_CHAPTER I_

_A MORNING RIDE_

I had a sister, who among the race

Of gipsies was the fairest. Fair she was

In gentle blood, and gesture to her beauty.

BROME.

On quitting Lady Rookwood's chamber, Luke speeded along the gloomy

corridor, descended the spiral stairs, and, swiftly traversing sundry

other dark passages, issued from a door at the back of the house. Day

was just beginning to break. His first object had been to furnish

himself with means to expedite his flight; and, perceiving no one in the

yard, he directed his hasty steps towards the stable. The door was

fortunately unfastened; and, entering, he found a strong roan horse,

which he knew, from description, had been his father's favorite hunter,

and to the use of which he now considered himself fully entitled. The

animal roused himself as he approached, shook his glossy coat, and

neighed, as if he recognized the footsteps and voice.

"Thou art mistaken, old fellow," said Luke; "I am not he thou thinkest;

nevertheless, I am glad thy instinct would have it so. If thou bearest

my father's son as thou hast borne thy old master, o'er many a field for

many a day, he need not fear the best mounted of his pursuers. Soho!

come hither, Rook."

The noble steed turned at the call. Luke hastily saddled him, vaulted

upon his back, and, disregarding every impediment in the shape of fence

or ditch, shaped his course across the field towards the sexton's

cottage, which he reached just as its owner was in the act of unlocking

his door. Peter testified his delight and surprise at the escape of his

grandson, by a greeting of chuckling laughter.

"How?--escaped!" exclaimed he. "Who has delivered you from the hands of

the Moabites? Ha, ha! But why do I ask? Who could it have been but Jack

Palmer?"

"My own hands have set me free," returned Luke. "I am indebted to no man

for liberty; still less to _him_. But I cannot tarry here; each moment

is precious. I came to request you to accompany me to the gipsy

encampment. Will you go, or not?"

"And mount behind you?" replied Peter; "I like not the manner of

conveyance."

"Farewell, then." And Luke turned to depart.

"Stay; that is Sir Piers's horse, old Rook. I care not if I do ride

him."

"Quick, then; mount."

"I will not delay you a moment," rejoined the sexton, opening his door,

and throwing his implements into the cottage. "Back, Mole; back, sir,"

cried he, as the dog rushed out to greet him. "Bring your steed nigh

this stone, grandson Luke--there--a little nearer--all's right." And

away they galloped.

The sexton's first inquiries were directed to ascertain how Luke had

accomplished his escape; and, having satisfied himself in this

particular, he was content to remain silent; musing, it might be, on the

incidents detailed to him.

The road Luke chose was a rough, unfrequented lane, that skirted, for

nearly a mile, the moss-grown palings of the park. It then diverged to

the right, and seemed to bear towards a range of hills rising in the

distance. High hedges impeded the view on either hand; but there were

occasional gaps, affording glimpses of the tract of country through

which he was riding. Meadows were seen steaming with heavy dews,

intersected by a deep channelled stream, whose course was marked by a

hanging cloud of vapor, as well as by a row of melancholy

pollard-willows, that stood like stripped, shivering urchins by the

river side. Other fields succeeded, yellow with golden grain, or bright

with flowering clover--the autumnal crop--colored with every shade, from

the light green of the turnip to the darker verdure of the bean, the

various products of the teeming land. The whole was backed by round

drowsy masses of trees.

Luke spoke not, nor abated his furious course, till the road began to

climb a steep ascent. He then drew in the rein, and from the heights of

the acclivity surveyed the plain over which he had passed.

It was a rich agricultural district, with little picturesque beauty, but

much of true English endearing loveliness to recommend it. Such a quiet,

pleasing landscape, in short, as one views, at such a season of the

year, from every eminence in every county of our merry isle. The picture

was made up of a tract of land filled with corn ripe for the sickle, or

studded with sheaves of the same golden produce, enlivened with green

meadows, so deeply luxuriant as to claim the scythe for the second time;

each divided from the other by thick hedgerows, the uniformity of which

was broken ever and anon by some towering elm, tall poplar, or

wide-branching oak. Many old farmhouses, with their broad barns and

crowded haystacks--forming little villages in themselves--ornamented the

landscape at different points, and by their substantial look evidenced

the fertility of the soil, and the thriving condition of its

inhabitants. Some three miles distant might be seen the scattered hamlet

of Rookwood; the dark russet thatch of its houses scarcely perceptible

amidst the embrowned foliage of the surrounding timber. The site of the

village was, however, pointed out by the square tower of the antique

church, that crested the summit of the adjoining hill; and although the

hall was entirely hidden from view, Luke readily traced out its locality

amidst the depths of the dark grove in which it was embosomed.

