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.”
“It will not veer from you,” she meekly answered.
“Why did you step between me and my bride?”
“To save her life; to lay down mine for hers.”
“An idle subterfuge. You know well that you run no risk of being called upon to do so. Your life is in no danger. The sacrifice was unnecessary. I could have dispensed with your assistance; my own arm would have sufficed to protect Eleanor.”
“Your single arm would not have prevailed against numbers: they would have killed you likewise.”
“Tush!” said Luke, fiercely. “Not only have you snatched 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.”
“True, true,” sighed Sybil. “I knew not that the lands were hers, else had I never done it.”
“False, false,” cried Luke; “false as the rest. They will be 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.”
“Oh, curse me not! your words cut deep 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.”
“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!”
“Ever deceiving! you would again delude me. You cannot repair it. One way alone remains, and that ——”
“I will pursue,” responded Sybil, 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?”
“By mine,” said Alan Rookwood, stepping forward.
“By yours?” echoed Luke. “And wherefore? Release me.”
“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.
“Their lives shall answer for their obedience,” said Barbara.
Upon a further signal from Alan, Eleanor was torn from her mother’s arms, and a bandage passed so suddenly over Mrs. 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.
Barbara snatched the hand of Eleanor. She dragged her to Sybil.
“You are Lady Rookwood,” whispered she; “but she has your domains. 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.”
“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.
“Do you need my aid?” 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.
“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.”
At a signal from the sexton, Luke also was blindfolded. He ceased to struggle. But his laboring breast told of the strife within.
“Miscreants!” exclaimed the priest, who had hitherto witnessed the proceedings in horror. “Why do not these rocks fall in, and crush you and your iniquities? Save her! oh, save her! Have you no pity for the innocent?”
“Such pity have we,” replied Alan Rookwood, “as you showed my daughter. She was as innocent as Eleanor Mowbray, and yet you did not pity her.”
“Heaven is my witness,” exclaimed the priest, “that I never injured her.”
“Take not Heaven’s name in vain,” cried Alan. “Who stood by while it was doing? Whose firmer hand lent aid to the 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!”
“’Tis false!” exclaimed the priest, in extremity of 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?”
The priest was silent: he seemed confounded by Alan’s violence.
“I will answer that question,” said Barbara. “It was brought hither by that false priest. His agent, Balthazar, has betrayed him. It was brought hither to prevent the discovery of Sir 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?”
“No,” replied the priest, in a voice hollow and broken. “Bring me to the body.”
“Seize each an arm,” said Barbara, addressing Zoroaster and the knight of Malta, “and lead him to the corse.”
“I will administer the oath,” said Alan Rookwood, sternly.
“No, not you,” stammered the priest.
“And wherefore not?” asked Alan. “If you are innocent, you need fear nothing from her.”
“I fear nothing from the dead,” replied Checkley; “lead on.”
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