

THE MODERN GREEK

(Not translated from the Romaic.)

(Not translated from the Greek.)

Come on, guys, name it and get your game started,
Look, the ball is spinning. Black, red, or blue, the colors you see,
One, two, five, it's starting, Then create your game,
The color name, While the ball is spinning.
This trick will get me home While covered by my hat,[104]
I place my ball, and boldly call,
Come create your game on it!
Thus rat-a-tat! I got my apartment!
It's black—not red—that's winning.
At gay roulette was never met A lance like mine for bleeding! I'm never at fault, at nothing stop,
All other legs before this. To everyone awake,
I never tremble A mag __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ unless I nip it.
Blind-hookey checks how well I squeeze The well-shuffled cards. Ecarté, whist, I never missed. A nick the girls__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ while ruffling.
Mogul or bathroom, I do the same, I'm out of options and feeling stuck!
French hazard taken, I hit the main,
Never was such a caster. No crabs for me, I'm cool, you know;
The bank will change its master.
Seven four, three, The stakes are high!
Ten mains! Ten mains are mine, friends![370]
At Rouge et Noir, you hellite__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ choir
I won't hide the fact that I'm stripping; One glorious win for me shall do,
While they may deal each pip in. Thirty-one years later
Never blocks my path; The game—it's awesome, friends.
At the billiards table, I place my bet,
I'll score and win the match, pals;
I miss my cue, my hazard, too,
But still, I'll beat my enemy, pals.
That cannon-twist,
I never missed, Unless it's to fit my perspective, friends.
To ensure everything is okay, the match looks tight,
This trick, you know, is done, friends;
But now be happy, I’ll show my play—
Hooray! We won the game, friends.
No hand so delicate,
No wrist like mine, I never turn down any bets, friends.
Then choose your game; whatever you call it,
To me, all offers are alike; Chic-hazard, whist, whatever you choose,
Quickly refill your funds.
Thus, bang bang!
I got my apartment!
To every wallet I talk, friends.
Cramped boxes 'ware, everything’s fine and just,
Blocked balls I block when provoked;
What the heck, an ace doesn't belong here!
The dice are loaded!
Make your game,
Your color name; Success to the Greek, friends.

"Bravo, Jerry—bravissimo!" chorused the party.

"Way to go, Jerry!" chorused the party.

"And now, pals, farewell!—a long farewell!" said Dick, in a tone of theatrical valediction. "As I said before, the best[371] friends must separate. We may soon meet again, or we now may part forever. We cannot command our luck; but we can make the best of the span allotted to us. You have your game to play. I have mine. May each of us meet with the success he deserves."

"And now, friends, goodbye!—a long goodbye!" said Dick, in a dramatic farewell tone. "As I mentioned before, even the best friends must part ways. We might meet again soon, or this could be our last goodbye. We can't control our fate; but we can make the most of the time we have. You have your own journey to pursue. I have mine. May we each find the success we deserve."

"Egad! I hope not," said King. "I'm afraid, in that case, the chances would be against us."

"Wow! I hope not," said the King. "I'm worried that, if that's the case, the odds would be against us."

"Well, then, the success we anticipate, if you prefer it," rejoined Dick. "I have only to observe one thing more, namely, that I must insist upon standing Sam upon the present occasion. Not a word. I won't hear a syllable. Landlord, I say—what oh!" continued Dick, stepping out of the arbor. "Here, my old Admiral of the White, what's the reckoning?—what's to pay, I say?"

"Alright then, the success we're expecting, if that's what you want," replied Dick. "I just have one more thing to say, which is that I have to insist on treating Sam this time. Not a word. I won't listen to a single syllable. Landlord, I say—hey!" Dick said, stepping out of the gazebo. "Here, my old Admiral of the White, what's the bill?—how much do I owe?"

"Let ye know directly, sir," replied mine host of the Falstaff.

"Just so you know, sir," replied the host of the Falstaff.

"Order my horse—the black mare," added Dick.

"Get my horse—the black mare," added Dick.

"And mine," said King, "the sorrel colt. I'll ride with you a mile or two on the road, Dick; perhaps we may stumble upon something."

"And mine," said King, "the chestnut colt. I'll ride with you for a mile or two on the road, Dick; maybe we'll come across something."

"Very likely."

"Highly likely."

"We meet at twelve, at D'Osyndar's, Jerry," said King, "if nothing happens."

"We'll meet at twelve, at D'Osyndar's, Jerry," King said, "if nothing comes up."

"Agreed," responded Juniper.

"Okay," replied Juniper.

"What say you to a rubber at bowls, in the mean time?" said the Magus, taking his everlasting pipe from his lips.

"What do you think about a game of bowls in the meantime?" said the Magus, taking his ever-present pipe from his lips.

Jerry nodded acquiescence. And while they went in search of the implements of the game, Turpin and King sauntered gently on the green.

Jerry nodded in agreement. As they looked for the game’s equipment, Turpin and King strolled casually on the grass.

It was a delicious evening. The sun was slowly declining, and glowed like a ball of fire amid the thick foliage of a neighboring elm. Whether, like the robber Moor, Tom King was touched by this glorious sunset, we pretend not to determine. Certain it was that a shade of inexpressible melancholy passed across his handsome countenance, as he gazed in the direction[372] of Harrow-on-the Hill, which, lying to the west of the green upon which they walked, stood out with its pointed spire and lofty college against the ruddy sky. He spoke not. But Dick noticed the passing emotion.

It was a beautiful evening. The sun was slowly setting and glowed like a fireball among the thick leaves of a nearby elm. Whether Tom King, like the robber Moor, was affected by this stunning sunset, we won't say. What is certain is that a shadow of deep sadness crossed his handsome face as he looked towards[372] Harrow-on-the-Hill, which, to the west of the green where they were walking, stood out with its pointed spire and tall college against the glowing sky. He didn't speak. But Dick noticed the fleeting emotion.

"What ails you, Tom?" said he, with much kindness of manner—"are you not well, lad?"

"What’s wrong, Tom?" he asked, kindly. "Are you feeling okay, kid?"

"Yes, I am well enough," said King; "I know not what came over me, but looking at Harrow, I thought of my school days, and what I was then, and that bright prospect reminded me of my boyish hopes."

"Yeah, I'm doing fine," said King; "I don't know what happened, but when I looked at Harrow, I thought about my school days, who I was back then, and that bright future reminded me of my youthful dreams."

"Tut—tut," said Dick, "this is idle—you are a man now."

"Tut—tut," Dick said, "this is pointless—you’re a man now."

"I know I am," replied Tom, "but I have been a boy. Had I any faith in presentiments, I should say this is the last sunset I shall ever see."

"I know I am," replied Tom, "but I have been a boy. If I believed in premonitions, I would say this is the last sunset I'll ever see."

"Here comes our host," said Dick, smiling. "I've no presentiment that this is the last bill I shall ever pay."

"Here comes our host," said Dick, smiling. "I don't have a feeling that this is the last bill I'll ever pay."

The bill was brought and settled. As Turpin paid it, the man's conduct was singular, and awakened his suspicions.

The bill was brought and settled. As Turpin paid it, the man's behavior was odd and raised his suspicions.

"Are our horses ready?" asked Dick, quickly.

"Are our horses ready?" Dick asked hurriedly.

"They are, sir," said the landlord.

"They are, sir," the landlord said.

"Let us be gone," whispered Dick to King; "I don't like this fellow's manner. I thought I heard a carriage draw up at the inn door just now—there may be danger. Be fly!" added he to Jerry and the Magus. "Now, sir," said he to the landlord, "lead the way. Keep on the alert, Tom."

"Let's get out of here," Dick whispered to King. "I don't like this guy's attitude. I think I just heard a carriage pull up at the inn door—there could be trouble. Be quick!" he added to Jerry and the Magus. "Now, sir," he said to the landlord, "show us the way. Stay on your toes, Tom."

Dick's hint was not lost upon the two bowlers. They watched their comrades; and listened intently for any manifestation of alarm.

Dick's hint wasn't missed by the two bowlers. They kept an eye on their teammates and listened closely for any signs of worry.


CHAPTER III

A SURPRISE

Was this well done, Jenny?—Captain Macheath.

Was this done well, Jenny?—Captain Macheath.

While Turpin and King are walking across the bowling-green, we will see what has taken place outside the inn. Tom's presentiments of danger were not, it appeared, without foundation. Scarcely had the ostler brought forth our two highwaymen's steeds, when a post-chaise, escorted by two or three horsemen, drove furiously up to the door. The sole occupant of the carriage was a lady, whose slight and pretty figure was all that could be distinguished, her face being closely veiled. The landlord, who was busied in casting up Turpin's account, rushed forth at the summons. A word or two passed between him and the horsemen, upon which the former's countenance fell. He posted in the direction of the garden; and the horsemen instantly dismounted.

While Turpin and King are walking across the bowling green, let's see what's happening outside the inn. Tom's feelings of danger turned out to be justified. Just as the stable hand brought forward the highwaymen's horses, a post-chaise, accompanied by two or three horsemen, rushed up to the door. The only passenger in the carriage was a lady, whose delicate and attractive figure was all that could be seen, as her face was heavily veiled. The landlord, busy adding up Turpin's bill, hurried outside at the call. A few words were exchanged between him and the horsemen, after which the landlord's expression changed. He hurried off towards the garden, and the horsemen quickly dismounted.

"We have him now, sure enough," said one of them, a very small man, who looked, in his boots, like Buckle equipped for the Oaks.

"We've got him now, for sure," said one of them, a very small guy, who looked in his boots like Buckle ready for the Oaks.

"By the powers! I begin to think so," replied the other horseman. "But don't spoil all, Mr. Coates, by being too precipitate."

"Wow! I'm starting to think so too," replied the other horseman. "But don't ruin everything, Mr. Coates, by acting too hastily."

"Never fear that, Mr. Tyrconnel," said Coates; for it was the gallant attorney: "he's sure to come for his mare. That's a trap certain to catch him, eh, Mr. Paterson? With the chief constable of Westminster to back us, the devil's in it if we are not a match for him."

"Don't worry about that, Mr. Tyrconnel," said Coates; for it was the brave attorney: "he's definitely going to come for his mare. That’s a trap that’s bound to catch him, right, Mr. Paterson? With the chief constable of Westminster supporting us, there’s no way we can’t handle him."

"And for Tom King, too," replied the chief constable; "since his blowen's peached, the game's up with him, too.[374] We've long had an eye upon him, and now we'll have a finger. He's one of your dashing trouts to whom we always give a long line, but we'll land him this time, anyhow. If you'll look after Dick Turpin, gemmen, I'll make sure of Tom."

"And for Tom King, too," replied the chief constable; "now that his girlfriend has snitched, it's all over for him as well.[374] We've had our eye on him for a while, and now we'll be on him for sure. He's one of those flashy troublemakers we usually let run free, but we'll catch him this time, no doubt. If you gentlemen take care of Dick Turpin, I’ll make sure to handle Tom."

"I'd rather you would help us, Mr. Paterson," said Coates; "never mind Tom King; another time will do for him."

"I'd prefer if you could help us, Mr. Paterson," said Coates; "forget about Tom King; there will be another time for him."

"No such thing," said Paterson; "one weighs just as much for that matter as t'other. I'll take Tom to myself, and surely you two, with the landlord and ostler, can manage Turpin amongst you."

"No such thing," said Paterson; "one weighs just as much as the other. I'll take Tom myself, and you two, along with the landlord and the stablehand, can handle Turpin between you."

"I don't know that," said Coates, doubtfully; "he's a devil of a fellow to deal with."

"I’m not sure about that," Coates said, feeling uncertain; "he’s really tough to handle."

"Take him quietly," said Paterson. "Draw the chaise out of the way, lad. Take our tits to one side, and place their nags near the door, ostler. Shall you be able to see him, ma'am, where you are?" asked the chief constable, walking to the carriage, and touching his hat to the lady within. Having received a satisfactory nod from the bonnet and veil, he returned to his companions. "And now, gemmen," added he, "let's step aside a little. Don't use your fire-arms too soon."

"Take him quietly," said Paterson. "Move the carriage out of the way, kid. Put our horses to the side, and bring their horses near the door, stableman. Can you see him from where you are, ma'am?" asked the chief constable as he walked to the carriage and tipped his hat to the lady inside. After getting a nod of approval from under the bonnet and veil, he went back to his companions. "And now, gentlemen," he added, "let's step aside a bit. Don't use your firearms too soon."

As if conscious of what was passing around her, and of the danger that awaited her master, Black Bess exhibited so much impatience, and plunged so violently, that it was with difficulty the ostler could hold her. "The devil's in the mare," said he; "what's the matter with her? She was quiet enough a few minutes since. Soho! lass, stand."

As if aware of what was happening around her and the danger facing her owner, Black Bess showed so much impatience and bucked so hard that the stablehand could barely hold her. "What's gotten into the mare?" he said. "She was calm just a few minutes ago. Hey! Girl, settle down.”

Turpin and King, meanwhile, walked quickly through the house, preceded by the host, who conducted them, and not without some inward trepidation, towards the door. Arrived there, each man rushed swiftly to his horse. Dick was in the saddle in an instant, and stamping her foot on the ostler's leg, Black Bess compelled the man, yelling with pain, to quit his hold of the bridle. Tom King was not equally fortunate. Before he could mount his horse, a loud shout was raised, which[375] startled the animal, and caused him to swerve, so that Tom lost his footing in the stirrup, and fell to the ground. He was instantly seized by Paterson, and a struggle commenced, King endeavoring, but in vain, to draw a pistol.

Turpin and King hurried through the house, following the host, who led them toward the door, feeling a bit anxious inside. Once they got there, both men quickly jumped on their horses. Dick was in the saddle immediately, and Black Bess stomped her foot on the ostler's leg, forcing him, despite his screams of pain, to let go of the bridle. Tom King wasn’t as lucky. Before he could get on his horse, a loud shout erupted, startling the animal and making it jump, causing Tom to lose his grip in the stirrup and fall. He was quickly grabbed by Paterson, and a struggle started, with King trying, but failing, to pull out a pistol.

"Flip him,[108] Dick; fire, or I'm taken," cried King. "Fire! damn you, why don't you fire?" shouted he, in desperation, still struggling vehemently with Paterson, who was a strong man, and more than a match for a light weight like King.

"Flip him,[108] Dick; shoot, or I'm done for," yelled King. "Shoot! damn it, why aren't you shooting?" he shouted in desperation, still grappling fiercely with Paterson, who was a strong man and more than a match for a lighter guy like King.

"I can't," cried Dick; "I shall hit you, if I fire."

"I can't," Dick shouted. "I'll hit you if I shoot."

"Take your chance," shouted King. "Is this your friendship?"

"Take your chance," shouted the King. "Is this what you call friendship?"

Thus urged, Turpin fired. The ball ripped up the sleeve of Paterson's coat, but did not wound him.

Thus urged, Turpin fired. The bullet tore through the sleeve of Paterson's coat, but didn't hurt him.

"Again!" cried King. "Shoot him, I say. Don't you hear me? Fire again!"

"Again!" shouted the King. "Shoot him, I mean it. Can't you hear me? Fire again!"

Pressed as he was by foes on every side, himself their mark, for both Coates and Tyrconnel had fired upon him, and were now mounting their steeds to give chase, it was impossible that Turpin could take sure aim; added to which, in the struggle, Paterson and King were each moment changing their relative positions. He, however, would no longer hesitate, but again, at his friend's request, fired. The ball lodged itself in King's breast! He fell at once. At this instant a shriek was heard from the chaise: the window was thrown open, and her thick veil being drawn aside, the features of a very pretty female, now impressed with terror and contrition, were suddenly exhibited.

Pressed as he was by enemies on all sides, with himself as their target, both Coates and Tyrconnel had shot at him and were now getting on their horses to chase him, making it impossible for Turpin to aim accurately. On top of that, in the struggle, Paterson and King were constantly shifting their positions. However, he wouldn’t hesitate any longer, and again, at his friend’s request, he fired. The bullet hit King in the chest! He fell immediately. At that moment, a scream came from the carriage: the window was opened, and as she pulled back her thick veil, the terrified and remorseful face of a very pretty woman was suddenly revealed.

King fixed his glazing eyes upon her.

King fixed his glazed eyes on her.

"Susan!" sighed he, "is it you that I behold?"

"Susan!" he sighed, "is it really you that I see?"

"Yes, yes, 'tis she, sure enough," said Paterson. "You see, ma'am, what you and such like have brought him to. However, you'll lose your reward; he's going fast enough."

"Yes, yes, it’s definitely her," said Paterson. "You see, ma'am, what you and people like you have done to him. But you’re going to miss out on your reward; he's slipping away quickly."

"Reward!" gasped King; "reward! Did she betray me?"

"Reward!" the King gasped. "Reward! Did she betray me?"

"Ay, ay, sir," said Paterson, "she blowed the gaff, if it's any consolation to you to know it."[376]

"Yeah, yeah, sir," said Paterson, "she spilled the beans, if it helps to know."[376]

"Consolation!" repeated the dying man; "perfidious!—oh!—the prophecy—my best friend—Turpin—I die by his hand."

"Consolation!" the dying man repeated; "traitorous!—oh!—the prophecy—my closest friend—Turpin—I am dying because of him."

And vainly striving to raise himself, he fell backwards and expired. Alas, poor Tom!

And trying in vain to lift himself up, he fell back and died. Oh, poor Tom!

"Mr. Paterson! Mr. Paterson!" cried Coates; "leave the landlord to look after the body of that dying ruffian, and mount with us in pursuit of the living rascal. Come, sir; quick! mount! despatch! You see he is yonder; he seems to hesitate; we shall have him now."

"Mr. Paterson! Mr. Paterson!" yelled Coates; "let the landlord handle the body of that dying thug, and come with us to chase down the living criminal. Come on, sir; hurry up! Get on! We can see him over there; he looks unsure; we’ll catch him now."

"Well, gemmen, I'm ready," said Paterson; "but how the devil came you to let him escape?"

"Well, guys, I'm ready," said Paterson; "but how the heck did you let him get away?"

"Saint Patrick only knows!" said Titus; "he's as slippery as an eel—and, like a cat, turn him which way you will, he is always sure to alight upon his legs. I wouldn't wonder but we lose him now, after all, though he has such a small start. That mare flies like the wind."

"Saint Patrick only knows!" said Titus; "he's as slippery as an eel—and, like a cat, no matter how you turn him, he always lands on his feet. I wouldn't be surprised if we end up losing him now, even though he has such a small lead. That mare runs like the wind."

"He shall have a tight run for it, at all events," said Paterson, putting spurs into his horse. "I've got a good nag under me, and you are neither of you badly mounted. He's only three hundred yards before us, and the devil's in it if we can't run him down. It's a three hundred pound job, Mr. Coates, and well worth a race."

"He's going to have a tough time getting away, anyway," said Paterson, urging his horse on. "I've got a good ride, and both of you are on decent mounts too. He's only three hundred yards ahead of us, and there's no way we can't catch him. It's a three hundred pound payout, Mr. Coates, and definitely worth the race."

"You shall have another hundred from me, sir, if you take him," said Coates, urging his steed forward.

"You'll get another hundred from me, sir, if you take him," said Coates, pushing his horse ahead.

"Thank you, sir, thank you. Follow my directions, and we'll make sure of him," said the constable. "Gently, gently, not so fast up the hill—you see he's breathing his horse. All in good time, Mr. Coates—all in good time, sir."

"Thank you, sir, thank you. Just follow my instructions, and we'll take care of him," said the constable. "Easy now, not so fast up the hill—you can see he's out of breath. We'll get there, Mr. Coates—all in good time, sir."

And maintaining an equal distance, both parties cantered leisurely up the ascent now called Windmill Hill. We shall now return to Turpin.

And keeping an equal distance, both sides casually rode up the slope now known as Windmill Hill. We will now go back to Turpin.

Aghast at the deed he had accidentally committed, Dick remained for a few moments irresolute; he perceived that King was mortally wounded, and that all attempts at rescue[377] would be fruitless; he perceived, likewise, that Jerry and the Magus had effected their escape from the bowling-green, as he could detect their figures stealing along the hedge-side. He hesitated no longer. Turning his horse, he galloped slowly off, little heeding the pursuit with which he was threatened.

Aghast at the act he had unintentionally committed, Dick paused for a moment, unsure of what to do; he realized that King was seriously injured and that any attempts to save him would be pointless. He also noticed that Jerry and the Magus had successfully escaped from the bowling-green since he could see their figures sneaking along the edge of the hedge. He stopped hesitating. Turning his horse, he rode away slowly, hardly paying attention to the chase that threatened him.

"Every bullet has its billet," said Dick; "but little did I think that I really should turn poor Tom's executioner. To the devil with this rascally snapper," cried he, throwing the pistol over the hedge. "I could never have used it again. 'Tis strange, too, that he should have foretold his own fate—devilish strange! And then that he should have been betrayed by the very blowen he trusted! that's a lesson, if I wanted any. But trust a woman!—not I, the length of my little finger."

"Every bullet has its target," said Dick; "but I never thought I would actually become poor Tom's executioner. To hell with this damn gun," he shouted, tossing the pistol over the hedge. "I could never have used it again. It's strange, too, that he predicted his own fate—devilishly strange! And then to be betrayed by the very woman he trusted! That's a lesson, if I needed one. But trust a woman! Not me, not even with the length of my pinky."


CHAPTER IV

THE HUE AND CRY

Six guys on the road Thus seeing Gilpin soar,
With the postman rushing behind, They raised the alarm:
Stop thief! Stop thief! A robber!
None of them were silent;
And everyone who passed by Joined in the pursuit.

John Gilpin.

John Gilpin.

Arrived at the brow of the hill, whence such a beautiful view of the country surrounding the metropolis is obtained,[109] Turpin turned for an instant to reconnoitre his pursuers. Coates and Titus he utterly disregarded; but Paterson was a more formidable foe, and he well knew that he had to deal with a man of experience and resolution. It was then, for the[378] first time, that the thoughts of executing his extraordinary ride to York first flashed across him; his bosom throbbed high with rapture, and he involuntarily exclaimed aloud, as he raised himself in the saddle, "By God! I will do it!"

Reaching the top of the hill, where a stunning view of the area around the city unfolds,[109] Turpin paused for a moment to look back at his pursuers. He completely ignored Coates and Titus, but Paterson was a more serious threat. He knew he was up against someone experienced and determined. It was then, for the first time, that the idea of making his incredible ride to York crossed his mind; his heart raced with excitement, and he couldn’t help but shout out as he straightened up in the saddle, "By God! I will do it!"

He took one last look at the great Babel that lay buried in a world of trees beneath him; and as his quick eye ranged over the magnificent prospect, lit up by that gorgeous sunset, he could not help thinking of Tom King's last words. "Poor fellow!" thought Dick, "he said truly. He will never see another sunset." Aroused by the approaching clatter of his pursuers, Dick struck into a lane which lies on the right of the road, now called Shoot-up-hill Lane, and set off at a good pace in the direction of Hampstead.

He took one last look at the great Babel buried in a world of trees below him; and as his sharp eye scanned the stunning view, illuminated by that beautiful sunset, he couldn’t help but think of Tom King's last words. "Poor guy!" thought Dick, "he was right. He’ll never see another sunset." Startled by the noise of his pursuers getting closer, Dick turned into a lane on the right of the road, now called Shoot-up-hill Lane, and started off at a fast pace toward Hampstead.

"Now," cried Paterson, "put your tits to it, my boys. We must not lose sight of him for a second in these lanes."

"Now," yelled Paterson, "let’s hustle, guys. We can't lose track of him for even a second in these narrow streets."

Accordingly, as Turpin was by no means desirous of inconveniencing his mare in this early stage of the business, and as the ground was still upon an ascent, the parties preserved their relative distances.

Accordingly, since Turpin definitely didn't want to inconvenience his mare at this early stage of things, and since the ground was still going uphill, the groups kept their relative distances.

At length, after various twistings and turnings in that deep and devious lane; after scaring one or two farmers, and riding over a brood or two of ducks; dipping into the verdant valley of West End, and ascending another hill, Turpin burst upon the gorsy, sandy, and beautiful heath of Hampstead. Shaping his course to the left, Dick then made for the lower part of the heath, and skirted a path that leads towards North End, passing the furze-crowned summit which is now crested by a clump of lofty pines.

Eventually, after navigating the twists and turns of that deep and winding lane; after startling a couple of farmers and riding over a few ducklings; dipping into the green valley of West End, and climbing another hill, Turpin emerged onto the gorsy, sandy, and stunning heath of Hampstead. Turning to the left, Dick then headed for the lower part of the heath and followed a path leading towards North End, passing the furze-covered peak now topped with a cluster of tall pines.

It was here that the chase first assumed a character of interest. Being open ground, the pursued and pursuers were in full view of each other; and as Dick rode swiftly across the heath, with the shouting trio hard at his heels, the scene had a very animated appearance. He crossed the hill—the Hendon Road—passed Crackskull Common—and dashed along the cross road to Highgate.[379]

It was here that the chase became intriguing. Being open land, both the person being chased and those chasing were clearly visible to each other; and as Dick rode quickly across the heath, with the shouting trio right behind him, the scene looked very lively. He crossed the hill—the Hendon Road—passed Crackskull Common—and sped down the crossroad to Highgate.[379]

Hitherto no advantage had been gained by the pursuers; they had not lost ground, but still they had not gained an inch, and much spurring was required to maintain their position. As they approached Highgate, Dick slackened his pace, and the other party redoubled their efforts. To avoid the town, Dick struck into a narrow path at the right, and rode easily down the hill.

So far, the pursuers hadn’t gained any ground; they hadn’t lost any either, but they weren’t getting any closer, and it took a lot of urging to keep their position. As they got near Highgate, Dick slowed down, and the other group put in more effort. To steer clear of the town, Dick took a narrow path to the right and rode down the hill at an easy pace.

His pursuers were now within a hundred yards, and shouted to him to stand. Pointing to a gate which seemed to bar their further progress, Dick unhesitatingly charged it, clearing it in beautiful style. Not so with Coates's party; and the time they lost in unfastening the gate, which none of them chose to leap, enabled Dick to put additional space betwixt them. It did not, however, appear to be his intention altogether to outstrip his pursuers: the chase seemed to give him excitement, which he was willing to prolong as much as was consistent with his safety. Scudding rapidly past Highgate, like a swift-sailing schooner, with three lumbering Indiamen in her wake, Dick now took the lead along a narrow lane that threads the fields in the direction of Hornsey. The shouts of his followers had brought others to join them, and as he neared Crouch End, traversing the lane which takes its name from Du-Val, and in which a house frequented by that gayest of robbers stands, or stood, "A highwayman! a highwayman!" rang in his ears, in a discordant chorus of many voices.

His pursuers were now within a hundred yards and shouted for him to stop. Pointing to a gate blocking their way, Dick charged at it without hesitation, clearing it with style. Coates's group was not so lucky; their delay in unfastening the gate—none of them willing to jump over it—allowed Dick to increase the distance between them. However, it didn’t seem like he intended to completely lose his pursuers; the chase seemed to excite him, and he was willing to stretch it out as long as it was safe. Zooming past Highgate like a fast schooner leaving three bulky Indiamen behind, Dick took the lead down a narrow lane through the fields toward Hornsey. The shouts from his followers drew in more people to join them, and as he neared Crouch End, traveling along the lane named after Du-Val, where a house once frequented by that flamboyant robber stood, he heard a loud and chaotic chorus of voices yelling, "A highwayman! A highwayman!"

The whole neighborhood was alarmed by the cries, and by the tramp of horses: the men of Hornsey rushed into the road to seize the fugitive, and women held up their babes to catch a glimpse of the flying cavalcade, which seemed to gain number and animation as it advanced. Suddenly three horsemen appear in the road—they hear the uproar and the din. "A highwayman! a highwayman!" cry the voices: "stop him, stop him!" But it is no such easy matter. With a pistol in each hand, and his bridle in his teeth, Turpin passed boldly on. His fierce looks—his furious steed—the impetus[380] with which he pressed forward, bore down all before him. The horsemen gave way, and only served to swell the list of his pursuers.

The whole neighborhood was stirred by the shouts and the sound of hooves: the men of Hornsey rushed into the street to catch the fugitive, while women lifted their babies to catch a glimpse of the fleeing riders, who seemed to grow in number and excitement as they moved forward. Suddenly, three horsemen appeared in the road—they heard the commotion and the noise. "A highwayman! A highwayman!" shouted the voices: "Stop him, stop him!" But it wasn't that simple. With a pistol in each hand and his reins in his teeth, Turpin charged ahead fearlessly. His fierce expression—his wild horse—the force with which he surged forward, pushed everyone aside. The horsemen yielded, only adding to the throng of his pursuers.

"We have him now—we have him now!" cried Paterson, exultingly. "Shout for your lives. The turnpike man will hear us. Shout again—again! The fellow has heard it. The gate is shut. We have him. Ha, ha!"

"We've got him now—we've got him now!" yelled Paterson, excitedly. "Shout for your lives. The tollbooth guy will hear us. Shout again—again! The guy has heard it. The gate is closed. We've got him. Ha, ha!"

The old Hornsey toll-bar was a high gate, with chevaux-de-frise on the upper rail. It may be so still. The gate was swung into its lock, and, like a tiger in his lair, the prompt custodian of the turnpike trusts, ensconced within his doorway, held himself in readiness to spring upon the runaway. But Dick kept steadily on. He coolly calculated the height of the gate; he looked to the right and to the left—nothing better offered; he spoke a few words of encouragement to Bess, gently patted her neck, then struck his spurs into her sides, and cleared the spikes by an inch. Out rushed the amazed turnpike man, thus unmercifully bilked, and was nearly trampled to death under the feet of Paterson's horse.

The old Hornsey toll gate was a tall barrier, with spikes on the upper rail. It might still be that way. The gate was locked in place, and like a tiger in its den, the eager tollkeeper, settled in his doorway, was ready to pounce on anyone trying to escape without paying. But Dick kept going. He calmly assessed the height of the gate, checked both sides—nothing better seemed to present itself; he offered a few words of encouragement to Bess, gently patted her neck, then spurred her sides and jumped over the spikes by an inch. The astonished tollkeeper rushed out, cheated out of his fee, and nearly got trampled by Paterson's horse.

"Open the gate, fellow, and be expeditious," shouted the chief constable.

"Open the gate, man, and be quick," shouted the chief constable.

"Not I," said the man, sturdily, "unless I gets my dues. I've been done once already. But strike me stupid if I'm done a second time."

"Not me," said the man firmly, "unless I get what I deserve. I've been taken advantage of once before. But I’ll be damned if it happens to me again."

"Don't you perceive that's a highwayman? Don't you know that I'm chief constable of Westminster?" said Paterson, showing his staff. "How dare you oppose me in the discharge of my duty?"

"Don't you see that's a highway robber? Don't you know I'm the chief of police for Westminster?" said Paterson, holding up his baton. "How dare you stand in my way while I'm doing my job?"

"That may be, or it may not be," said the man, doggedly. "But you don't pass, unless I gets the blunt, and that's the long and short on it."

"That might be true, or it might not," said the man stubbornly. "But you don’t get through unless I get the cash, and that’s all there is to it."

Amidst a storm of oaths, Coates flung down a crown piece, and the gate was thrown open.

Amid a flurry of curses, Coates threw down a gold coin, and the gate swung open.

Turpin took advantage of this delay to breathe his mare; and, striking into a by-lane at Duckett's Green, cantered[381] easily along in the direction of Tottenham. Little repose was allowed him. Yelling like a pack of hounds in full cry, his pursuers were again at his heels. He had now to run the gauntlet of the long straggling town of Tottenham, and various were the devices of the populace to entrap him. The whole place was up in arms, shouting, screaming, running, dancing, and hurling every possible description of missile at the horse and her rider. Dick merrily responded to their clamor as he flew past, and laughed at the brickbats that were showered thick as hail, and quite as harmlessly, around him.

Turpin took advantage of the delay to rest his mare, and, taking a side street at Duckett's Green, he cantered easily toward Tottenham. He didn’t get much rest. Yelling like a pack of hounds on a chase, his pursuers were right behind him again. Now he had to navigate the long, sprawling town of Tottenham, where the locals were coming up with all sorts of ways to catch him. The whole place was in an uproar, shouting, screaming, running, dancing, and throwing every kind of object they could find at the horse and rider. Dick cheerfully answered their cries as he zoomed past, laughing at the bricks that rained down around him, thick as hail and just as harmless.

A few more miles' hard riding tired the volunteers, and before the chase reached Edmonton most of them were "nowhere." Here fresh relays were gathered, and a strong field was again mustered. John Gilpin himself could not have excited more astonishment amongst the good folks of Edmonton, than did our highwayman as he galloped through their town. Unlike the men of Tottenham, the mob received him with acclamations, thinking, no doubt, that, like "the citizens of famous London town," he rode for a wager. Presently, however, borne on the wings of the blast, came the cries of "Turpin! Dick Turpin!" and the hurrahs were changed to hootings; but such was the rate at which our highwayman rode, that no serious opposition could be offered to him.

A few more miles of hard riding wore out the volunteers, and by the time the chase reached Edmonton, most of them were "nowhere." Here, fresh horses were gathered, and a strong group was assembled again. John Gilpin himself couldn’t have caused more surprise among the good people of Edmonton than our highwayman did as he raced through their town. Unlike the crowd in Tottenham, the people welcomed him with cheers, probably thinking, just like “the citizens of famous London town,” that he was racing for a bet. Soon enough, however, carried on the wind, came the shouts of "Turpin! Dick Turpin!" and the cheers turned into boos; but our highwayman was riding so fast that no serious opposition could be mounted against him.

A man in a donkey-cart, unable to get out of the way, drew himself up in the middle of the road. Turpin treated him as he had done the dub at the knapping jigger, and cleared the driver and his little wain with ease. This was a capital stroke, and well adapted to please the multitude, who are ever taken with a brilliant action. "Hark away, Dick!" resounded on all hands, while hisses were as liberally bestowed upon his pursuers.[382]

A man in a donkey cart, unable to move out of the way, positioned himself in the middle of the road. Turpin handled him just like he did the dub at the knapping jigger, easily clearing the driver and his small cart. This was a great move, and it really impressed the crowd, who always appreciate a flashy act. "Hark away, Dick!" echoed all around, while hisses were generously directed at his pursuers.[382]


CHAPTER V

THE SHORT PIPE

The Peons are capital horsemen, and several times we saw them, at a gallop, throw the rein on the horse's neck, take from one pocket a bag of loose tobacco, and, with a piece of paper, or a leaf of Indian corn, make a cigar, and then take out a flint and steel and light it.

The Peons are great horsemen, and multiple times we saw them, while galloping, throw the reins over the horse's neck, pull out a bag of loose tobacco from one pocket, and, using a piece of paper or a corn leaf, roll a cigar, then take out a flint and steel to light it.

Head's Rough Notes.

Principal's Rough Notes.

Away they fly past scattered cottages, swiftly and skimmingly, like eagles on the wing, along the Enfield highway. All were well mounted, and the horses, now thoroughly warmed, had got into their paces, and did their work beautifully. None of Coates's party lost ground, but they maintained it at the expense of their steeds, which were streaming like water-carts, while Black Bess had scarcely turned a hair.

Away they soar past scattered cottages, quickly and gracefully, like eagles in flight, along the Enfield highway. Everyone was well-mounted, and the horses, now fully warmed up, had found their stride and performed wonderfully. None of Coates's party fell behind, but they did so at the cost of their horses, which were sweating heavily, while Black Bess hardly seemed affected.

Turpin, the reader already knows, was a crack rider; he was the crack rider of England of his time, and, perhaps, of any time. The craft and mystery of jockeyship was not so well understood in the eighteenth as it is in the nineteenth century; men treated their horses differently, and few rode them as well as many ride now, when every youngster takes to the field as naturally as if he had been bred a Guacho. Dick Turpin was a glorious exception to the rule, and anticipated a later age. He rode wonderfully lightly, yet sat his saddle to perfection, distributing the weight so exquisitely that his horse scarcely felt his pressure; he yielded to every movement made by the animal, and became, as it were, part and parcel of itself; he took care Bess should be neither strained nor wrung. Freely, and as lightly as a feather, was she borne along; beautiful was it to see her action—to watch her style and temper[383] of covering the ground; and many a first-rate Meltonian might have got a wrinkle from Turpin's seat and conduct.

Turpin, as you already know, was an amazing rider; he was the best rider in England of his time, and probably of any time. People didn’t understand the skill and secrets of being a jockey as well in the eighteenth century as in the nineteenth; men treated their horses differently, and few rode them as well as many do now, when every kid jumps into the saddle as if they were born to it. Dick Turpin was a fantastic exception to the norm, and he foreshadowed a later age. He rode incredibly lightly but settled perfectly in his saddle, distributing his weight so expertly that his horse hardly felt his touch; he responded to every movement of the animal and became, in a sense, part of it; he made sure Bess was neither strained nor forced. She moved freely and lightly like a feather; it was beautiful to watch her stride and style in covering the ground; and many a top-notch Melton rider could have learned a thing or two from Turpin's technique and poise.

We have before stated that it was not Dick's object to ride away from his pursuers—he could have done that at any moment. He liked the fun of the chase, and would have been sorry to put a period to his own excitement. Confident in his mare, he just kept her at such speed as should put his pursuers completely to it, without in the slightest degree inconveniencing himself. Some judgment of the speed at which they went may be formed, when we state that little better than an hour had elapsed and nearly twenty miles had been ridden over. "Not bad travelling that," methinks we hear the reader exclaim.

We already mentioned that Dick wasn’t trying to ride away from his pursuers—he could have done that anytime. He enjoyed the thrill of the chase and would have regretted ending his own excitement. Confident in his mare, he kept her at a speed that would completely challenge his pursuers, without making it difficult for himself. You can get an idea of their speed when we say that just over an hour had passed and they had covered nearly twenty miles. "Not bad traveling that," we can imagine the reader saying.

"By the mother that bore me," said Titus, as they went along in this slapping style—Titus, by-the-by, rode a big, Roman-nosed, powerful horse, well adapted to his weight, but which required a plentiful exercise both of leg and arm to call forth all his action, and keep his rider alongside his companions—"by the mother that bore me," said he, almost thumping the wind out of his flea-bitten Bucephalus with his calves, after the Irish fashion, "if the fellow isn't lighting his pipe! I saw the sparks fly on each side of him, and there he goes like a smoky chimney on a frosty morning! See, he turns his impudent phiz, with the pipe in his mouth! Are we to stand that, Mr. Coates?"

"By the mother who gave me life," said Titus, as they continued with this slapping style—Titus, by the way, rode a big, strong horse with a Roman nose, well suited to his size, but it required a lot of leg and arm work to get him moving and keep up with his friends—"by the mother who gave me life," he said, almost knocking the wind out of his flea-bitten Bucephalus with his calves, in an Irish manner, "if that guy isn't lighting his pipe! I saw sparks flying beside him, and there he goes like a smoky chimney on a cold morning! Look, he turns his cheeky face with the pipe in his mouth! Are we really just going to accept that, Mr. Coates?"

"Wait awhile, sir—wait awhile," said Coates; "we'll smoke him by-and-by."

"Hold on a second, sir—hold on a second," said Coates; "we'll get to him soon enough."

Pæans have been sung in honor of the Peons of the Pampas by the Headlong Sir Francis; but what the gallant major extols so loudly in the South American horsemen, viz., the lighting of a cigar when in mid career, was accomplished with equal ease by our English highwayman a hundred years ago, nor was it esteemed by him any extravagant feat either. Flint, steel, and tinder were bestowed within Dick's ample pouch, the short pipe was at hand, and within a few seconds there was a stream[384] of vapor exhaling from his lips, like the smoke from a steamboat shooting down the river, and tracking his still rapid course through the air.

Praises have been sung in honor of the Peons of the Pampas by the Headlong Sir Francis; but what the brave major praises so highly in the South American horsemen, specifically the lighting of a cigar while in full gallop, was done just as easily by our English highwayman a hundred years ago, and he did not consider it an impressive feat either. Flint, steel, and tinder were kept handy in Dick's large pouch, the short pipe was ready, and within seconds, a stream[384] of smoke was coming from his lips, like the smoke from a steamboat racing down the river, and following his still swift path through the air.

"I'll let 'em see what I think of 'em!" said Dick, coolly, as he turned his head.

"I'll show them what I really think!" said Dick, calmly, as he turned his head.

It was now gray twilight. The mists of coming night were weaving a thin curtain over the rich surrounding landscape. All the sounds and hum of that delicious hour were heard, broken only by the regular clatter of the horses' hoofs. Tired of shouting, the chasers now kept on their way in deep silence; each man held his breath, and plunged his spurs, rowel deep, into his horse; but the animals were already at the top of their speed, and incapable of greater exertion. Paterson, who was a hard rider, and perhaps a thought better mounted, kept the lead. The rest followed as they might.

It was now a gray twilight. The mists of the approaching night were weaving a thin veil over the lush surrounding landscape. All the sounds and buzz of that beautiful hour could be heard, interrupted only by the regular clatter of the horses' hooves. Tired of shouting, the hunters continued on in deep silence; each man held his breath and dug his spurs deep into his horse, but the animals were already at their top speed and couldn't push harder. Paterson, who was a skilled rider and possibly on a slightly better horse, took the lead. The others followed as best they could.

Had it been undisturbed by the rush of the cavalcade, the scene would have been still and soothing. Overhead a cloud of rooks were winging their garrulous flight to the ancestral avenue of an ancient mansion to the right; the bat was on the wing; the distant lowing of a herd of kine saluted the ear at intervals; the blithe whistle of the rustic herdsman, and the merry chime of waggon bells, rang pleasantly from afar. But these cheerful sounds, which make the still twilight hour delightful, were lost in the tramp of the horsemen, now three abreast. The hind fled to the hedge for shelter, and the waggoner pricked up his ears, and fancied he heard the distant rumbling of an earthquake.

Had it not been interrupted by the rush of the parade, the scene would have been calm and relaxing. Above, a flock of crows was fluttering noisily toward the old path leading to a historic mansion on the right; bats were flying around; and the distant mooing of cattle could be heard at intervals. The joyful whistle of the local herdsman and the cheerful ringing of wagon bells sounded nice from a distance. But these pleasant sounds that make the quiet twilight hour enjoyable were drowned out by the thudding of the horsemen, now riding three side by side. The peasant ran to the hedge for cover, and the wagon driver perked up his ears, thinking he heard the far-off rumble of an earthquake.

On rush the pack, whipping, spurring, tugging for very life. Again they gave voice, in hopes the waggoner might succeed in stopping the fugitive. But Dick was already by his side. "Harkee, my tulip," cried he, taking the pipe from his mouth as he passed, "tell my friends behind they will hear of me at York."

Onward rushed the group, urging, pushing, and pulling for their lives. Once more, they shouted, hoping the driver could catch the runaway. But Dick was already beside him. "Hey, my friend," he called, taking the pipe from his mouth as he moved past, "tell my friends behind that they'll hear about me in York."

"What did he say?" asked Paterson, coming up the next moment.[385]

"What did he say?" Paterson asked, coming over a moment later.[385]

"That you'll find him at York," replied the waggoner.

"That you'll find him in York," replied the truck driver.

"At York!" echoed Coates, in amaze.

"At York!" shouted Coates, in disbelief.

Turpin was now out of sight, and although our trio flogged with might and main, they could never catch a glimpse of him until, within a short distance of Ware, they beheld him at the door of a little public house, standing with his bridle in his hand, coolly quaffing a tankard of ale. No sooner were they in sight, than Dick vaulted into the saddle, and rode off.

Turpin was now out of sight, and even though our trio was giving it their all, they couldn't catch a glimpse of him until, just a short distance from Ware, they saw him at the door of a small pub, standing with his bridle in his hand and casually sipping a tankard of ale. As soon as they were in sight, Dick jumped into the saddle and rode away.

"Devil seize you, sir! why didn't you stop him?" exclaimed Paterson, as he rode up. "My horse is dead lame. I cannot go any further. Do you know what a prize you have missed? Do you know who that was?"

"Devil take you, sir! Why didn't you stop him?" Paterson shouted as he rode up. "My horse is dead lame. I can't go any further. Do you have any idea what a prize you just let slip? Do you know who that was?"

"No, sir, I don't," said the publican. "But I know he gave his mare more ale than he took himself, and he has given me a guinea instead of a shilling. He's a regular good 'un."

"No, sir, I don't," said the pub owner. "But I know he gave his horse more ale than he drank himself, and he gave me a guinea instead of a shilling. He's a real standout."

"A good 'un!" said Paterson; "it was Turpin, the notorious highwayman. We are in pursuit of him. Have you any horses? our cattle are all blown."

"A good one!" said Paterson; "it's Turpin, the infamous highway robber. We're chasing him. Do you have any horses? Our mounts are all worn out."

"You'll find the post-house in the town, gentlemen. I'm sorry I can't accommodate you. But I keeps no stabling. I wish you a very good evening, sir." Saying which, the publican retreated to his domicile.

"You'll find the inn in town, gentlemen. I’m sorry I can’t help you. But I don’t have any stabling. I wish you a very good evening, sir." With that, the pub owner went back inside his place.

"That's a flash crib, I'll be bound," said Paterson. "I'll chalk you down, my friend, you may rely upon it. Thus far we're done, Mr. Coates. But curse me if I give it in. I'll follow him to the world's end first."

"That's a flashy place, I bet," said Paterson. "I’ll make a note of it, my friend, you can count on that. So far, we've covered this, Mr. Coates. But I swear I won't let it go. I’ll chase him to the ends of the earth first."

"Right, sir—right," said the attorney. "A very proper spirit, Mr. Constable. You would be guilty of neglecting your duty were you to act otherwise. You must recollect my father, Mr. Paterson—Christopher, or Kit Coates; a name as well known at the Old Bailey as Jonathan Wild's. You recollect him—eh?"

"Sure, sir—sure," said the lawyer. "That's a very proper attitude, Mr. Constable. You would be neglecting your duty if you acted any differently. You should remember my father, Mr. Paterson—Christopher, or Kit Coates; a name just as famous at the Old Bailey as Jonathan Wild's. You remember him—right?"