This goodly prospect had other claims to attention in Luke's eyes

besides its agricultural or pictorial merit. It was, or he deemed it

was, his own. Far as his eye ranged, yea, even beyond the line of

vision, the estates of Rookwood extended.

"Do you see that house below us in the valley?" asked Peter of his

companion.

"I do," replied Luke; "a snug old house--a model of a farm. Everything

looks comfortable and well to do about it. There are a dozen lusty

haystacks, or thereabouts; and the great barn, with its roof yellowed

like gold, looks built for a granary; and there are stables,

kine-houses, orchards, dovecots, and fishponds, and an old circular

garden, with wall-fruit in abundance. He should be a happy man, and a

wealthy one, who dwells therein."

"He dwells therein no longer," returned Peter; "he died last night."

"How know you that? None are stirring in the house as yet."

"The owner of that house, Simon Toft," replied Peter, "was last night

struck by a thunderbolt. He was one of the coffin-bearers at your

father's funeral. They are sleeping within the house, you say. 'Tis

well. Let them sleep on--they will awaken too soon, wake when they

may--ha, ha!"

"Peace!" cried Luke; "you blight everything--even this smiling landscape

you would turn to gloom. Does not this morn awaken a happier train of

thoughts within your mind? With me it makes amends for want of sleep,

effaces resentment, and banishes every black misgiving. 'Tis a joyous

thing thus to scour the country at earliest dawn; to catch all the

spirit and freshness of the morning; to be abroad before the lazy world

is half awake; to make the most of a brief existence; and to have spent

a day of keen enjoyment, almost before the day begins with some. I like

to anticipate the rising of the glorious luminary; to watch every line

of light changing, as at this moment, from shuddering gray to blushing

rose! See how the heavens are dyed! Who would exchange yon gorgeous

spectacle," continued he, pointing towards the east, and again urging

his horse to full speed down the hill, endangering the sexton's seat,

and threatening to impale him upon the crupper of the saddle--"who would

exchange that sight, and the exhilarating feeling of this fresh morn,

for a couch of eiderdown, and a headache in reversion?"

"I for one," returned the sexton, sharply, "would willingly exchange it

for that, or any other couch, provided it rid me of this accursed

crupper, which galls me sorely. Moderate your pace, grandson Luke, or I

must throw myself off the horse in self-defence."

Luke slackened his charger's pace, in compliance with the sexton's wish.

"Ah! well," continued Peter, restored in a measure to comfort; "now I

can contemplate the sunrise, which you laud, somewhat at mine ease. 'Tis

a fine sight, I doubt not, to the eyes of youth; and, to the sanguine

soul of him upon whom life itself is dawning, is, I dare say,

inspiriting: but when the heyday of existence is past; when the blood

flows sluggishly in the veins; when one has known the desolating storms

which the brightest sunrise has preceded, the seared heart refuses to

trust its false glitter; and, like the experienced sailor, sees oft in

the brightest skies a forecast of the tempest. To such a one, there can

be no new dawn of the heart; no sun can gild its cold and cheerless

horizon; no breeze can revive pulses that have long since ceased to

throb with any chance emotion. I am too old to feel freshness in this

nipping air. It chills me more than the damps of night, to which I am

accustomed. Night--midnight! is my season of delight. Nature is instinct

then with secrets dark and dread. There is a language which he who

sleepeth not, but will wake, and watch, may haply learn. Strange organs

of speech hath the invisible world; strange language doth it talk;

strange communion hold with him who would pry into its mysteries. It

talks by bat and owl--by the grave-worm, and by each crawling thing--by

the dust of graves, as well as by those that rot therein--but ever doth

it discourse by night, and specially when the moon is at the full. 'Tis

the lore I have then learned that makes that season dear to me. Like

your cat, mine eye expands in darkness. I blink at the sunshine, like

your owl."

