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.
“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.”
“Appeal no more to me,” said Sybil, fiercely. “Make your peace with Heaven. Your minutes are numbered.”
“I cannot pray,” said Eleanor, “while you are near me.”
“Will you pray if I retire and leave you?”
“No, no. I dare not — cannot,” shrieked Eleanor, in extremity of terror. “Oh! do not leave me, or let me go.”
“If you stir,” said Sybil, “I stab you to 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.”
“Maiden,” said Sybil, endeavoring to withdraw her hand, “let go your hold — your sand is run.”
“Mercy!”
“It is in vain. 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.”
“I cannot — I cannot!” said Sybil, with a passionate outburst of grief. “Take your life on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“That you wed 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.”
“Do you reject my proposal?”
“I dare not.”
“I must have your oath. Swear by every hope of eternity that you will wed none other than him.”
“By every hope, I swear it.”
“Handassah, you will bear this maiden’s oath in mind, and witness its fulfilment.”
“I will,” replied the gipsy girl, stepping forward from a recess, in which she had hitherto remained unnoticed.
“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 ——”
“No more?” echoed Eleanor, in horror.
“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.”
“Can you not live, and save me?” sobbed Eleanor.
“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!”
All started, as a deep groan knelled in their ears.
“Whence comes that sound?” cried Sybil. “Hist! — a voice?”
“It is that of the priest,” cried Eleanor. “Hark! he groans. They have murdered him! Kind Heaven, receive 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.
We must now quit this painful scene for another scarcely less painful, and return to the unfortunate priest.
Checkley had been brought before the body of Susan Rookwood. Even in the gloom, the shimmer of the white cereclothes, and the pallid features of the corpse, were ghastly enough. The torchlight made them terrible.
“Kneel!” said Alan Rookwood. The priest complied. Alan knelt beside him.
“Do you know these features?” demanded he. “Regard them well. Fix your eyes full upon them. Do you know them?”
“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.”
“I do,” returned the priest; “are you now satisfied?”
“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.”
“Have I not done enough?”
“Your hesitation proves your guilt,” said Alan.
“That proof is wanting, then?” returned the priest; “my hand is upon her throat — what more?”
“As you hope for mercy in your hour of need, swear that you never conspired against her life, or refused her mercy.”
“I swear it.”
“May the dead convict you of perjury if you have forsworn yourself,” said Alan; “you are free. Take away your hand!”
“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.”
“And you are innocent?”
“I am — I am. Let not my ravings convict me. For Jesu’s sake, release me.”
“Blaspheme not, but arise. I hold you not.”
“You do,” groaned the priest. “Your grasp tightens round my throat; your hard and skinny fingers are there — I strangle — help!”
“Your own fears strangle you. My hand is at my side,” returned 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.
There was a deep groan; a convulsive rattle in the throat; and all was still.
“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.
A murmur arose amongst the gipsies. Barbara deemed it prudent to appease them.
“He was guilty,” cried she. “He was the murderer of Susan Rookwood.”
“And I, her father, have avenged her,” said Alan, sternly.
The dreadful silence that followed this speech was broken by the report of a pistol. The sound, though startling,