"Perfectly well, sir," replied the chief constable.[386]

"Absolutely, sir," replied the chief constable.[386]

"The greatest thief-taker, though I say it," continued Coates, "on record. I inherit all his zeal—all his ardor. Come along, sir. We shall have a fine moon in an hour—bright as day. To the post-house! to the post-house!"

"The best thief-catcher, if I do say so myself," Coates continued, "on record. I’ve inherited all his enthusiasm—all his passion. Come on, sir. We’ll have a beautiful moon in an hour—bright as day. To the post-house! To the post-house!"

Accordingly to the post-house they went; and, with as little delay as circumstances admitted, fresh hacks being procured, accompanied by a postilion, the party again pursued their onward course, encouraged to believe they were still in the right scent.

Accordingly, they went to the post-house; and, with as little delay as the situation allowed, they got fresh carriages, along with a driver, and the group continued on their way, feeling confident they were still on the right track.

Night had now spread her mantle over the earth; still it was not wholly dark. A few stars were twinkling in the deep, cloudless heavens, and a pearly radiance in the eastern horizon heralded the rising of the orb of night. A gentle breeze was stirring; the dews of evening had already fallen; and the air felt bland and dry. It was just the night one would have chosen for a ride, if one ever rode by choice at such an hour; and to Turpin, whose chief excursions were conducted by night, it appeared little less than heavenly.

Night had now covered the earth; still, it wasn't completely dark. A few stars were twinkling in the clear, deep sky, and a soft glow on the eastern horizon signaled the arrival of the moon. A gentle breeze was blowing; the evening dew had already settled, and the air felt mild and dry. It was just the kind of night someone would want for a ride, if anyone ever chose to ride at this hour; and for Turpin, whose main outings happened at night, it felt nothing short of divine.

Full of ardor and excitement, determined to execute what he had mentally undertaken, Turpin held on his solitary course. Everything was favorable to his project; the roads were in admirable condition, his mare was in like order; she was inured to hard work, had rested sufficiently in town to recover from the fatigue of her recent journey, and had never been in more perfect training. "She has now got her wind in her," said Dick; "I'll see what she can do—hark away, lass—hark away! I wish they could see her now," added he, as he felt her almost fly away with him.

Filled with enthusiasm and excitement, determined to carry out his plans, Turpin stayed on his lone path. Everything was right for his mission; the roads were in excellent shape, and his mare was also in great condition; she was used to hard work, had rested enough in town to recover from the fatigue of her recent journey, and had never been in better shape. "She’s really got her breath back now," said Dick; "let’s see what she can do—go on, girl—go on! I wish they could see her now," he added, feeling her nearly take off with him.

Encouraged by her master's voice and hand, Black Bess started forward at a pace which few horses could have equalled, and scarcely any have sustained so long. Even Dick, accustomed as he was to her magnificent action, felt electrified at the speed with which he was borne along. "Bravo! bravo!" shouted he, "hark away, Bess!"[387]

Encouraged by her owner's voice and hand, Black Bess took off at a speed that few horses could match, and hardly any could maintain for so long. Even Dick, who was used to her incredible stride, felt thrilled by the pace at which he was moving. "Bravo! Bravo!" he shouted, "Go for it, Bess!"[387]

The deep and solemn woods through which they were rushing rang with his shouts, and the sharp rattle of Bess's hoofs; and thus he held his way, while, in the words of the ballad,

The deep and serious woods they were speeding through echoed with his shouts and the sharp clatter of Bess's hooves; and so he continued on his path, while, in the words of the ballad,

Rushed past, on both sides, so quickly,
Every forest, grove, and bower; On the right and left, things rushed by so quickly, Every city, town, and tower.

CHAPTER VI

BLACK BESS

Dauphin. I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns. Ca, ha! He bounds from the earth as if his entrails were hairs; le cheval volant, the Pegasus qui a les narines de feu! When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.

Dauphin. I won’t swap my horse for any that walks on anything but four legs. Ha! He jumps from the ground as if his insides were made of springs; the flying horse, the Pegasus with fiery nostrils! When I ride him, I feel like I’m soaring, like a hawk: he gallops through the air; the earth sings when he steps on it; even the smallest part of his hoof is more melodious than Hermes' pipe.

Shakespeare: Henry V., Act III.

Shakespeare: Henry V, Act III.

Black Bess being undoubtedly the heroine of the Fourth Book of this Romance, we may, perhaps, be pardoned for expatiating a little in this place upon her birth, parentage, breeding, appearance, and attractions. And first as to her pedigree; for in the horse, unlike the human species, nature has strongly impressed the noble or ignoble caste. He is the real aristocrat, and the pure blood that flows in the veins of the gallant steed will infallibly be transmitted, if his mate be suitable, throughout all his line. Bess was no cock-tail. She was thorough-bred; she boasted blood in every bright and branching vein:

Black Bess is definitely the main character in the Fourth Book of this story, so we can probably take a moment here to talk about her background, lineage, upbringing, looks, and charm. First, let’s discuss her lineage; in horses, unlike humans, nature clearly shows whether they come from noble or common stock. They are the true aristocrats, and the pure blood flowing through the veins of a noble horse will definitely be passed down, provided his mate is appropriate, throughout all his descendants. Bess was no mixed breed. She was thoroughbred; she had exceptional lineage in every bright and branching vein:

If blood can grant nobility,
She was a noble horse; Her father was of noble lineage, and her mother was too,
And all her background.

[388]As to her pedigree. Her sire was a desert Arab, renowned in his day, and brought to this country by a wealthy traveller; her dam was an English racer, coal-black as her child. Bess united all the fire and gentleness, the strength and hardihood, the abstinence and endurance of fatigue of the one, with the spirit and extraordinary fleetness of the other. How Turpin became possessed of her is of little consequence. We never heard that he paid a heavy price for her; though we doubt if any sum would have induced him to part with her. In color, she was perfectly black, with a skin smooth on the surface as polished jet; not a single white hair could be detected in her satin coat. In make she was magnificent. Every point was perfect, beautiful, compact; modelled, in little, for strength and speed. Arched was her neck, as that of the swan; clean and fine were her lower limbs, as those of the gazelle; round and sound as a drum was her carcase, and as broad as a cloth-yard shaft her width of chest. Hers were the "pulchræ clunes, breve caput, arduaque cervix," of the Roman bard. There was no redundancy of flesh, 'tis true; her flanks might, to please some tastes, have been rounder, and her shoulders fuller; but look at the nerve and sinew, palpable through the veined limbs! She was built more for strength than beauty, and yet she was beautiful. Look at that elegant little head; those thin, tapering ears, closely placed together; that broad, snorting nostril, which seems to snuff the gale with disdain; that eye, glowing and large as the diamond of Giamschid! Is she not beautiful? Behold her paces! how gracefully she moves! She is off!—no eagle on the wing could skim the air more swiftly. Is she not superb? As to her temper, the lamb is not more gentle. A child might guide her.

[388]Regarding her background, her father was a famous desert Arabian horse, brought to this country by a wealthy traveler; her mother was an English racer, as coal-black as her offspring. Bess combined all the fire and gentleness, strength and resilience, self-control, and ability to withstand fatigue of one with the spirit and incredible speed of the other. How Turpin came to own her isn't particularly important. We've never heard that he paid a hefty price for her, although we believe no amount of money would have made him part with her. She was perfectly black, with a smooth coat as shiny as polished jet; there wasn't a single white hair visible in her satin coat. In build, she was magnificent. Every feature was perfect, beautiful, compact; crafted, in miniature, for strength and speed. Her neck was arched, like that of a swan; her lower limbs were clean and graceful, like those of a gazelle; her body was round and solid like a drum, and her chest was as broad as a yardstick. She embodied the "pulchræ clunes, breve caput, arduaque cervix" of the Roman poet. There was no excess flesh, it's true; her flanks might have been rounder and her shoulders fuller to satisfy some preferences; but just look at the muscle and sinew visible through her veined legs! She was more built for strength than beauty, yet she was beautiful. Look at that elegant little head; those slim, pointed ears, closely positioned together; that broad, flaring nostril that seems to disdainfully sniff the breeze; that eye, shining and large as a diamond! Isn't she beautiful? Look at her strides! How gracefully she moves! She's off!—no eagle in flight could glide through the air any faster. Isn't she superb? As for her temperament, a lamb is not more gentle. A child could lead her.

But hark back to Dick Turpin. We left him rattling along in superb style, and in the highest possible glee. He could not, in fact, be otherwise than exhilarated; nothing being so wildly intoxicating as a mad gallop. We seem to start out of[389] ourselves—to be endued, for the time, with new energies. Our thoughts take wings rapid as our steed. We feel as if his fleetness and boundless impulses were for the moment our own. We laugh; we exult; we shout for very joy. We cry out with Mephistopheles, but in anything but a sardonic mood, "What I enjoy with spirit, is it the less my own on that account? If I can pay for six horses, are not their powers mine! I drive along, and am a proper man, as if I had four-and-twenty legs!" These were Turpin's sentiments precisely. Give him four legs and a wide plain, and he needed no Mephistopheles to bid him ride to perdition as fast as his nag could carry him. Away, away!—the road is level, the path is clear. Press on, thou gallant steed, no obstacle is in thy way!—and, lo! the moon breaks forth! Her silvery light is thrown over the woody landscape. Dark shadows are cast athwart the road, and the flying figures of thy rider and thyself are traced, like giant phantoms, in the dust!

But let's go back to Dick Turpin. We left him speeding along in style and in the highest spirits. He couldn't help but feel exhilarated; nothing is quite as intoxicating as a wild ride. We feel like we’re being lifted out of ourselves—endowed, for the moment, with new energy. Our thoughts race as fast as our horse. We feel as if his speed and endless energy are ours. We laugh, we celebrate, we shout with pure joy. We exclaim with Mephistopheles, but in anything but a sarcastic mood, "What I enjoy with spirit, is it any less mine? If I can afford six horses, aren't their powers mine? I ride along and feel like a real man, as if I had twenty-four legs!" Those were exactly Turpin's thoughts. Give him four legs and a wide open space, and he didn't need Mephistopheles to urge him to ride to his doom as fast as his horse could take him. Away, away!—the road is flat, the path is clear. Go on, brave steed, nothing stands in your way!—and look! the moon shines brightly! Its silvery light spreads over the wooded landscape. Dark shadows are cast across the road, and the rushing figures of you and your rider appear, like giant shadows, in the dust!

Away, away! our breath is gone in keeping up with this tremendous run. Yet Dick Turpin has not lost his wind, for we hear his cheering cry—hark! he sings. The reader will bear in mind that Oliver means the moon—to "whiddle" is to blab.

Away, away! we're out of breath trying to keep up with this incredible run. But Dick Turpin hasn’t lost his stamina; we can hear his enthusiastic shout—listen! he’s singing. The reader should remember that Oliver is referring to the moon—“whiddle” means to gossip.

OLIVER WHIDDLES!

OLIVER WHIDDLES!

Oliver whittles—the old gossip!
Saying what was better left unsaid.
Oliver was never a friend of mine;
All the lights I hate that shine so brightly. Give me a night as dark as hell, and then
Check out what I'm about to show you, my cheerful companions.
Oliver whittles!—who cares—who cares,
What if he looks down at us and stares? Pay attention to him who will, with his large white face,
Boldly I'll ride past his light to the chase; Give him a Rowland, as loud as ever. Shout, as I reveal myself, "Stop and hand it over!"

[390]"Egad," soliloquized Dick, as he concluded his song, looking up at the moon. "Old Noll's no bad fellow, either. I wouldn't be without his white face to-night for a trifle. He's as good as a lamp to guide one, and let Bess only hold on as she goes now, and I'll do it with ease. Softly, wench, softly—dost not see it's a hill we're rising. The devil's in the mare, she cares for nothing." And as they ascended the hill, Dick's voice once more awoke the echoes of night.

[390]"Wow," Dick mused as he finished his song, gazing up at the moon. "Old Noll's not a bad guy, either. I wouldn’t trade his white face for anything tonight. He’s like a lamp guiding the way, and if Bess just keeps going like this, I’ll manage just fine. Easy there, girl, easy—can’t you see we’re going uphill? The mare’s got a mind of her own; she doesn’t care about anything." And as they climbed the hill, Dick's voice once again stirred the echoes of the night.

WILL DAVIES AND DICK TURPIN

Will Davies and Dick Turpin

Hodiè mihi, cràs tibi.—Saint Augustin.

Today for me, tomorrow for you.—Saint Augustin.

One night, while riding my mare,
I went to Bagshot Heath,
And saw Will Davies hanging there,
On the cold and empty gallows,
With a rusty, dusty, musty vibe!
Within his chains, bold Will appeared blue,
His sword and snappers were gone too,
Which served their master faithfully and well; I said, "Will Davies, how are you?" With your rusty, dusty, musty vibe!"
He says, "Dick Turpin, here I am,
On the gallows, as you can see; I take it easy; You'll have your turn just like I will, With your whistle at me, gun at me, threatening me!
I said, "That's very true, my friend;
In the meantime, with a pistol and on a horse, I'm pretty happy with how things are right now,
And don’t pay any attention to the gibbet!
With its rustic, old-fashioned, musty vibe!

"Poor Will Davies!" sighed Dick; "Bagshot ought never to forget him."[110][391]

"Poor Will Davies!" sighed Dick; "Bagshot should never forget him."[110][391]

Bagshot will never see again
A highwayman of that level,
Looks and refinement, As Will, who is hanging on the tree,
With his old-fashioned, worn-out, musty vibe!

"Well," mused Turpin, "I suppose one day it will be with me like all the rest of 'em, and that I shall dance a long lavolta to the music of the four whistling winds, as my betters have done before me; but I trust, whenever the chanter-culls and last-speech scribblers get hold of me, they'll at least put no cursed nonsense into my mouth, but make me speak, as I have ever felt, like a man who never either feared death, or turned his back upon his friend. In the mean time I'll give them something to talk about. This ride of mine shall ring in their ears long after I'm done for—put to bed with a mattock, and tucked up with a spade.

"Well," Turpin thought, "I guess one day it'll be the same for me as it is for everyone else, and I'll be dancing a long lavolta to the sound of the four whistling winds, just like those before me; but I hope that whenever the gossip writers and last speech scribblers get a hold of me, they won’t put any ridiculous words in my mouth, but let me speak, as I’ve always felt, like a man who never feared death or turned his back on a friend. In the meantime, I’ll give them something to talk about. This ride of mine will echo in their ears long after I’m gone—put to rest with a mattock and tucked in with a spade."

And when I’m gone, guys, each hunter will say,
No one rode like Dick Turpin, not even in a whole day.

And thou, too, brave Bess!—thy name shall be linked with mine, and we'll go down to posterity together; and what," added he, despondingly, "if it should be too much for thee? what if——but no matter! Better die now, while I am with thee, than fall into the knacker's hands. Better die with all thy honors upon thy head, than drag out thy old age at the sand-cart. Hark forward, lass—hark forward!"

And you too, brave Bess! Your name will be joined with mine, and we'll be remembered together; and what," he added sadly, "if it becomes too much for you? What if—but never mind! It's better to die now, while I'm with you, than to end up in the knacker's hands. It's better to die with all your honors intact than to spend your old age at the sand-cart. Keep going, girl—keep going!

By what peculiar instinct is it that this noble animal, the horse, will at once perceive the slightest change in his rider's physical temperament, and allow himself so to be influenced by it, that, according as his master's spirits fluctuate, will his own energies rise and fall, wavering

By what strange instinct does this noble animal, the horse, instantly notice even the slightest change in his rider's physical state, allowing himself to be influenced by it so that as his owner's mood shifts, his own energy goes up and down, fluctuating?

From walk to trot, from canter to full speed?

From walking to trotting, from cantering to full speed?

How is it, we ask of those more intimately acquainted with the metaphysics of the Houyhnhnm than we pretend to be?[392] Do the saddle or the rein convey, like metallic tractors, vibrations of the spirit betwixt the two? We know not, but this much is certain, that no servant partakes so much of the character of his master as the horse. The steed we are wont to ride becomes a portion of ourselves. He thinks and feels with us. As we are lively, he is sprightly; as we are depressed, his courage droops. In proof of this, let the reader see what horses some men make—make, we say, because in such hands their character is wholly altered. Partaking, in a measure, of the courage and the firmness of the hand that guides them, and of the resolution of the frame that sways them—what their rider wills, they do, or strive to do. When that governing power is relaxed, their energies are relaxed likewise; and their fine sensibilities supply them with an instant knowledge of the disposition and capacity of the rider. A gift of the gods is the gallant steed, which, like any other faculty we possess, to use or to abuse—to command or to neglect—rests with ourselves; he is the best general test of our own self-government.

How is it, we ask those who know the metaphysics of the Houyhnhnm better than we do?[392] Do saddles or reins transmit, like metal tractors, vibrations of the spirit between the two? We don’t know, but one thing is certain: no servant reflects the character of their master as much as a horse does. The horse we ride becomes part of us. He thinks and feels alongside us. When we’re energetic, he’s lively; when we’re down, his spirit droops. To prove this, let the reader observe the horses that some people create—create, because in their hands, the horse's character is completely transformed. They take on some of the courage and strength of the hand that guides them, as well as the determination of the rider. They do what their rider wants or strive to do it. When that controlling power relaxes, their energy relaxes too; and their keen sensibilities give them immediate insight into the rider's mood and abilities. The noble steed is a gift from the gods, which, like any other talent we have, can be used or abused—commanded or neglected—it’s up to us; he is the best general measurement of our own self-discipline.

Black Bess's action amply verified what we have just asserted; for during Turpin's momentary despondency, her pace was perceptibly diminished and her force retarded; but as he revived, she rallied instantly, and, seized apparently with a kindred enthusiasm, snorted joyously as she recovered her speed. Now was it that the child of the desert showed herself the undoubted offspring of the hardy loins from whence she sprung. Full fifty miles had she sped, yet she showed no symptoms of distress. If possible, she appeared fresher than when she started. She had breathed; her limbs were suppler; her action was freer, easier, lighter. Her sire, who, upon his trackless wilds, could have outstripped the pestilent simoom; and with throat unslaked, and hunger unappeased, could thrice have seen the scorching sun go down, had not greater powers of endurance. His vigor was her heritage. Her dam, who upon the velvet sod was of almost unapproachable swiftness, and who had often brought her owner golden assurances of her worth, could[393] scarce have kept pace with her, and would have sunk under a third of her fatigue. But Bess was a paragon. We ne'er shall look upon her like again, unless we can prevail upon some Bedouin chief to present us with a brood mare, and then the racing world shall see what a breed we will introduce into this country. Eclipse, Childers, or Hambletonian, shall be nothing to our colts, and even the railroad slow travelling, compared with the speed of our new nags!

Black Bess's actions clearly proved what we just mentioned; during Turpin's brief moment of despair, her speed noticeably decreased and her power weakened. But as he perked up, she immediately bounced back, seemingly filled with the same eagerness, and joyfully snorted as she picked up her speed. This was the moment when the child of the wild truly showed she was the undeniable descendant of her tough lineage. She had traveled a good fifty miles, and yet she showed no signs of strain. If anything, she looked more energized than when she had set off. She had caught her breath; her legs were more flexible; her movement was freer, easier, and lighter. Her father, who could have easily outrun the fierce desert wind in his uncharted wilderness, could have gone three times without water or food, and still watched the scorching sun set, had even greater endurance. His strength was her inheritance. Her mother, who could sprint with incredible speed on lush grass, and had often brought her owner valuable trophies, could hardly keep up with her, and would have collapsed after a third of her effort. But Bess was exceptional. We will never see her kind again, unless we can convince some Bedouin chief to give us a breeding mare, and then the racing world will witness the amazing breed we’ll bring to this country. Eclipse, Childers, or Hambletonian will pale in comparison to our colts, and even the railroad will seem slow next to the speed of our new horses!

But to return to Bess, or rather to go along with her, for there is no halting now; we are going at the rate of twenty knots an hour—sailing before the wind; and the reader must either keep pace with us, or drop astern. Bess is now in her speed, and Dick happy. Happy! he is enraptured—maddened—furious—intoxicated as with wine. Pshaw! wine could never throw him into such a burning delirium. Its choicest juices have no inspiration like this. Its fumes are slow and heady. This is ethereal, transporting. His blood spins through his veins; winds round his heart; mounts to his brain. Away! away! He is wild with joy. Hall, cot, tree, tower, glade, mead, waste, or woodland, are seen, passed, left behind, and vanish as in a dream. Motion is scarcely perceptible—it is impetus! volition! The horse and her rider are driven forward, as it were, by self-accelerated speed. A hamlet is visible in the moonlight. It is scarcely discovered ere the flints sparkle beneath the mare's hoofs. A moment's clatter upon the stones, and it is left behind. Again it is the silent, smiling country. Now they are buried in the darkness of woods; now sweeping along on the wide plain; now clearing the unopened toll-bar; now trampling over the hollow-sounding bridge, their shadows momently reflected in the placid mirror of the stream; now scaling the hill-side a thought more slowly; now plunging, as the horses of Phœbus into the ocean, down its precipitous sides.

But to go back to Bess, or rather to follow her, because there’s no stopping now; we’re moving at twenty knots an hour—sailing with the wind; and you either keep up with us or fall behind. Bess is at full speed, and Dick is thrilled. Thrilled! He’s captivated—driven mad—furious—intoxicated like he’s had too much to drink. Honestly! Wine could never push him into this kind of wild excitement. Its finest flavors don’t inspire like this. Its effects are slow and heavy. This is otherworldly, exhilarating. His blood rushes through his veins; it swirls around his heart; it lifts to his brain. Let’s go! He’s ecstatic with happiness. Houses, fields, trees, towers, clearings, meadows, wastelands, or forests are seen, passed by, left behind, and fade away like a dream. The movement is hardly noticeable—it’s pure momentum! willpower! The horse and her rider are propelled forward as if by some self-generating speed. A small village glimmers in the moonlight. It’s barely seen before the stones sparkle under the mare’s hooves. A quick clatter on the cobblestones, and it’s gone. Again, it’s the quiet, serene countryside. Now they’re enclosed in the dark woods; now speeding across the open plain; now passing through the unmanned toll gate; now thundering over the echoing bridge, their shadows briefly reflected in the calm water of the stream; now slowly climbing the hillside; now plunging down its steep slopes like the horses of Phoebus into the sea.

The limits of two shires are already past. They are within the confines of a third. They have entered the merry county[394] of Huntingdon; they have surmounted the gentle hill that slips into Godmanchester. They are by the banks of the rapid Ouse. The bridge is past; and as Turpin rode through the deserted streets of Huntingdon, he heard the eleventh hour given from the iron tongue of St. Mary's spire. In four hours—it was about seven when he started—Dick had accomplished full sixty miles!

The boundaries of two counties are already behind them. They are now in a third. They've entered the cheerful county[394] of Huntingdon; they’ve climbed the gentle hill that leads into Godmanchester. They’re by the banks of the fast-flowing Ouse. The bridge is behind them; and as Turpin rode through the empty streets of Huntingdon, he heard the eleventh hour chime from the iron bell of St. Mary's spire. In just four hours—it was about seven when he started—Dick had covered a full sixty miles!

A few reeling topers in the streets saw the horseman flit past, and one or two windows were thrown open; but Peeping Tom of Coventry would have had small chance of beholding the unveiled beauties of Queen Godiva had she ridden at the rate of Dick Turpin. He was gone, like a meteor, almost as soon as he appeared.

A few dazed drinkers in the streets saw the horseman dash by, and a couple of windows were opened; but Peeping Tom of Coventry wouldn’t have had much of a chance to see the uncovered beauty of Queen Godiva if she had been riding as fast as Dick Turpin. He was gone, like a shooting star, almost as soon as he showed up.

Huntingdon is left behind, and he is once more surrounded by dew-gemmed hedges and silent slumbering trees. Broad meadows, or pasture land, with drowsy cattle, or low bleating sheep, lie on either side. But what to Turpin, at that moment, is nature, animate or inanimate? He thinks only of his mare—his future fame. None are by to see him ride; no stimulating plaudits ring in his ears; no thousand hands are clapping; no thousand voices huzzaing; no handkerchiefs are waved; no necks strained; no bright eyes rain influence upon him; no eagle orbs watch his motions; no bells are rung; no cup awaits his achievement; no sweepstakes—no plate. But his will be renown—everlasting renown; his will be fame which will not die with him—which will keep his reputation, albeit a tarnished one, still in the mouths of men. He wants all these adventitious excitements, but he has that within which is a greater excitement than all these. He is conscious that he is doing a deed to live by. If not riding for life, he is riding for immortality; and as the hero may perchance feel—for even a highwayman may feel like a hero,—when he willingly throws away his existence in the hope of earning a glorious name, Turpin cared not what might befall himself, so he could proudly signalize himself as the first of his land,

Huntingdon is left behind, and he finds himself once again surrounded by dew-kissed hedges and quiet, slumbering trees. Broad meadows and pasture land, dotted with sleepy cattle and softly bleating sheep, stretch out on either side. But to Turpin, at that moment, what does nature matter, whether alive or not? His thoughts are solely on his mare—his future fame. No one is around to watch him ride; no cheering applause fills the air; no thousands of hands are clapping; no thousands of voices are shouting; no handkerchiefs are waving; no necks are craning; no bright eyes are cheering him on; no eagle-like eyes are observing his every move; no bells are ringing; no trophy is awaiting his success; no races—no prize. But his will be glory—everlasting glory; his fame will not fade with his death; it will keep his reputation, even if it's a tarnished one, alive in people's conversations. He craves all these added thrills, but he carries within him a greater excitement than all of that. He knows he is performing a deed worth living for. If he’s not riding for life, he’s riding for immortality; and just as a hero might feel—because even a outlaw can feel like a hero—when he willingly risks his life in hopes of earning a glorious name, Turpin doesn’t care what happens to him as long as he can prove himself as the best in his land.

And witch the world with noble horsemanship!

And impress the world with your amazing riding skills!

What need had he of spectators? The eye of posterity was upon him; he felt the influence of that Argus glance which has made many a poor wight spur on his Pegasus with not half so good a chance of reaching the goal as Dick Turpin. Multitudes, yet unborn, he knew would hear and laud his deeds. He trembled with excitement, and Bess trembled under him. But the emotion was transient. On, on they fly! The torrent leaping from the crag—the bolt from the bow—the air-cleaving eagle—thoughts themselves are scarce more winged in their flight!

What did he need spectators for? The eye of history was on him; he could feel the weight of that all-seeing gaze that has pushed many a struggling soul to ride their dreams with not nearly as great a chance of success as Dick Turpin. He knew that countless people yet to be born would hear about and celebrate his actions. He shook with excitement, and Bess shook beneath him. But the feeling was fleeting. On, on they raced! The waterfall tumbling from the cliff—the arrow from the bow—the eagle cutting through the air—thoughts themselves hardly fly faster!


CHAPTER VII

THE YORK STAGE

York, Four Days!Stage Coach begins on Friday, the 18th of April, 1706. All that are desirous to pass from London to York, or from York to London, or any other place on that road, let them repair to the Black Swan, in Holborn, in London, or to the Black Swan, in Coney Street, in York. At both which places they may be received in a Stage Coach, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, which performs the journey in four days—if God permits!—and sets forth at five in the morning. And returns from York to Stamford in two days, and from Stamford, by Huntingdon, in two days more. And the like stages in their return. Allowing each passenger fourteen pounds' weight, and all above, three pence per pound. Performed by Benjamin Kingman, Henry Harrison, and Waller Baynes.—Placard, preserved in the coffee-room, of the Black Swan Inn at York.

York, 4 Days!The Stage Coach starts on Friday, April 18, 1706. Anyone who wants to travel from London to York, from York to London, or to any place along that route should go to the Black Swan in Holborn, London, or the Black Swan in Coney Street, York. At both locations, you can catch a Stage Coach every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, making the trip in four days—if God allows!—and departing at five in the morning. It returns from York to Stamford in two days, and from Stamford, via Huntingdon, in another two days. This pattern continues on the return journey. Each passenger is allowed fourteen pounds of luggage, with any excess costing three pence per pound. Operated by Benjamin Kingman, Henry Harrison, and Waller Baynes.—Placard, preserved in the coffee-room, of the Black Swan Inn at York.

The night had hitherto been balmy and beautiful, with a bright array of stars, and a golden harvest moon, which seemed to diffuse even warmth with its radiance; but now Turpin was approaching the region of fog and fen, and he began to feel the influence of that dank atmosphere. The intersecting dykes, yawners, gullies, or whatever they are called, began to send forth their steaming vapors, and chilled the soft and wholesome air, obscuring the void, and in some instances, as[396] it were, choking up the road itself with vapor. But fog or fen was the same to Bess; her hoofs rattled merrily along the road, and she burst from a cloud, like Eöus at the break of dawn.

The night had been warm and beautiful, with a bright display of stars and a golden harvest moon that seemed to spread warmth with its glow. But now Turpin was getting closer to the fog and marshlands, and he started to feel the effects of that damp air. The intersecting dikes, trenches, or whatever they were called, began to release their steaming mists, chilling the soft, fresh air and obscuring the emptiness, in some cases even blocking the road itself with fog. But fog or marsh didn’t bother Bess; her hooves clattered happily along the road, and she burst through a cloud like the dawn breaking.

It chanced, as he issued from a fog of this kind, that Turpin burst upon the York stage coach. It was no uncommon thing for the coach to be stopped; and so furious was the career of our highwayman, that the man involuntarily drew up his horses. Turpin had also to draw in the rein, a task of no little difficulty, as charging a huge, lumbering coach, with its full complement of passengers, was more than even Bess could accomplish. The moon shone brightly on Turpin and his mare. He was unmasked, and his features were distinctly visible. An exclamation was uttered by a gentleman on the box, who, it appeared, instantly recognized him.

As he came out of a fog like this, Turpin suddenly appeared in front of the York stagecoach. It wasn't unusual for the coach to be stopped, and the speed of our highwayman was so intense that the driver instinctively pulled back on the reins. Turpin also had to rein in his mare, which wasn't easy since charging at a large, heavy coach filled with passengers was more than even Bess could handle. The moon shone brightly on Turpin and his mare. He was unmasked, and his features were clearly visible. A gentleman on the box let out an exclamation, as it seemed he recognized him immediately.

"Pull up—draw your horses across the road!" cried the gentleman; "that's Dick Turpin, the highwayman. His capture would be worth three hundred pounds to you," added he, addressing the coachman, "and is of equal importance to me. Stand!" shouted he, presenting a cocked pistol.

"Stop—bring your horses to a halt!" yelled the gentleman; "that's Dick Turpin, the highwayman. Catching him would be worth three hundred pounds to you," he said to the coachman, "and it's equally important to me. Freeze!" he shouted, aiming a loaded pistol.

This resolution of the gentleman was not apparently agreeable, either to the coachman or the majority of the passengers—the name of Turpin acting like magic upon them. One man jumped off behind, and was with difficulty afterwards recovered, having tumbled into a deep ditch at the roadside. An old gentleman with a cotton nightcap, who had popped out his head to swear at the coachman, drew it suddenly back. A faint scream in a female key issued from within, and there was a considerable hubbub on the roof. Amongst other ominous sounds, the guard was heard to click his long horse-pistols. "Stop the York four-day stage!" said he, forcing his smoky voice through a world of throat-embracing shawl; "the fastest coach in the kingdom: vos ever such atrocity heard of? I say, Joe, keep them ere leaders steady; we shall all be in the ditch. Don't you see where the hind wheels are? Who—whoop, I say."[397]

This guy's decision didn't seem to sit well with either the driver or most of the passengers—just the mention of Turpin seemed to freak them out. One man jumped off the back and ended up tumbling into a deep ditch at the side of the road, and they struggled to get him back. An old man in a cotton nightcap stuck his head out to yell at the driver but quickly pulled it back in. A faint scream came from a woman inside, and there was quite a commotion on the roof. Among other worrying noises, the guard could be heard clicking his long revolvers. "Stop the York four-day stage!" he shouted, forcing his raspy voice through a thick shawl around his neck. "The fastest coach in the country: have you ever heard of such madness? I say, Joe, keep those leaders steady; we're all going to end up in the ditch. Don’t you see where the back wheels are? Who—whoop, I say."[397]

The gentleman on the box now discharged his pistol, and the confusion within was redoubled. The white nightcap was popped out like a rabbit's head, and as quickly popped back on hearing the highwayman's voice. Owing to the plunging of the horses, the gentleman had missed his aim.

The guy on the box fired his pistol, and the chaos inside increased even more. The white nightcap shot up like a rabbit's head, then quickly went back down when the highwayman spoke. Because the horses were plunging, the guy had missed his target.

Prepared for such emergencies as the present, and seldom at any time taken aback, Dick received the fire without flinching. He then lashed the horses out of his course, and rode up, pistol in hand, to the gentleman who had fired.

Prepared for situations like this one and rarely caught off guard, Dick faced the fire without flinching. He then steered the horses off their path and rode up, pistol in hand, to the man who had shot.

"Major Mowbray," said he, in a stern tone, "I know you. I meant not either to assault you or these gentlemen. Yet you have attempted my life, sir, a second time. But you are now in my power, and by hell! if you do not answer the questions I put to you, nothing earthly shall save you."

"Major Mowbray," he said in a serious tone, "I know you. I didn’t mean to attack you or these gentlemen. But you’ve tried to kill me again. Now you’re in my hands, and damn it! if you don’t answer my questions, nothing on this planet will save you."

"If you ask aught I may not answer, fire!" said the major; "I will never ask life from such as you."

"If you ask anything I might not answer, fire!" said the major; "I will never ask for life from someone like you."

"Have you seen aught of Sir Luke Rookwood?" asked Dick.

"Have you seen anything of Sir Luke Rookwood?" asked Dick.

"The villain you mean is not yet secured," replied the major, "but we have traces of him. 'Tis with a view of procuring more efficient assistance that I ride to town."

"The villain you’re talking about isn’t captured yet," the major replied, "but we have leads on him. I’m heading to town to get more effective help."

"They have not met then, since?" said Dick, carelessly.

"They haven't met since then?" Dick said casually.

"Met! whom do you mean?"

"Met! Who are you talking about?"

"Your sister and Sir Luke," said Dick.

"Your sister and Sir Luke," Dick said.

"My sister meet him!" cried the major, angrily—"think you he dares show himself at Rookwood?"

"My sister met him!" yelled the major, angrily—"do you think he dares to show his face at Rookwood?"

"Ho! ho!" laughed Dick—"she is at Rookwood, then? A thousand thanks, major. Good night to you, gentlemen."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Dick—"she is at Rookwood, then? Thanks a ton, major. Good night, everyone."

"Take that with you, and remember the guard," cried the fellow, who, unable to take aim from where he sat, had crept along the coach roof, and discharged thence one of his large horse-pistols at what he took to be the highwayman's head, but which, luckily for Dick, was his hat, which he had raised to salute the passengers.[398]

"Take that with you, and don’t forget the guard," shouted the guy, who, unable to aim properly from his seat, had crawled along the top of the coach and fired one of his big pistols at what he thought was the highwayman's head, but luckily for Dick, it was just his hat, which he had lifted to greet the passengers.[398]

"Remember you," said Dick, coolly replacing his perforated beaver on his brow; "you may rely upon it, my fine fellow, I'll not forget you the next time we meet."

"Remember you," said Dick, smoothly putting his perforated hat back on; "you can count on it, my good man, I won't forget you the next time we run into each other."

And off he went like the breath of the whirlwind.

And off he went like a gust of wind.


CHAPTER VIII

ROADSIDE INN

Moor. Take my horse, and dash a bottle of wine over him. 'Twas hot work.

Moor. Take my horse and splash a bottle of wine on him. It was hard work.

Schiller: The Robbers.

Schiller: The Robbers.

We will now make inquiries after Mr. Coates and his party, of whom both we and Dick Turpin have for some time lost sight. With unabated ardor the vindictive man of law and his myrmidons pressed forward. A tacit compact seemed to have been entered into between the highwayman and his pursuers, that he was to fly while they were to follow. Like bloodhounds, they kept steadily upon his trail; nor were they so far behind as Dick imagined. At each post-house they passed they obtained fresh horses, and, while these were saddling, a postboy was despatched en courrier to order relays at the next station. In this manner they proceeded after the first stoppage without interruption. Horses were in waiting for them, as they, "bloody with spurring, fiery hot with haste," and their jaded hacks arrived. Turpin had been heard or seen in all quarters. Turnpike-men, waggoners, carters, trampers, all had seen him. Besides, strange as it may sound, they placed some faith in his word. York they believed would be his destination.

We are now going to check on Mr. Coates and his group, who we and Dick Turpin haven't seen for a while. With relentless determination, the vengeful lawyer and his men pushed forward. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement between the highwayman and his chasers: he would escape while they pursued him. Like bloodhounds, they stayed firmly on his trail, and they weren't as far behind as Dick thought. At every post house they came to, they got fresh horses, and while these were being saddled, a postboy was sent ahead to order relays at the next station. In this way, they continued after the first stop without interruption. Horses were ready for them as they, "bloodied from spurring, burning hot with urgency," arrived on their weary mounts. Turpin had been reported seen or heard about everywhere. Toll gate workers, wagon drivers, carters, and travelers had all spotted him. Strangely enough, they also believed some of his words. They thought York would be his destination.

At length the coach which Dick had encountered hove in sight. There was another stoppage and another hubbub. The old gentleman's nightcap was again manifested, and suffered a sudden occultation, as upon the former occasion. The postboy,[399] who was in advance, had halted, and given up his horse to Major Mowbray, who exchanged his seat on the box for one on the saddle, deeming it more expedient, after his interview with Turpin, to return to Rookwood, rather than to proceed to town. The postboy was placed behind Coates, as being the lightest weight; and, thus reinforced, the party pushed forward as rapidly as heretofore.

At last, the coach that Dick had seen came into view. There was another stop and more commotion. The old gentleman’s nightcap appeared again and quickly disappeared, just like before. The postboy, [399] who was ahead, had stopped and handed over his horse to Major Mowbray, who swapped his seat on the box for one on the saddle. After his meeting with Turpin, he thought it would be better to head back to Rookwood instead of going into town. The postboy took a position behind Coates, since he was the lightest. With this extra support, the group moved forward as quickly as they had before.

Eighty and odd miles had now been traversed—the boundary of another county, Northampton, passed; yet no rest nor respite had Dick Turpin or his unflinching mare enjoyed. But here he deemed it fitting to make a brief halt.

Eighty-something miles had now been covered—the border of another county, Northampton, crossed; yet Dick Turpin and his steadfast mare had found no rest or break. But here he decided it was time for a short stop.

Bordering the beautiful domains of Burleigh House stood a little retired hostelry of some antiquity, which bore the great Lord Treasurer's arms. With this house Dick was not altogether unacquainted. The lad who acted as ostler was known to him. It was now midnight, but a bright and beaming night. To the door of the stable then did he ride, and knocked in a peculiar manner. Reconnoitering Dick through a broken pane of glass in the lintel, and apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, the lad thrust forth a head of hair as full of straw as Mad Tom's is represented to be upon the stage. A chuckle of welcome followed his sleepy salutation. "Glad to see you, Captain Turpin," said he; "can I do anything for you?"

Bordering the beautiful grounds of Burleigh House was a small, old inn that displayed the arms of the great Lord Treasurer. Dick was somewhat familiar with this place. He knew the young stableboy who worked there. It was now midnight, but the night was bright and clear. He rode over to the stable door and knocked in a specific way. Peering through a broken pane of glass in the lintel, the boy seemed satisfied after checking him out and poked his head out, hair as full of straw as Mad Tom's is portrayed on stage. He chuckled in welcome after his sleepy greeting. "Good to see you, Captain Turpin," he said. "Can I help you with anything?"

"Get me a couple of bottles of brandy and a beefsteak," said Dick.

"Bring me a couple of bottles of brandy and a steak," said Dick.

"As to the brandy, you can have that in a jiffy—but the steak, Lord love you, the old ooman won't stand it at this time; but there's a cold round, mayhap a slice of that might do—or a knuckle of ham?"

"As for the brandy, you can have that in no time—but the steak, good heavens, the old woman won’t go for that right now; but there’s a cold round, maybe a slice of that would work—or a knuckle of ham?"

"A pest on your knuckles, Ralph," cried Dick; "have you any raw meat in the house?"

"A sore on your knuckles, Ralph," shouted Dick; "do you have any raw meat in the house?"

"Raw meat!" echoed Ralph, in surprise. "Oh, yes, there's a rare rump of beef. You can have a cut off that, if you like."[400]

"Raw meat!" Ralph exclaimed in surprise. "Oh, yes, there's a rare piece of beef. You can have a cut from that if you want."[400]

"That's the thing I want," said Dick, ungirthing his mare. "Give me the scraper. There, I can get a whisp of straw from your head. Now run and get the brandy. Better bring three bottles. Uncork 'em, and let me have half a pail of water to mix with the spirit."

"That's what I want," said Dick, taking off his mare's gear. "Hand me the scraper. There, I can grab a piece of straw from your hair. Now, go get the brandy. It’s better to bring three bottles. Open them up, and let me have half a bucket of water to mix with the liquor."

"A pail full of brandy and water to wash down a raw steak! My eyes!" exclaimed Ralph, opening wide his sleepy peepers; adding, as he went about the execution of his task, "I always thought them Rum-padders, as they call themselves, rum fellows, but now I'm sartin sure on it."

"A bucket full of brandy and water to wash down a raw steak! My goodness!" exclaimed Ralph, wide awake now; adding, as he went about his task, "I always thought those Rum-padders, as they call themselves, were strange characters, but now I'm definitely sure of it."

The most sedulous groom could not have bestowed more attention upon the horse of his heart than Dick Turpin now paid to his mare. He scraped, chafed, and dried her, sounded each muscle, traced each sinew, pulled her ears, examined the state of her feet, and, ascertaining that her "withers were un-wrung," finally washed her from head to foot in the diluted spirit, not, however, before he had conveyed a thimbleful of the liquid to his own parched throat, and replenished what Falstaff calls a "pocket-pistol," which he had about him. While Ralph was engaged in rubbing her down after her bath, Dick occupied himself, not in dressing the raw steak in the manner the stable-boy had anticipated, but in rolling it round the bit of his bridle.

The most dedicated groom couldn't have given more attention to his beloved horse than Dick Turpin was giving to his mare. He brushed, rubbed, and dried her, felt each muscle, traced each tendon, pulled her ears, checked her feet, and, confirming that her "withers were un-wrung," he finally washed her from head to toe with diluted spirit. Not before though, he took a small sip of the liquid for his own dry throat and refilled what Falstaff calls a "pocket-pistol" that he had with him. While Ralph was busy rubbing her down after her bath, Dick occupied himself not with preparing the raw steak as the stable-boy had expected, but by rolling it around the bit of his bridle.

"She will now go as long as there's breath in her body," said he, putting the flesh-covered iron within her mouth.

"She'll keep going as long as she has breath in her body," he said, pushing the metal covered in flesh into her mouth.

The saddle being once more replaced, after champing a moment or two at the bit, Bess began to snort and paw the earth, as if impatient of delay; and, acquainted as he was with her indomitable spirit and power, her condition was a surprise even to Dick himself. Her vigor seemed inexhaustible, her vivacity was not a whit diminished, but, as she was led into the open space, her step became as light and free as when she started on her ride, and her sense of sound as quick as ever. Suddenly she pricked her ears, and uttered a low neigh. A dull tramp was audible.[401]

Once the saddle was back in place, after chewing on the bit for a moment, Bess started snorting and pawing at the ground, clearly impatient for things to get going. Despite knowing her strong spirit and power, her energy still surprised Dick. She seemed to have endless energy, her liveliness was still intact, and as she was led into the open area, her movements were as light and free as when she first set out on her ride, with her hearing as sharp as ever. Suddenly, she perked up, listening intently, and let out a low neigh. A dull thud could be heard.[401]

"Ha!" exclaimed Dick, springing into his saddle; "they come."

"Ha!" exclaimed Dick, jumping onto his saddle. "They're here."

"Who come, captain?" asked Ralph.

"Who's coming, captain?" asked Ralph.

"The road takes a turn here, don't it?" asked Dick—"sweeps round to the right by the plantations in the hollow?"

"The road takes a turn here, doesn't it?" asked Dick—"it sweeps around to the right by the trees in the hollow?"

"Ay, ay, captain," answered Ralph; "it's plain you knows the ground."

"Yeah, yeah, captain," Ralph replied; "it's obvious you know the territory."

"What lies behind yon shed?"

"What's behind that shed?"

"A stiff fence, captain—a reg'lar rasper. Beyond that a hill-side steep as a house, no oss as was ever shoed can go down it."

"A stiff fence, captain—a real challenge. Beyond that, a hillside as steep as a house; no horse that's ever been shod can go down it."

"Indeed!" laughed Dick.

"Definitely!" laughed Dick.

A loud halloo from Major Mowbray, who seemed advancing upon the wings of the wind, told Dick that he was discovered. The major was a superb horseman, and took the lead of his party. Striking his spurs deeply into his horse, and giving him bridle enough, the major seemed to shoot forward like a shell through the air. The Burleigh Arms retired some hundred yards from the road, the space in front being occupied by a neat garden, with low, clipped edges. No tall timber intervened between Dick and his pursuers, so that the motions of both parties were visible to each other. Dick saw in an instant that if he now started he should come into collision with the major exactly at the angle of the road, and he was by no means desirous of hazarding such a rencontre. He looked wistfully back at the double fence.

A loud shout from Major Mowbray, who seemed to be racing forward like the wind, let Dick know he had been spotted. The major was an excellent rider and led his group. Digging his spurs deep into his horse and giving it enough rein, the major seemed to launch forward like a bullet through the air. The Burleigh Arms was set back a hundred yards from the road, with a tidy garden in front featuring neatly trimmed edges. No tall trees blocked the view between Dick and his pursuers, so both groups could see each other’s movements clearly. Dick quickly realized that if he took off now, he would run into the major right at the corner of the road, and he definitely didn’t want to risk that encounter. He glanced back longingly at the double fence.