"Cease this forbidding strain," returned Luke; "it sounds as harshly as

your own screech-owl's cry. Let your thoughts take a more sprightly

turn, more in unison with my own and the fair aspect of nature."

"Shall I direct them to the gipsies' camp, then?" said Peter, with a

sneer. "Do your own thoughts tend thither?"

"You are not altogether in the wrong," replied Luke. "I _was_ thinking

of the gipsies' camp, and of one who dwells amongst its tents."

"I knew it," replied Peter. "Did you hope to deceive me by attributing

all your joyousness of heart to the dawn? Your thoughts have been

wandering all this while upon one who hath, I will engage, a pair of

sloe-black eyes, an olive skin, and yet withal a clear one--'black, yet

comely, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon'--a mesh of

jetty hair, that hath entangled you in its network--ripe lips, and a

cunning tongue--one of the plagues of Egypt.--Ha, ha!"

"You have guessed shrewdly," replied Luke; "I care not to own that my

thoughts were so occupied."

"I was assured of it," replied the sexton. "And what may be the name of

her towards whom your imagination was straying?"

"Sibila Perez," replied Luke. "Her father was a Spanish Gitano. She is

known amongst her people by her mother's name of Lovel."

"She is beautiful, of course?"

"Ay, very beautiful!--but no matter! You shall judge of her charms

anon."

"I will take your word for them," returned the sexton; "and you love

her?"

"Passionately."

"You are not married?" asked Peter, hastily.

"Not as yet," replied Luke; "but my faith is plighted."

"Heaven be praised! The mischief is not then irreparable. I would have

you married--though not to a gipsy girl."

"And whom would you select?"

"One before whom Sybil's beauty would pale as stars at day's approach."

"There lives not such a one."

"Trust me there does. Eleanor Mowbray is lovely beyond parallel. I was

merely speculating upon a possibility when I wished her yours--it is

scarcely likely she would cast her eyes upon you."

"I shall not heed her neglect. Graced with my title, I doubt not, were

it my pleasure to seek a bride amongst those of gentle blood, I should

not find all indifferent to my suit."

"Possibly not. Yet what might weigh with others, would not weigh with

her. There are qualities you lack which she has discovered in another."

"In whom?"

"In Ranulph Rookwood."

"Is _he_ her suitor?"

"I have reason to think so."

"And you would have me abandon my own betrothed love, to beguile from my

brother his destined bride? That were to imitate the conduct of my

grandsire, the terrible Sir Reginald, towards _his_ brother Alan."

The sexton answered not, and Luke fancied he could perceive a quivering

in the hands that grasped his body for support. There was a brief pause

in their conversation.

"And who is Eleanor Mowbray?" asked Luke, breaking the silence.

"Your cousin. On the mother's side a Rookwood. 'Tis therefore I would

urge your union with her. There is a prophecy relating to your house,

which seems as though it would be fulfilled in your person and in hers:

When the stray Rook shall perch on the topmost bough,

There shall be clamor and screaming, I trow;

But of right, and of rule, of the ancient nest,

The Rook that with Rook mates shall hold him possest."

"I place no faith in such fantasies," replied Luke; "and yet the lines

bear strangely upon my present situation."

"Their application to yourself and Eleanor Mowbray is unquestionable,"

replied the sexton.

"It would seem so, indeed," rejoined Luke; and he again sank into

abstraction, from which the sexton did not care to arouse him.

The aspect of the country had materially changed since their descent of

the hill. In place of the richly-cultivated district which lay on the

other side, a broad brown tract of waste land spread out before them,

covered with scattered patches of gorse, stunted fern, and low

brushwood, presenting an unvaried surface of unbaked turf. The shallow

coat of sod was manifested by the stones that clattered under the

horse's hoofs as he rapidly traversed the arid soil, clearing with ease

to himself, though not without discomfort to the sexton, every gravelly

trench, natural chasm, or other inequality of ground that occurred in

his course. Clinging to his grandson with the tenacity of a bird of

prey, Peter for some time kept his station in security; but, unluckily,

at one dike rather wider than the rest, the horse, owing possibly to the

mismanagement, intentional or otherwise, of Luke, swerved; and the

sexton, dislodged from his "high estate," fell at the edge of the

trench, and rolled incontinently to the bottom.

