“Unbind the prisoners,” shouted Alan.
Mrs. Mowbray and Luke were accordingly set free.
Two almost simultaneous reports of a pistol were now heard.
“’Tis Ranulph Rookwood,” said Alan; “that was the preconcerted signal.”
“Ranulph Rookwood,” echoed Eleanor, who caught the exclamation: “he comes to save me.”
“Remember your oath,” gasped a dying voice. “He is no longer yours.”
“Alas! alas!” sobbed Eleanor, tremblingly.
A moment afterwards a faint clapping of hands reached the ears of Barbara.
“All is over,” muttered she.
“Ha!” exclaimed Alan Rookwood, with a frightful look. “Is it done?”
Barbara motioned him towards the further end of the vault.
CHAPTER 13
MR. COATES
Grimm. Look, captain, here comes one of the bloodhounds of justice.
Schw. Down with him. Don’t let him utter a word.
Moor. Silence, I will hear him.
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.
“’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?”
“I do,” replied Rust.
“The varmint shall be speedily unearthed,” 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.
“Mr. Coates!” cried Dick, bursting into a loud laugh at the ridiculous figure presented to his view, “or the mud deceives me.”
“It does not deceive you, Captain Turpin,” replied the attorney; “you do, indeed, behold that twice unfortunate person.”
“What brings you here?” asked Dick. “Ah! I see, you are come to pay me my wager.”
“I thought you gave me a discharge for that,” rejoined Coates, unable, even in his distress, to resist the too-tempting quibble.
“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.”
“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.”
“Three hogs and a kick,” muttered Coates; “the knave says true enough.”
“Is there nothing else?” demanded Dick.
“Only an old snuffy fogle and a pewter sneezer.”
“No reader?90 Try his hoxter.”91
“Here’s a pit-man,92 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.”
“You should take charge of yourself, then,” replied Coates, sulkily. “You appear to be my reader.”
“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.
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:
“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