"Come into the stable. Quick, captain, quick!" exclaimed Ralph.

"Get into the stable. Hurry up, captain, hurry!" Ralph exclaimed.

"The stable!" echoed Dick, hesitating.

"The stable!" echoed Dick, pausing.

"Ay, the stable; it's your only chance. Don't you see he's turning the corner, and they are all coming? Quick, sir, quick!"

"Yeah, the stable; it's your only shot. Can't you see he's turning the corner, and they're all coming? Hurry, man, hurry!"

Dick, lowering his head, rode into the tenement, the door of which was unceremoniously slapped in the major's face, and bolted on the other side.[402]

Dick, bowing his head, rode into the apartment building, the door of which was abruptly slammed in the major's face and locked from the other side.[402]

"Villain!" cried Major Mowbray, thundering at the door, "come forth! You are now fairly trapped at last—caught like the woodcock in your own springe. We have you. Open the door, I say, and save us the trouble of forcing it. You cannot escape us. We will burn the building down but we will have you."

"Villain!" shouted Major Mowbray, banging on the door, "come out! You’re finally trapped—caught like a bird in your own snare. We’ve got you. Open the door, I said, and spare us the hassle of breaking it down. You can't get away. We’ll set the building on fire if we have to, but we will get you."

"What dun you want, measter?" cried Ralph, from the lintel, whence he reconnoitered the major, and kept the door fast. "You're clean mista'en. There be none here."

"What do you want, sir?" shouted Ralph from the doorframe, where he was keeping an eye on the major and holding the door shut. "You’re completely mistaken. There's no one here."

"We'll soon see that," said Paterson, who had now arrived; and, leaping from his horse, the chief constable took a short run to give himself impetus, and with his foot burst open the door. This being accomplished, in dashed the major and Paterson, but the stable was vacant. A door was open at the back; they rushed to it. The sharply sloping sides of a hill slipped abruptly downwards, within a yard of the door. It was a perilous descent to the horseman, yet the print of a horse's heels were visible in the dislodged turf and scattered soil.

"We'll see about that soon," said Paterson, who had just arrived; and, jumping off his horse, the chief constable took a quick run to gain momentum and kicked the door open. After that, the major and Paterson rushed in, but the stable was empty. A door was open at the back; they ran toward it. The steep sides of a hill dropped sharply just a yard from the door. It was a dangerous drop for a horseman, yet the marks of a horse's hooves were visible in the disturbed grass and scattered dirt.

"Confusion!" cried the major, "he has escaped us."

"Confusion!" shouted the major, "he's gotten away from us."

"He is yonder," said Paterson, pointing out Turpin moving swiftly through the steaming meadow. "See, he makes again for the road—he clears the fence. A regular throw he has given us, by the Lord!"

"He is over there," said Paterson, pointing to Turpin moving quickly through the steaming meadow. "Look, he's heading for the road again—he jumps the fence. He's really given us a run for our money, I swear!"

"Nobly done, by Heaven!" cried the major. "With all his faults, I honor the fellow's courage and admire his prowess. He's already ridden to-night as I believe never man rode before. I would not have ventured to slide down that wall, for it's nothing else, with the enemy at my heels. What say you, gentlemen, have you had enough? Shall we let him go, or——?"

"Noble work, by God!" yelled the major. "Despite all his flaws, I respect the guy's bravery and admire his skill. He's already charged tonight like no one ever has. I wouldn't have dared to slide down that wall, especially with the enemy right behind me. What do you think, gentlemen, have you had enough? Should we let him go, or——?"

"As far as chase goes, I don't care if we bring the matter to a conclusion," said Titus. "I don't think, as it is, that I shall have a sate to sit on this week to come. I've lost leather most confoundedly."[403]

"As for the chase, I don't mind if we wrap things up," said Titus. "Honestly, I don't think I'll have a seat to sit on this week. I've lost leather pretty badly."[403]

"What says Mr. Coates?" asked Paterson. "I look to him."

"What does Mr. Coates say?" asked Paterson. "I count on him."

"Then mount, and off," cried Coates. "Public duty requires that we should take him."

"Then get on and let’s go," shouted Coates. "It’s our civic duty to take him."

"And private pique," returned the major. "No matter! The end is the same. Justice shall be satisfied. To your steeds, my merry men all. Hark, and away."

"And personal annoyance," replied the major. "It doesn't matter! The outcome is the same. Justice will prevail. To your horses, my cheerful friends. Listen up, and let's go."

Once more upon the move, Titus forgot his distress, and addressed himself to the attorney, by whose side he rode.

Once again on the move, Titus pushed his worries aside and spoke to the attorney he was riding next to.

"What place is that we're coming to?" asked he, pointing to a cluster of moonlit spires belonging to a town they were rapidly approaching.

"What place are we heading to?" he asked, pointing at a group of moonlit spires belonging to a town they were quickly nearing.

"Stamford," replied Coates.

"Stamford," Coates replied.

"Stamford!" exclaimed Titus; "by the powers! then we've ridden a matter of ninety miles. Why, the great deeds of Redmond O'Hanlon were nothing to this! I'll remember it to my dying day, and with reason," added he, uneasily shifting his position on the saddle.

"Stamford!" shouted Titus; "wow! We've ridden about ninety miles. Honestly, the amazing feats of Redmond O'Hanlon were nothing compared to this! I'll remember this for the rest of my life, and for good reason," he added, shifting nervously in the saddle.


CHAPTER IX

EXCITEMENT

How quickly did what the moonlight faintly revealed fade away!
How escaped what darkness concealed!
How did the ground escape from under their feet,
The sky above their heads.

William and Helen.

Will and Helen.

Dick Turpin, meanwhile, held bravely on his course. Bess was neither strained by her gliding passage down the slippery hill-side nor shaken by larking the fence in the meadow. As Dick said, "It took a devilish deal to take it out of her." On regaining the high road she resumed her old pace, and once[404] more they were distancing Time's swift chariot in its whirling passage o'er the earth. Stamford, and the tongue of Lincoln's fenny shire, upon which it is situated, were passed almost in a breath. Rutland is won and passed, and Lincolnshire once more entered. The road now verged within a bowshot of that sporting Athens—Corinth, perhaps, we should say—Melton Mowbray. Melton was then unknown to fame, but, as if inspired by that furor venaticus which now inspires all who come within twenty miles of this Charybdis of the chase, Bess here let out in a style with which it would have puzzled the best Leicestershire squire's best prad to have kept pace. The spirit she imbibed through the pores of her skin, and the juices of the meat she had champed, seemed to have communicated preternatural excitement to her. Her pace was absolutely terrific. Her eyeballs were dilated, and glowed like flaming carbuncles; while her widely-distended nostril seemed, in the cold moonshine, to snort forth smoke, as from a hidden fire. Fain would Turpin have controlled her; but, without bringing into play all his tremendous nerve, no check could be given her headlong course, and for once, and the only time in her submissive career, Bess resolved to have her own way—and she had it. Like a sensible fellow, Dick conceded the point. There was something even of conjugal philosophy in his self-communion upon the occasion. "E'en let her take her own way and be hanged to her, for an obstinate, self-willed jade as she is," said he: "now her back is up there'll be no stopping her, I'm sure: she rattles away like a woman's tongue, and when that once begins, we all know what chance the curb has. Best to let her have it out, or rather to lend her a lift. 'Twill be over the sooner. Tantivy, lass! tantivy! I know which of us will tire first."

Dick Turpin, meanwhile, kept bravely on his path. Bess wasn't affected by her smooth ride down the slick hillside nor rattled by jumping the fence in the meadow. As Dick said, "It took a lot to tire her out." Once they were back on the main road, she returned to her usual speed, and once again they were outrunning Time's swift chariot in its spinning journey across the earth. Stamford and the tongue of Lincoln's wetlands, where it is located, were passed almost in a breath. Rutland was crossed quickly, and they entered Lincolnshire once more. The road now curved within a reasonable distance of that sporting Athens—perhaps we should say Corinth—Melton Mowbray. Back then, Melton was not famous, but as if driven by that hunting frenzy that now captivates everyone who gets within twenty miles of this hunting ground, Bess suddenly picked up speed in a way that would have made it hard for the best horse of any Leicestershire squire to keep up. The energy she absorbed through her skin and the food she had chewed seemed to give her extraordinary excitement. Her pace was incredibly fast. Her eyes were wide and glowing like blazing jewels, and her flared nostrils seemed to snort out steam in the cold moonlight, as if from a hidden fire. Turpin wished he could control her; but without using all his strength, he couldn't slow her down, and for once, for the only time in her compliant life, Bess decided to do things her way—and she did. Like a sensible guy, Dick let her have it. There was even a bit of marital wisdom in his thoughts at that moment. "Let her go her own way and to hell with it, since she's such a stubborn, headstrong mare," he said: "now that she's fired up, there's no stopping her; she goes like a woman's chatter, and when that gets going, we all know how little control you have. Better to let her get it out of her system, or even help her along. It’ll be over sooner. Let's go, girl! Let's go! I know who will tire out first."

We have before said that the vehement excitement of continued swift riding produces a paroxysm in the sensorium amounting to delirium. Dick's blood was again on fire. He was first giddy, as after a deep draught of kindling spirit; this[405] passed off, but the spirit was still in his veins—the estro was working in his brain. All his ardor, his eagerness, his fury, returned. He rode like one insane, and his courser partook of his frenzy. She bounded; she leaped; she tore up the ground beneath her; while Dick gave vent to his exultation in one wild, prolonged halloo. More than half his race is run. He has triumphed over every difficulty. He will have no further occasion to halt. Bess carries her forage along with her. The course is straightforward—success seems certain—the goal already reached—the path of glory won. Another wild halloo, to which the echoing woods reply, and away!

We’ve already mentioned that the intense excitement of fast riding creates a feeling in the mind that can lead to delirium. Dick felt a rush of energy again. He was initially dizzy, like someone who has just taken a strong drink; this[405] passed, yet the energy still flowed through him—the excitement was racing in his mind. All his passion, eagerness, and intensity came rushing back. He rode like he was out of his mind, and his horse shared in his frenzy. She jumped; she leaped; she tore up the ground beneath her, while Dick expressed his exhilaration with a wild, long shout. More than half of his race is done. He has overcome every obstacle. He won’t need to stop again. Bess has her supplies with her. The path is clear—success seems guaranteed—the finish line is already in sight—the road to glory is clear. Another wild shout, answered by the echoing woods, and off they go!

Away! away! thou matchless steed! yet brace fast thy sinews—hold, hold thy breath, for, alas! the goal is not yet attained!

Away! Away! you incredible horse! But tighten your muscles—wait, hold your breath, for, unfortunately! the finish line is not reached yet!

But onward! Onward, they move,
High snorts the straining horse,
Heavy pants marked the rider's struggling breath,
They speed ahead!

CHAPTER X

THE GIBBET

Look over there, look over there, what’s swinging over there. And creaks in whistling rain,
Gallows and steel—the cursed wheel—
A killer in his chains.

William and Helen.

Will and Helen.

As the eddying currents sweep over its plains in howling, bleak December, the horse and her rider passed over what remained of Lincolnshire. Grantham is gone, and they are now more slowly looking up the ascent of Gonerby Hill, a path well known to Turpin; where often, in bygone nights, many a[406] purse had changed its owner. With that feeling of independence and exhilaration which every one feels, we believe, on having climbed the hill-side, Turpin turned to gaze around. There was triumph in his eye. But the triumph was checked as his glance fell upon a gibbet near him to the right, on the round point of hill which is a landmark to the wide vale of Belvoir. Pressed as he was for time, Dick immediately struck out of the road, and approached the spot where it stood. Two scarecrow objects, covered with rags and rusty links of chains, depended from the tree. A night crow screaming around the carcases added to the hideous effect of the scene. Nothing but the living highwayman and his skeleton brethren was visible upon the solitary spot. Around him was the lonesome waste of hill, o'erlooking the moonlit valley: beneath his feet, a patch of bare and lightning-blasted sod: above, the wan, declining moon and skies, flaked with ghostly clouds; before him, the bleached bodies of the murderers, for such they were.

As the swirling winds swept across the plains in the howling, cold December, the horse and her rider passed what was left of Lincolnshire. Grantham is gone, and they are now slowly climbing Gonerby Hill, a path familiar to Turpin; where often, in nights gone by, many a[406] purse changed hands. With that feeling of freedom and excitement that we all experience after climbing a hill, Turpin turned to look around. There was triumph in his eyes. But that triumph was interrupted when he noticed a gibbet to his right, on the rounded point of the hill which serves as a landmark for the wide vale of Belvoir. Pressed for time, Dick immediately veered off the road and approached the spot where it stood. Two scarecrow-like figures, draped in rags and rusty chains, hung from the tree. A crow cawing around the corpses added to the grotesque atmosphere of the scene. Only the living highwayman and his skeletal companions were visible in that lonely spot. Surrounding him was the desolate hill, overlooking the moonlit valley: beneath his feet, a patch of bare and lightning-charred ground: above, the pale, waning moon and skies streaked with ghostly clouds; before him, the withered bodies of the murderers, for that’s what they were.

"Will this be my lot, I marvel?" said Dick, looking upwards, with an involuntary shudder.

"Is this really what I'm going to get?" Dick wondered, gazing up with an involuntary shiver.

"Ay, marry will it," rejoined a crouching figure, suddenly springing from beside a tuft of briars that skirted the blasted ground.

"Aye, it certainly will," replied a crouching figure, suddenly jumping up from beside a clump of thornbushes that lined the scorched ground.

Dick started in his saddle, while Bess reared and plunged at the sight of this unexpected apparition.

Dick jumped in his saddle as Bess reared up and bucked at the sight of this sudden appearance.

"What, ho! thou devil's dam, Barbara, is it thou?" exclaimed Dick, reassured upon discovering it was the gipsy queen, and no spectre whom he beheld. "Stand still, Bess—stand, lass. What dost thou here, mother of darkness? Art gathering mandrakes for thy poisonous messes, or pilfering flesh from the dead? Meddle not with their bones, or I will drive thee hence. What dost thou here, I say, old dam of the gibbet?"

"Hey there! You devil's spawn, Barbara, is that you?" shouted Dick, relieved to see it was the gypsy queen and not a ghost. "Hold on, Bess—hold on, girl. What are you doing here, you mother of darkness? Are you gathering mandrakes for your toxic potions, or stealing flesh from the dead? Don't mess with their bones, or I'll chase you away. What are you doing here, I ask, old hag of the gallows?"

"I came to die here," replied Barbara, in a feeble tone; and, throwing back her hood, she displayed features well-nigh as ghastly as those of the skeletons above her.[407]

"I came to die here," Barbara replied weakly; and as she pulled back her hood, she revealed a face almost as pale as the skeletons above her.[407]

"Indeed," replied Dick. "You've made choice of a pleasant spot, it must be owned. But you'll not die yet?"

"Definitely," replied Dick. "You've picked a nice place, I have to admit. But you’re not planning to die just yet, are you?"

"Do you know whose bodies these are?" asked Barbara, pointing upwards.

"Do you know whose bodies these are?" Barbara asked, pointing up.

"Two of your race," replied Dick; "right brethren of the blade."

"Two of your kind," replied Dick; "true brothers of the sword."

"Two of my sons," returned Barbara; "my twin children. I am come to lay my bones beneath their bones—my sepulchre shall be their sepulchre; my body shall feed the fowls of the air as theirs have fed them. And if ghosts can walk, we'll scour this heath together. I tell you what, Dick Turpin," said the hag, drawing as near to the highwayman as Bess would permit her; "dead men walk and ride—ay, ride!—there's a comfort for you. I've seen these do it. I have seen them fling off their chains, and dance—ay, dance with me—with their mother. No revels like dead men's revels, Dick. I shall soon join 'em."

"Two of my sons," Barbara replied, "my twin children. I'm here to rest beneath their graves—my burial place will be theirs; my body will feed the birds just like theirs did. And if ghosts can wander, we’ll roam this heath together. You know what, Dick Turpin," the witch said, getting as close to the highwayman as Bess would allow, "dead people walk and ride—yes, ride!—there's some comfort for you. I've seen them do it. I've seen them shake off their chains and dance—yes, dance with me—with their mother. No celebrations are like the ones of dead men, Dick. I’ll be joining them soon."

"You will not lay violent hands upon yourself, mother?" said Dick, with difficulty mastering his terror.

"You’re not going to hurt yourself, are you, Mom?" Dick asked, struggling to control his fear.

"No," replied Barbara, in an altered tone. "But I will let nature do her task. Would she could do it more quickly. Such a life as mine won't go out without a long struggle. What have I to live for now? All are gone—she and her child! But what is this to you? You have no child; and if you had, you could not feel like a father. No matter—I rave. Listen to me. I have crawled hither to die. 'Tis five days since I beheld you, and during that time food has not passed these lips, nor aught of moisture, save Heaven's dew, cooled this parched throat, nor shall they to the last. That time cannot be far off; and now can you not guess how I mean to die? Begone and leave me; your presence troubles me. I would breathe my last breath alone, with none to witness the parting pang."

"No," Barbara replied, her tone changed. "But I’ll let nature do its thing. I just wish it would happen faster. A life like mine won’t just fade away without a fight. What do I have to live for now? Everyone is gone—her and her child! But what does that matter to you? You don’t have a child; and even if you did, you wouldn’t feel like a father. Never mind—I’m rambling. Listen to me. I’ve dragged myself here to die. It’s been five days since I saw you, and in that time, no food has touched my lips, nor has anything to drink, except for Heaven’s dew to cool this dry throat, and nothing will until the end. That time can’t be far off; and now can’t you guess how I plan to die? Go away and leave me; your presence disturbs me. I want to take my last breath alone, without anyone to witness my final moments."

"I will not trouble you longer, mother," said Dick, turning his mare; "nor will I ask your blessing."[408]

"I won’t bother you any longer, mom," said Dick, turning his mare; "nor will I ask for your blessing."[408]

"My blessing!" scornfully ejaculated Barbara. "You shall have it if you will, but you will find it a curse. Stay! a thought strikes me. Whither are you going?"

"My blessing!" Barbara exclaimed scornfully. "You can have it if you want, but you'll find it to be a curse. Wait! I've just had a thought. Where are you going?"

"To seek Sir Luke Rookwood," replied Dick. "Know you aught of him?"

"To find Sir Luke Rookwood," replied Dick. "Do you know anything about him?"

"Sir Luke Rookwood! You seek him, and would find him?" screamed Barbara.

"Sir Luke Rookwood! You're looking for him, and you want to find him?" screamed Barbara.

"I would," said Dick.

"I would," Dick said.

"And you will find him," said Barbara; "and that ere long. I shall ne'er again behold him. Would I could. I have a message for him—one of life and death. Will you convey it to him?"

"And you will find him," Barbara said. "And it will be soon. I will never see him again. I wish I could. I have a message for him—one about life and death. Will you take it to him?"

"I will," said the highwayman.

"I will," said the robber.

"Swear by those bones to do so," cried Barbara, pointing with her skinny fingers to the gibbet; "that you will do my bidding."

"Swear on those bones to do it," cried Barbara, pointing with her thin fingers to the gallows; "that you will do what I ask."

"I swear," cried Dick.

"I swear," shouted Dick.

"Fail not, or we will haunt thee to thy life's end," cried Barbara; adding, as she handed a sealed package to the highwayman, "Give this to Sir Luke—to him alone. I would have sent it to him by other hands ere this, but my people have deserted me—have pillaged my stores—have rifled me of all save this. Give this, I say, to Sir Luke, with your own hands. You have sworn it, and will obey. Give it to him, and bid him think of Sybil as he opens it. But this must not be till Eleanor is in his power; and she must be present when the seal is broken. It relates to both. Dare not to tamper with it, or my curse shall pursue you. That packet is guarded with a triple spell, which to you were fatal. Obey me, and my dying breath shall bless thee."

"Don’t fail, or we will haunt you for the rest of your life," Barbara shouted; then, as she handed a sealed package to the highwayman, she added, "Give this to Sir Luke—only to him. I wanted to send it to him through someone else before now, but my people have abandoned me—have looted my supplies—have taken everything from me except this. I insist, give this to Sir Luke yourself. You’ve sworn to do it, and you will. Hand it to him, and tell him to think of Sybil as he opens it. But this shouldn’t happen until Eleanor is in his hands; she must be there when he breaks the seal. It concerns both of them. Don’t mess with it, or my curse will follow you. That package is protected by a triple spell, which could be deadly for you. Follow my instructions, and my last breath will bless you."

"Never fear," said Dick, taking the packet; "I'll not disappoint you, mother, depend upon it."

"Don't worry," said Dick, taking the packet. "I won’t let you down, mom, you can count on it."

"Hence!" cried the crone; and as she watched Dick's figure lessening upon the Waste, and at length beheld him finally disappear down the hill-side, she sank to the ground,[409] her frail strength being entirely exhausted. "Body and soul may now part in peace," gasped she. "All I live for is accomplished." And ere one hour had elapsed, the night crow was perched upon her still breathing frame.

"Hence!" shouted the old woman; and as she watched Dick's figure shrink into the distance on the Waste, and finally saw him vanish down the hillside, she sank to the ground,[409] her fragile strength completely spent. "Body and soul can now part in peace," she gasped. "Everything I lived for is fulfilled." And before an hour had passed, the night crow was perched on her still-breathing body.

Long pondering upon this singular interview, Dick pursued his way. At length he thought fit to examine the packet with which the old gipsy had entrusted him.

Long thinking about this unique interview, Dick continued on his way. Finally, he decided to check the packet that the old gypsy had given him.

"It feels like a casket," thought he. "It can't be gold. But then it may be jewels, though they don't rattle, and it ain't quite heavy enough. What can it be? I should like to know. There is some mystery, that's certain, about it; but I will not break the seal, not I. As to her spell, that I don't value a rush; but I've sworn to give it to Sir Luke, and deliver her message, and I'll keep my word if I can. He shall have it." So saying, he replaced it in his pocket.

"It feels like a coffin," he thought. "It can't be gold. But it might be jewels, even though they don't make any noise, and it's not quite heavy enough. What could it be? I really want to find out. There's definitely some mystery about it; but I'm not going to break the seal, no way. As for her charm, I don't care about that at all; but I've promised to give it to Sir Luke and deliver her message, so I'll keep my word if I can. He will get it." With that, he put it back in his pocket.


CHAPTER XI

THE PHANTOM STEED

I'll talk to you, even if hell itself should open up, And ask me to be quiet.

Hamlet.

Hamlet.

Time presses. We may not linger in our course. We must fly on before our flying highwayman. Full forty miles shall we pass over in a breath. Two more hours have elapsed, and he still urges his headlong career, with heart resolute as ever, and purpose yet unchanged. Fair Newark, and the dashing Trent, "most loved of England's streams," are gathered to his laurels. Broad Notts, and its heavy paths and sweeping glades; its waste—forest no more—of Sherwood past; bold Robin Hood and his merry men, his Marian and his moonlight rides, recalled, forgotten, left behind. Hurrah! hurrah! That wild halloo, that waving arm, that enlivening shout—what[410] means it? He is once more upon Yorkshire ground; his horse's hoof beats once more the soil of that noble shire. So transported was Dick, that he could almost have flung himself from the saddle to kiss the dust beneath his feet. Thrice fifty miles has he run, nor has the morn yet dawned upon his labors. Hurrah! the end draws nigh; the goal is in view. Halloo! halloo! on!

Time is running out. We can't delay in our journey. We need to keep moving ahead of the flying highwayman. We will cover forty miles in no time. Two more hours have passed, and he still pushes forward, just as determined and focused as ever. Beautiful Newark and the lively Trent, "most loved of England's streams," are part of his achievements. Wide Notts, with its rough paths and sprawling glades; the once-great Sherwood Forest; brave Robin Hood, his merry men, Lady Marian, and their moonlit adventures—all memories now, forgotten and left behind. Hurrah! Hurrah! That wild shout, that waving arm, that energizing cheer—what does it mean? He is back on Yorkshire soil; his horse's hooves are once again pounding the ground of that noble county. Dick was so overcome with excitement that he could almost jump off his horse to kiss the dirt beneath him. He's raced thirty-five miles, and morning hasn’t even broken yet. Hurrah! The end is near; the finish line is in sight. Halloo! Halloo! Onward!

Bawtrey is past. He takes the lower road by Thorne and Selby. He is skirting the waters of the deep-channelled Don.

Bawtrey is in the past. He takes the lower road by Thorne and Selby. He is skirting the waters of the deep-channelled Don.

Bess now began to manifest some slight symptoms of distress. There was a strain in the carriage of her throat, a dulness in her eye, a laxity in her ear, and a slight stagger in her gait, which Turpin noticed with apprehension. Still she went on, though not at the same gallant pace as heretofore. But, as the tired bird still battles with the blast upon the ocean, as the swimmer still stems the stream, though spent, on went she: nor did Turpin dare to check her, fearing that, if she stopped, she might lose her force, or, if she fell, she would rise no more.

Bess began to show some subtle signs of distress. There was a strain in her throat, dullness in her eyes, a slackness in her ear, and a slight wobble in her step, which Turpin noticed with concern. Still, she continued on, though not at the same brave pace as before. But just like a tired bird struggles against a storm at sea or a swimmer fights against the current, she pressed on: Turpin didn't dare to stop her, worried that if she halted, she might lose her strength, or if she fell, she wouldn't get back up.

It was now that gray and grimly hour ere one flicker of orange or rose has gemmed the east, and when unwearying Nature herself seems to snatch brief repose. In the roar of restless cities, this is the only time when their strife is hushed. Midnight is awake—alive; the streets ring with laughter and with rattling wheels. At the third hour, a dead, deep silence prevails; the loud-voiced streets grow dumb. They are deserted of all, save the few guardians of the night and the skulking robber. But even far removed from the haunts of men and hum of towns it is the same. "Nature's best nurse" seems to weigh nature down, and stillness reigns throughout. Our feelings are, in a great measure, influenced by the hour. Exposed to the raw, crude atmosphere, which has neither the nipping, wholesome shrewdness of morn, nor the profound chillness of night, the frame vainly struggles against the dull, miserable sensations engendered by the damps,[411] and at once communicates them to the spirits. Hope forsakes us. We are weary, exhausted. Our energy is dispirited. Sleep does "not weigh our eyelids down." We stare upon the vacancy. We conjure up a thousand restless, disheartening images. We abandon projects we have formed, and which, viewed through this medium, appear fantastical, chimerical, absurd. We want rest, refreshment, energy.

It was now that gray and gloomy hour before any hint of orange or pink had brightened the east, and when tireless Nature herself seems to take a brief break. In the noise of restless cities, this is the only time when their struggles are quiet. Midnight is alive; the streets are filled with laughter and the sound of rattling wheels. By the third hour, a heavy silence takes over; the loud streets become silent. They are empty of everyone except for a few night watchmen and lurking thieves. But even far from people's haunts and the buzz of towns, it feels the same. "Nature's best nurse" seems to weigh down the natural world, and stillness reigns everywhere. Our feelings are greatly influenced by the hour. Exposed to the raw, harsh atmosphere, which has neither the biting freshness of morning nor the deep chill of night, our bodies struggle against the dull, miserable sensations caused by the dampness, and these feelings quickly affect our spirits. Hope leaves us. We are tired, drained. Our energy is low. Sleep does not "weigh our eyelids down." We stare into the emptiness. We imagine a thousand restless, discouraging images. We give up on plans we made, which, seen through this lens, seem unrealistic, fanciful, absurd. We crave rest, rejuvenation, energy.

We will not say that Turpin had all these misgivings. But he had to struggle hard with himself to set sleep and exhaustion at defiance.

We won't say that Turpin had all these doubts. But he had to fight hard against himself to ignore sleep and exhaustion.

The moon had set. The stars,

The moon had set. The stars,

Pinnacled deep in the intense main,

Pinnacled deep in the intense main,

had all—save one, the herald of the dawn—withdrawn their luster. A dull mist lay on the stream, and the air became piercing cold. Turpin's chilled fingers could scarcely grasp the slackening rein, while his eyes, irritated by the keen atmosphere, hardly enabled him to distinguish surrounding objects, or even to guide his steed. It was owing, probably, to this latter circumstance, that Bess suddenly floundered and fell, throwing her master over her head.

had all—except one, the herald of the dawn—lost their brightness. A thick mist hung over the stream, and the air turned biting cold. Turpin's numb fingers could barely hold the loosening reins, while his eyes, stinging from the cold, struggled to make out the objects around him, or even steer his horse. It was likely because of this that Bess suddenly stumbled and fell, throwing her rider over her head.

Turpin instantly recovered himself. His first thought was for his horse. But Bess was instantly upon her legs—covered with dust and foam, sides and cheeks—and with her large eyes glaring wildly, almost piteously, upon her master.

Turpin quickly regained his composure. His first concern was for his horse. But Bess was already on her feet—covered in dust and foam, her sides and cheeks—and with her wide eyes looking wildly, almost desperately, at her owner.

"Art hurt, lass?" asked Dick, as she shook herself, and slightly shivered. And he proceeded to the horseman's scrutiny. "Nothing but a shake; though that dull eye—those quivering flanks——" added he, looking earnestly at her. "She won't go much further, and I must give it up—what! give up the race just when it's won? No, that can't be. Ha! well thought on. I've a bottle of liquid, given me by an old fellow, who was a knowing cove and famous jockey in his day, which he swore would make a horse go as long as he'd a leg[412] to carry him, and bade me keep it for some great occasion. I've never used it; but I'll try it now. It should be in this pocket. Ah! Bess, wench, I fear I'm using thee, after all, as Sir Luke did his mistress, that I thought so like thee. No matter! It will be a glorious end."

"Did that hurt, girl?" Dick asked as she shook herself and shivered slightly. He then focused on the horse. "Just a shake; but that dull eye—those trembling flanks..." he added, looking intently at her. "She can't go much further, and I have to give up—what? Give up the race just when it’s almost won? No way, that can't happen. Ha! Good thinking. I have a bottle of liquid given to me by an old guy who was a savvy fellow and a famous jockey in his time. He swore it would make a horse keep going as long as it had legs to carry it, and told me to save it for a big moment. I’ve never used it, but I’ll give it a shot now. It should be in this pocket. Ah! Bess, girl, I’m afraid I’m using you just like Sir Luke did his mistress, who I thought looked so much like you. No matter! It will be an amazing finish."

Raising her head upon his shoulder, Dick poured the contents of the bottle down the throat of his mare. Nor had he to wait long before its invigorating effects were instantaneous. The fire was kindled in the glassy orb; her crest was once more erected; her flank ceased to quiver; and she neighed loud and joyously.

Raising her head on his shoulder, Dick poured the contents of the bottle down his mare's throat. He didn't have to wait long before its energizing effects were immediate. The fire sparked in her eyes; her mane stood tall again; her side stopped trembling; and she neighed loudly and happily.

"Egad, the old fellow was right," cried Dick. "The drink has worked wonders. What the devil could it have been? It smells like spirit," added he, examining the bottle. "I wish I'd left a taste for myself. But here's that will do as well." And he drained his flask of the last drop of brandy.

"Wow, the old guy was right," exclaimed Dick. "The drink really did the trick. What on earth could it have been? It smells like strong alcohol," he said, looking at the bottle. "I wish I had saved a sip for myself. But this will work just fine." And he emptied the last drop of brandy from his flask.

Dick's limbs were now become so excessively stiff, that it was with difficulty he could remount his horse. But this necessary preliminary being achieved by the help of a stile, he found no difficulty in resuming his accustomed position upon the saddle. We know not whether there was any likeness between our Turpin and that modern Hercules of the sporting world, Mr. Osbaldeston. Far be it from us to institute any comparison, though we cannot help thinking that, in one particular, he resembled that famous "copper-bottomed" squire. This we will leave to our reader's discrimination. Dick bore his fatigues wonderfully. He suffered somewhat of that martyrdom which, according to Tom Moore, occurs "to weavers and M. P.'s, from sitting too long;" but again on his courser's back, he cared not for anything.

Dick's limbs had become so stiff that he could barely get back on his horse. Once he managed to do so with the help of a stile, he had no trouble settling into his usual position on the saddle. We can't say whether our Turpin resembled the modern sports superstar, Mr. Osbaldeston. We won't make any comparisons, but we can't help thinking that in one way, he was similar to that well-known "copper-bottomed" squire. We'll let our readers decide on that. Dick handled his exhaustion remarkably well. He experienced a bit of the suffering that, according to Tom Moore, happens "to weavers and M. P.'s, from sitting too long;" but once he was back on his horse, he didn't care about anything else.

Once more, at a gallant pace, he traversed the banks of the Don, skirting the fields of flax that bound its sides, and hurried far more swiftly than its current to its confluence with the Aire.[413]

Once again, at a bold speed, he ran along the banks of the Don, passing by the flax fields that lined its edges, and moved much faster than the river's flow to where it joined the Aire.[413]

Snaith was past. He was on the road to Selby when dawn first began to break. Here and there a twitter was heard in the hedge; a hare ran across his path, gray-looking as the morning self; and the mists began to rise from the earth. A bar of gold was drawn against the east, like the roof of a gorgeous palace. But the mists were heavy in this world of rivers and their tributary streams. The Ouse was before him, the Trent and Aire behind; the Don and Derwent on either hand, all in their way to commingle their currents ere they formed the giant Humber. Amid a region so prodigal of water, no wonder the dews fell thick as rain. Here and there the ground was clear; but then again came a volley of vapor, dim and palpable as smoke.

Snaith was in the past. He was on the road to Selby when dawn started to break. Here and there, he heard a bird chirping in the hedges; a hare darted across his path, looking gray like the morning itself; and the mist began to rise from the ground. A strip of gold appeared in the east, like the roof of a stunning palace. But the mist was dense in this land of rivers and their streams. The Ouse was in front of him, while the Trent and Aire were behind; the Don and Derwent on either side, all making their way to merge their waters before they formed the massive Humber. In a place so abundant with water, it’s no surprise the dew fell thick like rain. Here and there, the ground was clear; but then again came a burst of vapor, dim and tangible like smoke.

While involved in one of these fogs, Turpin became aware of another horseman by his side. It was impossible to discern the features of the rider, but his figure in the mist seemed gigantic; neither was the color of his steed distinguishable. Nothing was visible except the meagre-looking, phantom-like outline of a horse and his rider, and, as the unknown rode upon the turf that edged the way, even the sound of the horse's hoofs was scarcely audible. Turpin gazed, not without superstitious awe. Once or twice he essayed to address the strange horseman, but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. He fancied he discovered in the mist-exaggerated lineaments of the stranger a wild and fantastic resemblance to his friend Tom King. "It must be Tom," thought Turpin; "he is come to warn me of my approaching end. I will speak to him."

While caught in one of these fogs, Turpin noticed another horseman next to him. It was impossible to make out the rider's features, but their figure in the mist looked enormous; the color of their horse was also unclear. All that was visible was the thin, ghostly outline of the horse and the rider, and as the unknown figure rode along the grassy edge of the path, even the sound of the horse's hooves was barely heard. Turpin stared, feeling a mix of awe and superstition. He tried a couple of times to speak to the strange horseman, but his tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth. He thought he saw a wild and strange resemblance to his friend Tom King in the distorted features of the stranger in the mist. "It must be Tom," Turpin thought; "he has come to warn me of my impending doom. I will talk to him."

But terror o'ermastered his speech. He could not force out a word, and thus side by side they rode in silence. Quaking with fears he would scarcely acknowledge to himself, Dick watched every motion of his companion. He was still, stern, spectre-like, erect; and looked for all the world like a demon on his phantom steed. His courser seemed, in the indistinct outline, to be huge and bony, and, as he snorted furiously in[414] the fog, Dick's heated imagination supplied his breath with a due proportion of flame. Not a word was spoken—not a sound heard, save the sullen dead beat of his hoofs upon the grass. It was intolerable to ride thus cheek by jowl with a goblin. Dick could stand it no longer. He put spurs to his horse, and endeavored to escape. But it might not be. The stranger, apparently without effort, was still by his side, and Bess's feet, in her master's apprehensions, were nailed to the ground. By-and-by, however, the atmosphere became clearer. Bright quivering beams burst through the vaporous shroud, and then it was that Dick discovered that the apparition of Tom King was no other than Luke Rookwood. He was mounted on his old horse, Rook, and looked grim and haggard as a ghost vanishing at the crowing of the cock.

But terror overwhelmed his speech. He couldn’t force out a word, so they rode side by side in silence. Shaking with fears he could barely acknowledge, Dick watched every move of his companion. He was still, stern, ghostly, and sat upright; he looked just like a demon on his phantom horse. His steed seemed, in the blurred outline, to be huge and bony, and as it snorted fiercely in the fog, Dick’s heated imagination filled its breath with flames. Not a word was spoken—no sound was heard, except the dull thud of its hooves on the grass. It was unbearable to ride this close to a phantom. Dick couldn’t take it anymore. He kicked his horse into a gallop, trying to escape. But it wasn’t possible. The stranger, seemingly without effort, stayed right next to him, and Bess’s feet, in her master’s anxiety, were stuck to the ground. Eventually, though, the atmosphere began to clear. Bright, shimmering beams broke through the mist, and that’s when Dick realized that the ghostly figure of Tom King was actually Luke Rookwood. He was riding his old horse, Rook, and looked grim and haggard like a ghost fading at the crow of a rooster.

"Sir Luke Rookwood, by this light!" exclaimed Dick, in astonishment. "Why, I took you for——"

"Sir Luke Rookwood, by this light!" Dick exclaimed, astonished. "I thought you were——"

"The devil, no doubt?" returned Luke, smiling sternly, "and were sorry to find yourself so hard pressed. Don't disquiet yourself; I am still flesh and blood."

"The devil, right?" Luke said, smiling sternly, "and you're upset to find yourself in such a tough spot. Don’t worry; I’m still just flesh and blood."

"Had I taken you for one of mortal mould," said Dick, "you should have soon seen where I'd have put you in the race. That confounded fog deceived me, and Bess acted the fool as well as myself. However, now I know you, Sir Luke, you must spur alongside, for the hawks are on the wing; and though I've much to say, I've not a second to lose." And Dick briefly detailed the particulars of his ride, concluding with his rencontre with Barbara. "Here's the packet," said he, "just as I got it. You must keep it till the proper moment. And here," added he, fumbling in his pocket for another paper, "is the marriage document. You are now your father's lawful son, let who will say you nay. Take it and welcome. If you are ever master of Miss Mowbray's hand, you will not forget Dick Turpin."

"Had I thought you were just an ordinary guy," said Dick, "you would have quickly seen where I would have placed you in the race. That annoying fog tricked me, and Bess played the fool just like I did. But now that I know you, Sir Luke, you need to ride alongside, because the hawks are in the air; and even though I have a lot to say, I don’t have a moment to waste." Dick then quickly shared the details of his ride, finishing with his encounter with Barbara. "Here's the packet," he said, "just like I received it. You need to keep it until the right time. And here," he added, fumbling in his pocket for another paper, "is the marriage document. You are now your father's legitimate son, no matter what anyone says. Take it; it's yours. If you ever win Miss Mowbray’s hand, don’t forget about Dick Turpin."

"I will not," said Luke, eagerly grasping the certificate; "but she never may be mine."[415]

"I won't," said Luke, eagerly grabbing the certificate; "but she might never be mine."[415]

"You have her oath?"

"Do you have her oath?"

"I have."

"I've."

"What more is needed?"

"What else is needed?"

"Her hand."

"Her hand."

"That will follow."

"That will come next."

"It shall follow," replied Sir Luke, wildly. "You are right. She is my affianced bride—affianced before hell, if not before heaven. I have sealed the contract with blood—with Sybil's blood—and it shall be fulfilled. I have her oath—her oath—ha, ha! Though I perish in the attempt, I will wrest her from Ranulph's grasp. She shall never be his. I would stab her first. Twice have I failed in my endeavors to bear her off. I am from Rookwood even now. To-morrow night I shall renew the attack. Will you assist me?"

"It will happen," replied Sir Luke, frantically. "You’re right. She is my promised bride—promised before anyone else, if not before God. I’ve sealed the deal with blood—with Sybil's blood—and it will be fulfilled. I have her vow—her vow—ha, ha! Even if I die trying, I will take her from Ranulph. She will never belong to him. I would rather stab her first. I've failed twice in my attempts to take her away. I’m coming from Rookwood right now. Tomorrow night, I’ll try again. Will you help me?"

"To-morrow night!" interrupted Dick.

"Tomorrow night!" interrupted Dick.

"Nay, I should say to-night. A new day has already dawned," replied Luke.

"Actually, I meant tonight. A new day has already started," replied Luke.

"I will: she is at Rookwood?"

"I'll: she's at Rookwood?"

"She languishes there at present, attended by her mother and her lover. The hall is watched and guarded. Ranulph is ever on the alert. But we will storm their garrison. I have a spy within its walls—a gipsy girl, faithful to my interests. From her I have learnt that there is a plot to wed Eleanor to Ranulph, and that the marriage is to take place privately to-morrow. This must be prevented."

"She’s currently suffering there, with her mother and her lover by her side. The hall is being watched and protected. Ranulph is always on guard. But we’ll attack their stronghold. I have a spy inside— a gypsy girl who’s loyal to me. From her, I’ve learned that there’s a plan to marry Eleanor to Ranulph, and the wedding is supposed to happen in secret tomorrow. This can’t happen."

"It must. But why not boldly appear in person at the hall, and claim her?"

"It must. But why not confidently show up in person at the hall and claim her?"

"Why not? I am a proscribed felon. A price is set upon my head. I am hunted through the country—driven to concealment, and dare not show myself for fear of capture. What could I do now? They would load me with fetters, bury me in a dungeon, and wed Eleanor to Ranulph. What would my rights avail? What would her oath signify to them? No; she must be mine by force. His she shall never be. Again, I ask you, will you aid me?"[416]

"Why not? I'm a wanted criminal. There's a bounty on my head. I'm being hunted across the country—forced into hiding, and I can't show myself because I'm afraid of being caught. What can I do now? They'd shackle me, throw me in a dungeon, and marry Eleanor off to Ranulph. What good would my rights do? What would her promise mean to them? No; she must belong to me by force. She will never be his. Again, I ask you, will you help me?"[416]

"I have said—I will. Where is Alan Rookwood?"

"I've said—I will. Where's Alan Rookwood?"

"Concealed within the hut on Thorne Waste. You know it—it was one of your haunts."

"Hidden inside the hut on Thorne Waste. You know it—it was one of your favorite spots."

"I know it well," said Dick, "and Conkey Jem, its keeper, into the bargain: he is a knowing file. I'll join you at the hut at midnight, if all goes well. We'll bring off the wench, in spite of them all—just the thing I like. But in case of a break-down on my part, suppose you take charge of my purse in the mean time."

"I know it well," said Dick, "and Conkey Jem, the guy who looks after it, too: he's pretty sharp. I'll meet you at the hut at midnight, if everything goes smoothly. We'll get the girl out, regardless of what anyone says—just the kind of thing I enjoy. But if something goes wrong on my end, why don’t you hold onto my money for now?"

Luke would have declined this offer.

Luke would have said no to this offer.

"Pshaw!" said Dick. "Who knows what may happen? and it's not ill-lined either. You'll find an odd hundred or so in that silken bag—it's not often your highwayman gives away a purse. Take it, man—we'll settle all to-night; and if I don't come, keep it—it will help you to your bride. And now off with you to the hut, for you are only hindering me. Adieu! My love to old Alan. We'll do the trick to-night. Away with you to the hut. Keep yourself snug there till midnight, and we'll ride over to Rookwood."

"Pssh!" said Dick. "Who knows what could happen? And it's not poorly lined either. You’ll find about a hundred or so in that silk bag—it’s not every day a highwayman gives away a purse. Take it, man—we’ll sort everything out tonight; and if I don’t show up, keep it—it’ll help you with your bride. Now get going to the hut, because you're just holding me up. Goodbye! Send my love to old Alan. We’ll pull off the plan tonight. Get to the hut and stay safe there until midnight, and we’ll ride over to Rookwood."

"At midnight," replied Sir Luke, wheeling off, "I shall expect you."

"At midnight," replied Sir Luke, turning away, "I'll be expecting you."

"'Ware hawks!" hallooed Dick.

"Watch out for hawks!" yelled Dick.

But Luke had vanished. In another instant Dick was scouring the plain as rapidly as ever. In the mean time, as Dick has casually alluded to the hawks, it may not be amiss to inquire how they had flown throughout the night, and whether they were still in chase of their quarry.

But Luke had disappeared. In the next moment, Dick was searching the plain as quickly as ever. Meanwhile, since Dick had casually mentioned the hawks, it might be worth asking how they had flown through the night and whether they were still pursuing their target.

With the exception of Titus, who was completely done up at Grantham, "having got," as he said, "a complete bellyful of it," they were still on the wing, and resolved sooner or later to pounce upon their prey, pursuing the same system as heretofore in regard to the post-horses. Major Mowbray and Paterson took the lead, but the irascible and invincible attorney was not far in their rear, his wrath having been by no means allayed by the fatigue he had undergone. At Bawtrey they[417] held a council of war for a few minutes, being doubtful which course he had taken. Their incertitude was relieved by a foot traveller, who had heard Dick's loud halloo on passing the boundary of Nottinghamshire, and had seen him take the lower road. They struck, therefore, into the path at Thorne at a hazard, and were soon satisfied they were right. Furiously did they now spur on. They reached Selby, changed horses at the inn in front of the venerable cathedral church, and learnt from the postboy that a toilworn horseman, on a jaded steed, had ridden through the town about five minutes before them, and could not be more than a quarter of a mile in advance. "His horse was so dead beat," said the lad, "that I'm sure he cannot have got far; and, if you look sharp, I'll be bound you'll overtake him before he reaches Cawood Ferry."