Luke drew in the rein to inquire if any bones were broken; and Peter

presently upreared his dusty person from the abyss, and without

condescending to make any reply, yet muttering curses, "not loud, but

deep," accepted his grandson's proffered hand, and remounted.

While thus occupied, Luke fancied he heard a distant shout, and noting

whence the sound proceeded--the same quarter by which he had approached

the heath--he beheld a single horseman spurring in their direction at

the top of his speed; and to judge from the rate at which he advanced,

it was evident he was anything but indifferently mounted. Apprehensive

of pursuit, Luke expedited the sexton's ascent; and that accomplished,

without bestowing further regard upon the object of his solicitude, he

resumed his headlong flight. He now thought it necessary to bestow more

attention on his choice of road, and, perfectly acquainted with the

heath, avoided all unnecessary hazardous passes. In spite of his

knowledge of the ground, and the excellence of his horse, the stranger

sensibly gained upon him. The danger, however, was no longer imminent.

"We are safe," cried Luke; "the limits of Hardchase are past. In a few

seconds we shall enter Davenham Wood. I will turn the horse loose, and

we will betake ourselves to flight amongst the trees. I will show you a

place of concealment. He cannot follow us on horseback, and on foot I

defy him."

"Stay," cried the sexton. "He is not in pursuit--he takes another

course--he wheels to the right. By Heaven! it is the Fiend himself upon

a black horse, come for Bow-legged Ben. See, he is there already."

The horseman had turned, as the sexton stated, careering towards a

revolting object at some little distance on the right hand. It was a

gibbet, with its grisly burden. He rode swiftly towards it, and, reining

in his horse, took off his hat, bowing profoundly to the carcase that

swung in the morning breeze. Just at that moment a gust of air catching

the fleshless skeleton, its arms seemed to be waved in reply to the

salutation. A solitary crow winged its flight over the horseman's head

as he paused. After a moment's halt, he wheeled about, and again shouted

to Luke, waving his hat.

"As I live," said the latter, "it is Jack Palmer."

"Dick Turpin, you mean," rejoined the sexton. "He has been paying his

respects to a brother blade. Ha, ha! Dick will never have the honor of a

gibbet; he is too tender of the knife. Did you mark the crow? But here

he comes." And in another instant Turpin was by their side.

_CHAPTER II_

_A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT_

I see a column of slow-rising smoke

O'ertop the lofty wood, that skirts the wild.

COWPER: _The Task_.

"The top of the morning to you, gem'men," said Turpin, as he rode up at

an easy canter. "Did you not hear my halloo? I caught a glimpse of you

on the hill yonder. I knew you both, two miles off; and so, having a

word or two to say to you, Luke Bradley, before I leave this part of the

country, I put Bess to it, and she soon brought me within hail. Bless

her black skin," added he, affectionately patting his horse's neck,

"there's not her match in these parts, or in any other; she wants no

coaxing to do her work--no bleeders for her. I should have been up with

you before this had I not taken a cross cut to look at poor Ben.

One night, when mounted on my mare.

To Bagshot Heath I did repair,

And saw Will Davies hanging there,

Upon the gibbet bleak and bare,

_With a rustified, fustified, mustified air._

Excuse my singing. The sight of a gibbet always puts me in mind of the

Golden Farmer. May I ask whither you are bound, comrades?"

"Comrades!" whispered the sexton to Luke; "you see _he_ does not so

easily forget his old friends."

"I have business that will not admit of delay," rejoined Luke; "and to

speak plainly----"

"You want not my society," returned Turpin; "I guessed as much. Natural

enough! You have got an inkling of your good fortune. You have found out

you are a rich man's heir, not a poor wench's bastard. No offence; I'm a

plain spoken man, as you will find, if you know it not already. I have

no objection to your playing these fine tricks on others, though it

won't answer your turn to do so with me."

