The train began to move. Eleanor leaned upon the arm of her mother. Beside them stalked Barbara, with an aspect of triumph. Luke followed with the priest. One by one the assemblage quitted the apartment.
The sexton alone lingered. “The moment is at hand,” said he, musingly, “when all shall be consummated.”
A few steps brought him into the court. The crowd was there still. A brief delay had taken place. The knight of Malta then entered the mouth of the vault. He held his torch so as to reveal a broken flight of steps, conducting, it would seem, to regions of perpetual night. So thought Eleanor, as she shudderingly gazed into the abyss. She hesitated; she trembled; she refused. But her mother’s entreaties, and Barbara’s threatening looks, induced, in the end, reluctant compliance. At length the place was empty. Peter was about to follow, when the sound of a horse’s hoofs broke upon his ear. He tarried for an instant, and the mounted figure of the highwayman burst within the limits of the court.
“Ha, ha! 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?”
Peter hastily 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.”
“You must stay here, and keep guard,” returned Peter.
“May I be hanged if I do, when such fun is going on.”
“Hanged, in all probability, you will be,” returned Peter; “but I should not, were I you, desire to anticipate my destiny. Stay here you must, and shall — that’s peremptory. You will 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.”
“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.”
“Sir Luke may command me. Here’s a pipe as shrill 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?”
“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.”
“Enough,” replied the sexton, as he dived under ground.
“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.
THE SCAMPSMAN
Quis verè rex?
Seneca.
There is not a king, should you search the world round,
So blithe as the king of the road to be found;
His pistol’s his sceptre, his saddle’s his throne,
Whence he levies supplies, or enforces a loan.
Derry down.
To this monarch the highway presents a wide field,
Where each passing subject a tribute must yield;
His palace — the tavern! — receives him at night,
Where sweet lips and sound liquor crown all with delight.
Derry down.
The soldier and sailor, both robbers by trade,
Full soon on the shelf, if disabled, are laid;
The one gets a patch, and the other a peg,
But, while luck lasts, the highwayman shakes a loose leg!
Derry down.
Most fowl rise at dawn, but the owl wakes at e’en,
And a jollier bird can there nowhere be seen;
Like the owl, our snug scampsman his snooze takes by day,
And, when night draws her curtain, scuds after his prey!
Derry down.
As the highwayman’s life is the fullest of zest,
So the highwayman’s death is the briefest and best;
He dies not as other men die, by degrees! But at once! without wincing, and quite at his ease! Derry down.
And thus, for the present, we leave him. O rare Dick Turpin!
CHAPTER 10
SAINT CYPRIAN’S CELL
Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch’ entrate.
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 with his fellowmen; but, relinquishing his spiritual dignity, “the world forgetting, by the world forgot,” to immure himself, while living, within the tomb.
He kept his vow. Out of the living rock that sustained the saintly structure, beneath the chapel of the monastery, was another chapel wrought, and thither, after bidding an eternal farewell to the world, and bestowing his benediction upon his flock, whom he committed to the care of his successor, the holy man retired.
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!
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 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