Except for Titus, who was completely worn out at Grantham, "having gotten," as he said, "a complete bellyful of it," the others were still on the move, determined to catch their target sooner or later, following the same strategy as before regarding the post-horses. Major Mowbray and Paterson took the lead, but the irritable and relentless attorney was close behind, his anger not lessened at all by the exhaustion he had experienced. At Bawtry, they held a quick council of war, unsure which route he had taken. Their uncertainty was resolved by a pedestrian who had heard Dick's loud shout as he crossed the Nottinghamshire border and had seen him take the lower road. They decided to take the path at Thorne on a hunch, and soon confirmed they were on the right track. They spurred on furiously. They arrived in Selby, changed horses at the inn in front of the old cathedral, and learned from the postboy that a tired horseman, on a worn-out horse, had ridden through town just about five minutes ahead of them and couldn’t be more than a quarter of a mile in front. "His horse was so exhausted," said the boy, "that I’m sure he can’t have gone far; and if you hurry, I bet you’ll catch up with him before he reaches Cawood Ferry."

Mr. Coates was transported. "We'll lodge him snug in York Castle before an hour, Paterson," cried he, rubbing his hands.

Mr. Coates was thrilled. "We'll get him settled comfortably in York Castle within the hour, Paterson," he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together.

"I hope so, sir," said the chief constable, "but I begin to have some qualms."

"I hope so, sir," said the chief constable, "but I'm starting to have some doubts."

"Now, gentlemen," shouted the postboy, "come along. I'll soon bring you to him."

"Alright, guys," shouted the postboy, "let's go. I'll get you to him in no time."


CHAPTER XII

CAWOOD FERRY

The sight refreshed my horse's energy,
A moment, weakly fleeting,
A moment, with a faint soft whinny, He replied, then collapsed.
He lay there, gasping and staring blankly, And stinking limbs unmoving,—
His first and last career was over.

Mazeppa.

Mazeppa.

The sun had just o'ertopped the "high eastern hill," as Turpin reached the Ferry of Cawood, and his beams were reflected upon the deep and sluggish waters of the Ouse. Wearily had he dragged his course thither—wearily and slow. The powers of his gallant steed were spent, and he could scarcely keep her from sinking. It was now midway 'twixt the hours of five and six. Nine miles only lay before him, and that thought again revived him. He reached the water's edge, and hailed the ferryboat, which was then on the other side of the river. At that instant a loud shout smote his ear; it was the halloo of his pursuers. Despair was in his look. He shouted to the boatman, and bade him pull fast. The man obeyed; but he had to breast a strong stream, and had a lazy bark and heavy sculls to contend with. He had scarcely left the shore when, another shout was raised from the pursuers. The tramp of their steeds grew louder and louder.

The sun had just risen over the "high eastern hill" when Turpin reached the Cawood Ferry, and its rays reflected off the deep, slow-moving waters of the Ouse. He had dragged himself there wearily and slowly. His trusty horse was exhausted, and he could barely keep her from collapsing. It was now between five and six o'clock. Only nine miles lay ahead of him, and that thought gave him a boost. He arrived at the water's edge and called out to the ferryboat, which was on the opposite side of the river. At that moment, a loud shout caught his attention; it was the call of his pursuers. Despair clouded his face. He yelled to the boatman, urging him to row quickly. The man complied, but he had to fight against a strong current, and the boat was heavy and slow. He had barely left the shore when more shouts came from the pursuers. The pounding of their horses' hooves grew louder and louder.

The boat had scarcely reached the middle of the stream. His captors were at hand. Quietly did he walk down the bank, and as cautiously enter the water. There was a plunge, and steed and rider were swimming down the river.

The boat had just made it to the middle of the stream. His captors were nearby. He quietly walked down the bank and carefully entered the water. There was a splash, and both horse and rider began swimming down the river.

Major Mowbray was at the brink of the stream. He hesitated an instant, and stemmed the tide. Seized, as it were,[419] by a mania for equestrian distinction, Mr. Coates braved the torrent. Not so Paterson. He very coolly took out his bulldogs, and, watching Turpin, cast up in his own mind the pros and cons of shooting him as he was crossing. "I could certainly hit him," thought, or said, the constable; "but what of that? A dead highwayman is worth nothing—alive, he weighs 300l. I won't shoot him, but I'll make a pretence." And he fired accordingly.

Major Mowbray was at the edge of the stream. He paused for a moment and braced himself against the current. Driven by a desire for equestrian glory, Mr. Coates confronted the rushing water. Not so with Paterson. He calmly pulled out his bulldogs and, while observing Turpin, considered in his own mind the pros and cons of shooting him as he crossed. "I could definitely hit him," thought or said the constable; "but so what? A dead highwayman isn’t worth anything—alive, he weighs 300 lbs. I won't shoot him, but I'll make a show of it." And he fired as planned.

The shot skimmed over the water, but did not, as it was intended, do much mischief. It, however, occasioned a mishap, which had nearly proved fatal to our aquatic attorney. Alarmed at the report of the pistol, in the nervous agitation of the moment Coates drew in his rein so tightly that his steed instantly sank. A moment or two afterwards he rose, shaking his ears, and floundering heavily towards the shore; and such was the chilling effect of this sudden immersion, that Mr. Coates now thought much more of saving himself than of capturing Turpin. Dick, meanwhile, had reached the opposite bank, and, refreshed by her bath, Bess scrambled up the sides of the stream, and speedily regained the road. "I shall do it yet," shouted Dick; "that stream has saved her. Hark away, lass! Hark away!"

The shot skimmed over the water but didn't cause as much trouble as it was meant to. However, it led to an incident that almost turned deadly for our aquatic lawyer. Startled by the sound of the gun, Coates pulled on the reins so tightly that his horse immediately sank. A moment later, the horse surfaced, shaking its ears and struggling heavily towards the shore; the shock of the sudden plunge made Mr. Coates care much more about saving himself than catching Turpin. Meanwhile, Dick had made it to the opposite bank, and after her swim, Bess climbed up the riverbank and quickly got back on the road. "I’m going to get it done," shouted Dick; "that stream has saved her. Let’s go, girl! Let’s go!”

Bess heard the cheering cry, and she answered to the call. She roused all her energies; strained every sinew, and put forth all her remaining strength. Once more, on wings of swiftness, she bore him away from his pursuers, and Major Mowbray, who had now gained the shore, and made certain of securing him, beheld him spring, like a wounded hare, from beneath his very hand.

Bess heard the cheering call, and she responded. She gathered all her energy, pushed herself to the limit, and used up all her remaining strength. Once again, with incredible speed, she carried him away from his pursuers. Major Mowbray, who had reached the shore and was sure he had him secured, saw him leap away like a wounded hare right from under his hand.

"It cannot hold out," said the major; "it is but an expiring flash; that gallant steed must soon drop."

"It can't last," said the major; "it's just a dying spark; that brave horse will soon collapse."

"She be regularly booked, that's certain," said the postboy.

"She's regularly booked, that's for sure," said the postboy.

"We shall find her on the road."

"We'll find her on the road."

Contrary to all expectation, however, Bess held on, and set pursuit at defiance. Her pace was swift as when she started.[420] But it was unconscious and mechanical action. It wanted the ease, the lightness, the life of her former riding. She seemed screwed up to a task which she must execute. There was no flogging, no gory heel; but the heart was throbbing, tugging at the sides within. Her spirit spurred her onwards. Her eye was glazing; her chest heaving; her flank quivering; her crest again fallen. Yet she held on. "She is dying!" said Dick. "I feel it——" No, she held on.

Against all odds, Bess kept going and ignored the pursuit. Her speed was just as fast as when she began.[420] But it was an automatic and mindless effort. It lacked the ease, the lightness, and the vitality of her previous riding. She seemed pushed to complete a task she had to finish. There was no whipping, no harsh spurs; but her heart was racing, pulling at her sides from within. Her spirit drove her forward. Her gaze was dulling; her chest was heaving; her sides were trembling; her mane was drooping again. Yet she pressed on. "She's dying!" Dick exclaimed. "I can feel it—" No, she pressed on.

Fulford is past. The towers and pinnacles of York burst upon him in all the freshness, the beauty, and the glory of a bright, clear, autumnal morn. The ancient city seemed to smile a welcome—a greeting. The noble Minster and its serene and massive pinnacles, crocketed, lantern-like, and beautiful; St. Mary's lofty spire, All-Hallows Tower, the massive mouldering walls of the adjacent postern, the grim castle, and Clifford's neighboring keep—all beamed upon him, like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.

Fulford is behind him. The towers and spires of York appeared before him in all their freshness, beauty, and glory on a bright, clear autumn morning. The ancient city seemed to smile a welcome—a greeting. The majestic Minster with its calm, massive spires, ornate like lanterns and stunning; St. Mary's tall steeple, All-Hallows Tower, the sturdy, crumbling walls of the nearby postern, the imposing castle, and Clifford's nearby keep—all shone at him like a bright-eyed face that openly laughs.

"It is done—it is won," cried Dick. "Hurrah! hurrah!" And the sunny air was cleft with his shouts.

"It’s done—it’s won," shouted Dick. "Hooray! Hooray!" And the bright air was filled with his cheers.

Bess was not insensible to her master's exultation. She neighed feebly in answer to his call, and reeled forwards. It was a piteous sight to see her,—to mark her staring, protruding eyeball,—her shaking flanks; but, while life and limb held together, she held on.

Bess was not unaware of her master's excitement. She neighed weakly in response to his call and stumbled forward. It was a sad sight to see her—her wide, bulging eye and trembling body—but as long as she was still alive, she pushed on.

Another mile is past. York is near.

Another mile has passed. York is close.

"Hurrah!" shouted Dick; but his voice was hushed. Bess tottered—fell. There was a dreadful gasp—a parting moan—a snort; her eye gazed, for an instant, upon her master, with a dying glare; then grew glassy, rayless, fixed. A shiver ran through her frame. Her heart had burst.

"Hooray!" shouted Dick; but his voice was silenced. Bess stumbled—collapsed. There was a terrible gasp—a final moan—a snort; her eye looked, for a moment, at her master, with a dying stare; then became glassy, empty, fixed. A shiver passed through her body. Her heart had broken.

Dick's eyes were blinded, as with rain. His triumph, though achieved, was forgotten—his own safety was disregarded. He stood weeping and swearing, like one beside himself.

Dick's eyes were blinded, like being caught in the rain. His victory, even though he had achieved it, was forgotten—he ignored his own safety. He stood there, crying and cursing, as if he had lost his mind.

"And art thou gone, Bess?" cried he, in a voice of agony, lifting up his courser's head, and kissing her lips, covered with[421] blood-flecked foam. "Gone, gone! and I have killed the best steed that was ever crossed! And for what?" added Dick, beating his brow with his clenched hand—"for what? for what?"

"And are you really gone, Bess?" he cried in a voice full of pain, raising his horse's head and kissing her lips, smeared with[421] blood-flecked foam. "Gone, gone! And I have killed the best horse that ever lived! And for what?" Dick added, banging his forehead with his clenched fist—"for what? for what?"

At this moment the deep bell of the Minster clock tolled out the hour of six.

At that moment, the deep bell of the Minster clock rang out six o'clock.

"I am answered," gasped Dick; "it was to hear those strokes."

"I get it," gasped Dick; "it was to hear those hits."

Turpin was roused from the state of stupefaction into which he had fallen by a smart slap on the shoulder. Recalled to himself by the blow, he started at once to his feet, while his hands sought his pistols: but he was spared the necessity of using them, by discovering in the intruder the bearded visage of the gipsy Balthazar. The patrico was habited in mendicant weeds, and sustained a large wallet upon his shoulders.

Turpin was awakened from his daze by a sharp slap on the shoulder. Brought back to reality by the hit, he jumped to his feet and reached for his pistols, but he didn’t need to use them when he recognized the intruder as the bearded gypsy Balthazar. The patrico was dressed in ragged clothes and carried a large bag on his shoulders.

"So it's all over with the best mare in England, I see," said Balthazar; "I can guess how it has happened—you are pursued?"

"So it's all over with the best mare in England, I see," said Balthazar. "I can guess what happened—you’re being pursued?"

"I am," said Dick, roughly.

"I'm," said Dick, roughly.

"Your pursuers are at hand?"

"Are your pursuers nearby?"

"Within a few hundred yards."

"Within a few hundred meters."

"Then, why stay here? Fly while you can."

"Then, why stay here? Leave while you still can."

"Never—never," cried Turpin; "I'll fight it out here by Bess's side. Poor lass! I've killed her—but she has done it—ha, ha!—we have won—what?" And his utterance was again choked.

"Never—never," yelled Turpin; "I'll fight it out here by Bess's side. Poor girl! I've killed her—but she did it—ha, ha!—we have won—what?" And his voice was once again choked.

"Hark! I hear the tramp of horse, and shouts," cried the patrico. "Take this wallet. You will find a change of dress within it. Dart into that thick copse—save yourself."

"Hurry! I hear the sound of horses and shouting," said the patrico. "Take this bag. You'll find a change of clothes inside. Run into that dense grove—save yourself."

"But Bess—I cannot leave her," exclaimed Dick, with an agonizing look at his horse.

"But Bess—I can't leave her," Dick exclaimed, looking at his horse with a pained expression.

"And what did Bess die for, but to save you?" rejoined the patrico.

"And what did Bess die for, if not to save you?" the patrician replied.

"True, true," said Dick; "but take care of her, don't let those dogs of hell meddle with her carcase."[422]

"Yeah, you're right," said Dick; "but make sure to protect her, don't let those hellhounds mess with her body."[422]

"Away," cried the patrico, "leave Bess to me."

"Away," shouted the patron, "leave Bess to me."

Possessing himself of the wallet, Dick disappeared in the adjoining copse.

Grabbing the wallet, Dick vanished into the nearby thicket.

He had not been gone many seconds when Major Mowbray rode up.

He had only been gone for a few seconds when Major Mowbray rode up.

"Who is this?" exclaimed the Major, flinging himself from his horse, and seizing the patrico; "this is not Turpin."

"Who is this?" the Major shouted, jumping off his horse and grabbing the patrico. "This isn't Turpin."

"Certainly not," replied Balthazar, coolly. "I am not exactly the figure for a highwayman."

"Definitely not," Balthazar replied, unfazed. "I'm not really the type for a highwayman."

"Where is he? What has become of him?" asked Coates, in despair, as he and Paterson joined the major.

"Where is he? What happened to him?" Coates asked in despair as he and Paterson joined the major.

"Escaped, I fear," replied the major. "Have you seen any one, fellow?" added he, addressing the patrico.

"Escaped, I think," replied the major. "Have you seen anyone, buddy?" he added, addressing the patrico.

"I have seen no one," replied Balthazar. "I am only this instant arrived. This dead horse lying in the road attracted my attention."

"I haven't seen anyone," Balthazar replied. "I just arrived. This dead horse lying in the road caught my eye."

"Ha!" exclaimed Paterson, leaping from his steed, "this may be Turpin after all. He has as many disguises as the devil himself, and may have carried that goat's hair in his pocket." Saying which, he seized the patrico by the beard, and shook it with as little reverence as the Gaul handled the hirsute chin of the Roman senator.

"Ha!" shouted Paterson, jumping off his horse, "this could be Turpin after all. He has as many disguises as the devil, and he might have stashed that goat's hair in his pocket." With that, he grabbed the patrico by his beard and shook it without any respect, just like the Gaul treated the hairy chin of the Roman senator.

"The devil! hands off," roared Balthazar. "By Salamon, I won't stand such usage. Do you think a beard like mine is the growth of a few minutes? Hands off! I say."

"The devil! Hands off," Balthazar shouted. "By Salamon, I won't take this kind of treatment. Do you think a beard like mine grows in just a few minutes? Hands off! I said."

"Regularly done!" said Paterson, removing his hold of the patrico's chin, and looking as blank as a cartridge.

"All done!" said Paterson, letting go of the patrician's chin and looking as blank as a cartridge.

"Ay," exclaimed Coates; "all owing to this worthless piece of carrion. If it were not that I hope to see him dangling from those walls"—pointing towards the Castle—"I should wish her master were by her side now. To the dogs with her." And he was about to spurn the breathless carcase of poor Bess, when a sudden blow, dealt by the patrico's staff, felled him to the ground.[423]

"Ay," shouted Coates; "all because of this useless piece of trash. If I didn’t hope to see him swinging from those walls"—pointing towards the Castle—"I would want her master to be right by her side now. To hell with her." And he was about to kick the lifeless body of poor Bess when a sudden blow from the patrico's staff knocked him to the ground.[423]

"I'll teach you to molest me," said Balthazar, about to attack Paterson.

"I'll teach you to mess with me," said Balthazar, getting ready to confront Paterson.

"Come, come," said the discomfited chief constable, "no more of this. It's plain we're in the wrong box. Every bone in my body aches sufficiently without the aid of your cudgel, old fellow. Come, Mr. Coates, take my arm, and let's be moving. We've had an infernal long ride for nothing."

"Come on, come on," said the frustrated chief constable, "enough of this. It’s clear we’re in the wrong place. Every bone in my body aches enough without your club, my friend. Come on, Mr. Coates, grab my arm, and let’s get going. We’ve had an incredibly long ride for no reason."

"Not so," replied Coates; "I've paid pretty dearly for it. However, let us see if we can get any breakfast at the Bowling-green, yonder; though I've already had my morning draught," added the facetious man of law, looking at his dripping apparel.

"Not really," Coates replied. "I've paid quite a price for it. But let's see if we can grab some breakfast at the Bowling Green over there; although I've already had my morning drink," added the humorous lawyer, glancing at his soaked clothes.

"Poor Black Bess!" said Major Mowbray, wistfully regarding the body of the mare, as it lay stretched at his feet. "Thou deservedst a better fate, and a better master. In thee, Dick Turpin has lost his best friend. His exploits will, henceforth, want the coloring of romance, which thy unfailing energies threw over them. Light lie the ground over thee, thou matchless mare!"

"Poor Black Bess!" said Major Mowbray, looking sadly at the mare's body as it lay stretched at his feet. "You deserved a better fate and a better owner. Dick Turpin has lost his best friend in you. From now on, his adventures will lack the romantic flair that your unwavering spirit brought to them. May the ground rest lightly upon you, you unmatched mare!"

To the Bowling-green the party proceeded, leaving the patrico in undisturbed possession of the lifeless body of Black Bess. Major Mowbray ordered a substantial repast to be prepared with all possible expedition.

To the bowling green, the group made their way, leaving the caretaker undisturbed with the lifeless body of Black Bess. Major Mowbray instructed that a hearty meal be prepared as quickly as possible.

A countryman, in a smock-frock, was busily engaged at his morning's meal.

A farmer, wearing a work shirt, was actively involved in having his breakfast.

"To see that fellow bolt down his breakfast, one would think he had fasted for a month," said Coates; "see the wholesome effects of an honest, industrious life, Paterson. I envy him his appetite—I should fall to with more zest were Dick Turpin in his place."

"Watching that guy scarf down his breakfast, you’d think he hadn’t eaten in a month," said Coates; "just look at the healthy results of a hardworking, honest life, Paterson. I’m jealous of his appetite—I’d dig in with more enthusiasm if Dick Turpin were sitting in his spot."

The countryman looked up. He was an odd-looking fellow, with a terrible squint, and a strange, contorted countenance.

The countryman looked up. He was a strange-looking guy, with a terrible squint and a weird, twisted face.

"An ugly dog!" exclaimed Paterson: "what a devil of a twist he has got!"[424]

"An ugly dog!" Paterson exclaimed. "What a crazy twist he has!"[424]

"What's that you says about Dick Taarpin, measter?" asked the countryman, with his mouth half full of bread.

"What's that you say about Dick Taarpin, sir?" asked the countryman, with his mouth half full of bread.

"Have you seen aught of him?" asked Coates.

"Have you seen anything of him?" asked Coates.

"Not I," mumbled the rustic; "but I hears aw the folks hereabouts talk on him. They say as how he sets all the lawyers and constables at defiance, and laughs in his sleeve at their efforts to cotch him—ha, ha! He gets over more ground in a day than they do in a week—ho, ho!"

"Not me," mumbled the country guy; "but I hear all the people around here talking about him. They say he mocks all the lawyers and cops, laughing to himself at their attempts to catch him—ha, ha! He covers more distance in a day than they do in a week—ho, ho!"

"That's all over now," said Coates, peevishly. "He has cut his own throat—ridden his famous mare to death."

"That's all in the past now," Coates said irritably. "He has completely messed up—ridden his famous mare into the ground."

The countryman almost choked himself, in the attempt to bolt a huge mouthful. "Ay—indeed, measter! How happened that?" asked he, so soon as he recovered speech.

The farmer nearly choked trying to swallow a big bite. "Oh—really, master! How did that happen?" he asked as soon as he could speak again.

"The fool rode her from London to York last night," returned Coates; "such a feat was never performed before. What horse could be expected to live through such work as that?"

"The idiot took her from London to York last night," Coates replied; "no one has ever done something like that before. What horse could possibly survive that kind of journey?"

"Ah, he were a foo' to attempt that," observed the countryman; "but you followed belike?"

"Ah, he was a fool to try that," said the countryman; "but you followed, right?"

"We did."

"We did."

"And took him arter all, I reckon?" asked the rustic, squinting more horribly than ever.

"And ended up taking him after all, I guess?" asked the country guy, squinting even more than before.

"No," returned Coates, "I can't say we did; but we'll have him yet. I'm pretty sure he can't be far off. We may be nearer him than we imagine."

"No," Coates replied, "I can't say we did; but we'll get him eventually. I'm pretty sure he can't be too far away. We might be closer to him than we think."

"May be so, measter," returned the countryman; "but might I be so bold as to ax how many horses you used i' the chase—some half-dozen, maybe?"

"Maybe so, sir," replied the countryman; "but could I be so bold as to ask how many horses you used in the hunt—maybe half a dozen?"

"Half a dozen!" growled Paterson; "we had twenty at the least."

"Six!" Paterson growled. "We had at least twenty."

"And I ONE!" mentally ejaculated Turpin, for he was the countryman.

"And I ONE!" mentally shouted Turpin, because he was the countryman.


BOOK V

THE OATH

It was a bad promise better broken than kept—
The laws of nature and nations do Ignore matters of divinity In that case.

Tateham.

Tateham.


CHAPTER I

THE HUT ON THORNE WASTE

Hind.   Are all our horses and weapons safe?
Furbo. They feed, like Pluto's horses, underground.
Our guns, swords, and other equipment,
Are securely locked up at our meeting point.

Prince of Prigs' Revels.

Prince of Prigs' Parties.

The hut on Thorne Waste, to which we have before incidentally alluded, and whither we are now about to repair, was a low, lone hovel, situate on the banks of the deep and oozy Don, at the eastern extremity of that extensive moor. Ostensibly its owner fulfilled the duties of ferryman to that part of the river; but as the road which skirted his tenement was little frequented, his craft was, for the most part, allowed to sleep undisturbed in her moorings.

The hut on Thorne Waste, which we mentioned earlier and where we are now headed, was a small, lonely shack located by the deep, muddy Don River at the eastern edge of that vast moor. The owner claimed to operate as the ferryman for that section of the river, but since the road next to his property was rarely used, his ferry mostly sat unused at the dock.

In reality, however, he was the inland agent of a horde of smugglers who infested the neighboring coast; his cabin was their rendezvous; and not unfrequently, it was said, the depository of their contraband goods. Conkey Jem—so was he called by his associates, on account of the Slawkenbergian promontory which decorated his countenance—had been an old hand at the same trade; but having returned from a seven years' leave of absence from his own country, procured by his lawless life, now managed matters with more circumspection and prudence, and had never since been detected in his former illicit traffic; nor, though so marvellously gifted in that particular himself, was he ever known to nose upon any of his accomplices; or, in other words, to betray them. On the contrary, his hut was a sort of asylum for all fugitives from justice; and although the sanctity of his walls would, in all[428] probability, have been little regarded, had any one been, detected within them, yet, strange to say, even if a robber had been tracked—as it often chanced—to Jem's immediate neighborhood, all traces of him were sure to be lost at the ferryman's hut; and further search was useless.

In reality, he was the inland contact for a group of smugglers who operated along the nearby coast; his cabin served as their meeting place and, more often than not, it was rumored to be a stash for their illegal goods. Conkey Jem—what his associates called him, because of the Slawkenbergian feature on his face—was an experienced hand in the same trade. However, after spending seven years away from his country due to his criminal lifestyle, he now handled things with greater caution and care, and he had not been caught in any of his previous illegal activities since then. Despite being incredibly skilled in that area himself, he was never known to betray any of his accomplices. In fact, his hut was a refuge for anyone escaping the law. Although the security of his home likely wouldn’t have mattered much if someone was found inside, strangely enough, even if a robber was tracked to Jem's area—as often happened—all evidence of him would vanish at the ferryman's hut, and any further search would be pointless.

Within, the hut presented such an appearance as might be expected, from its owner's pursuits and its own unpromising exterior. Consisting of little more than a couple of rooms, the rude whitewashed walls exhibited, in lieu of prints of more pretension, a gallery of choicely-illustrated ballads, celebrating the exploits of various highwaymen, renowned in song, amongst which our friend Dick Turpin figured conspicuously upon his sable steed, Bess being represented by a huge rampant black patch, and Dick, with a pistol considerably longer than the arm that sustained it. Next to this curious collection was a drum-net, a fishing-rod, a landing-net, an eel-spear, and other piscatorial apparatus, with a couple of sculls and a boat-hook, indicative of Jem's ferryman's office, suspended by various hooks; the whole blackened and begrimed by peat-smoke, there being no legitimate means of exit permitted to the vapor generated by the turf-covered hearthstone. The only window, indeed, in the hut, was to the front; the back apartment, which served Jem for dormitory, had no aperture whatever for the admission of light, except such as was afforded through the door of communication between the rooms. A few broken rush-bottomed chairs, with a couple of dirty tables, formed the sum total of the ferryman's furniture.

Within, the hut looked just as one might expect, given its owner's activities and its uninviting exterior. Made up of just a couple of rooms, the rough whitewashed walls showcased, instead of more upscale artwork, a collection of beautifully illustrated ballads celebrating the feats of various famous highwaymen, among which our friend Dick Turpin stood out prominently on his black horse, with Bess represented by a large black patch, and Dick brandishing a pistol much longer than the arm holding it. Next to this interesting collection was a drum-net, a fishing rod, a landing net, an eel spear, and other fishing gear, along with a couple of oars and a boat hook, hanging from various hooks, reflecting Jem's work as a ferryman; the whole setup was darkened and covered in grime from peat smoke, as there was no proper way for the vapor created by the turf-covered hearthstone to escape. In fact, the only window in the hut was at the front; the back room, which Jem used for sleeping, had no opening for light to enter, except for what came through the door connecting the two rooms. A few broken rush-bottomed chairs and a couple of dirty tables made up all the ferryman's furniture.

Notwithstanding the grotesque effect of his exaggerated nasal organ, Jem's aspect was at once savage and repulsive; his lank black hair hung about his inflamed visage in wild elf locks, the animal predominating throughout; his eyes were small, red, and wolfish, and glared suspiciously from beneath his scarred and tufted eyebrows; while certain of his teeth projected, like the tusks of a boar, from out his coarse-lipped, sensual mouth. Dwarfish in stature, and deformed in person,[429] Jem was built for strength; and what with his width of shoulder and shortness of neck, his figure looked as square and as solid as a cube. His throat and hirsute chest, constantly exposed to the weather, had acquired a glowing tan, while his arms, uncovered to the shoulders, and clothed with fur, like a bear's hide, down, almost, to the tips of his fingers, presented a knot of folded muscles, the concentrated force of which few would have desired to encounter in action.

Despite the grotesque look of his exaggerated nose, Jem appeared both savage and repulsive; his lank black hair hung around his inflamed face in wild tufts, revealing the animalistic nature within him. His eyes were small, red, and wolf-like, glaring suspiciously from beneath his scarred and tufted eyebrows. Some of his teeth jutted out like the tusks of a boar from his coarse-lipped, sensual mouth. Short and deformed, Jem was built for strength; with broad shoulders and a short neck, he looked as solid and square as a cube. His throat and hairy chest, constantly exposed to the elements, had developed a deep tan, while his arms, bare up to the shoulders and covered in fur like a bear's hide, showcased a knot of bulging muscles, the concentrated power of which few would want to face in a fight.

It was now on the stroke of midnight; and Jem, who had been lying extended upon the floor of his hovel, suddenly aroused by that warning impulse which never fails to awaken one of his calling at the exact moment when they require to be upon the alert, now set about fanning into flame the expiring fuel upon his hearth. Having succeeded in igniting further portions of the turf, Jem proceeded to examine the security of his door and window, and satisfied that lock and bolt were shot, and that the shutter was carefully closed, he kindled a light at his fire, and walked towards his bedroom. But it was not to retire for the night that the ferryman entered his dormitory. Beside his crazy couch stood a litter of empty bottles and a beer cask, crowding the chamber. The latter he rolled aside, and pressing his foot upon the plank beneath it, the board gave way, and a trap-door opening, discovered a ladder, conducting, apparently, into the bowels of the earth. Jem leaned over the abyss, and called in hoarse accents to some one below.

It was now midnight, and Jem, who had been lying on the floor of his hovel, was suddenly stirred by that instinct that never fails to wake someone like him right when they need to be alert. He started to fan the fading embers on his hearth back to life. After successfully reigniting the turf, Jem checked the security of his door and window. Satisfied that the lock and bolt were secure and the shutter was tightly closed, he lit a candle at his fire and headed toward his bedroom. But he didn’t go there to sleep. Next to his rickety bed was a mess of empty bottles and a beer cask scattered around the room. He rolled the cask aside, pressed his foot on the plank beneath it, and the board gave way, revealing a trap-door that led to a ladder, apparently going deep underground. Jem leaned over the opening and called out in a rough voice to someone below.

An answer was immediately returned, and a light became soon afterwards visible at the foot of the ladder. Two figures next ascended; the first who set foot within the ferryman's chamber was Alan Rookwood: the other, as the reader may perhaps conjecture, was his grandson.

An answer came back right away, and a light soon appeared at the bottom of the ladder. Two figures then climbed up; the first to enter the ferryman's chamber was Alan Rookwood: the other, as you might guess, was his grandson.

"Is it the hour?" asked Luke, as he sprang from out the trap-door.

"Is it time?" asked Luke, as he jumped out of the trapdoor.

"Ay," replied Jem, with a coarse laugh, "or I had not disturbed myself to call you. But, maybe," added he, softening[430] his manner a little, "you'll like some refreshments before you start? A stoup of Nantz will put you in cue for the job, ha, ha!"

"Ay," replied Jem with a rough laugh, "or I wouldn't have bothered to call you. But maybe," he added, easing his tone a bit, "you'd like some snacks before you head out? A drink of Nantz will get you ready for the task, ha, ha!"

"Not I," replied Luke, who could ill tolerate his companion's familiarity.

"Not me," replied Luke, who could barely handle his companion's casualness.

"Give me to drink," said Alan, walking feebly towards the fire, and extending his skinny fingers before it. "I am chilled by the damps of that swampy cave—the natural heat within me is nigh extinguished."

"Give me something to drink," said Alan, walking weakly toward the fire and extending his thin fingers in front of it. "I’m cold from the dampness of that swampy cave—the warmth inside me is almost gone."

"Here is that shall put fresh marrow into your old bones," returned Jem, handing him a tumbler of brandy; "never stint it. I'll be sworn you'll be the better on't, for you look desperate queer, man, about the mazard."

"Here’s something that will give you new energy," replied Jem, handing him a glass of brandy; "don’t hold back on it. I’m sure you’ll feel better after it because you look really odd, man, around the head."

Alan was, in sooth, a ghastly spectacle. The events of the last few days had wrought a fearful change. His countenance was almost exanimate; and when, with shaking hand and trembling lips, he had drained the fiery potion to the dregs, a terrible grimace was excited upon his features, such as is produced upon the corpse by the action of the galvanic machine. Even Jem regarded him with a sort of apprehension. After he had taken breath for a moment, Alan broke out into a fit of wild and immoderate laughter.

Alan was, in fact, a horrible sight. The events of the last few days had caused a frightening change. His face was nearly lifeless; and when, with a shaking hand and trembling lips, he drained the fiery drink to the last drop, a terrible grimace spread across his features, similar to what happens to a corpse when stimulated by an electric machine. Even Jem looked at him with a sense of unease. After catching his breath for a moment, Alan burst into a fit of wild and uncontrollable laughter.

"Why, ay," said he, "this is indeed to grow young again, and to feel fresh fire within one's veins. Who would have thought so much of life and energy could reside in this little vessel? I am myself once more, and not the same soulless, pulseless lump of clay I was a moment or two back. The damps of that den had destroyed me—and the solitude—the waking dreams I've had—the visions! horrible! I will not think of them. I am better now—ready to execute my plans—your plans I should say, grandson Luke. Are our horses in readiness? Why do we tarry? The hour is arrived, and I would not that my new-blown courage should evaporate ere the great work for which I live be accomplished. That done, I ask no further stimulant. Let us away."[431]

"Yeah," he said, "this really feels like getting young again, and like there's fresh energy coursing through my veins. Who would have thought so much life and vigor could be packed into this little body? I am myself again, and not the same lifeless, unfeeling lump I was just a moment ago. The dampness of that place had worn me down—and the loneliness—the waking dreams I've experienced—the visions! Terrible! I won't think about them. I'm better now—ready to carry out my plans—your plans, I should say, grandson Luke. Are our horses ready? Why are we waiting? The time has come, and I don't want my newfound courage to fade away before I achieve the great task for which I live. Once that's done, I need no further motivation. Let's go."[431]

"We tarry but for Turpin," said Luke; "I am as impatient as yourself. I fear some mischance must have befallen him, or he would have been true to his appointment. Do you not think so?" he added, addressing the ferryman.

"We're just waiting for Turpin," said Luke; "I'm as anxious as you are. I worry that something bad might have happened to him, or he would have kept his promise. Don't you think so?" he added, speaking to the ferryman.

"Why," replied Jem, reluctantly, "since you put it home to me, and I can't conceal it no longer, I'll tell you what I didn't tell afore, for fear you should be down in the mouth about it. Dick Turpin can do nothing for you—he's grabb'd."

"Why," Jem replied, hesitantly, "since you pressed me to tell the truth, and I can't hide it any longer, I'll share what I didn't mention before, because I was worried it would upset you. Dick Turpin can't help you—he's been caught."

"Turpin apprehended!" ejaculated Luke.

"Turpin caught!" exclaimed Luke.

"Ay," returned Jem. "I learnt from a farmer who crossed the ferry at nightfall, that he were grabb'd this morning at York, after having ridden his famous cherry-colored prad to death—that's what hurts me more not all the rest; though I fear Dick will scarce cheat the nubbing cheat this go. His time's up, I calculate."

"Ay," replied Jem. "I heard from a farmer who crossed the ferry at nightfall that he got caught this morning at York, after riding his famous cherry-colored horse to death—that's what bothers me the most, not all the other stuff; though I’m afraid Dick won’t escape this time. His time’s up, I think."

"Will you supply his place and accompany us?" asked Luke of the ferryman.

"Will you take his place and come with us?" Luke asked the ferryman.

"No, no," replied Jem, shaking his head; "there's too much risk, and too little profit, in the business for me—it won't pay."

"No, no," Jem replied, shaking his head. "There's too much risk and not enough profit in this business for me—it's not worth it."

"And what might tempt you to undertake the enterprise?" asked Alan.

"And what would make you want to take on the challenge?" asked Alan.

"More than you have to offer, Master Peter," replied Jem, who had not been enlightened upon the subject of Alan's real name or condition.

"More than you have to offer, Master Peter," replied Jem, who still didn’t know Alan's real name or situation.

"How know you that?" demanded Alan. "Name your demand."

"How do you know that?" Alan asked. "State your request."

"Well, then, I'll not say but a hundred pounds, if you had it, might bribe me——"

"Well, then, I won't say that a hundred pounds, if you had it, wouldn't convince me——"

"To part with your soul to the devil, I doubt not," said Luke, fiercely stamping the ground. "Let us be gone. We need not his mercenary aid. We will do without him."

"To sell your soul to the devil, I have no doubt," Luke said, fiercely stomping the ground. "Let’s get out of here. We don’t need his greedy help. We can manage without him."

"Stay," said Alan, "you shall have the hundred, provided you will assure us of your services."[432]

"Wait," said Alan, "you'll get the hundred, as long as you promise to help us."[432]

"Cut no more blarneyfied whids, Master Sexton," replied Jem, in a gruff tone. "If I'm to go, I must have the chink down, and that's more nor either of you can do, I'm thinking."

"Stop with the nonsense, Master Sexton," replied Jem, in a gruff tone. "If I'm going to leave, I need the money, and that's more than either of you can manage, I reckon."

"Give me your purse," whispered Alan to his grandson. "Pshaw," continued he, "do you hesitate? This man can do much for us. Think upon Eleanor, and be prudent. You cannot accomplish your task unaided." Taking the amount from the purse, he gave it to the ferryman, adding, "If we succeed, the sum shall be doubled; and now let us set out."

"Give me your wallet," whispered Alan to his grandson. "Pshaw," he continued, "are you hesitating? This guy can do a lot for us. Think about Eleanor and be smart. You can't do this on your own." Taking the money from the wallet, he gave it to the ferryman, adding, "If we succeed, the amount will be doubled; and now let's get going."

During Alan's speech, Jem's sharp eyes had been fastened upon the purse, while he mechanically clutched the bank-notes which were given to him. He could not remove his gaze, but continued staring at the treasure before him, as if he would willingly, by force, have made it all his own.

During Alan's speech, Jem's keen eyes were glued to the purse, while he mindlessly held onto the banknotes that were given to him. He couldn't look away and kept staring at the treasure in front of him, as if he would have eagerly taken it all for himself by force.

Alan saw the error he had committed in exposing the contents of the purse to the avaricious ferryman, and was about to restore it to Luke, when the bag was suddenly snatched from his grasp, and himself levelled by a blow upon the floor. Conkey Jem found the temptation irresistible. Knowing himself to be a match for both his companions, and imagining he was secure from interruption, he conceived the idea of making away with them, and possessing himself of their wealth. No sooner had he disposed of Alan, than he assailed Luke, who met his charge half way. With the vigor and alacrity of the latter the reader is already acquainted, but he was no match for the herculean strength of the double-jointed ferryman, who, with the ferocity of the boar he so much resembled, thus furiously attacked him. Nevertheless, as may be imagined, he was not disposed to yield up his life tamely. He saw at once the villain's murderous intentions, and, well aware of his prodigious power, would not have risked a close struggle could he have avoided it. Snatching the eel-spear from the wall, he had hurled it at the head of his adversary, but without effect. In the next instant he was locked in a clasp terrible as that of a Polar bear. In spite of all his struggles, Luke was[433] speedily hurled to the ground: and Jem, who had thrown himself upon him, was apparently searching about for some weapon to put a bloody termination to the conflict, when the trampling of a horse was heard at the door, three taps were repeated slowly, one after the other, and a call resounded from a whistle.

Alan realized the mistake he had made by showing the contents of the purse to the greedy ferryman, and he was about to give it back to Luke when the bag was suddenly yanked from his hands, and he was knocked to the floor. Conkey Jem found the temptation too great to resist. Confident that he could take on both of his companions and thinking he was safe from being interrupted, he planned to get rid of them and take their money for himself. As soon as he had dealt with Alan, he turned to attack Luke, who met him halfway. The reader already knows about Luke's strength and readiness, but he was no match for the overwhelming power of the double-jointed ferryman, who attacked him with the ferocity of a wild boar. Still, he wasn't about to give up his life easily. Luke quickly recognized the villain's deadly intentions and, fully aware of Jem's immense strength, would have avoided a close fight if he could. Grabbing the eel-spear from the wall, he threw it at Jem's head, but it missed completely. In the next moment, he found himself caught in a grip as fierce as that of a polar bear. Despite his struggles, Luke was rapidly thrown to the ground: and Jem, who had pounced on him, seemed to be looking for a weapon to end the fight brutally, when the sound of a horse's hooves was heard at the door, followed by three slow taps, one after the other, and a call echoed from a whistle.

"Damnation!" ejaculated Jem, gruffly, "interrupted!" And he seemed irresolute, slightly altering his position on Luke's body.

"Damn it!" Jem exclaimed gruffly, "interrupted!" And he appeared unsure, slightly shifting his position on Luke's body.

The moment was fortunate for Luke, and, in all probability, saved his life. He extricated himself from the ferryman's grasp, regained his feet, and, what was of more importance, the weapon he had thrown away.

The moment was lucky for Luke, and, most likely, saved his life. He got free from the ferryman's hold, stood up again, and, more importantly, retrieved the weapon he had tossed aside.

"Villain!" cried he, about to plunge the spear with all his force into his enemy's side, "you shall——"

"Villain!" he shouted, getting ready to drive the spear with all his strength into his enemy's side, "you will——"

The whistle was again heard without.

The whistle was heard again outside.

"Don't you hear that?" cried Jem: "'Tis Turpin's call."

"Don’t you hear that?" shouted Jem. "It’s Turpin’s call."

"Turpin!" echoed Luke, dropping the point of his weapon. "Unbar the door, you treacherous rascal, and admit him."

"Turpin!" Luke shouted, lowering his weapon. "Open the door, you deceitful scoundrel, and let him in."

"Well, say no more about it, Sir Luke," said Jem, fawningly; "I knows I owes you my life, and I thank you for it. Take back the lowre. He should not have shown it me—it was that as did all the mischief."

"Well, don’t mention it, Sir Luke," Jem said, ingratiatingly. "I know I owe you my life, and I really appreciate it. Take back the lower. He shouldn’t have shown it to me—it was that which caused all the trouble."

"Unbar the door, and parley not," said Luke contemptuously.

"Unlock the door, and don’t talk back," said Luke with disdain.

Jem complied with pretended alacrity, but real reluctance, casting suspicious glances at Luke as he withdrew the bolts. The door at length being opened, haggard, exhausted, and covered with dust, Dick Turpin staggered into the hut.

Jem agreed with fake enthusiasm, but he was actually hesitant, giving wary looks at Luke as he unfastened the bolts. Finally, when the door opened, a worn-out, tired, and dusty Dick Turpin stumbled into the hut.

"Well, I am here," said he, with a hollow laugh. "I've kept my word—ha, ha! I've been damnably put to it; but here I am, ha, ha!" And he sank upon one of the stools.

"Well, here I am," he said with a hollow laugh. "I’ve kept my promise—ha, ha! It’s been tough, but here I am, ha, ha!" Then he collapsed onto one of the stools.

"We heard you were apprehended," said Luke. "I am glad to find the information was false," added he, glancing angrily at the ferryman.[434]

"We heard you got caught," said Luke. "I'm relieved to find out that the report was wrong," he added, shooting an angry look at the ferryman.[434]

"Whoever told you that, told you a lie, Sir Luke," replied Dick; "but what are you scowling at, old Charon?—and you, Sir Luke? Why do you glower at each other? Make fast the door—bolt it, Cerberus—right! Now give me a glass of brandy, and then I'll talk—a bumper—so—another. What's that I see—a dead man? Old Peter—Alan I mean—has anything happened to him, that he has taken his measure there so quietly?"

"Whoever told you that was lying, Sir Luke," Dick replied. "But why are you scowling, old Charon? And you, Sir Luke? Why are you glaring at each other? Lock the door—bolt it, Cerberus—good! Now pour me a glass of brandy, and then I’ll talk—fill it up—there we go. What’s that I see—a dead man? Old Peter—oh, I mean Alan—has something happened to him that he’s just lying there so quietly?"

"Nothing, I trust," said Luke, stooping to raise up his grandsire. "The blow has stunned him."

"Nothing, I hope," said Luke, bending down to help his grandfather up. "The hit has knocked him out."

"The blow?" repeated Turpin. "What! there has been a quarrel then? I thought as much from your amiable looks at each other. Come, come, we must have no differences. Give the old earthworm a taste of this—I'll engage it will bring him to fast enough. Ay, rub his temples with it if you'd rather; but it's a better remedy down the gullet—the natural course; and hark ye, Jem, search your crib quickly, and see if you have any grub within it, and any more bub in the cellar: I'm as hungry as a hunter, and as thirsty as a camel."

"The fight?" Turpin repeated. "What! So there *has* been an argument then? I figured as much from the way you two were looking at each other. Come on, we can’t have any disagreements. Let's give that old grouch a taste of this—I bet it’ll get him to quiet down fast enough. Yeah, you can rub it on his temples if you prefer; but it's better down the throat—the natural way; and listen, Jem, check your stash quickly and see if you have any *food* in it, and any more *drink* in the cellar: I’m as hungry as a wolf, and as thirsty as a camel."


CHAPTER II

MAJOR MOWBRAY

Mephistopheles. Out with your toasting iron! Thrust away!

Mephistopheles. Get rid of your toasting iron! Get it out of here!

Hayward's Translation of Faust.

Hayward's Translation of Faust.

Conkey Jem went in search of such provisions as his hovel afforded. Turpin, meantime, lent his assistance towards the revival of Alan Rookwood; and it was not long before his efforts, united with those of Luke, were successful, and Alan restored to consciousness. He was greatly surprised to find the highwayman had joined them, and expressed an earnest desire to quit the hut as speedily as possible.[435]

Conkey Jem went to find whatever food his little shack had. In the meantime, Turpin helped bring Alan Rookwood back to life, and it didn’t take long for their combined efforts, along with those of Luke, to work. Alan regained consciousness and was very surprised to see the highwayman with them. He urgently expressed his desire to leave the hut as quickly as possible.[435]

"That shall be done forthwith, my dear fellow," said Dick. "But if you had fasted as long as I have done, and gone through a few of my fatigues into the bargain, you would perceive, without difficulty, the propriety of supping before you started. Here comes Old Nosey, with a flitch of bacon and a loaf. Egad, I can scarce wait for the toasting. In my present mood, I could almost devour a grunter in the sty." Whereupon he applied himself to the loaf, and to a bottle of stout March ale, which Jem placed upon the table, quaffing copious draughts of the latter, while the ferryman employed himself in toasting certain rashers of the flitch upon the hissing embers.