"Sir!" exclaimed Luke, sharply.

"Sir to you," replied Turpin--"Sir Luke--as I suppose you would now

choose to be addressed. I am aware of all. A nod is as good as a wink to

me. Last night I learned the fact of Sir Piers's marriage from Lady

Rookwood--ay, from her ladyship. You stare--and old Peter, there, opens

his ogles now. She let it out by accident; and I am in possession of

what can alone substantiate your father's first marriage, and establish

your claims to the property."

"The devil!" cried the sexton; adding, in a whisper to Luke, "You had

better not be precipitate in dropping so obliging an acquaintance."

"You are jesting," said Luke to Turpin.

"It is ill jesting before breakfast," returned Dick: "I am seldom in the

mood for a joke so early. What if a certain marriage certificate had

fallen into my hand?"

"A marriage certificate!" echoed Luke and the sexton simultaneously.

"The only existing proof of the union of Sir Piers Rookwood with Susan

Bradley," continued Turpin. "What if I had stumbled upon such a

document--nay more, if I knew where to direct you to it?"

"Peace!" cried Luke to his tormentor; and then addressing Turpin, "if

what you say be true, my quest is at an end. All that I need, you appear

to possess. Other proofs are secondary to this. I know with whom I have

to deal. What do you demand for that certificate?"

"We will talk about the matter after breakfast," said Turpin. "I wish to

treat with you as friend with friend. Meet me on those terms, and I am

your man; reject my offer, and I turn my mare's head, and ride back to

Rookwood. With me now rest all your hopes. I have dealt fairly with you,

and I expect to be fairly dealt with in return. It were idle to say, now

I have an opportunity, that I should not turn this luck to my account. I

were a fool to do otherwise. You cannot expect it. And then I have Rust

and Wilder to settle with. Though I have left them behind, they know my

destination. We have been old associates. I like your spirit--I care not

for your haughtiness; but I will not help you up the ladder to be kicked

down myself. Now you understand me. Whither are you bound?"

"To Davenham Priory, the gipsy camp."

"The gipsies are your friends?"

"They are."

"I am alone."

"You are safe."

"You pledge your word that all shall be on the square. You will not

mention to one of that canting crew what I have told you?"

"With one exception, you may rely upon my secrecy."

"Whom do you except?"

"A woman."

"Bad! never trust a petticoat."

"I will answer for her with my life."

"And for your granddad there?"

"He will answer for himself," said Peter. "You need not fear treachery

in me. Honor among thieves, you know."

"Or where else should you seek it?" rejoined Turpin; "for it has left

all other classes of society. Your highwayman is your only man of honor.

I will trust you both; and you shall find you may trust me. After

breakfast, as I said before, we will bring the matter to a conclusion.

Tip us your daddle, Sir Luke, and I am satisfied. You shall rule in

Rookwood, I'll engage, ere a week be flown; and then---- But so much

parleying is dull work; let's make the best of our way to breakfast."

And away they cantered.

A narrow bridle-road conducted them singly through the defiles of a

thick wood. Their route lay in the shade, and the air felt chilly amidst

the trees, the sun not having attained sufficient altitude to penetrate

its depths, while overhead all was warmth and light. Quivering on the

tops of the timber, the horizontal sunbeams created, in their

refraction, brilliant prismatic colorings, and filled the air with motes

like golden dust. Our horsemen heeded not the sunshine or the shade.

Occupied each with his own train of thought, they silently rode on.

