“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 claim you as my own. You are mine.” And he dragged her towards the opening.
Eleanor uttered a long and terrific 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 The key was withdrawn from the lock, and the wretched maiden vainly tried to open it.
At this instant Turpin appeared 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.”
“Ranulph!” shrieked Eleanor —“then I am saved,” and she redoubled her outcries for assistance.
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.
“To the panel! to the panel!” cried a voice — it was that of Turpin — from within.
“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.
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 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.
“Traitor!” cried Ranulph, regarding Coates with concentrated fury, “dare you to oppose me? — hence! or, by Heaven, I will cut you down!”
“’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.”
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.
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.
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.”
Ranulph hesitated, uncertain how to act; foaming with rage, yet trembling with apprehension.
“Ranulph,” gasped Eleanor, “life without you were valueless. Advance — avenge me!”
Ranulph still hesitated. He could not, by any act of his own, compromise Eleanor’s safety.
Luke saw his advantage, and was not slow to profit by it. “You seal her destruction if you stir,” said he.
“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.”
“Escape you!” laughed Luke, disdainfully. “Stand aside, and let me pass. Beware,” added he, sternly, “how you oppose me. I would not have a brother’s blood upon my soul.”
“Nor I,” cried Ranulph; “but you pass not.” And he placed himself full in Luke’s path.
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.
“Lost, lost,” groaned he; “she is lost to me forever!”
“I fear that’s but too true,” said Turpin, for it was the highwayman whose grasp confined Ranulph.
“Must I see her borne away before my eyes?” cried Ranulph. “Release me — set me free!”
“Quite impossible at present,” returned Dick. “Mount and away, Sir Luke,” continued he; “never mind me. Leave me to shift for myself.”
“Eleanor!” cried Ranulph, as she passed close by his side.
“Ranulph!” shrieked Eleanor, with a loud scream, recalled to consciousness by his voice, “farewell for ever.”
“Ay, for ever,” responded Luke, triumphantly. “You meet no more 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.
Handassah stooped to pick it up.
“From Sybil!” exclaimed she, glancing at the superscription.
“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.”
“Give me the packet,” said Luke, resigning Eleanor for the instant to Handassah’s custody —“take the steel, and grasp her firmly.”