"That’ll be done right away, my friend," said Dick. "But if you had fasted as long as I have and endured some of my hardships on top of that, you’d easily see the sense in eating before you set off. Here comes Old Nosey, with a side of bacon and a loaf. Honestly, I can barely wait for the toasting. In my current mood, I could almost eat a pig right out of the pen." With that, he dug into the loaf and a bottle of strong March ale that Jem set on the table, taking huge gulps of the latter while the ferryman took care of toasting a few strips of bacon over the hissing embers.

Luke, meanwhile, stalked impatiently about the room. He had laid aside his tridental spear, having first, however, placed a pistol within his breast to be ready for instant service, should occasion demand it, as he could now put little reliance upon the ferryman's fidelity. He glanced with impatience at Turpin, who pursued his meal with steady voracity, worthy of a half-famished soldier; but the highwayman returned no answer to his looks, except such as was conveyed by the incessant clatter of his masticating jaws, during the progress of his, apparently, interminable repast.

Luke, in the meantime, paced restlessly around the room. He had set aside his trident spear, but he had first tucked a pistol under his shirt, ready for action if needed, since he couldn't fully trust the ferryman anymore. He shot an irritated glance at Turpin, who was chowing down with the kind of hunger typical of a starved soldier; however, the highwayman didn’t respond to Luke’s look, only communicating through the constant noise of his chewing as he continued his seemingly endless meal.

"Ready for you in a second, Sir Luke," said Dick; "all right now—capital ale, Charon—strong as Styx—ha, ha!—one other rasher, and I've done. Sorry to keep you—can't conceive how cleverly I put the winkers upon 'em at York, in the dress of a countryman; all owing to old Balty, the patrico, an old pal—ha, ha! My old pals never nose upon me—eh, Nosey—always help one out of the water—always staunch. Here's health to you, old crony."

"Ready for you in a minute, Sir Luke," said Dick; "all set now—great beer, Charon—strong as Styx—ha, ha!—just one more slice, and I'm all set. Sorry to keep you—can’t believe how cleverly I tricked them at York, dressed as a countryman; all thanks to old Balty, the patron, an old buddy—ha, ha! My old friends never sniff me out—eh, Nosey—always help me out of a tough spot—always reliable. Here’s to you, old friend."

Jem returned a sulky response, as he placed the last rasher on the table, which was speedily discussed.

Jem gave a grumpy reply as he put the last piece on the table, which was quickly talked about.

"Poor Bess!" muttered Dick, as he quaffed off the final glass of ale. "Poor lass! we buried her by the roadside, beneath the trees—deep—deep. Her remains shall never[436] be disturbed. Alas! alas! my bonny Black Bess! But no matter, her name is yet alive—her deeds will survive her—the trial is over. And now," continued he, rising from his seat, "I'm with you. Where are the tits?"

"Poor Bess!" muttered Dick as he downed the last glass of ale. "Poor girl! We buried her by the side of the road, under the trees—deep—deep. Her remains will never[436] be disturbed. Alas! alas! my lovely Black Bess! But it doesn’t matter, her name still lives on—her actions will outlast her—the trial is over. And now," he added, getting up from his seat, "I'm with you. Where are the ladies?"

"In the stable, under ground," growled Jem.

"In the stable, underground," Jem grumbled.

Alan Rookwood, in the mean time, had joined his grandson, and they conversed an instant or two apart.

Alan Rookwood had joined his grandson, and they talked for a moment or two on their own.

"My strength will not bear me through the night," said he. "That fellow has thoroughly disabled me. You must go without me to the hall. Here is the key of the secret passage. You know the entrance. I will await you in the tomb."

"My strength won't get me through the night," he said. "That guy has completely taken me out. You have to go to the hall without me. Here's the key to the secret passage. You know where the entrance is. I'll wait for you in the tomb."

"The tomb!" echoed Luke.

"The tomb!" echoed Luke.

"Ay, our family vault," returned Alan, with a ghastly grin—"it is the only place of security for me now. Let me see her there. Let me know that my vengeance is complete, that I triumph in my death over him, the accursed brother, through you, my grandson. You have a rival brother—a successful one; you know now what hatred is."

"Yes, our family vault," Alan said with a grim smile. "It's the only safe place for me now. Let me see her there. Let me be sure that my revenge is complete, that I win in death over him, the cursed brother, through you, my grandson. You have a rival brother—a successful one; you know what hatred feels like now."

"I do," returned Luke, fiercely.

"I do," replied Luke, fiercely.

"But not such hate as mine, which, through a life, a long life, hath endured, intense as when 'twas first engendered in my bosom; which from one hath spread o'er all my race—o'er all save you—and which even now, when death stares me in the face—when the spirit pants to fly from its prison-house, burns fiercely as ever. You cannot know what hate like that may be. You must have wrongs—such wrongs as mine first."

"But not such hate as mine, which, throughout a long life, has endured, as intense as when it was first born in me; which from one has spread over all my family—over all except you—and which even now, when death confronts me—when my spirit longs to escape from its prison, burns fiercely as ever. You can’t know what hate like that feels like. You must have grievances—such grievances as mine first."

"My hate to Ranulph is bitter as your own to Sir Reginald."

"My hatred for Ranulph is as strong as yours for Sir Reginald."

"Name him not," shrieked Alan. "But, oh! to think upon the bride he robbed me of—the young—the beautiful!—whom I loved to madness; whose memory is a barbed shaft, yet rankling keen as ever at my heart. God of Justice! how is it that I have thus long survived? But some men die by inches. My dying lips shall name him once again, and then 'twill be but to blend his name with curses."[437]

"Don't say his name," Alan screamed. "But, oh! to think about the bride he stole from me—the young one—the beautiful one!—whom I loved to the point of madness; her memory is a painful reminder, still piercing me deeply in my heart. God of Justice! How have I managed to survive this long? Some men fade away slowly. My dying lips will speak his name one last time, and it'll only be to mix his name with curses."[437]

"I speak of him no more," said Luke. "I will meet you in the vault."

"I won't talk about him anymore," said Luke. "I'll meet you in the vault."

"Remember, to-morrow is her wedding day with Ranulph."

"Remember, tomorrow is her wedding day with Ranulph."

"Think you I forget it?"

"Do you think I’ll forget it?"

"Bear it constantly in mind. To-morrow's dawn must see her yours or his. You have her oath. To you or to death she is affianced. If she should hesitate in her election, do not you hesitate. Woman's will is fickle; her scruples of conscience will be readily overcome; she will not heed her vows—but let her not escape you. Cast off all your weakness. You are young, and not as I am, age-enfeebled. Be firm, and," added he, with a look of terrible meaning, "if all else should fail—if you are surrounded—if you cannot bear her off—use this," and he placed a dagger in Luke's hands. "It has avenged me, ere now, on a perjured wife, it will avenge you of a forsworn mistress, and remove all obstacle to Rookwood."

"Keep this in mind at all times. Tomorrow's dawn must see her yours or his. You have her promise. She's committed to you or death. If she hesitates in her choice, don't you hesitate. A woman's will is unpredictable; her conscience will easily be swayed; she won't pay attention to her vows—but don't let her slip away. Shed all your weakness. You are young, unlike me, who is weakened by age. Be strong, and," he added, with a look of serious intensity, "if all else fails—if you are surrounded—if you can't take her away—use this," and he handed a dagger to Luke. "It has avenged me before on a deceitful wife, and it will avenge you on a false mistress, removing all obstacles to Rookwood."

Luke took the weapon.

Luke grabbed the weapon.

"Would you have me kill her?" demanded he.

"Do you want me to kill her?" he asked.

"Sooner than she should be Ranulph's."

"She'll be with Ranulph sooner than she should."

"Ay, aught sooner than that. But I would not murder both."

"Ay, anything before that. But I wouldn’t want to kill both."

"Both!" echoed Alan. "I understand you not."

"Both!" echoed Alan. "I don't understand you."

"Sybil and Eleanor," replied Luke; "for, as surely as I live, Sybil's death will lie at my door."

"Sybil and Eleanor," Luke replied; "because, as sure as I'm alive, Sybil's death will be my responsibility."

"How so?" asked Alan; "the poison was self-ministered."

"How's that?" Alan asked. "The poison was self-administered."

"True," replied Luke, with terrible emphasis, "but I spoke daggers. Hearken to me," said he, hollowly whispering in his grandsire's ears. "Methinks I am not long for this world. I have seen her since her death!"

"True," replied Luke, with intense emphasis, "but I spoke daggers. Listen to me," he said, hollowly whispering in his grandfather's ears. "I don’t think I have much time left in this world. I have seen her since she died!"

"Tut, tut," replied Alan. "'Tis not for you—a man—to talk thus. A truce to these womanish fancies."

"Tut, tut," replied Alan. "It's not for you—a man—to talk like that. Let's put these childish ideas to rest."

"Womanish or not," returned Luke; "either my fancy has deceived me, or I beheld her, distinctly as I now behold you, within yon cave, while you were sleeping by my side."[438]

"Womanish or not," Luke replied, "either my imagination has fooled me, or I saw her, just as clearly as I see you now, in that cave while you were sleeping next to me."[438]

"It is disordered fancy," said Alan Rookwood. "You will live—live to inherit Rookwood—live to see them fall crushed beneath your feet. For myself, if I but see you master of Eleanor's hand, or know that she no longer lives to bless your rival, or to mar your prospects, I care not how soon I brave my threatened doom."

"It’s just a wild imagination," said Alan Rookwood. "You will live—live to inherit Rookwood—live to watch them crumble under your feet. As for me, if I just see you claim Eleanor’s hand, or find out that she’s no longer around to bless your rival, or ruin your chances, I don’t care how soon I face my impending fate."

"Of one or other you shall be resolved to-night," said Luke, placing the dagger within his vest.

"Tonight, you need to make a decision about one or the other," Luke said, putting the dagger inside his vest.

At this moment a trampling of a horse was heard before the hovel, and in another instant a loud knocking resounded from the door. The ferryman instantly extinguished the light, motioning his companions to remain silent.

At that moment, the sound of a horse's hooves could be heard in front of the shack, and a second later, a loud knocking echoed from the door. The ferryman quickly blew out the light, signaling for his companions to be quiet.

"What, ho!" shouted a voice. "Ferry wanted."

"What’s up!" shouted a voice. "Ferry needed."

"Gad zooks!" exclaimed Dick. "As I live, 'tis Major Mowbray!"

"Gosh!" exclaimed Dick. "I can't believe it, it's Major Mowbray!"

"Major Mowbray!" echoed Alan, in amazement "What doth he here?"

"Major Mowbray!" Alan exclaimed in surprise. "What is he doing here?"

"He must be on his way from York to Rookwood, I conclude," said Dick. "If he's here, I'll engage the others are not far off."

"He must be on his way from York to Rookwood, I guess," said Dick. "If he's here, I bet the others aren't far behind."

Scarcely were the words out of Dick's mouth, when further clatter was heard at the door, and the tones of Coates were heard, in altissimo key, demanding admittance.

Scarcely had the words left Dick's mouth when more noise came from the door, and Coates's voice was heard, in altissimo key, demanding to be let in.

"Let us retire into the next room," whispered Turpin, "and then admit them by all means, Conkey. And, hark ye, manage to detain them a few seconds."

"Let's go into the next room," whispered Turpin, "and then definitely let them in, Conkey. And, listen, try to keep them busy for a few seconds."

"I'll do it," said Jem. "There's a bit of a hole you can peep through."

"I'll do it," said Jem. "There's a small hole you can look through."

Another loud rat-tat was heard at the door, threatening to burst it from its hinges.

Another loud knock was heard at the door, threatening to burst it off its hinges.

"Well, I be coming," said Jem, seeing the coast was clear, in a drowsy, yawning tone, as if just awakened from sleep. "You'll cross the river none the faster for making so much noise."

"Well, I’m coming," said Jem, noticing the coast was clear, in a sleepy, yawning tone, as if just waking up. "You won't cross the river any faster by making all that noise."

With these words he unbarred the door, and Coates and Paterson, who, it appeared, were proceeding to Rookwood,[439] entered the hovel. Major Mowbray remained on horseback at the door.

With that, he unlocked the door, and Coates and Paterson, who seemed to be heading to Rookwood,[439] walked into the shabby place. Major Mowbray stayed on horseback at the entrance.

"Can you find us a glass of brandy to keep out the fog?" said Coates, who knew something of our ferryman's vocations. "I know you are a lad of amazing spirit."

"Can you get us a glass of brandy to fend off the fog?" said Coates, who knew a bit about our ferryman's jobs. "I know you're a guy with incredible spirit."

"May be I can, master, if I choose. But won't the other gemman walk in-doors likewise?"

"Maybe I can, master, if I want to. But won't the other gentlemen come inside too?"

"No, no," said Coates; "Major Mowbray don't choose to dismount."

"No, no," said Coates; "Major Mowbray doesn’t want to get off his horse."

"Well, as you please," said Jem. "It'll take me a minute or two to get the punt in order for all them prads."

"All right, as you wish," said Jem. "It'll take me a minute or two to get the boat ready for all those kids."

"The brandy in the first place," said Coates. "What's here?" added the loquacious attorney, noticing the remnants of Turpin's repast. "But that we're hurried, I should like a little frizzled bacon myself."

"The brandy, first of all," said Coates. "What's this?" added the talkative lawyer, noticing the leftovers from Turpin's meal. "If we weren't in a rush, I'd love some fried bacon myself."

Jem opened the door of his dormitory with the greatest caution, though apparent indifference, and almost instantly returned with the brandy. Coates filled a glass for Paterson, and then another for himself. The ferryman left the house apparently to prepare his boat, half closing the door after him.

Jem carefully opened the door to his dorm, trying to act nonchalant, and soon returned with the brandy. Coates poured a glass for Paterson, then filled one for himself. The ferryman left the house, seemingly to get his boat ready, leaving the door half closed behind him.

"By my faith! this is the right thing, Paterson," said the attorney. "We may be sure the strength of this was never tested by a gauger's proof. Take another thimbleful. We've twelve miles and a heavy pull to go through ere we reach Rookwood. After all, we made but a poor night's work of it, Master Constable. Cursed stupid in us to let him escape. I only wish we had such another chance. Ah, if we had him within reach now, how we would spring upon him—secure him in an instant. I should glory in the encounter. I tell you what, Paterson, if ever he is taken, I shall make a point of attending his execution, and see whether he dies game. Ha, ha! You think he's sure to swing, Paterson, eh?"

"Honestly! This is the right call, Paterson," said the attorney. "We can be sure this hasn’t been tested by a gauger's proof. Take another shot. We've got twelve miles and a tough pull ahead before we reach Rookwood. Honestly, we didn’t get much done last night, Master Constable. It was foolish of us to let him go. I only wish we had another chance like that. Ah, if we had him within reach now, we’d pounce on him—catch him in no time. I would take pride in the encounter. I’m telling you, Paterson, if he ever gets caught, I’ll make it a point to be there for his execution and see if he faces death bravely. Ha, ha! You think he’s definitely going to hang, Paterson, right?"

"Why, yes," replied the chief constable. "I wish I was as certain of my reward as that Turpin will eventually figure at the scragging-post."[440]

"Of course," replied the chief constable. "I just wish I was as sure about my reward as I am that Turpin will eventually end up at the gallows."[440]

"Your reward!" replied Coates. "Make yourself easy on that score, my boy; you shall have your dues, depend upon it. Nay, for the matter of that, I'll give you the money now, if you think proper."

"Your reward!" replied Coates. "Don’t worry about that, my boy; you will get what you deserve, trust me on that. In fact, I'll give you the money right now, if you want."

"Nothing like time present," said Paterson. "We'll make all square at once."

"There's nothing like the present," said Paterson. "We'll settle everything right now."

"Well, then," said Coates, taking out a pocket-book, "you shall have the hundred I promised. You won't get Turpin's reward, the three hundred pounds; but that can't be helped. You shall have mine—always a man of my word, Paterson," continued the attorney, counting out the money. "My father, the thief-taker, was a man of his word before me."

"Alright then," said Coates, pulling out a wallet, "you'll get the hundred I promised. You won't receive Turpin's reward, the three hundred pounds, but that can't be helped. You'll have mine—I've always been a man of my word, Paterson," the attorney added, counting out the cash. "My father, the bounty hunter, was a man of his word before me."

"No doubt," said the chief constable; "I shall always be happy to serve you."

"No doubt," said the chief of police; "I will always be happy to help you."

"And then there's that other affair," said the attorney, mysteriously, still occupied in doling out his bank-notes, "that Luke Bradley's case; the fellow, I mean, who calls himself Sir Luke Rookwood—ha, ha! A rank impostor! Two fives, that makes fifty: you want another fifty, Paterson. As I was saying, we may make a good job of that—we must ferret him out. I know who will come down properly for that; and if we could only tuck him up with his brother blade, why it would be worth double. He's all along been a thorn in my Lady Rookwood's side; he's an artful scoundrel."

"And then there's that other situation," said the attorney, mysteriously, still busy counting his cash, "that Luke Bradley's case; the guy, I mean, who calls himself Sir Luke Rookwood—ha, ha! A total fraud! Two fifties, that makes fifty: do you want another fifty, Paterson? As I was saying, we could really do something about that—we need to track him down. I know someone who will take that on properly; and if we could only catch him with his brother in crime, it would be worth double. He's always been a pain for Lady Rookwood; he's a crafty crook."

"Leave him to me," said Paterson; "I'll have him in less than a week. What's your charge against him?"

"Leave him to me," Paterson said. "I'll have him in under a week. What are you accusing him of?"

"Felony, burglary, murder, every description of crime under the heavens," said Coates. "He's a very devil incarnate. Dick Turpin is as mild as milk compared with him. By-the-by, now I think of it, this Jem, Conkey Jem, as folks call him, may know something about him; he's a keen file; I'll sound him. Thirty, forty, fifty—there's the exact amount. So much for Dick Turpin."

"Felonies, burglary, murder, every kind of crime out there," said Coates. "He's an absolute devil. Dick Turpin seems like a saint next to him. By the way, now that I think about it, this Jem, Conkey Jem, as people call him, might know something about him; he's sharp. Thirty, forty, fifty—there's the exact amount. So much for Dick Turpin."

"Dick Turpin thanks you for it in person," said Dick, suddenly snatching the whole sum from Paterson's hands, and[441] felling the chief constable with a blow of one of his pistols. "I wish I was as sure of escaping the gallows as I am certain that Paterson has got his reward. You stare, sir. You are once more in the hands of the Philistines. See who is at your elbow."

"Dick Turpin thanks you for it in person," said Dick, suddenly grabbing the entire amount from Paterson's hands and[441] knocking the chief constable down with a hit from one of his pistols. "I wish I was as sure about escaping the gallows as I am certain that Paterson has received his reward. You look surprised, sir. You are once again in the hands of the enemy. Look who's by your side."

Coates, who was terrified almost out of his senses at the sight of Turpin, scarcely ventured to turn his head; but when he did so, he was perfectly horror-stricken at the threatening aspect of Luke, who held a cutlass in his hand, which he had picked up in the ferryman's bedroom.

Coates, who was almost paralyzed with fear at the sight of Turpin, hardly dared to turn his head; but when he did, he was completely horrified by Luke's threatening look, as he held a cutlass in his hand that he had grabbed from the ferryman's bedroom.

"So you would condemn me for crimes I have never committed," said Luke. "I am tempted, I own, to add the destruction of your worthless existence to their number."

"So you would judge me for crimes I haven't committed," said Luke. "I have to admit, I'm tempted to add the destruction of your meaningless life to that list."

"Mercy, for God's sake, mercy!" cried Coates, throwing himself at Luke's feet. "I meant not what I said."

"Please, for God's sake, have mercy!" Coates cried, falling at Luke's feet. "I didn't mean what I said."

"Hence, reptile," said Luke, pushing him aside; "I leave you to be dealt upon by others."

"Hence, reptile," Luke said, shoving him aside, "I'm leaving you to be handled by someone else."

At this juncture, the door of the hut was flung open, and in rushed Major Mowbray, sword in hand, followed by Conkey Jem.

At this point, the door of the hut burst open, and Major Mowbray rushed in, sword in hand, followed by Conkey Jem.

"There he stands, sir," cried the latter; "upon him!"

"There he is, sir," shouted the latter; "get him!"

"What! Conkey Jem turned snitch upon his pals?" cried Dick; "I scarce believe my own ears."

"What! Conkey Jem turned on his friends?" shouted Dick; "I can hardly believe my own ears."

"Make yourself scarce, Dick," growled Jem; "the jigger's open, and the boat loose. Leave Luke to his fate. He's sold."

"Get out of here, Dick," Jem snapped. "The jigger's open, and the boat's untied. Let Luke deal with it. He's done for."

"Never! vile traitor," shouted Dick; "'tis thou art sold, not he;" and, almost ere the words were spoken, a ball was lodged in the brain of the treacherous ferryman.

"Never! vile traitor," shouted Dick; "it's you who's sold, not him;" and, almost as soon as he finished speaking, a bullet was lodged in the brain of the treacherous ferryman.

Major Mowbray, meanwhile, had rushed furiously upon Luke, who met his assault with determined calmness. The strife was sharp, and threatened a speedy and fatal issue. On the Major's side it was a desperate attack of cut and thrust, which Luke had some difficulty in parrying; but as yet no wounds were inflicted. Soldier as was the Major, Luke was not a whit inferior to him in his knowledge of the science of[442] defence, and in the exercise of the broadsword he was perhaps the more skilful of the two: upon the present occasion his coolness stood him in admirable stead. Seeing him hard pressed, Turpin would have come to his assistance; but Luke shouted to him to stand aside, and all that Dick could do, amid the terrific clash of steel, was to kick the tables out of the way of the combatants. Luke's aim was now slightly grazed by a cut made by the Major, which he had parried. The smart of the wound roused his ire. He attacked his adversary in his turn, with so much vigor and good will, that, driven backwards by the irresistible assault, Major Mowbray stumbled over the ferryman's body, which happened to lie in his way; and his sword being struck from his grasp, his life became at once at his assailant's disposal.

Major Mowbray had furiously charged at Luke, who met the attack with calm determination. The fight was intense and threatened to end quickly and deadly. The Major launched a desperate onslaught of cuts and thrusts, which Luke struggled to defend against; however, so far, neither had been wounded. Though the Major was a soldier, Luke was just as knowledgeable in the art of defense, and when it came to wielding a broadsword, he was arguably more skilled. In this moment, his composure worked to his advantage. Seeing him in a tough spot, Turpin wanted to help, but Luke shouted for him to stay back, leaving Dick to kick the tables out of the way of the fighters amidst the chaotic clash of steel. Luke was slightly grazed by a cut from the Major, which he had managed to block. The sting of the wound ignited his anger. He counterattacked with such intensity and determination that the Major, pushed back by the unstoppable force, stumbled over the ferryman's body lying in his path. With his sword knocked from his hand, the Major’s life was suddenly in Luke's control.

Luke sheathed his sword. "Major Mowbray," said he, sternly, "your life is in my power. I spare it for the blood that is between us—for your sister's sake. I would not raise my hand against her brother."

Luke put away his sword. "Major Mowbray," he said firmly, "I have the power to end your life. I’m sparing you because of the blood ties between us—because of your sister. I won't harm her brother."

"I disclaim your kindred with me, villain!" wrathfully exclaimed the Major. "I hold you no otherwise than as a wretched impostor, who has set up claims he cannot justify; and as to my sister, if you dare to couple her name——" and the Major made an ineffectual attempt to raise himself, and to regain his sword, which Turpin, however, removed.

"I deny any relation to you, scoundrel!" the Major shouted angrily. "I regard you only as a miserable fraud, who has made claims you can't back up; and as for my sister, if you even think about mentioning her name—" The Major tried unsuccessfully to get up and reclaim his sword, which Turpin had taken away.

"Dare!" echoed Luke, scornfully; "hereafter, you may learn to fear my threats, and acknowledge the extent of my daring; and in that confidence I give you life. Listen to me, sir. I am bound for Rookwood. I have private access to the house—to your sister's chamber—her chamber—mark you that! I shall go armed—attended. This night she shall be mine. From you—from Ranulph—from Lady Rookwood, from all will I bear her off. She shall be mine, and you, before the dawn, my brother, or——" And Luke paused.

"Dare!" echoed Luke, mockingly; "from now on, you’ll learn to fear my threats and recognize how bold I am; and with that confidence, I spare your life. Listen to me, sir. I’m headed to Rookwood. I have private access to the house—to your sister’s room—her room—do you get that? I’ll be armed—attended. Tonight, she will be mine. I will take her from you—from Ranulph—from Lady Rookwood, from everyone. She will be mine, and you, before dawn, my brother, or——" And Luke paused.

"What further villainy remains untold?" inquired the Major, fiercely.[443]

"What other evil deeds are left to uncover?" the Major asked fiercely.[443]

"You shall bewail your sister's memory," replied Luke, gloomily.

"You should mourn your sister's memory," Luke replied, gloomily.

"I embrace the latter alternative with rapture," replied the Major—"God grant her firmness to resist you. But I tremble for her." And the stern soldier groaned aloud in his agony.

"I choose the latter option with excitement," replied the Major—"God give her the strength to resist you. But I worry for her." And the tough soldier groaned in his pain.

"Here is a cord to bind him," said Turpin; "he must remain a prisoner here."

"Here’s a rope to tie him up," said Turpin; "he has to stay a prisoner here."

"Right," said Alan Rookwood, "unless—but enough blood has been shed already."

"Right," said Alan Rookwood, "unless—but there's already been enough bloodshed."

"Ay, marry has there," said Dick, "and I had rather not have given Conkey Jem a taste of blue plumb, had there been any other mode of silencing the snitching scoundrel, which there was not. As to the Major, he's a gallant enemy, and shall have fair play as long as Dick Turpin stands by. Come, sir," added he, to the Major, as he bound him hand and foot with the rope, "I'll do it as gently as I can. You had better submit with a good grace. There's no help for it. And now for my friend Paterson, who was so anxious to furnish me with a hempen cravat, before my neck was in order, he shall have an extra twist of the rope himself, to teach him the inconvenience of a tight neckcloth when he recovers." Saying which, he bound Paterson in such a manner, that any attempt at liberation on the chief constable's part would infallibly strangle him. "As to you, Mr. Coates," said he, addressing the trembling man of law, "you shall proceed to Rookwood with us. You may yet be useful, and I'll accommodate you with a seat behind my own saddle—a distinction I never yet conferred upon any of your tribe. Recollect the countryman at the Bowling-green at York—ha, ha! Come along, sir." And having kicked out the turf fire, Dick prepared to depart.

“Ay, indeed,” said Dick, “and I would have preferred not to give Conkey Jem a taste of blue plumb if there had been any other way to silence that snitching scoundrel, which there wasn’t. As for the Major, he’s a worthy opponent, and he’ll get fair treatment as long as Dick Turpin is around. Come on, sir,” he said to the Major, tying him up with the rope, “I’ll do this as gently as I can. You’d better accept it gracefully. There’s no other choice. And now for my friend Paterson, who was so eager to give me a hempen cravat before my neck was properly arranged; he’s going to get an extra twist of the rope himself to show him the trouble of a tight neckcloth once he recovers.” With that, he tied Paterson in such a way that any attempt to escape would surely strangle him. “As for you, Mr. Coates,” he said, addressing the trembling lawyer, “you’re coming to Rookwood with us. You might still be useful, and I’ll give you a spot behind my saddle—a privilege I’ve never granted anyone from your profession. Remember the countryman at the Bowling-green in York—ha, ha! Let’s go, sir.” And after kicking out the campfire, Dick got ready to leave.

It would be vain to describe the feelings of rage and despair which agitated the major's bosom, as he saw the party quit the hovel, accompanied by Coates. Aware as he was of their destination, after one or two desperate but ineffectual attempts[444] to liberate himself, by which he only increased the painful constriction of his bonds, without in the slightest degree ameliorating his condition, he resigned himself, with bitterest forebodings, to his fate. There was no one even to sympathize with his sufferings. Beside him lay the gory corpse of the ferryman, and, at a little distance, the scarcely more animate frame of the chief constable. And here we must leave him, to follow, for a short space, the course of Luke and his companions.

It would be pointless to describe the feelings of anger and hopelessness that filled the major as he watched the group leave the small house with Coates. Knowing where they were headed, and after a couple of desperate but useless attempts[444] to free himself—which only made his bonds tighter without improving his situation at all—he resigned himself, filled with the darkest of premonitions, to his fate. There was no one to even share in his suffering. Next to him lay the bloody body of the ferryman, and a short distance away was the barely alive figure of the chief constable. And here we must leave him, to briefly follow the path of Luke and his companions.

Concerning themselves little about their own steeds, the party took those which first offered, and embarking man and horse in the boat, soon pushed across the waters of the lutulent Don. Arrived at the opposite banks of the river, they mounted, and, guided by Luke, after half an hour's sharp riding, arrived at the skirts of Rookwood Park. Entering this beautiful sylvan domain, they rode for some time silently among the trees, till they reached the knoll whence Luke beheld the hall on the eventful night of his discovery of his mother's wedding ring. A few days only had elapsed, but during that brief space what storms had swept over his bosom—what ravages had they not made! He was then all ardor—all impetuosity—all independence. The future presented a bright unclouded prospect. Wealth, honors, and happiness apparently awaited him. It was still the same exquisite scene, hushed, holy, tranquil—even solemn, as upon that glorious night. The moon was out, silvering wood and water, and shining on the white walls of the tranquil mansion. Nature was calm, serene, peaceful as ever. Beneath the trees, he saw the bounding deer—upon the water, the misty wreaths of vapor—all, all was dreamy, delightful, soothing, all save his heart—there was the conflict—there the change. Was it a troubled dream, with the dark oppression of which he was struggling, or was it stern, waking, actual life? That moment's review of his wild career was terrible. He saw to what extremes his ungovernable passions had hurried him; he saw[445] their inevitable consequences; he saw also his own fate; but he rushed madly on.

Not caring much for their own horses, the group took the first ones they could find, and after getting themselves and their horses into the boat, quickly crossed the murky waters of the Don River. Once they reached the other side, they mounted up and, guided by Luke, rode hard for half an hour until they arrived at the edge of Rookwood Park. As they entered this beautiful forest, they rode silently among the trees for a while until they reached the hill where Luke had seen the hall on the night he discovered his mother's wedding ring. Just a few days had passed, but in that short time, he had experienced so much turmoil—so much chaos! Back then, he was filled with passion, impulsiveness, and independence. The future looked bright and clear. It seemed wealth, honor, and happiness were all within reach. The scene was the same stunning landscape, quiet, sacred, and even solemn, just like that wondrous night. The moon was shining, casting a silver glow on the trees and water, illuminating the white walls of the peaceful mansion. Nature was calm and serene as ever. Beneath the trees, he spotted the leaping deer, and over the water, there were misty wisps of vapor—all of it was dreamy, lovely, soothing, except for his heart—there was the turmoil—there was the change. Was it a troubling dream that weighed heavily on him, or was it harsh, waking reality? Reflecting on his wild journey was frightening. He recognized how far his uncontrollable passions had driven him; he saw the inevitable outcomes of his actions; he realized his own fate, yet he continued to race forward recklessly.

He swept round the park, keeping under the covert of the wood, till he arrived at the avenue leading to the mansion. The stems of the aged limes gleamed silvery white in the moonshine. Luke drew in the rein beneath one of the largest of the trees.

He moved around the park, staying hidden in the woods, until he reached the path leading to the mansion. The trunks of the old linden trees shimmered silver-white in the moonlight. Luke pulled the reins tight under one of the largest trees.

"A branch has fallen," said he, as his grandsire joined him.

"A branch has fallen," he said, as his grandfather joined him.

"Ha!" exclaimed Alan, "a branch from that tree?"

"Ha!" Alan exclaimed, "a branch from that tree?"

"It bodes ill to Ranulph," whispered Luke, "does it not?"

"It doesn't look good for Ranulph," whispered Luke, "does it?"

"Perchance," muttered Alan. "'Tis a vast bough!"

"Maybe," muttered Alan. "It's a huge branch!"

"We meet within an hour," said Luke, abruptly.

"We'll meet in an hour," Luke said suddenly.

"Within the tomb of our ancestry," replied Alan; "I will await you there."

"Inside the tomb of our ancestors," Alan replied, "I’ll wait for you there."

And as he rode away, Alan murmured to himself the following verse from one of his own ballads:

And as he rode away, Alan quietly repeated a line from one of his own songs:

But whether a storm or calm weather is present, or a threatening cloud has disappeared,
By the hand of Fate, destined to be, a branch that tree will shed—
A green branch, I believe, untouched by axe or storm's wind—
A terrifying omen of imminent death loomed over Rookwood.

CHAPTER III

HANDASSAH

I've heard rumors about this for many years,
None of our family dies, but it can be seen. The figure of an elderly woman, which is provided
It is our tradition to have been murdered. By her nephews for her wealth. Such a person One night, as the prince stayed up late reading a book,
He appeared to him; when he cried out for help,
The gentleman in his chamber found his Grace Sweating profusely and looking very different in the face
And language, since that appearance He has gotten worse and worse, and I fear a lot. He can't live.

Duchess of Malfy.

Duchess of Malfi.

In one of those large antique rooms, belonging to the suite of apartments constituting the eastern wing of Rookwood Place—upon the same night as that in which the events just detailed took place, and it might be about the same time, sat Eleanor, and her new attendant, the gipsy Handassah. The eyes of the former were fixed, with a mixture of tenderness and pity, upon the lineaments of another lovely female countenance, bearing a striking resemblance to her own, though evidently, from its attire, and bygone costume, not intended for her, depicted upon a tablet, and placed upon a raised frame. It was nigh the witching hour of night. The room was sombre and dusky, partially dismantled of its once flowing arras, and the lights set upon the table feebly illumined its dreary extent. Tradition marked it out as the chamber in which many of the hapless dames of Rookwood had expired; and hence Superstition claimed it as her peculiar domain. The room was reputed to be haunted, and had for a long space[447] shared the fate of haunted rooms—complete desertion. It was now tenanted by one too young, too pure, to fear aught unearthly. Eleanor seemed, nevertheless, affected by the profound melancholy of the picture upon which she gazed. At length, Handassah observed her start, and avert her eye shudderingly from the picture.

In one of those large, old rooms belonging to the suite of apartments in the eastern wing of Rookwood Place—on the same night as the events just described, probably around the same time—Eleanor sat with her new attendant, the gypsy Handassah. Eleanor's eyes were fixed, with a mix of tenderness and pity, on another beautiful female face that looked a lot like her own, though it was clear from its clothes and old-fashioned style that it wasn’t meant for her. This image was depicted on a tablet placed on a raised frame. It was close to midnight. The room was dark and gloomy, partially stripped of its once-flowing tapestries, and the lights on the table barely illuminated its dreary expanse. Tradition stated that this was the room where many of Rookwood's unfortunate women had died, and because of that, Superstition claimed it as its own. The room was thought to be haunted and had, for a long time, suffered the same fate as many haunted rooms—total abandonment. It was now occupied by someone too young and too innocent to be afraid of anything supernatural. Nevertheless, Eleanor seemed affected by the deep sadness of the picture she was staring at. Finally, Handassah noticed her flinch and turn her gaze away from the image in fright.

"Take it hence," exclaimed Eleanor; "I have looked at that image of my ancestors, till it has seemed endowed with life—till its eyes have appeared to return my gaze, and weep. Remove it, Handassah."

"Take it away," Eleanor exclaimed; "I've stared at that picture of my ancestors so long that it feels alive—like its eyes are looking back at me and crying. Get rid of it, Handassah."

Handassah silently withdrew the tablet, placing it against the wall of the chamber.

Handassah quietly pulled out the tablet and leaned it against the wall of the room.

"Not there—not there," cried Eleanor; "turn it with its face to the wall. I cannot bear those eyes. And now come hither, girl—draw nearer—for I know not what of sudden dread has crossed me. This was her room, Handassah—the chamber of my ancestress—of all the Ladies Rookwood—where they say——Ha! did you not hear a noise?—a rustle in the tapestry—a footstep near the wall? Why, you look as startled as I look, wench; stay by me—I will not have you stir from my side—'twas mere fancy."

"Not there—not there," Eleanor exclaimed; "turn it so it's facing the wall. I can't stand those eyes. Now come over here, girl—come closer—because I can't shake this sudden fear I've felt. This was her room, Handassah—the chamber of my ancestor—of all the Ladies Rookwood—where they say——Ha! Did you hear that?—a rustle in the tapestry—a footstep near the wall? You look as startled as I do, girl; stay with me—I won't let you leave my side—it was just my imagination."

"No doubt, lady," said Handassah, with her eyes fixed upon the arras.

"No doubt, lady," Handassah said, her eyes focused on the tapestry.

"Hist!" exclaimed Eleanor, "there 'tis again."

"Shh!" Eleanor exclaimed, "There it is again."

"'Tis nothing," replied Handassah. But her looks belied her words.

"'It's nothing,'" replied Handassah. But her expression contradicted her words.

"Well, I will command myself," said Eleanor, endeavoring to regain her calmness; "but the thoughts of the Lady Eleanor—for she was an Eleanor like to me, Handassah—and ah! even more ill-fated and unhappy—have brought a whole train of melancholy fancies into my mind. I cannot banish them: nay, though painful to me, I recur to these images of dread with a species of fascination, as if in their fate I contemplated mine own. Not one, who hath wedded a Rookwood, but hath rued it."[448]

"Well, I'll keep myself in check," Eleanor said, trying to regain her composure. "But the thoughts of Lady Eleanor—she was another Eleanor like me, Handassah—and oh, even more unfortunate and unhappy—have brought a whole wave of sad thoughts into my mind. I can't shake them off; in fact, even though they hurt me, I keep thinking about these images of fear, as if in their fate I see my own. Not a single person who has married a Rookwood hasn't regretted it."[448]

"Yet you will wed one," said Handassah.

"Yet you will marry one," said Handassah.

"He is not like the rest," said Eleanor.

"He’s not like the others," said Eleanor.

"How know you that, lady?" asked Handassah. "His time may not yet be come. See what to-morrow will bring forth."

"How do you know that, lady?" asked Handassah. "His time might not have come yet. Let's see what tomorrow brings."

"You are averse to my marriage with Ranulph, Handassah."

"You don't like my marriage to Ranulph, Handassah."

"I was Sybil's handmaid ere I was yours, lady. I bear in mind a solemn compact with the dead, which this marriage will violate. You are plighted by oath to another, if he should demand your hand."

"I was Sybil's maid before I was yours, lady. I remember a serious agreement with the dead, which this marriage will break. You are bound by an oath to another, if he should ask for your hand."

"But he has not demanded it."

"But he hasn't asked for it."

"Would you accept him were he to do so?" asked Handassah, suddenly.

"Would you accept him if he did?" Handassah asked out of the blue.

"I meant not that," replied Eleanor. "My oath is annulled."

"I didn't mean that," replied Eleanor. "My promise is off."

"Say not so, lady," cried Handassah—"'twas not for this that Sybil spared your life. I love you, but I loved Sybil, and I would see her dying behests complied with."

"Don't say that, lady," cried Handassah. "It wasn't for this that Sybil spared your life. I love you, but I loved Sybil, and I want to see her last wishes fulfilled."

"It may not be, Handassah," replied Eleanor. "Why, from a phantom sense of honor, am I to sacrifice my whole existence to one who neither can love me, nor whom I myself could love? Am I to wed this man because, in her blind idolatry of him, Sybil enforced an oath upon me which I had no power to resist, and which was mentally cancelled while taken? Recall not the horrors of that dreadful cell—urge not the subject more. 'Tis in the hope that I may be freed for ever from this persecution that I have consented thus early to wed with Ranulph. This will set Luke's fancied claims at rest for ever."

"It may not be, Handassah," Eleanor replied. "Why should I sacrifice my entire life to someone who can’t love me, and whom I can’t love either, just because Sybil forced me to make a promise out of her misguided devotion to him, a promise I had no choice but to accept, and one that I mentally revoked at the time? Please, don’t remind me of the horrors of that awful cell—let's not discuss it anymore. I’m agreeing to marry Ranulph in the hope that it will finally free me from this torment. This will put an end to Luke's imagined claims once and for all."

Handassah answered not, but bent her head, as if in acquiescence.

Handassah didn’t reply but lowered her head, as if in agreement.

Steps were now heard near the door, and a servant ushered in Dr. Small and Mrs. Mowbray.

Steps were heard near the door, and a servant brought in Dr. Small and Mrs. Mowbray.

"I am come to take leave of you for the night, my dear young lady," said the doctor; "but before I start for the[449] Vicarage, I have a word or two to say, in addition to the advice you were so obliging as to receive from me this morning. Suppose you allow your attendant to retire for a few minutes. What I have got to say concerns yourself solely. Your mother will bear us company. There," continued the doctor, as Handassah was dismissed—"I am glad that dark-faced gipsy has taken her departure. I can't say I like her sharp suspicious manner, and the first exercise I should make at my powers, were I to be your husband, should be to discharge the handmaiden. To the point of my visit. We are alone, I think. This is a queer old house, Miss Mowbray; and this is the queerest part of it. Walls have ears, they say; and there are so many holes and corners in this mansion, that one ought never to talk secrets above one's breath."

"I've come to say goodnight to you, my dear young lady," said the doctor. "But before I head to the[449] Vicarage, I have a couple of things to discuss that go beyond the advice you kindly listened to this morning. How about you let your attendant step out for a few minutes? What I have to say is just for you. Your mother can stay with us. There," the doctor said as Handassah was sent away, "I'm glad that dark-skinned maid has left. I can't say I like her sharp, suspicious nature. If I were to become your husband, the first thing I’d do is let go of that maid. Now, to the point of my visit. I believe we're alone now. This is a strange old house, Miss Mowbray, and this is the strangest part of it. They say walls have ears, and with so many nooks and crannies in this place, you should never discuss secrets above a whisper."

"I am yet to learn, sir," said Eleanor, "that there is any secret to be communicated."

"I still haven't learned, sir," Eleanor said, "that there's anything secret to share."

"Why, not much, I own," replied the doctor; "at least what has occurred is no secret in the house by this time. What do you think has happened?"

"Well, not much, I guess," the doctor replied. "At least what's happened isn't a secret in the house anymore. What do you think has happened?"

"It is impossible for me to conjecture. Nothing to Ranulph, I hope."

"It’s impossible for me to guess. Nothing to Ranulph, I hope."

"Nothing of consequence, I trust,—though he is part concerned with it."

"Nothing important, I hope—although he is somewhat involved with it."

"What is it?" asked Eleanor.

"What's that?" asked Eleanor.

"Pray satisfy her curiosity, doctor," interposed Mrs. Mowbray.

"Please satisfy her curiosity, doctor," Mrs. Mowbray interrupted.

"Well, then," said Small, rather more gravely, "the fact of the matter stands thus:—Lady Rookwood, who, as you know, was not the meekest wife in the world, now turns out by no means the gentlest mother, and has within this hour found out that she has some objection to your union with her son."

"Well, then," said Small, a bit more seriously, "the reality is this:—Lady Rookwood, who, as you know, was not the most submissive wife in the world, has now revealed that she is by no means the gentlest mother and has just discovered that she has some issues with your relationship with her son."

"You alarm me, doctor."

"You worry me, doctor."

"Don't alarm yourself at all. It will be got over without difficulty, and only requires a little management. Ranulph is[450] with her now, and I doubt not will arrange all to her satisfaction."

"Don't worry at all. This will be handled easily and just needs a little planning. Ranulph is[450] with her now, and I’m sure he’ll make sure everything is satisfactory for her."

"What was her objection?" asked Eleanor; "was it any one founded upon my obligation to Luke—my oath?"

"What was her objection?" Eleanor asked. "Was it related to my obligation to Luke—my oath?"

"Tut, tut! dismiss that subject from your mind entirely," said the doctor. "That oath is no more binding on your conscience than would have been the ties of marriage had you been wedded by yon recusant Romish priest, Father Checkley, upon whose guilty head the Lord be merciful! Bestow not a thought upon it. My anxiety, together with that of your mother, is to see you now, as speedily as may be, wedded to Ranulph, and then that idle question is set at rest for ever; and therefore, even if such a thing were to occur as that Lady Rookwood should not yield her consent to your marriage, as that consent is totally unnecessary, we must go through the ceremonial without it."

"Forget about that topic completely," said the doctor. "That oath is not any more binding on your conscience than a marriage would have been if you had been married by that stubborn Roman Catholic priest, Father Checkley, who needs to be shown some mercy! Don’t even give it a second thought. Both my concern and your mother’s wish is to see you quickly married to Ranulph, and then that pointless question will be settled for good; so even if Lady Rookwood were to refuse her consent for the marriage, which isn’t needed at all, we should still go through with the ceremony without it."

"The grounds of Lady Rookwood's objections——" said Mrs. Mowbray.

"The reasons behind Lady Rookwood's objections——" said Mrs. Mowbray.

"Ay, the grounds of her ladyship's objections," interposed Small, who, when he had once got the lead, liked nobody to talk but himself, "are simply these, and exactly the sort of objections one would expect her to raise. She cannot bear the idea of abandoning the control of the house and estates to other hands. She cannot, and will not relinquish her station, as head of the establishment, which Ranulph has insisted upon as your right. I thought, when I conversed with her on this subject, that she was changed, but

"Aye, the reasons behind her ladyship's objections," interjected Small, who, once he took the lead, didn’t want anyone else to speak, "are simply these, and exactly the kind of objections you'd expect her to have. She can't stand the idea of handing over control of the house and estates to someone else. She refuses to give up her position as head of the household, which Ranulph has insisted is your right. I thought, when I talked to her about this, that she had changed, but

Naturam expellas furcâ, tamen usque recurret.

Naturam expellas furcâ, tamen usque recurret.

I beg your pardon. She is, and always will be, the same."

I’m sorry. She is, and always will be, the same.