Davenham Wood, through which they urged their course, had, in the olden

time, been a forest of some extent. It was then an appendage to the

domains of Rookwood, but had passed from the hands of that family to

those of a wealthy adjoining landowner and lawyer, Sir Edward Davenham,

in the keeping of whose descendants it had ever after continued. A noble

wood it was, and numbered many patriarchal trees. Ancient oaks, with

broad, gnarled limbs, which the storms of five hundred years had vainly

striven to uproot, and which were now sternly decaying; gigantic beech

trees, with silvery stems shooting smoothly upwards, sustaining branches

of such size, that each, dissevered, would in itself have formed a tree,

populous with leaves, and variegated with rich autumnal tints; the

sprightly sycamore, the dark chestnut, the weird wych-elm, the majestic

elm itself, festooned with ivy, every variety of wood, dark, dense, and

intricate, composed the forest through which they rode; and so

multitudinous was the timber, so closely planted, so entirely filled up

with a thick, matted vegetation, which had been allowed to collect

beneath, that little view was afforded, had any been desired by the

parties, into the labyrinth of the grove. Tree after tree, clad in the

glowing livery of the season, was passed, and as rapidly succeeded by

others. Occasionally a bough projected over their path, compelling the

riders to incline their heads as they passed; but, heedless of such

difficulties, they pressed on. Now the road grew lighter, and they

became at once sensible of the genial influence of the sun. The

transition was as agreeable as instantaneous. They had opened upon an

extensive plantation of full-grown pines, whose tall, branchless stems

grew up like a forest of masts, and freely admitted the pleasant

sunshine. Beneath those trees, the soil was sandy and destitute of all

undergrowth, though covered with brown, hair-like fibres and dry cones,

shed by the pines. The agile squirrel, that freest denizen of the grove,

starting from the ground as the horsemen galloped on, sprang up the

nearest tree, and might be seen angrily gazing at the disturbers of his

haunts, beating the branches with his fore feet, in expression of

displeasure; the rabbit darted across their path; the jays flew

screaming amongst the foliage; the blue cushat, scared at the clatter of

the horses' hoofs, sped on swift wing into quarters secure from their

approach; while the parti-colored pies, like curious village gossips,

congregated to peer at the strangers, expressing their astonishment by

loud and continuous chattering. Though so gentle of ascent as to be

almost imperceptible, it was still evident that the path they were

pursuing gradually mounted a hill-side; and when at length they reached

an opening, the view disclosed the eminence they had insensibly won.

Pausing for a moment upon the brow of the hill, Luke pointed to a stream

that wound through the valley, and, tracing its course, indicated a

particular spot amongst the trees. There was no appearance of a

dwelling house--no cottage roof, no white canvas shed, to point out the

tents of the wandering tribe whose abode they were seeking. The only

circumstance betokening that it had once been the haunt of man were a

few gray monastic ruins, scarce distinguishable from the stony barrier

by which they were surrounded; and the sole evidence that it was still

frequented by human beings was a thin column of pale blue smoke, that

arose in curling wreaths from out the brake, the light-colored vapor

beautifully contrasting with the green umbrage whence it issued.

"Our destination is yonder," exclaimed Luke, pointing in the direction

of the vapor.

"I am glad to hear it," cried Turpin, "as well as to perceive there is

some one awake. That smoke holds out a prospect of breakfast. No smoke

without fire, as old Lady Scanmag said; and I'll wager a trifle that

fire was not lighted for the fayter fellows to count their fingers by.

We shall find three sticks, and a black pot with a kid seething in it,

I'll engage. These gipsies have picked out a prettyish spot to quarter

in--quite picturesque, as one may say--and but for that tell-tale smoke,

which looks for all the world like a Dutch skipper blowing his morning

cloud, no one need know of their vicinity. A pretty place, upon my

soul."