"Why did not Ranulph concede the point to her? I wish not to dwell here. I care not for these domains—for this mansion. They have no charms for me. I could be happy with Ranulph anywhere—happier anywhere than here."[451]

"Why didn’t Ranulph give in to her? I don’t want to focus on that right now. I'm not interested in these lands—or this house. They don't appeal to me. I could be happy with Ranulph anywhere—happier anywhere than here."[451]

The kind-hearted doctor squeezed her hand in reply, brushing a tear from his eyes.

The kind-hearted doctor held her hand tightly, wiping a tear from his eye.

"Why did he not concede it?" said Mrs. Mowbray, proudly. "Because the choice remained not with him. It was not his to concede. This house—these lands—all—all are yours; and it were poor requital, indeed, if, after they have so long been wrongfully withheld from us, you should be a dependant on Lady Rookwood."

"Why didn’t he just give in?" said Mrs. Mowbray, proudly. "Because it wasn’t up to him. He had no right to give it up. This house—these lands—all of it—it’s all yours; and it would be a pretty terrible payback if, after being wrongfully kept from us for so long, you ended up depending on Lady Rookwood."

"Without going quite so far as that, madam," said the doctor, "it is but justice to your daughter that she should be put in full possession of her rights; nor should I for one instant advise, or even allow her to inhabit the same house with Lady Rookwood. Her ladyship's peculiarities of temper are such as to preclude all possibility of happiness. At the same time, I trust by management—always by management, madam—that her ladyship's quiet departure may be ensured. I understand that all such legal arrangements in the way of settlements as could be entered into between your daughter and her future husband are completed. I have only to regret the absence of my friend, Mr. Coates, at this momentous conjuncture. It will be a loss to him. But he inherits from his father a taste for thief-taking, which he is at present indulging, to the manifest injury of his legitimate practice. Hark! I hear Ranulph's step in the gallery. He will tell us the result of his final interview. I came to give you advice, my dear," added the doctor in a low tone to Eleanor; "but I find you need it not. 'Whoso humbleth himself, shall be exalted.' I am glad you do not split upon the rock which has stranded half your generation."

"Not to that extreme, ma'am," the doctor said, "but it’s only fair for your daughter to fully know her rights; I definitely wouldn’t recommend or allow her to live in the same house as Lady Rookwood. Her ladyship's temperament is such that happiness is out of the question. At the same time, I hope that through careful handling—always careful handling, ma'am—we can ensure her ladyship's quiet exit. I understand that all legal arrangements regarding settlements between your daughter and her future husband are finalized. I can only regret that my friend, Mr. Coates, isn’t here at this crucial moment. It will be a loss for him. However, he’s following in his father’s footsteps with an interest in catching thieves, which he’s currently pursuing to the detriment of his legitimate practice. Listen! I hear Ranulph's footsteps in the corridor. He'll update us on the outcome of his last meeting. I came to give you some advice, my dear," the doctor added quietly to Eleanor, "but it seems you don’t need it. ‘Whoever humbles themselves will be exalted.’ I'm glad you're not getting stuck on the obstacle that has hindered half your generation."

At this moment Ranulph Rookwood entered the room, followed by Handassah, who took her station at the back of the room, unperceived by the rest of the party, whose attention was attracted by Ranulph's agitated manner.

At that moment, Ranulph Rookwood walked into the room, followed by Handassah, who took her place at the back, unnoticed by the rest of the group, whose attention was drawn to Ranulph's restless demeanor.

"What has happened?" asked Dr. Small and Mrs. Mowbray in the same breath.[452]

"What happened?" asked Dr. Small and Mrs. Mowbray in unison.[452]

Ranulph hesitated for a moment in his answer, during which space he regarded Eleanor with the deepest anxiety, and seemed revolving within himself how he could frame his reply in such way as should be least painful to her feelings; while, with instinctive apprehension of coming misfortune, Miss Mowbray eagerly seconded the inquiries of her friends.

Ranulph paused briefly before answering, during which he looked at Eleanor with great concern, trying to figure out how to respond in a way that would hurt her feelings the least. Meanwhile, sensing impending trouble, Miss Mowbray eagerly supported her friends' questions.

"It is with great pain," said he, at length, in a tone of despondency, not unmingled with displeasure, "that I am obliged to descant upon the infirmities of a parent, and to censure her conduct as severely as I may do now. I feel the impropriety of such a step, and I would willingly avoid it, could I do so in justice to my own feelings—and especially at a moment like the present—when every hope of my life is fixed upon uniting myself to you, dear Eleanor, by ties as near as my own to that parent. But the interview which I have just had with Lady Rookwood—bitter and heart-breaking as it has been—compels me to reprobate her conduct in the strongest terms, as harsh, unjust, and dishonorable; and if I could wholly throw off the son, as she avows she has thrown off the mother, I should unhesitatingly pronounce it as little short of——"

"It’s with great pain," he said finally, in a tone of hopelessness mixed with frustration, "that I have to talk about my parent’s weaknesses and criticize her actions as harshly as I can right now. I know this isn’t right, and I’d prefer to avoid it, if I could do so without being unfair to my own feelings—especially at a time like this—when all my hopes in life are focused on joining you, dear Eleanor, with bonds as close as my own to that parent. However, the conversation I just had with Lady Rookwood—bitter and heartbreaking as it was—forces me to condemn her actions in the strongest terms as cruel, unfair, and dishonorable; and if I could completely reject the son, as she claims to have rejected the mother, I would unhesitatingly say it’s almost——"

"Dear Ranulph," said Eleanor, palpitating with apprehension, "I never saw you so much moved."

"Dear Ranulph," Eleanor said, her heart racing with anxiety, "I’ve never seen you so affected."

"Nor with so much reason," rejoined Ranulph. "For myself, I could endure anything—but for you——"

"Not without good reason," replied Ranulph. "As for me, I could handle anything—but for you——"

"And does your dispute relate to me?" asked Eleanor. "Is it for my sake you have braved your mother's displeasure? Is it because Lady Rookwood is unwilling to resign the control of this house and these lands to me, that you have parted in anger with her? Was this the cause of your quarrel?"

"And is your disagreement about me?" Eleanor asked. "Did you go against your mother just for my sake? Is it because Lady Rookwood is not willing to give up the control of this house and these lands to me that you’ve fought with her? Was this the reason for your argument?"

"It was the origin of it," replied Ranulph.

"It was the beginning of it," replied Ranulph.

"Mother," said Eleanor, firmly, to Mrs. Mowbray, "go with me to Lady Rookwood's chamber."

"Mom," Eleanor said firmly to Mrs. Mowbray, "come with me to Lady Rookwood's room."

"Wherefore?" demanded Mrs. Mowbray.

"Why?" demanded Mrs. Mowbray.

"Question me not, dear mother, or let me go alone."[453]

"Don't ask me, dear mother, or let me go by myself."[453]

"Daughter, I guess your meaning," said Mrs. Mowbray, sternly. "You would relinquish your claims in favor of Lady Rookwood. Is it not so?"

"Daughter, I think I understand what you mean," said Mrs. Mowbray, sternly. "You would give up your claims in favor of Lady Rookwood. Is that correct?"

"Since you oblige me to answer you, mother," said Eleanor, crimsoning, "I must admit that you have guessed my meaning. To Lady Rookwood, as to yourself, I would be a daughter as far as is consistent with my duty," added she, blushing still more deeply, "but my first consideration shall be my husband. And if Lady Rookwood can be content——But pray question me not further—accompany me to her chamber."

"Since you insist on me answering you, Mom," Eleanor said, blushing, "I have to admit that you've figured out what I mean. To Lady Rookwood, just like to you, I would be a daughter as far as it fits with my responsibilities," she added, her blush deepening, "but my top priority will be my husband. And if Lady Rookwood can be okay with that—But please don't ask me anything more—just come with me to her room."

"Eleanor," interposed Ranulph, "dearest Eleanor, the sacrifice you would make is unnecessary—uncalled for. You do not know my mother. She would not, I grieve to say, appreciate the generosity of your motives. She would not give you credit for your feelings. She would only resent your visit as an intrusion."

"Eleanor," Ranulph interrupted, "my dear Eleanor, the sacrifice you're considering is pointless—unnecessary. You don’t know my mother. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t understand the kindness behind your intentions. She wouldn’t appreciate how you feel. She would only see your visit as an inconvenience."

"My daughter comprehends you, sir," said Mrs. Mowbray, haughtily. "I will take care that, in her own house, Miss Mowbray shall remain free from insult."

"My daughter understands you, sir," said Mrs. Mowbray, arrogantly. "I will ensure that, in her own home, Miss Mowbray will not be subjected to any insults."

"Mother, dear mother," said Eleanor, "do not wilfully misunderstand him."

"Mom, dear Mom," Eleanor said, "please don't deliberately misunderstand him."

"You can be little aware, madam," said Ranulph, calmly, yet sadly, "how much I have recently endured—how much of parental anger—how much of parental malediction I have incurred, to save you and your daughter from the indignity you apprehend. As I before said, you do not know my mother; nor could it enter into any well-regulated imagination to conceive the extremities to which the violence of her passion will, when her schemes are thwarted, hurry her. The terms upon which you met together will not escape your recollection; nor shall I need to recall to your mind her haughtiness, her coldness. That coldness has since ripened into distrust; and the match which she was at first all anxiety to promote, she would now utterly set aside, were it in her power to do so. Whence this[454] alteration in her views has arisen, I have no means of ascertaining; it is not my mother's custom to give a reason for her actions, or her wishes: it is all-sufficient to express them. I have perceived, as the time has drawn nigh for the fulfilment of my dearest hopes, that her unwillingness has increased; until to-day, what had hitherto been confined to hints, has been openly expressed, and absolute objections raised. Such, however, is the peculiarity of her temper, that I trusted, even at the eleventh hour, I should be able to work a change. Alas! our last meeting was decisive. She commanded me to break off the match. At once, and peremptorily, I refused. Pardon me, madam, pardon me, dearest Eleanor, if I thus enter into particulars; it is absolutely necessary I should be explicit. Enraged at my opposition to her wishes, her fury became ungovernable. With appalling imprecations upon the memory of my poor father, and upon your father, madam, whose chief offence in her eyes was, it seems, the disposition of his property to Eleanor, she bade me be gone, and take her curses as my wedding portion. Beneath this roof—beneath her roof, she added—no marriage of mine should e'er take place. I might go hence, or might stay, as I thought fitting; but you and your daughter, whom she characterized as intruders, should not remain another hour within her house. To this wild raving I answered, with as much composure as I could command, that she entirely mistook her own position, and that, so far from the odium of intrusion resting with you, if applicable to any one, the term must necessarily affix itself on those who, through ignorance, had for years unjustly deprived the rightful owners of this place of their inheritance. Upon this her wrath was boundless. She disowned me as her son; disclaimed all maternal regard, and heaped upon my head a frightful malediction, at the recollection of which I still tremble. I will spare you further details of this dreadful scene. To me it is most distressing; for, however firmly resolved I may be to pursue a line of conduct which every[455] sound principle within me dictates as the correct one, yet I cannot be insensible to the awful responsibility I shall incur in bringing down a mother's curse upon my head, nor to the jeopardy in which her own excessive violence may place her."

"You might not realize, ma'am," Ranulph said calmly but sadly, "how much I've recently been through—how much anger from my parents—how many harsh words I've faced—to protect you and your daughter from the embarrassment you fear. As I mentioned before, you don't know my mother; it's hard for anyone to imagine the extremes her rage can reach when her plans are disrupted. You likely remember how you first met her, and there's no need for me to remind you of her pride and coldness. That coldness has now turned into distrust, and the engagement she once pushed for with anxiety, she would now completely reject if she could. I have no idea why her opinion has changed; my mother doesn’t explain her actions or desires; she simply expresses them. I've noticed that as the time for my greatest hopes has approached, her resistance has only grown. Until today, what was once just hints has turned into outright opposition. However, knowing her temper, I hoped, even at the last moment, I could change her mind. Unfortunately, our last meeting was final. She ordered me to end the engagement. I immediately and firmly refused. Please forgive me, ma'am, forgive me, dear Eleanor, for going into detail; it’s essential that I be clear. Angered by my defiance, her rage became uncontrollable. With horrifying curses on my father's memory and on your father, ma'am, whose main fault in her eyes was leaving his estate to Eleanor, she commanded me to leave and take her curses as my wedding gift. Under this roof—under her roof, she insisted—there would never be a marriage of mine. I could leave or stay as I wished, but you and your daughter, whom she called intruders, were not to remain a moment longer in her house. To her wild tirade, I responded as calmly as I could that she completely misunderstood her situation, and that the term “intruders,” if it applied to anyone, should be directed at those who, out of ignorance, had unjustly robbed the rightful heirs of this place of their inheritance. This set off her anger beyond measure. She disowned me as her son, renounced all maternal feelings, and unleashed a dreadful curse that still makes me shudder when I think of it. I won’t burden you with more details of that awful scene. It’s very distressing to me; no matter how determined I am to follow the path that every sound principle in me says is the right one, I can’t ignore the heavy burden I’ll bear by bringing a mother’s curse upon myself, nor the danger her extreme rage could bring upon her."

Mrs. Mowbray listened to Ranulph's explanation in haughty displeasure; Eleanor with throbbing, tearful interest; Dr. Small, with mixed feelings of anger and astonishment.

Mrs. Mowbray listened to Ranulph's explanation with an air of disdain; Eleanor with emotional, tear-filled concern; Dr. Small, with a mix of anger and surprise.

"Lady Rookwood's conduct," said the doctor, "is—you must forgive me, my dear Sir Ranulph, for using strong expressions—outrageous beyond all precedent, and only excusable on the ground of insanity, to which I wish it were possible we could attribute it. There is, however, too much method in her madness to allow us to indulge any such notion; she is shrewd, dangerous, and designing; and, since she has resolved to oppose this match, she will leave no means untried to do so. I scarcely know how to advise you under the circumstances—that is, if my advice were asked."

"Lady Rookwood's behavior," said the doctor, "is—you’ll have to forgive me, my dear Sir Ranulph, for being blunt—absolutely outrageous and only justifiable if we consider insanity, which I wish we could blame it on. However, there’s too much method in her madness for us to entertain that idea; she is clever, dangerous, and scheming; and since she’s decided to oppose this match, she’ll stop at nothing to make it happen. I'm not sure how to advise you in this situation—if my advice were actually needed."

"Which I scarcely think it likely to be, sir," said Mrs. Mowbray, coldly. "After what has occurred, I shall think it my duty to break off this alliance, which I have never considered to be so desirable that its rupture will occasion me an instant's uneasiness."

"Which I hardly think is likely, sir," Mrs. Mowbray said coldly. "After what has happened, I believe it’s my duty to end this alliance, which I’ve never seen as so desirable that its ending would cause me even a moment's worry."

"A plague on all these Rookwoods!" muttered Small. "One would think all the pride of the Prince of Darkness were centered in their bosoms. But, madam," continued the benevolent doctor, "have you no consideration for the feelings of your daughter, or for those of one who is no distant relation to you—your nephew? Your son, Major Mowbray, is, if I mistake not, most eager for this union to take place between his sister and his friend."

"A curse on all these Rookwoods!" muttered Small. "You’d think all the arrogance of the Prince of Darkness was focused in their hearts. But, ma’am," the kind-hearted doctor continued, "don’t you care about your daughter's feelings or those of someone who is not far removed from you—your nephew? Your son, Major Mowbray, is, if I’m not mistaken, quite eager for this union to happen between his sister and his friend."

"My children have been accustomed to yield implicit obedience to my wishes," said Mrs. Mowbray, "and Major Mowbray, I am sure, will see the propriety of the step I am about to take. I am content, at least, to abide by his opinion."[456]

"My kids have always followed my wishes without question," said Mrs. Mowbray, "and I’m sure Major Mowbray will understand why I'm about to take this step. I'm fine with following his opinion." [456]

"Snubbed again!" mentally ejaculated the doctor, with a shrug of despair. "It is useless attempting to work upon such impracticable material."

"Snubbed again!" the doctor thought, shrugging in despair. "It's pointless trying to work with such unrealistic material."

Ranulph remained mute, in an attitude of profound melancholy. An eloquent interchange of glances had passed between him and Eleanor, communicating to each the anxious state of the other's feelings.

Ranulph stayed silent, in a state of deep sadness. An expressive exchange of looks had occurred between him and Eleanor, conveying to each the worried condition of the other's emotions.

At this crisis the door was suddenly opened, and old Agnes, Lady Rookwood's aged attendant, rushed into the room, and sank upon her knees on the floor, her limbs shaking, her teeth chattering, and every feature expressive of intense terror. Ranulph went instantly towards her to demand the cause of her alarm.

At that moment, the door swung open, and old Agnes, Lady Rookwood's elderly servant, burst into the room and collapsed to her knees on the floor, her body trembling, her teeth chattering, and every part of her face showing deep fear. Ranulph quickly went over to her to ask what was causing her distress.

"No, let me pray," cried Agnes, as he took her hand in the attempt to raise her; "let me pray while there is yet time—let the worthy doctor pray beside me. Pray for an overladen soul, sir; pray heartily, as you would hope for mercy yourself. Ah! little know the righteous of the terrors of those that are beyond the pale of mercy. The Lord pardon me my iniquities, and absolve her."

"No, let me pray," cried Agnes, as he took her hand to help her up; "let me pray while there’s still time—let the good doctor pray with me. Pray for a heavy soul, sir; pray earnestly, as you would wish for mercy for yourself. Ah! the righteous know so little of the fears faced by those who are beyond mercy. May the Lord forgive my wrongdoings and absolve her."

"Whom do you mean?" asked Ranulph, in agitation. "You do not allude to my mother?"

"Who are you talking about?" Ranulph asked, feeling anxious. "You can't be referring to my mother?"

"You have no longer a mother, young man," said Agnes, solemnly.

"You don't have a mother anymore, young man," Agnes said seriously.

"What!" exclaimed Ranulph, terror-stricken; "is she dead?"

"What!" Ranulph exclaimed, terrified. "Is she dead?"

"She is gone."

"She is gone."

"Gone! How? Whither?" exclaimed all, their amazement increasing each instant at the terror of the old woman, and the apparently terrible occasion of it.

"Gone! How? Where to?" everyone exclaimed, their astonishment growing by the second at the old woman's fright and the seemingly dreadful reason for it.

"Speak!" exclaimed Ranulph; "but why do I loiter? my mother, perchance, is dying—let me go."

"Speak!" Ranulph exclaimed. "But why am I wasting time? My mother might be dying—let me go."

The old woman maintained her clutching grasp, which was strong and convulsive as that of one struggling betwixt life and death. "It's of no use, I tell you; it's all over," said she—"the[457] dead are come—the dead are come—and she is gone."

The old woman held on tightly, her grip as intense and frantic as someone caught between life and death. "It's useless, I'm telling you; it's all finished," she said—"the[457] dead have arrived—the dead have arrived—and she is gone."

"Whither?—whither?"

"Where to?—where to?"

"To the grave—to the tomb," said Agnes, in a deep and hollow tone, and with a look that froze Ranulph's soul. "Listen to me, Ranulph Rookwood, my child, my nursling—listen while I can speak. We were alone, your mother and I, after that scene between you; after the dark denunciations she had heaped upon the dead, when I heard a low and gasping kind of sob, and there I saw your mother staring wildly upon the vacancy, as if she saw that of which I dare not think."

"To the grave—to the tomb," Agnes said in a deep, haunting voice, her expression chilling Ranulph to the core. "Listen to me, Ranulph Rookwood, my child, my dear one—listen while I can talk. Your mother and I were alone after that confrontation between you; after the harsh accusations she made against the dead, when I heard a faint, gasping sob. I looked and saw your mother staring blankly into space, as if she were witnessing something I dread to contemplate."

"What think you she beheld?" asked Ranulph, quaking with apprehension.

"What do you think she saw?" asked Ranulph, trembling with fear.

"That which had been your father," returned Agnes, in a hollow tone. "Don't doubt me, sir—you'll find the truth of what I say anon. I am sure he was there. There was a thrilling, speechless horror in the very sight of her countenance that froze my old blood to ice—to the ice in which 'tis now—ough! ough! Well, at length she arose, with her eyes still fixed, and passed through the paneled door without a word. She is gone!"

"That was your father," Agnes replied, her voice flat. "Don't doubt me, sir—you'll see I'm telling the truth soon enough. I'm sure he was there. The sight of her face filled me with a chilling, wordless terror that turned my blood to ice—just like it is now—ugh! Well, finally she got up, her eyes still staring, and walked out through the paneled door without saying anything. She's gone!"

"What madness is this?" cried Ranulph. "Let me go, woman—'tis that ruffian in disguise—she may be murdered."

"What craziness is this?" yelled Ranulph. "Let me go, lady—it's that thug in disguise—she could be killed."

"No, no," shrieked Agnes; "it was no disguise. She is gone, I tell you—the room was empty, all the rooms were empty—the passage was void—through the door they went together—silently, silently—ghostlike, slow. Ha! that tomb—they are there together now—he has her in his arms—see, they are here—they glide through the door—do you not see them now? Did I not speak the truth? She is dead—ha, ha!" And with a frantic and bewildering laugh the old woman fell upon her face.

"No, no," screamed Agnes. "It wasn't a disguise. She's gone, I’m telling you—the room was empty, all the rooms were empty—the hallway was blank—they went through the door together—quietly, quietly—like ghosts, slowly. Ha! that tomb—they're together now—he's holding her in his arms—look, they're here—they’re gliding through the door—can't you see them now? Didn't I tell the truth? She's dead—ha, ha!" And with a wild and confusing laugh, the old woman collapsed face down.

Ranulph raised her from the floor; but the shock of what she had beheld had been too much for her. She was dead!

Ranulph lifted her off the floor, but the shock of what she had seen was too overwhelming for her. She was dead!


CHAPTER IV

THE DOWER OF SYBIL

Card.   Are you here now? You look pale; There's a strong determination on your face, Mixed with some anxiety.
Bos.    So it sparks into action:
I have come to kill you.

Duchess of Malfy.

Duchess of Malfi.

Ranulph Rookwood was for some moments so much stunned by the ghastly fate of Agnes, connected, as it appeared to be, with a supernatural summons similar to that which he imagined he had himself received, that he was incapable of stirring from the spot, or removing his gaze from the rigid features of the corpse, which, even in death, wore the strong impress of horror and despair. Through life he knew that Agnes, his own nurse, had been his mother's constant and faithful attendant; the unhesitating agent of her schemes, and it was to be feared, from the remorse she had exhibited, the participator of her crimes; and Ranulph felt, he knew not why, that in having witnessed her terrible end, he beheld the ultimate condition of his own parent. Conquering, not without great effort, the horror which had riveted him to the spot, he turned to look towards Eleanor. She had sunk upon a chair, a silent witness of the scene, Mrs. Mowbray and Dr. Small having, upon the first alarm given by Agnes respecting Lady Rookwood's departure from the house quitted the room to ascertain the truth of her statement. Ranulph immediately flew to Eleanor.

Ranulph Rookwood was momentarily so shocked by Agnes's horrible fate, which seemed to be linked to a supernatural call similar to the one he thought he had received, that he couldn't move from the spot or take his eyes off the lifeless face of the corpse, which, even in death, showed a strong impression of horror and despair. Throughout his life, he knew that Agnes, his nurse, had been his mother’s constant and loyal caretaker; the unquestioning executor of her plans, and it was feared, judging by the remorse she showed, a participant in her crimes. Ranulph felt, for some unknown reason, that by witnessing her terrible end, he was witnessing the final state of his own mother. Overcoming, not without great effort, the horror that had glued him to the spot, he turned to look at Eleanor. She had collapsed into a chair, silently witnessing the scene, while Mrs. Mowbray and Dr. Small had left the room to confirm the truth of Agnes's warning about Lady Rookwood's departure from the house. Ranulph immediately rushed to Eleanor.

"Ranulph," said she, though almost overcome by her alarm, "stay not an instant here with me. I am sure, from that poor woman's dreadful death, that something terrible has occurred,[459] perhaps to Lady Rookwood. Go to her chamber. Tarry not, I entreat of you."

"Ranulph," she said, nearly overwhelmed by her fear, "don’t stay here with me for a second. I’m certain, because of that poor woman's horrific death, that something awful has happened, [459] maybe to Lady Rookwood. Go to her room. Please, don’t delay."

"But will you, can you remain here alone with that body?" asked Ranulph.

"But will you, can you stay here alone with that body?" asked Ranulph.

"I shall not be alone. Handassah is within call—nay, she is here. Oh, what an eve of our espousals has this been, dear Ranulph. Our whole life is a troubled volume, of which each successive leaf grows darker. Fate is opposed to us. It is useless to contend with our destiny. I fear we shall never be united."

"I won't be alone. Handassah is within reach—actually, she’s here. Oh, what an evening of our wedding this has been, dear Ranulph. Our entire life feels like a troubled book, where each page only gets darker. Fate is against us. It’s pointless to fight against our destiny. I’m afraid we’ll never be together."

"Dismiss me not with words like those, dear Eleanor," returned Ranulph. "Fate cannot have greater woes in store for us than those by which we are now opposed. Let us hope that we are now at that point whence all must brighten. Once possessed of you, assured of thus much happiness, I would set even fate at defiance. And you will be mine to-morrow."

"Don’t send me away with words like that, dear Eleanor," Ranulph replied. "Fate can't have worse troubles in store for us than what we're facing right now. Let's hope we've reached the point where everything will start to improve. Once I have you, certain of this happiness, I would challenge even fate. And you will be mine tomorrow."

"Ranulph, dear Ranulph, your suit at this moment is desperate. I dare not, cannot pledge myself. You yourself heard, even now, my mother's sentiments, and I cannot marry without her consent."

"Ranulph, my dear Ranulph, your situation right now is hopeless. I can't commit to this. You just heard my mother's feelings, and I can't get married without her approval."

"Your mother, like my own, regards not the feelings of her children. Forgive my boldness, Eleanor; forgive me if I linger now, when duty calls me hence; but I cannot tear myself away. Your mother may return—my hopes be crushed; for even your love for me seems annihilated in her presence."

"Your mom, like mine, doesn't care about the feelings of her kids. Forgive my boldness, Eleanor; forgive me for staying when I should leave; but I can't pull myself away. Your mom might come back—my hopes will be shattered; because even your love for me seems to disappear when she's around."

"Ranulph, your vehemence terrifies me," rejoined Eleanor. "I implore you, by the tender affection which you know I bear you, not to urge me further at this moment. Recall your firmer feelings, and obtain some mastery over yourself. I repeat, I am yours only, if I am bride of any one. But when our union can take place rests not with myself. And now, I entreat of you, leave me."

"Ranulph, your intensity frightens me," Eleanor replied. "I beg you, by the deep feelings I have for you, not to push me any further right now. Remember your stronger emotions and gain some control over yourself. I say again, I am only yours if I am anyone's bride. But when our marriage can happen is not up to me. And now, I ask you, please leave me."

"You are mine," said Ranulph, with fervor; "mine only."

"You belong to me," Ranulph said passionately; "only to me."

"Yours only," replied Eleanor.[460]

"Only yours," replied Eleanor.[460]

"Be this the earnest of my happiness!" exclaimed Ranulph, imprinting a long and impassioned kiss upon her lips.

"Let this be the start of my happiness!" Ranulph exclaimed, giving her a long and passionate kiss on the lips.

The lovers were startled from their embrace by a profound sigh; it proceeded from Handassah, who, unbidden, had replaced the picture of the Lady Eleanor upon its frame. The augury seemed sinister. Every one who has gazed steadfastly upon a portrait must have noticed the peculiar and lifelike character which, under certain aspects, the eyes will assume. Seen by the imperfect light upon the table, the whole character of the countenance of the Lady Eleanor seemed changed; the features appeared to be stamped with melancholy, and the eyes to be fixed with pitying tenderness upon her descendants. Both gazed at each other and at the picture, struck with the same sentiment of undefined awe. Beside them stood the dark figure of the gipsy girl, watching, with ill-concealed satisfaction, the effect of her handiwork. Ranulph was aroused from his abstraction by hearing a loud outcry in Mrs. Mowbray's voice. Hastily committing Eleanor to the care of her attendant, he left the room. Handassah followed him to the door, closed it after him, and then locked it within side. This done, she walked back hastily towards Eleanor, exclaiming, in a tone of exultation, "You have parted with him forever."

The lovers were jolted from their embrace by a deep sigh; it came from Handassah, who uninvitedly had put the portrait of Lady Eleanor back in its frame. The omen felt ominous. Anyone who has looked closely at a portrait must have noticed the unique and realistic quality the eyes can take on in certain lights. Under the dim light on the table, Lady Eleanor's expression seemed altered; her features appeared marked by sadness, and her eyes seemed to gaze down with compassionate tenderness at her descendants. They both looked at each other and the picture, struck by a shared feeling of vague unease. Nearby stood the dark figure of the gypsy girl, watching with barely concealed delight at the impact of her work. Ranulph snapped out of his daydream when he heard a loud cry from Mrs. Mowbray. Quickly leaving Eleanor in the care of her attendant, he exited the room. Handassah followed him to the door, closed it behind him, and locked it from the inside. After that, she rushed back to Eleanor, exclaiming triumphantly, "You have parted with him forever."

"What mean you, girl?" cried Eleanor, alarmed at her manner. "Why have you fastened the door? Open it, I command you."

"What do you mean, girl?" Eleanor exclaimed, worried by her behavior. "Why have you locked the door? Open it, I command you."

"Command me!" laughed Handassah, scornfully. "What if I refuse your mandate? What, if, in my turn, I bid you obey me? I never owned but one mistress. If I have bowed my neck to you for a time, 'twas to fulfil her dying wishes. If I have submitted to your control, it was to accomplish what I have now accomplished. Your oath! Remember your oath. The hour is come for its fulfilment."

"Command me!" laughed Handassah in disdain. "What if I ignore your orders? What if I tell you to obey me? I’ve only ever had one mistress. If I’ve bent to your will for a while, it was to honor her last wishes. If I have followed your commands, it was to achieve what I've just achieved. Your oath! Don’t forget your oath. The time has come for you to fulfill it."

With these words Handassah clapped her hands. A panel in the wall opened, and Luke stood suddenly before them.[461] Silently and with stern deliberation he strode towards Eleanor, and seizing one of her hands, drew her forcibly towards him. Eleanor resisted not; she had not the power; neither did she scream, for so paralyzing was her terror, that for the moment it took away all power of utterance. Luke neither stirred nor spoke, but, still maintaining his hold, gazed searchingly upon her features, while Eleanor, as if spell-bound, could not withdraw her eyes from him. Nothing more terribly impressive could be conceived than Luke's whole appearance. Harassed and exhausted by the life he had recently led; deprived almost of natural rest; goaded by remorse, his frame was almost worn to the bone, while his countenance, once dark and swarthy, was now blanched and colorless as marble. This pallid and deathlike hue was, in all probability, owing to the loss of blood he had sustained from the wound inflicted by Major Mowbray, with the stains of which his apparel was dyed; for, though staunched, the effusion had been sufficient to cause great faintness. His dark eyes blazed with their wonted fire—nay, they looked darker and larger from his exceeding paleness, and such intense mental and bodily suffering was imprinted upon his countenance, that, despite its fierceness and desperation, few could have regarded him without sympathy. Real desperation has so much of agony in its character, that no one can witness it unmoved. His garb was not that in which the reader first beheld him, but a rich, dark, simple suit of velvet, corresponding more with his real rank in life than his former peasant's attire; but it was disordered by his recent conflict, and stained with bloody testimonials of the fray; while his long, sable curls, once his pride and ornament, now hung in intertangled elf-locks, like a coil of wreathed water-snakes. Even in her terror, as she dwelt upon his noble features, Eleanor could not help admitting that she beheld the undoubted descendant, and the living likeness of the handsomest and most distinguished of her house—the profligate and criminal Sir Reginald. As her eye, mechanically following this train of[462] thought, wandered for an instant to the haughty portraiture of Sir Reginald, which formed part of the family pictures, and thence to those of his unfortunate lady, she was struck with the fancy that, by some terrible fatality, the tragic horrors of bygone days were to be again enacted in their persons, and that they were in some way strangely identified with their unfortunate progenitors. So forcibly was this idea impressed upon her features that Luke, who had followed the direction of her glances, became instantly aware of it. Drawing her nearer to the portrait of the Lady Eleanor, he traced the resemblance in mute wonder; thence, turning towards that of Sir Reginald, he proudly exclaimed: "You doubted once my lineage, maiden—can you gaze on those features, which would almost seem to be a reflection of mine own, and longer hesitate whose descendant I am? I glory in my likeness. There is a wild delight in setting human emotions at naught, which he was said to feel—which I feel now. Within these halls I seem to breathe an atmosphere congenial to me. I visit what I oft have visited in my dreams; or as in a state of pre-existence. Methinks, as I gaze on you, I could almost deem myself Sir Reginald, and you his bride, the Lady Eleanor. Our fates were parallel: she was united to her lord by ties of hatred—by a vowa bridal vow! So are you to me. And she could ne'er escape him—could ne'er throw off her bondage—nor shall you. I claim the fulfilment of your oath; you are mine."

With these words, Handassah clapped her hands. A panel in the wall opened, and Luke suddenly appeared before them.[461] Silently and with intense focus, he walked towards Eleanor and, grabbing one of her hands, pulled her forcefully towards him. Eleanor didn’t resist; she couldn’t. She didn’t scream either, as her fear was so overwhelming that it momentarily robbed her of her voice. Luke didn’t move or speak, but still holding her, he looked deeply into her face while Eleanor, as if under a spell, couldn’t take her eyes off him. Nothing could be more striking than Luke's entire presence. Worn out and exhausted from his recent life; deprived of almost any natural rest; driven by guilt, his body was almost just skin and bones, and his once dark and swarthy face was now pale and colorless, like marble. This ghostly hue was likely due to the blood he had lost from the wound inflicted by Major Mowbray, the stains of which marked his clothes; though the bleeding had stopped, it was enough to cause him great faintness. His dark eyes burned with their usual intensity—if anything, they looked darker and larger against his extreme paleness, and the deep mental and physical suffering etched on his face was so profound that, despite its fierceness and desperation, few could look at him without feeling sympathy. Real desperation is filled with such agony that no one can witness it without being moved. His outfit wasn’t the same as the one the reader first saw him in, but a rich, dark, simple velvet suit that better matched his true social status than his former peasant clothes; however, it was disheveled from his recent struggle, stained with bloody evidence of the fight, and his long, black curls, once his pride, now hung in messy tangles like a bunch of coiling water snakes. Even in her fear, as she looked at his noble features, Eleanor couldn’t help but see the undeniable resemblance to the most handsome and distinguished in her family—the reckless and criminal Sir Reginald. As her gaze mechanically followed this thought to the haughty portrait of Sir Reginald among the family pictures, and then to those of his unfortunate wife, she was struck by the idea that, by some terrible fate, the tragic horrors of the past were destined to be replayed in their lives, and that they were somehow strangely connected to their unfortunate ancestors. This thought was so deeply reflected on her face that Luke, who had noticed where she was looking, immediately understood. Drawing her closer to the portrait of Lady Eleanor, he silently marveled at the resemblance; then, turning to the portrait of Sir Reginald, he proudly declared: "You once doubted my lineage, maiden—can you look at those features, which seem almost like a reflection of my own, and still hesitate about whose descendant I am? I take pride in my likeness. There is a wild thrill in disregarding human emotions, which he was said to have felt—and which I feel now. In this place, I feel an atmosphere that resonates with me. I visit what I often dreamed of; or it feels like a state of pre-existence. As I look at you, I almost think of myself as Sir Reginald, and you as his bride, the Lady Eleanor. Our fates were similar: she was bound to her husband by ties of hatred—by a vowa bridal vow! So are you to me. And she could never escape him—could never break free from her chains—nor shall you. I demand the fulfillment of your oath; you are mine."

"Never, never!" shrieked Eleanor, struggling to disengage herself. But Luke laughed at her feeble efforts. Handassah stood by, a passive spectatress of the scene, with her arms folded upon her bosom.

"Never, never!" screamed Eleanor, trying to pull away. But Luke just laughed at her weak attempts. Handassah stood nearby, a passive spectator of the scene, with her arms crossed over her chest.

"You refuse compliance," said Luke, scornfully. "Have you no hopes of Heaven, no fears of perdition, that you dare to violate your vow? Bethink you of the awful nature of that obligation; of the life that was laid down to purchase it; of the blood which will cry out for vengeance 'gainst the murderess, should you hesitate. By that blood-cemented sacrament, I[463] claim you as my own. You are mine." And he dragged her towards the opening.

"You refuse to obey," Luke said mockingly. "Don't you care about Heaven, or fear damnation, that you're willing to break your vow? Think about how serious that commitment is; about the life that was sacrificed to make it possible; about the blood that will cry out for revenge against the murderess, if you hesitate. By that blood-bound promise, I[463] claim you as mine. You are mine." And he pulled her toward the opening.

Eleanor uttered a long and terrific scream.

Eleanor let out a long and terrifying scream.

"Be silent, on your life," added he, searching for the dagger given to him by Alan Rookwood, when, as his hand sought the weapon, Eleanor escaped from his grasp, and fled towards the door. But Handassah had anticipated her intention. The key was withdrawn from the lock, and the wretched maiden vainly tried to open it.

"Be quiet about your life," he said, looking for the dagger given to him by Alan Rookwood. As he reached for the weapon, Eleanor slipped out of his grasp and ran toward the door. But Handassah had anticipated her move. The key was taken out of the lock, and the poor girl desperately tried to open it.

At this instant Turpin appeared at the sliding panel.

At that moment, Turpin showed up at the sliding panel.

"Quick, quick!" cried he, impatiently—"despatch, in the devil's name. The house is alarmed. I hear young Ranulph's voice in the gallery."

"Quick, quick!" he shouted, impatiently—"hurry up, for heaven's sake. The house is on alert. I can hear young Ranulph's voice in the hallway."

"Ranulph!" shrieked Eleanor—"then I am saved," and she redoubled her outcries for assistance.

"Ranulph!" Eleanor screamed, "then I'm saved," and she raised her cries for help even more.

Luke again seized his victim. Her hands clutched so convulsively fast in her despairing energy against the handle of the door that he could not tear her thence. By this time Ranulph Rookwood, who had caught her reiterated screams for help, was at the entrance. He heard her struggles; he heard Luke's threats—his mockery—his derisive laughter—but vainly, vainly did he attempt to force it open. It was of the strongest oak, and the bolts resisted all his efforts. A board alone divided him from his mistress. He could hear her sobs and gasps. He saw, from the action of the handle, with what tenacity she clung to it; and, stung to frenzy by the sight, he hurled himself against the sturdy plank, but all in vain. At length the handle was still. There was a heavy fall upon the floor—a stifled scream—and a sound as of a body being dragged along. The thought was madness.

Luke again grabbed his victim. Her hands clutched desperately at the door handle, making it impossible for him to pull her away. By this time, Ranulph Rookwood, having heard her desperate screams for help, had reached the entrance. He heard her struggles; he heard Luke's threats—his mockery—his mocking laughter—but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force the door open. It was made of strong oak, and the bolts resisted all his attempts. Only a board separated him from his lover. He could hear her sobs and gasps. He saw, from the movement of the handle, how fiercely she held onto it; and, driven to madness by the sight, he threw himself against the sturdy door, but to no avail. Finally, the handle stopped moving. There was a loud thud on the floor—a muffled scream—and the sound of a body being dragged away. The thought was insane.

"To the panel! to the panel!" cried a voice—it was that of Turpin—from within.

"To the panel! To the panel!" yelled a voice—it was Turpin's—coming from inside.

"The panel!—ha!" echoed Ranulph, with a sudden gleam of hope. "I may yet save her." And he darted along the corridor with the swiftness of thought.[464]

"The panel!—ha!" Ranulph exclaimed, a sudden spark of hope lighting up his face. "I might still be able to save her." And he raced down the corridor as fast as a thought can fly.[464]

Luke, meanwhile, had for some minutes fruitlessly exhausted all his force to drag Eleanor from the door. Despair gave her strength; she clutched at the door; but she felt her strength failing her—her grasp was relaxing. And then the maddening thought that she would be shortly his—that he would slay her—while the idea that Ranulph was so near, and yet unable to protect her, added gall even to her bitterness. With savage delight Luke exulted in the lovers' tortures. He heard Ranulph's ineffectual attempts; he heard his groans; he heard their mutual cries. Inflamed by jealousy, he triumphed in his power of vengeance, and even prolonged the torture which accident had given him the means of inflicting. He stood like the inquisitor who marks his victim's anguish on the rack, and calculates his powers of further endurance. But he could no longer dally, even with this horrible gratification. His companion grew impatient. Eleanor's fair long tresses had escaped from their confinement in the struggle, and fell down her neck in disorder. Twining his fingers amidst its folds, Luke dragged her backwards from her hold, and, incapable of further resistance, her strength completely exhausted, the wretched girl fell to the ground.

Luke had spent several minutes trying unsuccessfully to pull Eleanor away from the door. Despair gave her strength; she held onto the door tightly, but she could feel herself weakening—her grip was slipping. The maddening thought that she would soon belong to him—that he would kill her—combined with the frustration of Ranulph being so close yet unable to save her, only added to her bitterness. With cruel pleasure, Luke reveled in the lovers' torment. He heard Ranulph's futile efforts; he heard his groans; he heard their desperate cries. Fueled by jealousy, he took joy in his ability to exact revenge, even stretching out the torture that circumstance had allowed him to inflict. He stood like an inquisitor, watching his victim's suffering and calculating how much longer she could endure. But he could no longer take his time, even with this awful pleasure. His companion grew impatient. Eleanor's long, beautiful hair had come loose in their struggle, cascading down her neck in chaos. Looping his fingers through the strands, Luke pulled her backward from her grip, and, completely spent and unable to resist any longer, the miserable girl fell to the ground.

Luke now raised her almost inanimate form in his arms, and had nigh reached the aperture, when a crash was heard in the panel opposite to that by which he was about to escape, and communicating with a further apartment. It was thrown open, and Ranulph Rookwood presented himself at the narrow partition. An exclamation of joy, that he was yet in time, escaped his lips; and he was about to clear the partition at a bound, and to precipitate himself upon Luke, when, as suddenly as his own action, was the person of the unfortunate Mr. Coates wedged into the aperture.

Luke lifted her almost lifeless body in his arms and was just about to reach the opening when a loud crash echoed from the panel opposite him, which connected to another room. The door swung open, and Ranulph Rookwood appeared at the narrow partition. A joyful exclamation that he was still in time slipped from his lips, and he was ready to leap over the partition and throw himself at Luke when, just as quickly as he acted, the unfortunate Mr. Coates got stuck in the opening.

"Traitor!" cried Ranulph, regarding Coates with concentrated fury, "dare you to oppose me?—hence! or, by Heaven, I will cut you down!"[465]

"Traitor!" shouted Ranulph, glaring at Coates with intense anger, "How dare you oppose me? Get out of my way! Or, I swear, I'll take you down!"[465]

"'Tis impossible," ejaculated the attorney. "For your own sake, Sir Ranulph—for my sake—I entreat—implore of you—not to attempt to pass this way. Try the other door."

"'It's impossible," exclaimed the attorney. "For your own sake, Sir Ranulph—for my sake—I beg you—please don’t try to come this way. Use the other door."

Ranulph said no more. He passed his sword through the body of the miserable attorney, who, with a deep groan, fell. The only obstacle to his passage being thus removed, he at once leaped into the room.

Ranulph said nothing more. He drove his sword through the body of the unfortunate attorney, who, with a deep groan, collapsed. With that obstacle out of the way, he immediately jumped into the room.

The brothers were now confronted, together, but little of brotherly love mingled with the glances which they threw upon each other. Ranulph's gentle, but withal enthusiastic temperament, had kindled, under his present excitement, like flax at the sudden approach of flame. He was wild with frenzy. Luke was calmer, but his fury was deadly and inextinguishable. The meeting was terrible on both sides.

The brothers were now facing each other, but there was hardly any brotherly love in the looks they exchanged. Ranulph's gentle yet passionate nature had ignited, in his current excitement, like flax catching fire. He was consumed with rage. Luke was calmer, but his anger was intense and unrelenting. The encounter was frightening for both of them.

With one arm Luke enfolded Eleanor, with the other he uplifted the dagger. Its point was towards her bosom. Scowling grim defiance at Ranulph, he exclaimed, in a determined tone, "Advance a footstep, and my dagger descends into her heart."

With one arm, Luke wrapped around Eleanor, and with the other, he raised the dagger. The tip was aimed at her chest. Scowling fiercely at Ranulph, he said in a firm tone, "Take one step forward, and my dagger will plunge into her heart."

Ranulph hesitated, uncertain how to act; foaming with rage, yet trembling with apprehension.

Ranulph hesitated, unsure of what to do; filled with rage but also shaking with fear.

"Ranulph," gasped Eleanor, "life without you were valueless. Advance—avenge me!"

"Ranulph," gasped Eleanor, "life without you is worthless. Move forward—get revenge for me!"

Ranulph still hesitated. He could not, by any act of his own, compromise Eleanor's safety.

Ranulph still hesitated. He couldn't, by any action of his own, put Eleanor's safety at risk.

Luke saw his advantage, and was not slow to profit by it. "You seal her destruction if you stir," said he.

Luke recognized his opportunity and quickly took advantage of it. "You'll seal her fate if you make a move," he said.

"Villain," returned Ranulph, between his ground teeth, and with difficulty commanding sufficient coolness to speak with deliberation, "you perceive your power. Injure her, and nothing earthly shall protect you. Free her, and take your life and liberty; nay, reward if you will. You cannot otherwise escape me."

"Villain," Ranulph replied through clenched teeth, struggling to maintain enough composure to speak calmly, "you know your power. Hurt her, and nothing can save you. Set her free, and you can have your life and freedom; even a reward if you want. You won't be able to escape me any other way."

"Escape you!" laughed Luke, disdainfully. "Stand aside, and let me pass. Beware," added he, sternly, "how you[466] oppose me. I would not have a brother's blood upon my soul."

"Get out of my way!" laughed Luke, scornfully. "Step aside and let me through. Be careful," he added, seriously, "about how you challenge me. I don’t want to carry my brother's blood on my hands."

"Nor I," cried Ranulph; "but you pass not." And he placed himself full in Luke's path.

"Me neither," exclaimed Ranulph; "but you can't go past." And he stood directly in Luke's way.

Luke, however, steadily moved forward, holding Eleanor between himself and Ranulph, so as to shield his own person; but, fancying he saw an opportunity of dealing a blow without injury to his mistress, the latter was about to hazard the thrust, when his arms were seized behind, and he was rendered powerless.

Luke, however, kept moving ahead, keeping Eleanor positioned between him and Ranulph to protect himself; but thinking he saw a chance to strike without harming his mistress, he was about to take the chance when arms grabbed him from behind, rendering him powerless.

"Lost, lost," groaned he; "she is lost to me forever!"

"Lost, lost," he groaned; "she's lost to me forever!"

"I fear that's but too true," said Turpin, for it was the highwayman whose grasp confined Ranulph.

"I think that's unfortunately true," said Turpin, since he was the highwayman holding Ranulph.

"Must I see her borne away before my eyes?" cried Ranulph. "Release me—set me free!"

"Do I have to watch her leave right in front of me?" Ranulph shouted. "Let me go—free me!"

"Quite impossible at present," returned Dick. "Mount and away, Sir Luke," continued he; "never mind me. Leave me to shift for myself."

"Totally impossible right now," replied Dick. "Get on and go, Sir Luke," he added; "don’t worry about me. Just leave me to take care of myself."

"Eleanor!" cried Ranulph, as she passed close by his side.

"Eleanor!" shouted Ranulph as she walked by him.

"Ranulph!" shrieked Eleanor, with a loud scream, recalled to consciousness by his voice, "farewell for ever."

"Ranulph!" Eleanor screamed loudly, brought back to reality by his voice, "goodbye forever."

"Ay, for ever," responded Luke, triumphantly. "You meet no more on earth."

"Yes, forever," Luke replied, triumphantly. "You won't meet anyone else on earth."

He was about to pass through the panel, when Eleanor exerted all her remaining strength in a last futile attempt at liberation. In the struggle, a packet fell from Luke's bosom.

He was about to go through the panel when Eleanor used all her remaining strength in one last pointless attempt to get free. During the struggle, a

Handassah stooped to pick it up.

Handassah bent down to pick it up.

"From Sybil!" exclaimed she, glancing at the superscription.

"From Sybil!" she exclaimed, looking at the address.

"Remember my promise to old Barbara," roared Dick, who had some curiosity, as the reader knows, to learn what the package contained. "The time is arrived. Eleanor is in your power—in your presence."[467]

"Remember my promise to old Barbara," shouted Dick, who, as you know, was curious to find out what was in the package. "The time has come. Eleanor is in your hands—right here with you."[467]

"Give me the packet," said Luke, resigning Eleanor for the instant to Handassah's custody—"take the steel, and grasp her firmly."

"Give me the packet," said Luke, handing Eleanor over to Handassah for the moment—"take the steel and hold her tightly."

Handassah, who, though slight of figure, was of singular personal strength, twined her arms about Miss Mowbray in such a manner as to preclude all possibility of motion.

Handassah, who, despite her small frame, had remarkable personal strength, wrapped her arms around Miss Mowbray in a way that completely prevented any chance of movement.

Luke tore open the package. It was a box carefully enclosed in several folds of linen, and lastly within a sheet of paper, on which were inscribed these words:

Luke ripped open the package. Inside was a box carefully wrapped in several layers of linen, and finally within a sheet of paper, which had these words written on it:

The Dower of Sybil

The Dower of Sybil

Hastily, and with much curiosity, Luke raised the lid of the box. It contained one long silken tress of blackest hair enviously braided. It was Sybil's. His first impulse was to cast it from him; his next, reproachfully to raise it to his lips. He started as if a snake had stung him.

Hastily, and with a lot of curiosity, Luke lifted the lid of the box. Inside was a long silky braid of the darkest black hair, beautifully woven. It belonged to Sybil. His first instinct was to throw it away; his next was to lift it to his lips in a reproachful gesture. He jumped as if a snake had bitten him.

At this moment a loud clamor was heard in the gallery. In the next, the door was assailed by violent strokes, evidently proceeding from some weighty instrument, impelled by the united strength of several assailants.

At this moment, a loud noise echoed in the gallery. In the next moment, the door was pounded with heavy blows, clearly coming from some strong object, pushed by the combined force of several attackers.

The voice of Turpin rose above the deafening din. "A bullet for the first who enters," shouted he. "Quick, Sir Luke, and the prize is safe—away, and——"

The voice of Turpin rose above the deafening noise. "A bullet for the first one who comes in," he shouted. "Hurry, Sir Luke, and the prize is secure—go, and——"

But as he seconded his exhortation with a glance at Luke, he broke off the half-uttered sentence, and started with horror and amazement. Ere the cause of his alarm could be expressed, the door was burst open, and a crowd of domestics, headed by Major Mowbray and Titus Tyrconnel, rushed into the room.

But as he emphasized his point with a glance at Luke, he stopped mid-sentence, filled with horror and disbelief. Before he could explain what had scared him, the door flew open, and a group of staff, led by Major Mowbray and Titus Tyrconnel, stormed into the room.

"Nay, then, the game's up!" exclaimed Dick; "I have done with Rookwood." And, springing through the panel, he was seen no more.

"Nah, the game's over!" shouted Dick; "I'm done with Rookwood." And, jumping through the panel, he was gone.

When the newcomers first looked round, they could perceive only two figures besides themselves—those of the two lovers—Eleanor[468] having sunk pale, exhausted, and almost senseless, into the arms of Ranulph. Presently, however, a ghastly object attracted their attention. All rushed towards it—all recoiled, as soon as they discovered that it was the lifeless body of Luke Rookwood. His limbs were stiff, like those of a corpse which has for hours been such; his eyes protruded from their sockets; his face was livid and blotched. All bespoke, with terrible certainty, the efficacy of the poison, and the full accomplishment of Barbara's revenge.

When the newcomers first looked around, they could see only two figures besides themselves—those of the two lovers—Eleanor[468] having collapsed, pale, exhausted, and nearly unconscious, into the arms of Ranulph. Soon, though, a horrifying sight caught their attention. They all rushed toward it, only to recoil once they realized it was the lifeless body of Luke Rookwood. His limbs were stiff, like those of a corpse that had been dead for hours; his eyes bulged from their sockets; his face was pale and mottled. Everything about him clearly indicated the cruel effect of the poison and the complete fulfillment of Barbara's revenge.

Handassah was gone. Probably she had escaped ere Turpin fled. At all events, she was heard of no more at Rookwood.

Handassah was gone. She likely escaped before Turpin ran away. In any case, nobody heard from her again at Rookwood.

It required little to recall the senses of Eleanor. Shortly she revived, and as she gazed around, and became conscious of her escape, she uttered exclamations of thanksgiving, and sank into the embraces of her brother.

It didn't take much to awaken Eleanor's senses. Soon, she came to her senses, and as she looked around and realized she was safe, she exclaimed her gratitude and fell into the arms of her brother.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Mowbray and Dr. Small had joined the assemblage.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Mowbray and Dr. Small had joined the group.

The worthy doctor had been full of alarm; but his meditated condolences were now changed to congratulations, as he heard the particulars of the terrible scene that had occurred, and of Eleanor's singular and almost providential deliverance.

The respectable doctor had been quite worried; however, his planned condolences quickly turned into congratulations when he learned about the details of the horrific event that took place and Eleanor's unusual and almost miraculous escape.

"After what has befallen, madam," said the doctor to Mrs. Mowbray, slightly coughing, "you can no longer raise any objection to a certain union, eh?"

"After everything that has happened, ma'am," said the doctor to Mrs. Mowbray, clearing his throat slightly, "you can't really object to a certain union anymore, can you?"

"I will answer for my mother in that particular," said Major Mowbray, stepping forward.

"I'll speak for my mom on that," said Major Mowbray, stepping forward.

"She will answer for herself, my son," said Mrs. Mowbray. "The match has her full and entire consent. But to what am I to attribute the unexpected happiness of your return?"

"She'll speak for herself, my son," Mrs. Mowbray said. "The match has her complete and total approval. But what should I make of the unexpected joy of your return?"

"To a chain of singular circumstances," replied the Major, "which I will hereafter detail to you. Suffice it to say, that but for this gentleman's fortunate arrival," added he, looking at Titus Tyrconnel, "at the hut on Thorne Waste, I might have been detained a prisoner, without parole, and, what is worse, without provision perhaps for days; and to add to my distress,[469] fully acquainted with the meditated abduction of my sister. It was excessively lucky for me, Mr. Tyrconnel, that you happened to pass that way, and for poor Paterson likewise."

"To a series of unique events," replied the Major, "which I will explain to you later. It's enough to say that if it weren't for this gentleman’s fortunate arrival," he said, glancing at Titus Tyrconnel, "at the hut on Thorne Waste, I might have been stuck as a prisoner, without parole, and, worse yet, without food for possibly days; and to make matters worse,[469] I was fully aware of the planned kidnapping of my sister. It was incredibly lucky for me, Mr. Tyrconnel, that you happened to be passing by, and for poor Paterson as well."

"Arrah, by my sowl, major, and you may say that with safety; and it was particularly fortunate that we stumbled upon the tits in the cellar, or we'd never have been here just in the nick of it. I begin to think we've lost all chance of taking Dick Turpin this time. He's got clean away."

"Honestly, Major, and you can say that without worry; it was especially lucky that we found the loot in the cellar, or we wouldn't have made it here just in time. I'm starting to think we've completely lost the chance to catch Dick Turpin this time. He's gotten away for good."

"I am not sorry for his escape," said the major. "He's a brave fellow; and I respect courage wherever I find it, even in a highwayman. I should be sorry to appear as a witness against him; and I trust it will never be my fate to do so."

"I don't regret his escape," said the major. "He's a brave guy, and I respect courage wherever I see it, even in a criminal. I would hate to be a witness against him; and I hope it’s never my fate to be one."

We shall not pause to describe the affectionate meeting which now ensued between the brother and sister—the congratulations upon Eleanor's escape from peril, intermingled with the tenderest embraces, and the warmest thanks offered to Ranulph for his gallant service. "She is yours, my dear boy," said the major; "and though you are a Rookwood, and she bears the ill-fated name of Eleanor, I predict that, contrary to the usual custom of our families in such cases, all your misfortunes will have occurred before marriage."

We won't take a moment to describe the heartfelt reunion that followed between the brother and sister—the congratulating on Eleanor's escape from danger, mixed with the warmest hugs and sincere thanks given to Ranulph for his brave actions. "She's yours, my dear boy," said the major; "and even though you're a Rookwood and she has the unfortunate name of Eleanor, I predict that, unlike the usual pattern in our families in these situations, all your misfortunes will have happened before marriage."

"There is only one thing," said Small, with a very peculiar expression, which might almost be construed into serio-comic, could we suspect the benevolent doctor of any such waggery, "that can possibly throw a shade over our present felicity. Lady Rookwood is not to be found."

"There’s just one thing," said Small, with a very unusual expression that could almost be seen as serio-comic, if we were to suspect the kind doctor of any such joke, "that could possibly cast a shadow over our current happiness. Lady Rookwood is missing."

"My poor mother," said Ranulph, starting.

"My poor mom," said Ranulph, starting.

"Make yourself easy," said the doctor; "I doubt not we shall hear of her to-morrow. My only apprehension," added he, half aside, "is, that she may be heard of before."

"Take it easy," said the doctor; "I’m sure we’ll hear from her by tomorrow. My only concern," he added quietly, "is that we might hear from her sooner."

"One other circumstance afflicts me," said Ranulph. "Poor Mr. Coates!"

"There's one more thing bothering me," said Ranulph. "Poor Mr. Coates!"

"What's that you say of Mr. Coates, Sir Ranulph?" exclaimed Titus.[470]

"What's that you say about Mr. Coates, Sir Ranulph?" exclaimed Titus.[470]

"I fear he was killed in the recent affray," said Ranulph. "Let some one search for the body."

"I’m afraid he was killed in the recent fight," said Ranulph. "Someone should look for the body."

"Kilt!" echoed Titus. "Is it kilt that Mr. Coates is? Ah! ullagone, and is it over with him entirely? Is he gone to rejoin his father, the thief-taker? Bring me to his remains."

"Killed!" echoed Titus. "Is Mr. Coates really dead? Ah! ullagone, is it all over for him? Has he gone to reunite with his father, the bounty hunter? Take me to his remains."

"He will bring them to you himself," said the attorney, stepping forward. "Luckily, Sir Ranulph," said the incurable punster, "it was merely the outer coats that your sword passed through; the inner remains uninjured, so that you did not act as my conveyancer to eternity. Body o' me! I've as many lives as a cat—ha, ha!"

"He'll bring them to you himself," said the lawyer, stepping forward. "Fortunately, Sir Ranulph," said the hopeless jokester, "it was only the outer layers that your sword went through; the inner part is unharmed, so you didn’t send me off to eternity as my conveyancer. Good grief! I have as many lives as a cat—ha, ha!"

Ranulph welcomed the facetious man of law with no little satisfaction.

Ranulph welcomed the witty lawyer with considerable satisfaction.

We think it unnecessary to enter into further detail. Another chamber was prepared for Eleanor's reception, to which she was almost immediately transported. The remains of the once fierce and haughty Luke, now stiff and stark, but still wearing, even in death, their proud character, were placed upon the self-same bier, and covered with the self-same pall which, but a week ago, had furnished forth his father's funeral. And as the domestics crowded round the corpse, there was not one of them but commented upon his startling resemblance to his grandsire, Sir Reginald; nor, amongst the superstitious, was the falling of the fatal bough forgotten.

We think it’s unnecessary to go into more detail. Another room was prepared for Eleanor's arrival, and she was almost immediately taken there. The remains of the once fierce and proud Luke, now stiff and cold, but still maintaining their regal bearing even in death, were placed on the same bier, covered with the same pall that had draped his father's funeral just a week ago. As the household staff gathered around the body, every one of them remarked on how much he resembled his grandfather, Sir Reginald; and among the superstitious, the fall of the fatal branch was not forgotten.

Tranquillity was at length restored at the hall. Throughout the night and during the next day, Ranulph made every search for his mother, but no tidings could be learned of her. Seriously alarmed, he then caused more strict and general inquiry to be instituted, but with like unsuccessful effect. It was not, indeed, till some years afterwards that her fate was ascertained.

Tranquility was finally restored at the hall. Throughout the night and into the next day, Ranulph searched everywhere for his mother, but no news could be found. Seriously worried, he then initiated a more thorough and widespread search, but it also failed to yield any results. In fact, it wasn't until several years later that her fate was discovered.


CHAPTER V

THE SARCOPHAGUS

So now 'tis ended, like an old wife's story.—Webster.

So now it’s over, like an old wife's tale.—Webster's Dictionary.

Notwithstanding the obscurity which hung over the fate of Lady Rookwood, the celebration of the nuptials of Sir Ranulph and Eleanor was not long delayed; the ceremony took place at the parish church, and the worthy vicar officiated upon the occasion. It was a joyous sight to all who witnessed it, and not few were they who did so, for the whole neighborhood was bidden to the festival. The old avenue was thronged with bright and beaming faces, rustic maidens decked out in ribbons of many-colored splendor, and stout youths in their best holiday trim; nor was the lusty yeoman and his buxom spouse—nor yet the patriarch of the village, nor prattling child, wanting. Even the ancestral rooks seemed to participate in the universal merriment, and returned, from their eyries, a hoarse greeting, like a lusty chorus of laughter, to the frolic train. The churchyard path was strewn with flowers—the church itself a complete garland. Never was there seen a blither wedding: the sun smiled upon the bride—accounted a fortunate omen, as dark lowering skies and stormy weather had, within the memory of the oldest of the tenantry, inauspiciously ushered in all former espousals. The bride had recovered her bloom and beauty, while the melancholy which had seemingly settled for ever upon the open brow of the bridegroom, had now given place to a pensive shade that only added interest to his expressive features; and, as in simple state, after the completion of the sacred rites, the youthful pair walked, arm in arm, amongst their thronging and admiring tenants towards the Hall, many a fervent prayer was breathed that the curse of[472] the house of Rookwood might be averted from their heads; and, not to leave a doubt upon the subject, we can add that these aspirations were not in vain, but that the day, which dawned so brightly, was one of serene and unclouded happiness to its close.

Despite the uncertainty surrounding Lady Rookwood's fate, the wedding of Sir Ranulph and Eleanor happened not long after; the ceremony took place at the local church, with the vicar leading the service. It was a joyful sight for everyone who attended, and many did, as the entire neighborhood was invited to the celebration. The old avenue was filled with bright and cheerful faces, country girls dressed in colorful ribbons, and sturdy young men in their best outfits; the hearty farmers and their lively wives were there too, along with the village elder and playful children. Even the ancestral rooks seemed to join in the happiness, providing a loud greeting from their nests, resembling a boisterous chorus of laughter to the festive group. The path to the churchyard was covered in flowers—the church itself looked like a complete garland. Never had a wedding been so cheerful: the sun shone on the bride—considered a lucky sign, as gloomy skies and stormy weather had, during the memories of the oldest tenants, unpleasantly marked all previous weddings. The bride had regained her health and beauty, while the sadness that had seemed permanently settled on the bridegroom's face had transformed into a thoughtful expression that only made his features more engaging; and, as the youthful couple walked arm in arm among their admiring tenants towards the Hall after the ceremony, many fervent prayers were offered that the curse of[472] the house of Rookwood would be kept away from them; and to remove any doubt on this subject, we can confirm that these hopes were not in vain, for the day that started so brilliantly ended in peaceful and unhindered happiness.

After the ceremonial, the day was devoted to festivity. Crowded with company, from the ample hall to the kitchen ingle, the old mansion could scarce contain its numerous guests, while the walls resounded with hearty peals of laughter, to which they had been long unaccustomed. The tables groaned beneath the lordly baron of beef, the weighty chine, the castled pasty flanked on the one hand with neat's tongue, and on the other defended by a mountainous ham, an excellent pièce de résistance, and every other substantial appliance of ancient hospitality. Barrels of mighty ale were broached, and their nut-brown contents widely distributed, and the health of the bride and bridegroom was enthusiastically drunk in a brimming wassail cup of spicy wine with floating toast. Titus Tyrconnel acted as master of the ceremonies, and was, Mr. Coates declared, "quite in his element." So much was he elated, that he ventured to cut some of his old jokes upon the vicar, and, strange to say, without incurring the resentment of Small.

After the ceremony, the day was filled with celebration. The old mansion, packed with guests from the spacious hall to the kitchen hearth, could barely hold everyone. The walls echoed with hearty laughter, something they hadn't heard in a long time. The tables were piled with a magnificent roast beef, a hefty joint, a grand meat pie on one side, with tongue on the other, and a huge ham defending its territory—a true centerpiece—and every other substantial offering of classic hospitality. Barrels of rich ale were tapped, and their dark contents were shared widely. Everyone toasted to the bride and groom with a full cup of spiced wine topped with floating toast. Titus Tyrconnel was the master of ceremonies and, as Mr. Coates said, "quite in his element." He was so excited that he dared to tell some of his old jokes to the vicar, and oddly enough, he didn't even make Small upset.

To retrace the darker course of our narrative, we must state that some weeks before this happy event the remains of the unfortunate Sir Luke Rookwood had been gathered to those of his fathers. The document that attested his legitimacy being found upon his person, the claims denied to him in life were conceded in death; and he was interred, with all the pomp and peculiar solemnity proper to one of the house, within the tomb of his ancestry.

To revisit the darker part of our story, we need to mention that a few weeks before this happy event, the remains of the unfortunate Sir Luke Rookwood were laid to rest alongside his ancestors. The document proving his legitimacy was found on him, and the claims that were denied to him in life were granted to him in death. He was buried, with all the grandeur and unique solemnity fitting for someone from that family, in the tomb of his forebears.

It was then that a discovery was made respecting Alan Rookwood, in order to explain which we must again revert to the night of the meditated enlèvement of Eleanor.

It was then that a discovery was made about Alan Rookwood, and to explain this, we must go back to the night of the planned enlèvement of Eleanor.

After quitting his grandson in the avenue, Alan shaped his course among the fields in the direction to the church. He[473] sought his own humble, but now deserted dwelling. The door had been forced; some of its meagre furniture was removed; and the dog, his sole companion, had fled. "Poor Mole!" said he, "thou hast found, I trust, a better master." And having possessed himself of what he came in search—namely, a bunch of keys and his lantern, deposited in an out-of-the-way cupboard, that had escaped notice, he quickly departed.

After leaving his grandson on the street, Alan headed through the fields toward the church. He[473]went back to his simple but now abandoned home. The door had been broken open; some of the little furniture was gone; and his dog, his only companion, had run away. "Poor Mole!" he said, "I hope you’ve found a better master." After grabbing what he came for—a set of keys and his lantern that were tucked away in a hidden cupboard—he left quickly.

He was once more within the churchyard; once more upon that awful stage whereon he had chosen to enact, for a long season, his late fantastical character; and he gazed upon the church tower, glistening in the moonshine, the green and undulating hillocks, the "chequered cross-sticks," the clustered headstones, and the black and portentous yew-trees, as upon "old familiar faces." He mused, for a few moments, upon the scene, apparently with deep interest. He then walked beneath the shadows of one of the yews, chanting an odd stanza or so of one of his wild staves, wrapped the while, it would seem, in affectionate contemplation of the subject-matter of his song:

He was once again in the churchyard; once again on that eerie stage where he had decided to play, for a long time, his recent strange role; and he looked at the church tower, shining in the moonlight, the rolling green hills, the "checked cross-sticks," the clustered headstones, and the dark, ominous yew trees, as if they were "old familiar faces." He thought for a few moments about the scene, seemingly with great interest. Then he walked under the shadows of one of the yews, singing a weird stanza or two of one of his wild songs, clearly lost in affectionate thought about the theme of his song:

THE CHURCHYARD YEW

THE CHURCHYARD YEW TREE

—— Metuendaque juice Taxus. Statius.
A harmful tree is the churchyard yew,
As if it had come back to life, it drew its sap; Its branches are dark and gloomy to look at,
Like feathers at Death's final ceremony.
Ghostly and sharp, as dark as the wings Which some malevolent spirit casts over a tomb: Oh! the churchyard yew is an awful tree; It's not as grim as it seems.
Yet this ominous tree has a core so solid,
There’s nothing as tough as what can be found in the grove; Brave English bows were made from it,
The pride of our island and the fear of its enemies.
[474] For our strong fathers cut their thickest staffs From the branch that hung over their fathers' graves; Even though it looks gloomy and bleak, At the center, the churchyard yew stands strong.

His ditty concluded, Alan entered the churchyard, taking care to leave the door slightly ajar, in order to facilitate his grandson's entrance. For an instant he lingered in the chancel. The yellow moonlight fell upon the monuments of his race; and, directed by the instinct of hate, Alan's eye rested upon the gilded entablature of his perfidious brother, Reginald, and, muttering curses, "not loud but deep," he passed on. Having lighted his lantern in no tranquil mood, he descended into the vault, observing a similar caution with respect to the portal of the cemetery, which he left partially unclosed, with the key in the lock. Here he resolved to abide Luke's coming. The reader knows what probability there was of his expectations being realized.

His song finished, Alan walked into the churchyard, making sure to leave the door slightly open to help his grandson get in. For a moment, he paused in the chancel. The yellow moonlight illuminated the monuments of his family; fueled by his hatred, Alan's gaze landed on the gilded plaque of his treacherous brother, Reginald, and, muttering curses "not loud but deep," he moved on. After lighting his lantern in a not-so-calm mood, he went down into the vault, being careful to keep the cemetery portal partially closed, with the key still in the lock. Here, he decided to wait for Luke's arrival. The reader knows how likely it was that his expectations would be met.

For a while he paced the tomb, wrapped in gloomy meditation, and pondering, it might be, upon the result of Luke's expedition, and the fulfilment of his own dark schemes, scowling from time to time beneath his bent eyebrows, counting the grim array of coffins, and noticing, with something like satisfaction, that the shell which contained the remains of his daughter had been restored to its former position. He then bethought him of Father Checkley's midnight intrusion upon his conference with Luke, and their apprehension of a supernatural visitation, and his curiosity was stimulated to ascertain by what means the priest had gained admission to the spot unperceived and unheard. He resolved to sound the floor, and see whether any secret entrance existed; and hollowly and dully did the hard flagging return the stroke of his heel as he pursued his scrutiny. At length the metallic ringing of an iron plate, immediately behind the marble effigy of Sir Ranulph, resolved the point. There it was that the priest had[475] found access to the vault; but Alan's disappointment was excessive, when he discovered that the plate was fastened on the underside, and all communication thence with the churchyard, or to wherever else it might conduct him, cut off: but the present was not the season for further investigation, and tolerably pleased with the discovery he had already made, he returned to his silent march round the sepulchre.

For a while, he walked around the tomb, lost in dark thoughts, possibly reflecting on the outcome of Luke's mission and the success of his own sinister plans. He scowled occasionally under his furrowed brow, counting the menacing line of coffins, and feeling something like satisfaction when he noticed that the casket containing his daughter's remains had been returned to its original place. Then, he remembered Father Checkley's late-night interruption of his meeting with Luke and their fear of a supernatural encounter, which sparked his curiosity about how the priest had managed to enter without being noticed. He decided to check the floor to see if there was a hidden entrance, and the hard paving echoed dully with the sound of his heel as he examined it. Eventually, he heard a metallic ringing from an iron plate located just behind the marble statue of Sir Ranulph, which confirmed his suspicions. That was where the priest had accessed the vault, but Alan felt a wave of disappointment wash over him when he found that the plate was secured from below, cutting off any connection to the graveyard or anywhere else it might lead him. But this wasn't the right time for further exploration, and feeling reasonably satisfied with his discovery, he returned to his silent patrol around the tomb.

At length a sound, like the sudden shutting of the church door, broke upon the profound stillness of the holy edifice. In the hush that succeeded, a footstep was distinctly heard threading the aisle.

At last, a sound, like the quick closing of the church door, shattered the deep silence of the sacred building. In the quiet that followed, a footstep was clearly heard making its way down the aisle.

"He comes—he comes!" exclaimed Alan, joyfully; adding, an instant after, in an altered voice, "but he comes alone."

"He’s here—he’s here!" Alan exclaimed joyfully; then, a moment later, in a different tone, he added, "but he’s alone."

The footstep drew near to the mouth of the vault—it was upon the stairs. Alan stepped forward to greet, as he supposed, his grandson, but started back in astonishment and dismay as he encountered in his stead Lady Rookwood. Alan retreated, while the lady advanced, swinging the iron door after her, which closed with a tremendous clang. Approaching the statue of the first Sir Ranulph, she paused, and Alan then remarked the singular and terrible expression of her eyes, which appeared to be fixed upon the statue, or upon some invisible object near it. There was something in her whole attitude and manner calculated to impress the deepest terror on the beholder. And Alan gazed upon her with an awe which momently increased. Lady Rookwood's bearing was as proud and erect as we have formerly described it to have been—her brow was haughtily bent—her chiselled lip as disdainfully curled; but the staring, changeless eye, and the deep-heaved sob which occasionally escaped her, betrayed how much she was under the influence of mortal terror. Alan watched her in amazement. He knew not how the scene was likely to terminate, nor what could have induced her to visit this ghostly spot at such an hour, and alone; but he resolved[476] to abide the issue in silence—profound as her own. After a time, however, his impatience got the better of his fears and scruples, and he spoke.

The footsteps grew louder as they approached the entrance of the vault—it was on the stairs. Alan stepped forward to greet what he thought was his grandson but recoiled in shock and fear when he saw it was Lady Rookwood instead. Alan stepped back while the lady moved forward, swinging the heavy iron door behind her, which slammed shut with a loud bang. She walked up to the statue of the first Sir Ranulph and paused. Alan then noticed the strange and terrifying look in her eyes, which seemed to be fixed on the statue or on some unseen object nearby. Everything about her posture and demeanor was designed to instill the deepest fear in anyone who saw her. Alan stared at her in growing awe. Lady Rookwood stood as proud and upright as we had previously described—her brow bent in arrogance—her sculpted lip curled in disdain; but the wide, unblinking stare, and the deep, involuntary sobs that occasionally escaped her, revealed how much she was gripped by fear. Alan watched her in disbelief. He had no idea how this situation would unfold or what could have led her to this eerie place at such an hour, and alone; but he decided[476] to wait in silence—just as profound as hers. Eventually, however, his impatience overcame his fears and hesitations, and he spoke.

"What doth Lady Rookwood in the abode of the dead?" asked he, at length.

"What is Lady Rookwood doing in the house of the dead?" he asked finally.

She started at the sound of his voice, but still kept her eye fixed upon the vacancy.

She jumped at the sound of his voice but still kept her gaze fixed on the emptiness.

"Hast thou not beckoned me hither, and am I not come?" returned she, in a hollow tone. "And now thou asketh wherefore I am here—I am here because, as in thy life I feared thee not, neither in death do I fear thee. I am here because——"

"Didn't you call me here, and haven't I come?" she replied, in a hollow tone. "And now you ask why I'm here—I’m here because, in your life, I didn't fear you, and I don't fear you in death either. I'm here because——"

"What seest thou?" interrupted Peter, with ill-suppressed terror.

"What do you see?" Peter interrupted, barely hiding his fear.

"What see I—ha—ha!" shouted Lady Rookwood, amidst discordant laughter; "that which might appal a heart less stout than mine—a figure anguish-writhen, with veins that glow as with a subtle and consuming flame. A substance yet a shadow, in thy living likeness. Ha—frown if thou wilt; I can return thy glances."

"What do I see—ha—ha!" shouted Lady Rookwood, amidst loud, clashing laughter; "something that could terrify someone less brave than I—a figure twisted in pain, with veins shining like they’re filled with a burning flame. A solid form yet a shadow, resembling you. Ha—scowl if you want; I can match your looks."

"Where dost thou see this vision?" demanded Alan.

"Where do you see this vision?" asked Alan.

"Where!" echoed Lady Rookwood, becoming for the first time sensible of the presence of a stranger. "Ha—who are you that question me?—what are you?—speak!"

"Where!" echoed Lady Rookwood, realizing for the first time that a stranger was present. "Ha—who are you to question me?—what are you?—speak!"

"No matter who or what I am," returned Alan, "I ask you what you behold."

"No matter who I am or what I am," Alan replied, "I ask you what you see."

"Can you see nothing?"

"Can you see anything?"

"Nothing," replied Alan.

"Nothing," Alan replied.

"You knew Sir Piers Rookwood?"

"Do you know Sir Piers Rookwood?"

"Is it he?" asked Alan, drawing near her.

"Is it him?" asked Alan, moving closer to her.

"It is," replied Lady Rookwood; "I have followed him hither, and I will follow him whithersoever he leads me, were it to——"

"It is," replied Lady Rookwood; "I have followed him here, and I will follow him wherever he goes, even if it leads to——"

"What doth he now?" asked Alan; "do you see him still?"[477]

"What is he doing now?" asked Alan; "do you still see him?"[477]

"The figure points to that sarcophagus," returned Lady Rookwood—"can you raise up the lid?"

"The figure is pointing to that sarcophagus," Lady Rookwood replied. "Can you lift the lid?"

"No," replied Alan; "my strength will not avail to lift it."

"No," Alan replied; "I don't have the strength to lift it."

"Yet let the trial be made," said Lady Rookwood; "the figure points there still—my own arm shall aid you."

"But let's give it a try," said Lady Rookwood; "the figure is still pointing that way—I'll help you myself."

Alan watched her in dumb wonder. She advanced towards the marble monument, and beckoned him to follow. He reluctantly complied. Without any expectation of being able to move the ponderous lid of the sarcophagus, at Lady Rookwood's renewed request he applied himself to the task. What was his surprise, when, beneath their united efforts, he found the ponderous slab slowly revolve upon its vast hinges, and, with little further difficulty, it was completely elevated; though it still required the exertion of all Alan's strength to prop it open, and prevent its falling back.

Alan watched her in speechless amazement. She moved toward the marble monument and gestured for him to follow. He hesitated but eventually went along. With no real hope of being able to move the heavy lid of the sarcophagus, at Lady Rookwood's insistence, he set to work on it. To his surprise, as they both pushed, he felt the massive slab slowly turn on its huge hinges, and with just a little more effort, it lifted completely. However, it still took all of Alan's strength to hold it open and stop it from falling back down.

"What does it contain?" asked Lady Rookwood.

"What’s inside it?" asked Lady Rookwood.

"A warrior's ashes," returned Alan.

"A warrior's ashes," Alan replied.

"There is a rusty dagger upon a fold of faded linen," cried Lady Rookwood, holding down the light.

"There’s a rusty dagger on a piece of old linen," exclaimed Lady Rookwood, lowering the light.

"It is the weapon with which the first dame of the house of Rookwood was stabbed," said Alan, with a grim smile:

"It’s the weapon that the first lady of the Rookwood house was stabbed with," said Alan, with a grim smile:

"Whoever finds in the tomb
Will hold on until the hour of doom;
And when it's held in a clay hand,
The blood curse will be lifted.

So saith the rhyme. Have you seen enough?"

So says the rhyme. Have you seen enough?

"No," said Lady Rookwood, precipitating herself into the marble coffin. "That weapon shall be mine."

"No," said Lady Rookwood, throwing herself into the marble coffin. "That weapon is going to be mine."

"Come forth—come forth," cried Alan. "My arm trembles—I cannot support the lid."

"Come here—come here," shouted Alan. "My arm shakes—I can't hold up the lid."

"I will have it, though I grasp it to eternity," shrieked Lady Rookwood, vainly endeavoring to wrest away the dagger, which was fastened, together with the linen upon which[478] it lay, by some adhesive substance to the bottom of the shell.

"I will have it, even if I hold onto it forever," shouted Lady Rookwood, desperately trying to pull the dagger away, which was stuck, along with the fabric it was resting on, by some glue to the bottom of the shell.

At this moment Alan Rookwood happened to cast his eye upward, and he then beheld what filled him with new terror. The axe of the sable statue was poised above its head, as in the act to strike him. Some secret machinery, it was evident, existed between the sarcophagus lid and this mysterious image. But in the first impulse of his alarm Alan abandoned his hold of the slab, and it sunk slowly downwards. He uttered a loud cry as it moved. Lady Rookwood heard this cry. She raised herself at the same moment—the dagger was in her hand—she pressed it against the lid, but its downward force was too great to be withstood. The light was within the sarcophagus, and Alan could discern her features. The expression was terrible. She uttered one shriek and the lid closed for ever.

At that moment, Alan Rookwood happened to look up, and what he saw filled him with fresh terror. The axe of the dark statue was raised above its head, ready to strike him. It was clear that some hidden mechanism existed between the sarcophagus lid and this mysterious figure. In his first panic, Alan let go of the slab, and it slowly began to sink down. He let out a loud scream as it moved. Lady Rookwood heard this scream. She propped herself up at that instant—the dagger was in her hand—she pressed it against the lid, but its downward force was too strong to resist. The light was inside the sarcophagus, and Alan could see her features. The expression was horrifying. She let out one shriek, and the lid shut for good.

Alan was in total darkness. The light had been enclosed with Lady Rookwood. There was something so horrible in her probable fate, that even he shuddered as he thought upon it. Exerting all his remaining strength, he essayed to raise the lid, but now it was more firmly closed than ever. It defied all his power. Once, for an instant, he fancied that it yielded to his straining sinews, but it was only his hand that slided upon the surface of the marble. It was fixed—immovable. The sides and lid rang with the strokes which the unfortunate lady bestowed upon them with the dagger's point; but those sounds were not long heard. Presently all was still; the marble ceased to vibrate with her blows. Alan struck the lid with his knuckles, but no response was returned. All was silent.

Alan was in complete darkness. The light had been sealed with Lady Rookwood. The thought of her likely fate was so terrible that even he shuddered at the idea. Gathering all his remaining strength, he tried to lift the lid, but it was more tightly shut than ever. It resisted all his efforts. For a moment, he thought it might give way under his strain, but it was just his hand slipping on the surface of the marble. It was set—immovable. The sides and lid echoed with the strikes that the unfortunate lady made against them with the dagger's point, but those sounds didn’t last long. Soon, everything was quiet; the marble stopped vibrating from her blows. Alan knocked on the lid with his knuckles, but there was no reply. All was silent.

He now turned his attention to his own situation, which had become sufficiently alarming. An hour must have elapsed, yet Luke had not arrived. The door of the vault was closed—the key was in the lock, and on the outside. He was himself a prisoner within the tomb. What if Luke should not[479] return? What if he were slain, as it might chance, in the enterprise? That thought flashed across his brain like an electric shock. None knew of his retreat but his grandson. He might perish of famine within this desolate vault.

He shifted his focus to his own situation, which had become quite concerning. An hour must have passed, yet Luke still hadn’t shown up. The vault door was shut—the key was in the lock, on the outside. He was trapped inside the tomb. What if Luke didn’t return? What if he was killed in his mission? That thought hit him like a jolt. Nobody knew about his hideout except his grandson. He could starve to death in this lonely vault.

He checked this notion as soon as it was formed—it was too dreadful to be indulged in. A thousand circumstances might conspire to detain Luke. He was sure to come. Yet the solitude—the darkness was awful, almost intolerable. The dying and the dead were around him. He dared not stir.

He dismissed this thought as soon as it came up—it was too terrible to entertain. A thousand things could keep Luke from coming. He was sure he would arrive. Yet the loneliness—the darkness was horrifying, almost unbearable. The dying and the dead were all around him. He didn't dare move.

Another hour—an age it seemed to him—had passed. Still Luke came not. Horrible forebodings crossed him; but he would not surrender himself to them. He rose, and crawled in the direction, as he supposed, of the door—fearful, even of the stealthy sound of his own footsteps. He reached it, and his heart once more throbbed with hope. He bent his ear to the key; he drew in his breath; he listened for some sound, but nothing was to be heard. A groan would have been almost music in his ears.

Another hour—it felt like forever—had gone by. Still, Luke hadn’t shown up. Terrible thoughts crossed his mind, but he refused to give in to them. He got up and crawled toward what he thought was the door, even afraid of the quiet sound of his own footsteps. He finally reached it, and his heart raced with hope again. He pressed his ear to the keyhole, held his breath, and listened for any sound, but there was nothing. Even a groan would have seemed like music to him.

Another hour was gone! He was now a prey to the most frightful apprehensions, agitated in turns by the wildest emotions of rage and terror. He at one moment imagined that Luke had abandoned him, and heaped curses upon his head; at the next, convinced that he had fallen, he bewailed with equal bitterness his grandson's fate and his own. He paced the tomb like one distracted; he stamped upon the iron plate; he smote with his hands upon the door; he shouted, and the vault hollowly echoed his lamentations. But Time's sand ran on, and Luke arrived not.

Another hour had passed! He was now overwhelmed by the most terrifying fears, alternately swept away by intense anger and panic. One moment, he thought Luke had left him, cursing him; the next, convinced that something had happened to him, he mourned both his grandson's fate and his own with equal despair. He paced the tomb like a madman; he stomped on the metal plate; he pounded on the door with his hands; he shouted, and the chamber echoed his cries. But time kept moving, and Luke still hadn't arrived.

Alan now abandoned himself wholly to despair. He could no longer anticipate his grandson's coming, no longer hope for deliverance. His fate was sealed. Death awaited him. He must anticipate his slow but inevitable stroke, enduring all the grinding horrors of starvation. The contemplation of such an end was madness, but he was forced to contemplate it now; and so appalling did it appear to his imagination, that he half[480] resolved to dash out his brains against the walls of the sepulchre, and put an end at once to his tortures; and nothing, except a doubt whether he might not, by imperfectly accomplishing his purpose, increase his own suffering, prevented him from putting this dreadful idea into execution. His dagger was gone, and he had no other weapon. Terrors of a new kind now assailed him. The dead, he fancied, were bursting from their coffins, and he peopled the darkness with grisly phantoms. They were around about him on each side, whirling and rustling, gibbering, groaning, shrieking, laughing, and lamenting. He was stunned, stifled. The air seemed to grow suffocating, pestilential; the wild laughter was redoubled; the horrible troop assailed him; they dragged him along the tomb, and amid their howls he fell, and became insensible.

Alan now completely surrendered to despair. He could no longer look forward to his grandson's arrival or hope for rescue. His fate was sealed. Death was waiting for him. He had to brace for his slow but certain decline, enduring all the grinding horrors of starvation. The thought of such an end was insane, but he had to face it now; and it seemed so terrible to him that he almost decided to bash his head against the walls of the grave and end his suffering once and for all. The only thing stopping him was the doubt that he might make his situation worse by failing in that attempt. His dagger was gone, and he had no other weapon. New terrors now overwhelmed him. He imagined the dead rising from their coffins, filling the darkness with horrifying phantoms. They were all around him, swirling and rustling, chattering, groaning, screaming, laughing, and weeping. He was dazed, suffocated. The air felt choking, toxic; the wild laughter intensified; the terrible crowd attacked him; they dragged him along the grave, and amidst their howls, he fell and lost consciousness.

When he returned to himself, it was some time before he could collect his scattered faculties; and when the agonizing consciousness of his terrible situation forced itself upon his mind, he had nigh relapsed into oblivion. He arose. He rushed towards the door; he knocked against it with his knuckles till the blood streamed from them; he scratched against it with his nails till they were torn off by the roots. With insane fury he hurled himself against the iron frame; it was in vain. Again he had recourse to the trap-door. He searched for it; he found it. He laid himself upon the ground. There was no interval of space in which he could insert a finger's point. He beat it with his clenched hand; he tore it with his teeth; he jumped upon it; he smote it with his heel. The iron returned a sullen sound.

When he regained his senses, it took him a while to piece himself back together; and when the agonizing awareness of his awful situation hit him, he almost fell back into oblivion. He got up. He rushed to the door; he pounded on it with his knuckles until they bled; he scratched at it with his nails until they tore off at the roots. With frenzied anger, he threw himself against the iron frame; it was pointless. He turned to the trap-door again. He searched for it and found it. He lay down on the ground. There wasn’t even enough space to stick a finger under. He hit it with his fist; he bit it with his teeth; he jumped on it; he slammed it with his heel. The iron gave off a dull sound.

He again essayed the lid of the sarcophagus. Despair nerved his strength. He raised the slab a few inches. He shouted, screamed, but no answer was returned; and again the lid fell.

He tried to lift the lid of the sarcophagus again. Despair fueled his strength. He raised the stone a few inches. He shouted, screamed, but there was no response; and once more the lid fell.

"She is dead!" cried Alan. "Why have I not shared her fate? But mine is to come. And such a death!—oh, oh!" And, frenzied at the thought, he again hurried to the door,[481] and renewed his fruitless attempts to escape, till nature gave way, and he sank upon the floor, groaning and exhausted.

"She's dead!" Alan shouted. "Why haven't I met the same fate? But mine is coming. And such a death!—oh, oh!" Frantic at the thought, he rushed to the door again, [481] and continued his useless attempts to escape until his body gave up, and he collapsed onto the floor, groaning and worn out.

Physical suffering now began to take the place of his mental tortures. Parched and consumed with a fierce internal fever, he was tormented by unappeasable thirst—of all human ills the most unendurable. His tongue was dry and dusty, his throat inflamed; his lips had lost all moisture. He licked the humid floor; he sought to imbibe the nitrous drops from the walls; but, instead of allaying his thirst, they increased it. He would have given the world, had he possessed it, for a draught of cold spring-water. Oh, to have died with his lips upon some bubbling fountain's marge! But to perish thus——!

Physical suffering now started to replace his mental pain. Thirsty and burning with a fierce internal fever, he was tortured by an unquenchable thirst—of all human troubles, the hardest to bear. His tongue was dry and rough, his throat was sore; his lips were completely parched. He licked the damp floor; he tried to drink the moisture from the walls, but instead of easing his thirst, it made it worse. He would have given anything, if he had it, for a drink of cold spring water. Oh, to have died with his lips on the edge of some bubbling fountain! But to die like this——!

Nor were the pangs of hunger wanting. He had to endure all the horrors of famine, as well as the agonies of quenchless thirst.

Nor were the pangs of hunger missing. He had to endure all the horrors of starvation, as well as the agonies of unquenchable thirst.

In this dreadful state three days and nights passed over Alan's fated head. Nor night nor day had he. Time, with him, was only measured by its duration, and that seemed interminable. Each hour added to his suffering, and brought with it no relief. During this period of prolonged misery reason often tottered on her throne. Sometimes he was under the influence of the wildest passions. He dragged coffins from their recesses, hurled them upon the ground, striving to break them open and drag forth their loathsome contents. Upon other occasions he would weep bitterly and wildly; and once—only once—did he attempt to pray; but he started from his knees with an echo of infernal laughter, as he deemed, ringing in his ears. Then, again, would he call down imprecations upon himself and his whole line, trampling upon the pile of coffins he had reared; and lastly, more subdued, would creep to the boards that contained the body of his child, kissing them with a frantic outbreak of affection.

In this dreadful state, three days and nights went by for Alan. Neither night nor day existed for him. Time was only measured by its passing, and it felt endless. Each hour added to his suffering without any relief. During this long period of misery, his sanity often wavered. Sometimes he was overtaken by intense emotions. He dragged coffins from their resting places, threw them onto the ground, and tried to break them open to pull out their grotesque contents. At other times, he would cry bitterly and wildly; and once—only once—he tried to pray, but he jumped up from his knees, thinking he heard the sound of hellish laughter echoing in his ears. Then, he would curse himself and his entire lineage, stomping on the pile of coffins he had built; and finally, more subdued, he would creep up to the boards that held his child's body, kissing them with an overwhelming surge of love.

At length he became sensible of his approaching dissolution. To him the thought of death might well be terrible, but he[482] quailed not before it, or rather seemed, in his latest moments, to resume all his wonted firmness of character. Gathering together his remaining strength, he dragged himself towards the niche wherein his brother, Sir Reginald Rookwood, was deposited, and placing his hand upon the coffin, solemnly exclaimed, "My curse—my dying curse—be upon thee evermore!"

At last, he realized that his end was near. The thought of dying was certainly terrifying for him, but he[482] did not cower in fear; instead, he seemed to regain his usual strength of character in his final moments. Gathering his remaining strength, he pulled himself towards the place where his brother, Sir Reginald Rookwood, lay, and placing his hand on the coffin, he solemnly declared, "My curse—my dying curse—be upon you forever!"

Falling with his face upon the coffin, Alan instantly expired. In this attitude his remains were discovered.

Falling face down onto the coffin, Alan instantly died. His body was found in this position.


L'ENVOY

Our tale is told. Yet, perhaps, we may be allowed to add a few words respecting two of the subordinate characters of our drama—melodrama we ought to say—namely Jerry Juniper and the knight of Malta. What became of the Caper Merchant's son after his flight from Kilburn Wells we have never been able distinctly to ascertain. Juniper, however, would seem to be a sort of Wandering Jew, for certain it is, that somebody very like him is extant still, and to be met with at Jerry's old haunts; indeed, we have no doubt of encountering him at the ensuing meetings of Ascot and Hampton.

Our story has been told. Still, we might be allowed to say a few words about two of the minor characters in our tale—melodrama, we should say—specifically Jerry Juniper and the knight of Malta. We’ve never been able to clearly find out what happened to the Caper Merchant's son after he fled from Kilburn Wells. However, Juniper seems to be a kind of Wandering Jew, because it’s certain that someone very much like him still exists and can be found in Jerry's old hangouts; in fact, we have no doubt we'll run into him at the upcoming events at Ascot and Hampton.

As regards the knight of Malta—Knight of Roads—"Rhodes"—he should have been—we are sorry to state that the career of the Ruffler terminated in a madhouse, and thus the poor knight became in reality a Hospitaller! According to the custom observed in those establishments, the knight was deprived of his luxuriant locks, and the loss of his beard rendered his case incurable; but, in the mean time, the barber of the place made his fortune by retailing the materials of all the black wigs he could collect to the impostor's dupes.

As for the knight of Malta—Knight of Roads—"Rhodes"—he should have been—it's unfortunate to say that the Ruffler's life ended in a mental institution, and so the poor knight actually became a Hospitaller! Following the practices in those places, the knight had his luxurious hair cut off, and the loss of his beard made his situation hopeless; meanwhile, the barber there got rich by selling the materials from all the black wigs he could gather to the impostor's tricked victims.

Such is the latest piece of intelligence that has reached us of the Arch-hoaxer of Canterbury!

Such is the latest piece of news that has come to us about the Arch-hoaxer of Canterbury!

Turpin—why disguise it?—was hanged at York in 1739. His firmness deserted him not at the last. When he mounted[483] the fatal tree his left leg trembled; he stamped it impatiently down, and, after a brief chat with the hangman, threw himself suddenly and resolutely from the ladder. His sufferings would appear to have been slight: as he himself sang,

Turpin—let's be honest—was hanged in York in 1739. He didn't lose his composure right up to the end. When he climbed[483] the gallows, his left leg shook; he stomped it down in frustration, and after a short conversation with the executioner, he suddenly and firmly jumped off the ladder. His pain seemed to have been minimal: as he himself sang,

He died, not like other men, gradually, But immediately, without flinching, and totally calm!

We may, in some other place, lay before the reader the particulars—and they are not incurious—of the "night before Larry was stretched."

We might, in another place, share with the reader the details—and they are quite interesting—of the "night before Larry was executed."

The remains of the vagrant highwayman found a final resting-place in the desecrated churchyard of Saint George, without the Fishergate postern, a green and grassy cemetery, but withal a melancholy one. A few recent tombs mark out the spots where some of the victims of the pestilence of 1832-33 have been interred; but we have made vain search for Turpin's grave—unless—as is more than probable—the plain stone with the simple initials R. T. belongs to him.

The remains of the wandering outlaw found their final resting place in the abandoned churchyard of Saint George, near the Fishergate gate—a green and grassy cemetery, but still quite sad. A few recent tombstones indicate where some of the victims of the plague of 1832-33 have been buried; however, we've searched in vain for Turpin's grave—unless, as is likely, the plain stone with the simple initials R. T. belongs to him.

The gyves by which he was fettered are still shown at York Castle, and are of prodigious weight and strength; and though the herculean robber is said to have moved in them with ease, the present turnkey was scarcely able to lift the ponderous irons. An old woman of the same city has a lock of hair, said to have been Turpin's, which she avouches her grandfather cut off from the body after the execution, and which the believers look upon with great reverence. O rare Dick Turpin!

The chains that held him captive are still displayed at York Castle, and they are incredibly heavy and strong; although it’s said that the muscular robber moved in them easily, the current jailer could barely lift the massive irons. An elderly woman in the same city has a lock of hair, claimed to be Turpin's, which she insists her grandfather cut off after the execution, and the faithful view it with great respect. Oh, the legendary Dick Turpin!

We shall, perhaps, be accused of dilating too much upon the character of the highwayman, and we plead guilty to the charge. But we found it impossible to avoid running a little into extremes. Our earliest associations are connected with sunny scenes in Cheshire, said to have been haunted by Turpin; and with one very dear to us—from whose lips, now, alas! silent, we have listened to many stories of his exploits—he was[484] a sort of hero. We have had a singular delight in recounting his feats and hairbreadth escapes; and if the reader derives only half as much pleasure from the perusal of his adventures as we have had in narrating them, our satisfaction will be complete. Perhaps, we may have placed him in too favorable a point of view—and yet we know not. As upon those of more important personages, many doubts rest upon his history. Such as we conceive him to have been, we have drawn him—hoping that the benevolent reader, upon finishing our Tale, will arrive at the same conclusion; and, in the words of the quaint old Prologue to the Prince of Prigs' Revels,

We might get called out for spending too much time on the character of the highwayman, and we admit that it’s true. But we found it impossible not to go a little overboard. Our earliest memories are tied to sunny days in Cheshire, said to have been frequented by Turpin; and to one very special person—whose voice is now, sadly, silent—we listened to many tales of his adventures—he was[484] a kind of hero. We've taken great joy in sharing his feats and narrow escapes; and if the reader enjoys even half as much from reading about his adventures as we have enjoyed telling them, we’ll be completely satisfied. Perhaps we’ve presented him in too positive a light—but we aren’t sure. Just like with many more significant figures, there are a lot of uncertainties about his history. We’ve depicted him as we imagine he was—hoping that once the reader finishes our story, they will come to the same conclusion; and, in the words of the charming old Prologue to the Prince of Prigs' Revels,

Thanks to that guy,
Can turn each thief into a full Roscian!

NOTES

[1] See the celebrated recipe for the Hand of Glory in "Les Secrets du Petit Albert."

[1] Check out the famous recipe for the Hand of Glory in "Les Secrets du Petit Albert."

[2] The seven planets, so called by Mercurius Trismegistus.

[2] The seven planets, named this way by Mercurius Trismegistus.

[3] Payne Knight, the scourge of Repton and his school, speaking of the license indulged in by the modern landscape-gardeners, thus vents his indignation:

[3] Payne Knight, who criticized Repton and his school, expressed his frustration about the freedom taken by today's landscape gardeners:

But here, once again, you rural muses weep
The ivy-covered railing and steep terrace; Walls, softened into harmony by time,
On which amazing vines used to climb; While statues, maze-like paths, and narrow streets pent Within their limits, they were at least innocent!—
Our modern taste knows no limits; It flows over hills, through valleys, and across woods and fields; Covering all its unproductive offspring,
In endless stretches of dull grass.
The Landscape, an educational poem, to Uvedale Price, Esq.

[4] Mason's English Garden.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Mason's English Garden.

[5] Cowley.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Cowley.

[6] Query, Damocles?—Printer's Devil.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Query, Damocles?—Printer's Devil.

[7] James Hind—the "Prince of Prigs"—a royalist captain of some distinction, was hanged, drawn, and quartered, in 1652. Some good stories are told of him. He had the credit of robbing Cromwell, Bradshaw, and Peters. His discourse to Peters is particularly edifying.

[7] James Hind—the "Prince of Prigs"—a royalist captain of some note, was hanged, drawn, and quartered in 1652. There are some interesting stories about him. He was known for robbing Cromwell, Bradshaw, and Peters. His conversation with Peters is especially enlightening.

[8] See Du-Val's life by Doctor Pope, or Leigh Hunt's brilliant sketch of him in The Indicator.

[8] Check out Du-Val's biography by Doctor Pope, or Leigh Hunt's fantastic profile of him in The Indicator.

[9] We cannot say much in favor of this worthy, whose name was Thomas Simpson. The reason of his sobriquet does not appear. He was not particularly scrupulous as to his mode of appropriation. One of his sayings is, however, on record. He told a widow whom he robbed, "that the end of a woman's husband begins in tears, but the end of her tears is another husband." "Upon which," says his chronicler, "the gentlewoman gave him about fifty guineas."[486]

[9] We can't say much in favor of this guy, Thomas Simpson. The reason behind his nickname isn’t clear. He wasn't exactly careful about how he took what's not his. One of his recorded quotes is when he told a widow he robbed, "The end of a woman's husband starts with tears, but the end of her tears is another husband." "After that," says the historian, "the lady gave him around fifty guineas."[486]

[10] Tom was a sprightly fellow, and carried his sprightliness to the gallows; for just before he was turned off he kicked Mr. Smith, the ordinary, and the hangman out of the cart—a piece of pleasantry which created, as may be supposed, no small sensation.

[10] Tom was an energetic guy, and he brought his energy to the gallows; just before he was hanged, he kicked Mr. Smith, the ordinary, and the hangman out of the cart—a humorous act that, as you can imagine, caused quite a stir.

[11] Many agreeable stories are related of Holloway. His career, however, closed with a murder. He contrived to break out of Newgate but returned to witness the trial of one of his associates; when, upon the attempt of a turnkey, one Richard Spurling, to seize him, Will knocked him on the head in the presence of the whole court. For this offence he suffered the extreme penalty of the law in 1712.

[11] Many interesting stories are told about Holloway. However, his life ended with a murder. He managed to escape from Newgate but went back to watch the trial of one of his accomplices; when a guard, Richard Spurling, tried to grab him, Will hit him on the head in front of the entire court. For this crime, he faced the harshest punishment in 1712.

[12] Wicks's adventures with Madame Toly are highly diverting. It was this hero—not Turpin, as has been erroneously stated—who stopped the celebrated Lord Mohun. Of Gettings and Grey, and "the five or six," the less said the better.

[12] Wicks's adventures with Madame Toly are very entertaining. It was this hero—not Turpin, as has been mistakenly reported—who caught the famous Lord Mohun. As for Gettings and Grey, and "the five or six," it's best to not discuss them.

[13] One of Jack's recorded mots. When a Bible was pressed upon his acceptance by Mr. Wagstaff, the chaplain, Jack refused it, saying, "that in his situation one file would be worth all the Bibles in the world." A gentleman who visited Newgate asked him to dinner; Sheppard replied, "that he would take an early opportunity of waiting upon him." And we believe he kept his word.

[13] One of Jack's recorded quotes. When Mr. Wagstaff, the chaplain, offered him a Bible, Jack turned it down, saying, "that in his situation one file would be worth all the Bibles in the world." A gentleman who visited Newgate invited him to dinner; Sheppard responded, "that he would take an early opportunity to visit him." And we believe he did.

[14] The word Tory, as here applied, must not be confounded with the term of party distinction now in general use in the political world. It simply means a thief on a grand scale, something more than "a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles," or petty-larceny rascal. We have classical authority for this:—Tory: "An advocate for absolute monarchy; also, an Irish vagabond, robber, or rapparee."—Grose's Dictionary.

[14] The term Tory, as used here, shouldn't be confused with the party label commonly used in today’s politics. It simply refers to a high-level thief, more than just "someone who picks up unconsidered trifles," or a petty thief. We have classical evidence for this:—Conservative: "An advocate for absolute monarchy; also, an Irish vagabond, robber, or rapparee."—Grose's Dictionary.

[15] A trio of famous High-Tobygloaks. Swiftneck was a captain of Irish dragoons, by-the-bye.

[15] A trio of well-known High-Tobygloaks. Swiftneck was a captain of Irish dragoons, by the way.

[16] Redmond O'Hanlon was the Rob Roy of Ireland, and his adventures, many of which are exceedingly curious, would furnish as rich materials for the novelist, as they have already done for the ballad-mongers: some of them are, however, sufficiently well narrated in a pleasant little tome, published at Belfast, entitled The History of the Rapparees. We are also in possession of a funeral discourse, preached at the obsequies of the "noble and renowned" Henry St. John, Esq., who was unfortunately killed by the Tories—the Destructives of those days—in the induction to which we find some allusion to Redmond. After describing the thriving condition of the north of Ireland, about 1680, the Rev. Lawrence Power, the author of the sermon, says, "One mischief there was, which indeed in a great measure destroyed all, and that was a pack of insolent bloody outlaws, whom they here call Tories. These had so riveted themselves in these parts, that by the interest they had among the natives, and some English, too, to their shame be it[487] spoken, they exercise a kind of separate sovereignty in three or four counties in the north of Ireland. Redmond O'Hanlon is their chief, and has been these many years; a cunning, dangerous fellow, who, though proclaimed an outlaw with the rest of his crew, and sums of money set upon their heads, yet he reigns still, and keeps all in subjection, so far that 'tis credibly reported he raises more in a year by contributions à-la-mode de France than the king's land taxes and chimney-money come to, and thereby is enabled to bribe clerks and officers, IF NOT THEIR MASTERS, (!) and makes all too much truckle to him." Agitation, it seems, was not confined to our own days—but the "finest country in the world" has been, and ever will be, the same. The old game is played under a new color—the only difference being, that had Redmond lived in our time, he would, in all probability, not only have pillaged a county, but represented it in parliament. The spirit of the Rapparee is still abroad—though we fear there is little of the Tory left about it. We recommend this note to the serious consideration of the declaimers against the sufferings of the "six millions."

[16] Redmond O'Hanlon was the Rob Roy of Ireland, and his adventures, many of which are really intriguing, would provide as rich material for novelists as they already have for ballad writers. Some of them are quite well told in a charming little book published in Belfast called The History of the Rapparees. We also have a funeral sermon delivered at the memorial service for the "noble and renowned" Henry St. John, Esq., who was sadly killed by the Tories—the Destructives of that time. In the introduction, there is a mention of Redmond. After describing the prosperous state of Northern Ireland around 1680, Rev. Lawrence Power, the sermon’s author, states, "There was one major issue that essentially ruined everything, and that was a group of arrogant, bloody outlaws who were known here as Tories. They had embedded themselves in these regions so deeply that due to the influence they had among the locals, and some English as well, shamefully, they exercise a sort of separate authority in three or four counties in Northern Ireland. Redmond O'Hanlon is their leader and has been for many years; a clever, dangerous man who, even though he is declared an outlaw along with his gang and has bounties on their heads, still rules and keeps everyone in check, to the point that it is reliably reported he raises more in a year from contributions à-la-mode de France than the king’s land taxes and chimney money combined, enabling him to pay off clerks and officials, IF NOT THEIR MASTERS, (!) and makes everyone bow to him." It seems that unrest was not limited to our own time—but the "finest country in the world" has always been the same. The old game continues under a new guise—the only difference being that if Redmond had lived today, he would likely not only have plundered a county, but also represented it in parliament. The spirit of the Rapparee still exists—though we fear there’s little of the Tory left in it. We urge serious consideration of this note by those who talk about the suffering of the "six millions."

[17] Here Titus was slightly in error. He mistook the cause for the effect. "They were called Rapparees," Mr. Malone says, "from being armed with a half-pike, called by the Irish a rapparee."—Todd's Johnson.

[17] Here, Titus was a bit mistaken. He confused the cause with the effect. "They were called Rapparees," Mr. Malone says, "because they were armed with a half-pike, which the Irish call a rapparee."—Todd's Johnson.

[18] Tory, so called from the Irish word Toree, give me your money.—Todd's Johnson.

[18] Tory, named after the Irish word Toree, give me your money.—Todd's Johnson.

[19] As he was carried to the gallows, Jack played a fine tune of his own composing on the bagpipe, which retains the name of Macpherson's tune to this day.—History of the Rapparees.

[19] As he was taken to the gallows, Jack played a beautiful tune he had composed on the bagpipe, which is still known as Macpherson's tune today.—History of the Rapparees.

[20] "Notwithstanding he was so great a rogue, Delany was a handsome, portly man, extremely diverting in company, and could behave himself before gentlemen very agreeably. He had a political genius—not altogether surprising in so eminent a Tory—and would have made great proficiency in learning if he had rightly applied his time. He composed several songs, and put tunes to them; and by his skill in music gained the favor of some of the leading musicians in the country, who endeavored to get him reprieved."—History of the Rapparees. The particulars of the Songster's execution are singular:—"When he was brought into court to receive sentence of death, the judge told him that he was informed he should say 'that there was not a rope in Ireland sufficient to hang him. But,' says he, 'I'll try if Kilkenny can't afford one strong enough to do your business; and if that will not do, you shall have another, and another.' Then he ordered the sheriff to choose a rope, and Delany was ordered for execution the next day. The sheriff having notice of his mother's boasting that no rope could hang her son—and pursuant to the judge's desire—provided two ropes, but Delany broke them[488] one after the other! The sheriff was then in a rage, and went for three bed-cords, which he plaited threefold together, and they did his business! Yet the sheriff was afraid he was not dead; and in a passion, to make trial, stabbed him with his sword in the soles of his feet, and at last cut the rope. After he was cut down, his body was carried into the courthouse, where it remained in the coffin for two days, standing up, till the judge and all the spectators were fully satisfied that he was stiff and dead, and then permission was given to his friends to remove the corpse and bury it."-History of the Rapparees.

[20] "Even though he was quite the scoundrel, Delany was a good-looking, hefty man, very entertaining in social settings, and he could conduct himself quite well in front of gentlemen. He had a knack for politics—not that surprising for such a prominent Tory—and he could have excelled in learning if he had used his time wisely. He wrote several songs and put music to them; his talent in music earned him the approval of some of the top musicians in the country, who tried to get him a pardon."—History of the Rapparees. The details of the Songster's execution are remarkable:—"When he was brought into court to hear his death sentence, the judge told him that he was told he should say 'there isn't a rope in Ireland that could hang him.' But,' he replied, 'I'll see if Kilkenny can offer one strong enough to do your job; and if that doesn't work, you can have another, and another.' Then he instructed the sheriff to pick a rope, and Delany was sentenced to be executed the following day. The sheriff, knowing about his mother's claims that no rope could hang her son—and following the judge's wishes—brought two ropes, but Delany broke them[488] one after the other! The sheriff then furious, went for three bed cords, which he braided together, and that worked! Yet the sheriff was worried he wasn't dead; in a fit of anger, to test it, he stabbed him with his sword in the soles of his feet, and finally cut the rope. After he was cut down, his body was taken to the courthouse, where it stayed in the coffin for two days, standing up, until the judge and all the onlookers were completely convinced he was stiff and dead, and then his friends were allowed to take the body and bury it."-History of the Rapparees.

[21] Highwaymen, as contradistinguished from footpads.

[21] Highwaymen, as distinct from robbers on foot.

[22] Since Mr. Coates here avows himself the writer of this diatribe against Sir Robert Walpole, attacked under the guise of Turpin in the Common Sense of July 30, 1737, it is useless to inquire further into its authorship. And it remains only to refer the reader to the Gents. Mag., vol. vii. p. 438, for the article above quoted; and for a reply to it from the Daily Gazetteer contained in p. 499 of the same volume.

[22] Since Mr. Coates claims to be the author of this critique against Sir Robert Walpole, which he attacked under the pseudonym Turpin in the Common Sense on July 30, 1737, there’s no need to investigate the authorship further. It's only necessary to direct the reader to the Gents. Mag., vol. vii. p. 438, for the quoted article; and for a response from the Daily Gazetteer found on p. 499 of the same volume.

[23] In reference to this imaginary charm, Sir Thomas Browne observes, in his "Vulgar Errors." "What natural effects can reasonably be expected, when, to prevent the Ephialtes, or Nightmare, we hang a hollow stone in our stables?" Grose also states, "that a stone with a hole in it, hung at the bed's head, will prevent the nightmare, and is therefore called a hag-stone." The belief in this charm still lingers in some districts, and maintains, like the horse-shoe affixed to the barn-door, a feeble stand against the superstition-destroying "march of intellect."

[23] Referring to this imaginary charm, Sir Thomas Browne notes in his "Vulgar Errors," "What natural effects can we realistically expect when we hang a hollow stone in our stables to ward off nightmares?" Grose adds that "a stone with a hole in it, hung over the bed, will prevent nightmares, and is therefore known as a hag-stone." The belief in this charm still exists in some areas and, like the horseshoe hung above the barn door, puts up a weak resistance against the intelligence-challenging "march of progress."

[24] Brown's Pastorals.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Brown's Pastorals.

[25] The Merry Beggars.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ The Merry Beggars.

[26] The parties to be wedded find out a dead horse, or any other beast, and standing one on the one side, and the other on the other, the patrico bids them live together till death do them part; and so shaking hands, the wedding dinner is kept at the next alehouse they stumble into, where the union is nothing but knocking of cannes, and the sauce, none but drunken brawles.—Dekkar.

[26] The couple getting married discovers a dead horse, or some other animal, and each stands on opposite sides. The officiant tells them to live together until death separates them; then, after shaking hands, they celebrate with a wedding dinner at the nearest pub they find, where the union is celebrated only by clinking glasses, and the entertainment consists solely of drunken brawls.—Dekkar.

[27] Receiver.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Receiver.

[28] Memoirs, of the right villainous John Hall, the famous, and notorious Robber, penned from his Mouth some Time before his Death, 1708.

[28] Memoirs of the infamous John Hall, the well-known and notorious robber, written down from his own words some time before his death, 1708.

[29] A famous highwayman.

A well-known highway robber.

[30] A real gentleman.

A true gentleman.

[31] Breeches and boots.

Trousers and boots.

[32] Gipsy flask.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Hip flask.

[33] How he exposes his pistols.

[33] How he shows off his guns.

[34] For an account of these, see Grose. They are much too gross to be set down here.[489]

[34] For more information on these, check out Grose. They are way too graphic to be listed here.[489]

[35] "The shalm, or shawm, was a wind instrument, like a pipe, with a swelling protuberance in the middle."—Earl of Northumberland's Household Book.

[35] "The shalm, or shawm, was a wind instrument, similar to a pipe, with a bulging part in the middle."—Earl of Northumberland's Household Book.

[36] Perhaps the most whimsical laws that were ever prescribed to a gang of thieves were those framed by William Holliday, one of the prigging community, who was hanged in 1695:

[36] Maybe the most whimsical rules ever created for a gang of thieves were the ones made by William Holliday, a member of the stealing community, who was hanged in 1695:

Art. I. directs—That none of his company should presume to wear shirts, upon pain of being cashiered.

Art. I. states—That none of his team should dare to wear shirts, or they will be fired.

II.—That none should lie in any other places than stables, empty houses, or other bulks.

II.—That no one should stay in any place other than stables, empty houses, or other storage.

III.—That they should eat nothing but what they begged, and that they should give away all the money they got by cleaning boots among one another, for the good of the fraternity.

III.—That they should eat nothing but what they begged, and that they should give away all the money they made by cleaning boots among one another, for the benefit of the group.

IV.—That they should neither learn to read nor write, that he may have them the better under command.

IV.—That they should not learn to read or write, so he can keep better control over them.

V.—That they should appear every morning by nine, on the parade, to receive necessary orders.

V.—That they should be present every morning by nine on the parade to receive important instructions.

VI.—That none should presume to follow the scent but such as he ordered on that party.

VI.—That no one should assume they can follow the scent except those he instructed to join that group.

VII.—That if any one gave them shoes or stockings, they should convert them into money to play.

VII.—That if anyone gave them shoes or stockings, they should turn them into cash to use for playing.

VIII.—That they should steal nothing they could not come at, for fear of bringing a scandal upon the company.

VIII.—That they should not take anything they couldn't easily access, to avoid bringing shame on the group.

IX.—That they should cant better than the Newgate birds, pick pockets without bungling, outlie a Quaker, outswear a lord at a gaming-table, and brazen out all their villainies beyond an Irishman.

IX.—That they should talk better than the Newgate criminals, pick pockets without messing up, outsmart a Quaker, outlie a lord at a gaming table, and boast about all their wrongdoings better than an Irishman.

[37] Cell.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Cell.

[38] Newgate.

Newgate.

[39] A woman whose husband has been hanged.

[39] A woman whose husband has been executed by hanging.

[40] A dancing-master.

A dance teacher.

[41] "Nothing, comrades; on, on," supposed to be addressed by a thief to his confederates.

[41] "Nothing, guys; let’s go," which is thought to be said by a thief to his accomplices.

[42] Thus Victor Hugo, in "Le Dernier Jour d'un Condamné," makes an imprisoned felon sing:

[42] So, Victor Hugo, in "The Last Day of a Condemned Man," has a prisoner sing:

"I'll make him dance a dance
"Where there is no floor."

[43] Thieves in prison.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Criminals in prison.

[44] Shoplifter.

Shoplifter.

[45] Pickpocket.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Pickpocket.

[46] Handkerchiefs.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Tissues.

[47] Rings.[490]

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Rings.

[48] To the pawnbroker.

To the pawn shop.

[49] Snuff-boxes.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Snuff boxes.

[50] Pickpocket.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Pickpocket.

[51] The two forefingers used in picking a pocket.

[51] The two index fingers used to pickpocket.

[52] Pickpocket.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Pickpocket.

[53] Pick a pocket.

Pickpocket.

[54] No inside coat-pocket; buttoned up.

[54] No coat pocket on the inside; all buttoned up.

[55] Scissors.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Scissors.

[56] Steal a pocket-book.

Steal a wallet.

[57] Best-made clothes.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Top-quality clothing.

[58] Thief.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Stealer.

[59] With my hair dressed in the first fashion.

[59] With my hair styled in the latest trend.

[60] With several rings on my hands.

[60] With a few rings on my fingers.

[61] Seals.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Seals.

[62] Gold watch.

Gold watch.

[63] Laced shirt.

Laced shirt.

[64] Gentlemanlike.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Polite.

[65] Easily than forged notes could I pass.

[65] I could pass more easily than forged notes.

[66] Favorite mistress.

Favorite mistress.

[67] Police.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Police.

[68] Taken at length.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Taken literally.

[69] Cast for transportation.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Cast for transport.

[70] Fetters.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Chains.

[71] Turnkey.

Ready to use.

[72] Gipsy.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Gypsy.

[73] Pickpockets.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Thieves.

[74] This song describes pretty accurately the career of an extraordinary individual, who, in the lucid intervals of a half-crazed understanding, imposed himself upon the credulous inhabitants of Canterbury, in the year 1832, as a certain "Sir William Percy Honeywood Courtenay, Knight of Malta;" and contrived—for there was considerable "method in his madness"—to support the deception during a long period. The anachronism of his character in a tale—the data of which is nearly a century back—will, perhaps, be overlooked, when it is considered of how much value, in the illustration of "wise saws," are "modern instances." Imposture and credulity are of all ages; and the Courtenays of the nineteenth are rivalled by the Tofts and Andrés of the eighteenth century. The subjoined account of the soi-disant Sir William Courtenay is extracted from "An Essay on his Character, and Reflections on his Trial," published at the theatre of his exploits: "About Michaelmas last it was rumored that an extraordinary man was staying at the Rose Inn of this city—Canterbury—who passed under the name of Count Rothschild, but had been recently known in London by[491] the name of Thompson! This would have been sufficient to excite attention, had no other incidents materially added to the excitement. His costume and countenance denoted foreign extraction, while his language and conversation showed that he was well acquainted with almost every part of this kingdom. He was said to live with singular frugality, notwithstanding abundant samples of wealth, and professions of an almost unlimited command of money. He appeared to study retirement, if not concealment, although subsequent events have proved that society of every grade, beneath the middle class, is the element in which he most freely breathes. He often decked his person with a fine suit of Italian clothing, and sometimes with the more gay and imposing costume of the Eastern nations; yet these foreign habits were for months scarcely visible beyond the limits of the inn of his abode, and the chapel not far from it, in which he was accustomed to offer his Sabbath devotions. This place was the first to which he made a public and frequent resort; and though he did not always attempt to advance towards the uppermost seat in the synagogue, he attracted attention from the mere singularity of his appearance.

[74] This song accurately depicts the life of an extraordinary person who, in the occasional moments of clarity during his slightly unstable mindset, presented himself to the gullible residents of Canterbury in 1832 as a certain "Sir William Percy Honeywood Courtenay, Knight of Malta;" and managed—there was definitely some "method in his madness"—to maintain the charade for an extended period. The inconsistency of his character in a story set nearly a century earlier might be overlooked when considering how valuable "modern examples" are for illustrating "wise sayings." Deception and gullibility exist in every age; the Courtenays of the nineteenth century are paralleled by the Tofts and Andrés of the eighteenth. The following account of the self-proclaimed Sir William Courtenay is taken from "An Essay on his Character, and Reflections on his Trial," published at the location of his activities: "Around Michaelmas last year, it was rumored that an extraordinary man was staying at the Rose Inn in this city—Canterbury—who went by the name of Count Rothschild, but was recently known in London as[491] Thompson! This would have been enough to grab attention, had there not been other events that significantly added to the excitement. His clothing and appearance suggested foreign origins, while his speech and conversation indicated a familiarity with almost every part of this country. He was said to live with unusual frugality despite obvious signs of wealth and claims of nearly limitless access to money. He seemed to prefer solitude, if not secrecy, although later events showed that he thrived in social circles below the middle class. He often dressed in fine Italian clothes and sometimes adorned himself in the more colorful and impressive attire of Eastern cultures; yet these foreign outfits were hardly seen beyond the inn where he stayed and the nearby chapel where he usually attended services on Sundays. This location was where he first publicly and frequently spent time; and although he didn't always try to get the best seat in the synagogue, he still drew attention just by the uniqueness of his appearance.

"Such was the eccentric, incongruous individual who surprised our city by proposing himself as a third candidate for its representation, and who created an entertaining contest for the honor, long after the sitting candidates had composed themselves to the delightful vision of an inexpensive and unopposed return. The notion of representing the city originated beyond all doubt in the fertile brain of the man himself. It would seem to have been almost as sudden a thought in his mind, as it was a sudden and surprising movement in the view of the city; nor have we been able to ascertain whether his sojourn at the Rose was the cause or the effect of his offering to advocate our interests in Parliament—whether he came to the city with that high-minded purpose, or subsequently formed the notion, when he saw, or thought he saw, an opening for a stranger of enterprise like himself.

"Such was the quirky, out-of-place individual who shocked our city by putting himself forward as a third candidate for its representation, creating an entertaining competition for the honor long after the current candidates had settled into the pleasant idea of an easy, uncontested return. The idea of representing the city undoubtedly originated in the fertile mind of the man himself. It seems to have been as sudden a thought in his mind as it was a surprising development for the city; we haven't been able to figure out whether his time at the Rose was the cause or the result of his decision to advocate for our interests in Parliament—whether he came to the city with that noble intention, or later came up with the idea when he saw, or thought he saw, a chance for an ambitious outsider like himself."


"As the county election drew on, we believe between the nomination on Barham Downs and the voting in the cattle market of the city, the draught of a certain handbill was sent to a printer of this city, with a request that he would publish it without delay. Our readers will not be surprised that he instantly declined the task; but as we have obtained possession of the copy, and its publication can now do no injury to any one, we entertain them with a sight of this delectable sample of Courtenay prudence and politeness.

"As the county election approached, we think that between the nomination at Barham Downs and the voting in the city’s cattle market, a certain handbill was sent to a printer in the city, requesting that he publish it right away. Our readers won’t be surprised that he quickly turned down the job; however, since we now have a copy, and its publication won’t harm anyone, we’re sharing this delightful example of Courtenay's thoughtfulness and courtesy."

"'O yes! O yes! O yes! I, Lord Viscount William Courtenay, of Powderham Castle, Devon, do hereby proclaim Sir Thomas Tylden, Sir[492] Brook Brydges, Sir Edward Knatchbull, and Sir William Cosway, four cowards, unfit to represent, or to assist in returning members of Parliament to serve the brave men of Kent.

"'O yes! O yes! O yes! I, Lord Viscount William Courtenay, of Powderham Castle, Devon, hereby declare Sir Thomas Tylden, Sir[492] Brook Brydges, Sir Edward Knatchbull, and Sir William Cosway, four cowards, unfit to represent or help return members of Parliament to serve the brave people of Kent.

"'Percy Honeywood Courtenay, of Hales and Evington Place, Kent, and Knight of Malta.

'Percy Honeywood Courtenay, of Hales and Evington Place, Kent, and Knight of Malta.

"'Any gentleman desiring to know the reasons why Lord Courtenay so publicly exposes backbiters, any man of honor shall have satisfaction at his hands, and in a public way, according to the laws of our land—trial by combat; when the Almighty God, the Lord of Hosts is his name, can decide the "truth," whether it is a libel or not. I worship truth as my God, and will die for it—and upon this we will see who is strongest, God or man.'

"'Any gentleman who wants to know why Lord Courtenay publicly takes down gossipers can expect satisfaction from him, in a public manner, according to our laws—trial by combat. The Almighty God, the Lord of Hosts is His name, can determine the "truth," whether it’s libel or not. I worship truth as my God, and I will die for it—and on this, we will see who is stronger, God or man.'"

"It is a coincidence too curious to be overlooked, that this doughty champion of truth should so soon have removed himself from public life by an act of deliberate and wanton perjury. We never read any of his rhapsodies, periodical or occasional, till the publication of this essay imposed the self-denying task upon us; but now we find that they abound in strong and solemn appeals to the truth; in bold proclamations that truth is his palladium; in evidences that he writes and raves, that he draws his sword and clenches his fist, that he expends his property and the property of others committed to his hands, in no cause but that of truth! His famous periodical contains much vehement declamation in defence of certain doctrines of religion, which he terms the truth of the sublime system of Christianity, and for which alone he is content to live, and also willing to die. All who deviate from his standard of truth, whether theological or moral, philosophical or political, he appears to consider as neither fit for life nor death. Now it is a little strange, his warmest followers being witness, that such an advocate of truth should have become the willing victim of falsehood, the ready and eager martyr of the worst form of falsehood—perjury.

It's a strange coincidence that this brave champion of truth has so quickly removed himself from public life by committing an act of deliberate and reckless perjury. We never read any of his passionate writings, whether regular or occasional, until this essay forced us to take on that task; but now we see that they are filled with strong and serious appeals to truth; with bold statements that truth is his shield; with evidence that he writes and rants, that he draws his sword and clenches his fist, spending his own and others' resources committed to him, all in the name of truth! His well-known periodical has plenty of intense speeches defending certain religious doctrines, which he calls the truth of the glorious system of Christianity, for which he says he is willing to live and die. Anyone who strays from his version of truth, whether it's religious, moral, philosophical, or political, he seems to think is unworthy of life or death. It’s a bit odd, with his most devoted followers as witnesses, that such an advocate of truth has become a willing victim of falsehood, a ready and eager martyr to the worst kind of falsehood—perjury.

"The decline of his influence between the city and county elections has been partly attributed, and not without reason, to the sudden change in his appearance from comparative youth to advancing, if not extreme age. On the hustings of the city he shone forth in all the dazzling lustre of an Oriental chief; and such was the effect of gay clothing on the meridian of life, that his admirers, especially of the weaker sex, would insist upon it that he had not passed the beautiful spring-time of May. There were, indeed, some suspicious appearances of a near approach to forty, if not two or three years beyond it; but these were fondly ascribed to his foreign travels in distant and insalubrious climes; he had acquired his duskiness of complexion, and his strength of feature and violence of gesture, and his profusion of beard, in Egypt and Syria, in exploring the catacombs of the one country, and bowing at the shrines of the other. On the other hand,[493] the brilliancy of his eye, the melody of his voice, and the elasticity of his muscles and limbs, were sufficient arguments in favor of his having scarcely passed the limit that separates manhood from youth.

"The decline of his influence between the city and county elections has been partly attributed, and not without reason, to the sudden change in his appearance from relative youth to the approach of, if not outright, old age. On the campaign trail in the city, he stood out like an Oriental chief; and the effect of his flashy clothing at the peak of his life was such that his admirers, especially the women, insisted he hadn’t yet left the beautiful springtime of May behind. There were, in fact, some telling signs of nearing forty, if not a year or two beyond it; but these were sweetly attributed to his travels in far-off and unhealthy places; he had gained his darker complexion, strong features, intense gestures, and thick beard from his time in Egypt and Syria, exploring the catacombs of one and bowing at the shrines of the other. On the other hand,[493] the brightness of his eyes, the charm of his voice, and the springiness of his muscles and limbs were compelling evidence that he had hardly crossed the threshold from youth into full manhood.

"All doubts on these points were removed, when the crowd of his fair admirers visited him at the retirement of his inn, and the intervals of his polling. These sub-Rosa interviews—we allude to the name of the inn, and not to anything like privacy there, which the very place and number of the visitors altogether precluded—convinced them that he was even a younger and lovelier man than his rather boisterous behavior in the hall would allow them to hope. In fact, he was now installed by acclamation Knight of Canterbury as well as Malta, and King of Kent as well as Jerusalem! It became dangerous then to whisper a syllable of suspicion against his wealth or rank, his wisdom or beauty; and all who would not bow down before this golden image were deemed worthy of no better fate than Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego—to be cast into a burning fiery furnace."

"All doubts about these issues vanished when the crowd of his admiring fans visited him at his inn during his breaks between voting. These sub-Rosa meetings—we're talking about the name of the inn, not any sort of privacy there, which the location and number of visitors totally ruled out—convinced them that he was actually even younger and more attractive than his rather rowdy behavior in the hall suggested. In fact, he was now unanimously recognized as the Knight of Canterbury as well as Malta, and King of Kent as well as Jerusalem! It became risky to even hint at suspicions regarding his wealth, status, wisdom, or looks; anyone who refused to show admiration for this golden figure was thought to deserve no better fate than Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego—to be thrown into a blazing furnace."

As a sequel to the above story, it may be added that the knight of Malta became the inmate of a lunatic asylum; and on his liberation was shot at the head of a band of Kentish hinds, whom he had persuaded that he was the Messiah!

As a follow-up to the previous story, it can be said that the knight of Malta ended up in a mental asylum; and upon his release, he was shot while leading a group of Kentish peasants, whom he had convinced that he was the Messiah!

[75] A pipe of tobacco.

A tobacco pipe.

[76] A drink composed of beer, eggs, and brandy.

[76] A drink made with beer, eggs, and brandy.

[77] The supposed malignant influence of this plant is frequently alluded to by our elder dramatists; and with one of the greatest of them, Webster—as might be expected from a muse revelling like a ghoul in graves and sepulchres—it is an especial favorite. But none have plunged so deeply into the subject as Sir Thomas Browne. He tears up the fable root and branch. Concerning the danger ensuing from eradication of the mandrake, the learned physician thus writes: "The last assertion is, that there follows a hazard of life to them that pull it up, that some evil fate pursues them, and that they live not very long hereafter. Therefore the attempt hereof among the ancients was not in ordinary way; but, as Pliny informeth, when they intended to take up the root of this plant, they took the wind thereof, and with a sword describing three circles about it, they digged it up, looking toward the west. A conceit not only injurious unto truth and confutable by daily experience, but somewhat derogatory unto the providence of God; that is, not only to impose so destructive a quality on any plant, but to conceive a vegetable whose parts are so useful unto many, should, in the only taking up, prove mortal unto any. This were to introduce a second forbidden fruit, and enhance the first malediction, making it not only mortal for Adam to taste the one, but capital for his posterity to eradicate or dig up the other."—Vulgar Errors, book ii. c. vi.[494]

[77] The supposed harmful influence of this plant is often mentioned by our earlier playwrights; and with one of the greatest among them, Webster—whose muse delights in graves and tombs—it is a particular favorite. But none have explored the topic as deeply as Sir Thomas Browne. He examines the myth from all angles. Regarding the dangers of uprooting the mandrake, the learned physician writes: "The last claim is that there is a risk to life for those who pull it up, that some bad luck follows them, and that they don’t live very long afterward. Therefore, the attempt to do this among the ancients was not done casually; rather, as Pliny tells us, when they intended to dig up this plant's root, they took the wind out of it, and with a sword making three circles around it, they dug it up while facing west. This idea is not only misleading when it comes to the truth and can be disproven by everyday experience, but it's somewhat disrespectful to God's providence; that is, it is not only unreasonable to attribute such a destructive quality to any plant, but to think that a plant with parts so beneficial to many should be deadly to anyone simply for uprooting it. This would introduce a second forbidden fruit and amplify the first curse, making it not just deadly for Adam to taste the one, but fatal for his descendants to uproot or dig up the other."—Vulgar Errors, book ii. c. vi.[494]

[78] The moon.

The moon.

[79] Light.

Light.

[80] Highwayman.

Highway robber.

[81] "Cherry-colored—black; there being black cherries as well as red."—Grose.

[81] "Cherry-colored—black; there are black cherries as well as red."—Gross.

[82] Sword.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Sword.

[83] Pistols.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Handguns.

[84] Highway robbery.

Highway robbery.

[85] Pocket-book.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Pocketbook.

[86] Money.

Money.

[87] Bullets.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Bullets.

[88] The gallows.

The gallows.

[89] Ditto.

Ditto.

[90] Pocket-book.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ eBook.

[91] Inside coat-pocket.

In the coat pocket.

[92] A small pocket-book.

A small pocket book.

[93] We have heard of a certain gentleman tobyman, we forget his name, taking the horses from his curricle for a similar purpose, but we own we think King's the simpler plan, and quite practicable still. A cabriolet would be quite out of the question, but particularly easy to stop.

[93] We’ve heard about a certain gentleman, a tobyman—we can’t remember his name—who took the horses out of his curricle for a similar reason, but we have to say we think King's plan is simpler and totally doable. A cabriolet would be completely out of the question, but it would be very easy to stop.

[94] Four celebrated highwaymen, all rejoicing in the honorable distinction of captain.

[94] Four well-known highwaymen, all taking pride in the esteemed title of captain.

[95] The exact spot where Turpin committed this robbery, which has often been pointed out to us, lies in what is now a woody hollow, though once the old road from Altringham to Knutsford skirting the rich and sylvan domains of Dunham, and descending the hill that brings you to the bridge crossing the little river Bollin. With some difficulty we penetrated this ravine. It is just the place for an adventure of the kind. A small brook wells through it; and the steep banks are overhung with timber, and were, when we last visited the place, in April, 1834, a perfect nest of primroses and wild flowers. Hough (pronounced Hoo) Green lies about three miles across the country—the way Turpin rode. The old Bowling-green is one of the pleasantest inns in Cheshire.

[95] The exact location where Turpin committed this robbery, which has often been pointed out to us, is now a wooded hollow. It used to be part of the old road from Altringham to Knutsford, which passed by the lush and forest-filled lands of Dunham and went down the hill to the bridge over the little river Bollin. We had some trouble getting into this ravine. It's just the right spot for an adventure like that. A small stream runs through it, and the steep banks are covered with trees. When we last visited the area in April 1834, it was a perfect cluster of primroses and wildflowers. Hough (pronounced Hoo) Green is about three miles away—the route Turpin took. The old Bowling-green is one of the nicest inns in Cheshire.

[96] Money.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Cash.

[97] Man.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Dude.

[98] Stripped.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Removed.

[99] Fellow.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Buddy.

[100] A particular kind of pugilistic punishment.

[100] A specific type of boxing punishment.

[101] Kept each an eye upon the other.

Kept a close watch on each other.

[102] Hands.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Hands.

[103] Deceive them.[495]

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Trick them.[495]

[104] Accomplice.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Partner in crime.

[105] A farthing.

A penny.

[106] Cards.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Cards.

[107] Qy. élite.—Printer's Devil.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Qy. elite.—Printer's Devil.

[108] Shoot him.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Shoot him.

[109] Since the earlier editions of this Romance were published, we regret to state—for to us, at least, it is matter of regret, though probably not to the travellers along the Edgeware Road—that this gentle ascent has been cut through, and the fair prospect from its brow utterly destroyed.

[109] Since the earlier editions of this novel were published, we’re sorry to say—for us, at least, it’s a point of sadness, though probably not for the travelers on Edgeware Road—that this gentle slope has been cut through, and the lovely view from the top has been completely ruined.

[110] This, we regret to say, is not the case. The memory of bold Will Davies, the "Golden Farmer"—so named from the circumstances of his always paying his rent in gold,—is fast declining upon his peculiar domain, Bagshot. The inn, which once bore his name, still remains to point out to the traveller the dangers his forefathers had to encounter in crossing this extensive heath. Just beyond this house the common spreads out for miles on all aides in a most gallop-inviting style; and the passenger, as he gazes from the box of some flying coach, as we have done, upon the gorse-covered waste, may, without much stretch of fancy, imagine he beholds Will Davies careering like the wind over its wild and undulating expanse. We are sorry to add that the "Golden Farmer" has altered its designation to the "Jolly Farmer." This should be amended; and when next we pass that way, we hope to see the original sign restored. We cannot afford to lose our golden farmers.

[110] Unfortunately, this is not the case. The memory of the brave Will Davies, the "Golden Farmer"—named for always paying his rent in gold—is quickly fading in his unique territory, Bagshot. The inn that once carried his name still stands to remind travelers of the dangers his ancestors faced while crossing this vast heath. Just past this inn, the common stretches out for miles in a way that invites galloping; and as the passenger looks from the box of a speeding coach, as we have done, at the gorse-covered landscape, they might easily imagine Will Davies racing like the wind over its wild and rolling terrain. We regret to say that the "Golden Farmer" has changed its name to the "Jolly Farmer." This should be corrected, and when we next pass that way, we hope to see the original sign back up. We cannot afford to lose our golden farmers.




        
        
    
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