The spot, in sooth, merited Turpin's eulogium. It was a little valley,

in the midst of wooded hills, so secluded, that not a single habitation

appeared in view. Clothed with timber to the very summits, excepting on

the side where the party stood, which verged upon the declivity, these

mountainous ridges presented a broken outline of foliage, variegated

with tinted masses of bright orange, timber, and deepest green. Four

hills hemmed in the valley. Here and there a gray slab of rock might be

discerned amongst the wood, and a mountain-ash figured conspicuously

upon a jutting crag immediately below them. Deep sunken in the ravine,

and concealed in part from view by the wild herbage and dwarf shrubs,

ran a range of precipitous rocks, severed, it would seem, by some

diluvial convulsion, from the opposite mountain side, as a corresponding

rift was there visible, in which the same dip of strata might be

observed, together with certain ribbed cavities, matching huge bolts of

rock which had once locked these stony walls together. Washing this

cliff, swept a clear stream, well known and well regarded, as it waxed

in width, by the honest brethren of the angle, who seldom, however,

tracked it to its rise amongst these hills. The stream found its way

into the valley through a chasm far to the left, and rushed thundering

down the mountain side in a boiling cascade. The valley was approached

in this direction from Rookwood by an unfrequented carriage-road, which

Luke had, from prudential reasons, avoided. All seemed consecrated to

silence--to solitude--to the hush of nature; yet this quiet scene was

the chosen retreat of lawless depredators, and had erstwhile been the

theatre of feudal oppression. We have said that no habitation was

visible; that no dwelling tenanted by man could be seen; but following

the spur of the furthest mountain hill, some traces of a stone wall

might be discovered; and upon a natural platform of rock stood a stern

square tower, which had once been the donjon of the castle, the lords of

which had called the four hills their own. A watch-tower then had

crowned each eminence, every vestige of which had, however, long since

disappeared. Sequestered in the vale stood the Priory before alluded

to--a Monastery of Gray Friars, of the Order of St. Francis--some of the

venerable walls of which were still remaining; and if they had not

reverted to the bat and the owl, as is wont to be the fate of such

sacred structures, their cloistered shrines were devoted to beings whose

natures partook, in some measure, of the instincts of those creatures of

the night--a people whose deeds were of darkness, and whose eyes shunned

the light. Here the gipsies had pitched their tent; and though the place

was often, in part, deserted by the vagrant horde, yet certain of the

tribe, who had grown into years--over whom Barbara Lovel held queenly

sway--made it their haunt, and were suffered by the authorities of the

neighborhood to remain unmolested--a lenient piece of policy, which, in

our infinite regard for the weal of the tawny tribe, we recommend to the

adoption of all other justices and knights of the shire.

Bidding his grandsire have regard to his seat, Luke leaped a high bank;

and, followed by Turpin, began to descend the hill. Peter, however, took

care to provide for himself. The descent was so perilous, and the

footing so insecure, that he chose rather to trust to such conveyance as

nature had furnished him with, than to hazard his neck by any false step

of the horse. He contrived, therefore, to slide off from behind, shaping

his own course in a more secure direction.

He who has wandered amidst the Alps must have often had occasion to

witness the wonderful surefootedness of that mountain pilot, the mule.

He must have remarked how, with tenacious hoof, he will claw the rock,

and drag himself from one impending fragment to another, with perfect

security to his rider; how he will breast the roaring currents of air,

and stand unshrinking at the verge of almost unfathomable ravines. But

it is not so with the horse: fleet on the plain, careful over rugged

ground, he is timid and uncertain on the hill-side, and the risk

incurred by Luke and Turpin, in their descent of the almost

perpendicular sides of the cliff, was tremendous. Peter watched them in

their descent with some admiration, and with much contempt.

"He will break his neck, of a surety," said he; "but what matters it? As

well now as hereafter."

So saying, he approached the verge of the precipice, where he could see

them more distinctly.

The passage along which Luke rode had never before been traversed by

horse's hoof. Cut in the rock, it presented a steep zigzag path amongst

the cliffs, without any defence for the foot traveller, except such as

was afforded by a casual clinging shrub, and no protection whatever

existed for a horseman; the possibility of any one attempting the

passage not having, in all probability, entered into the calculation of

those who framed it. Added to this, the steps were of such unequal

heights, and withal so narrow, that the danger was proportionately

increased.

"Ten thousand devils!" cried Turpin, staring downwards, "is this the

best road you have got?"

"You will find one more easy," replied Luke, "if you ride for a quarter

of a mile down the wood, and then return by the brook side. You will

meet me at the priory."

"No," answered the highwayman, boldly; "if you go, I go too. It shall

never be said that Dick Turpin was afraid to follow where another would

lead. Proceed."

Luke gave his horse the bridle, and the animal slowly and steadily

commenced the descent, fixing his fore legs upon the steps, and drawing

his hinder limbs carefully after him. Here it was that the lightness and

steadiness of Turpin's mare was completely shown. No Alpine mule could

have borne its rider with more apparent ease and safety. Turpin

encouraged her by hand and word; but she needed it not. The sexton saw

them, and, tracking their giddy descent, he became more interested than

he anticipated. His attention was suddenly drawn towards Luke.

"He is gone," cried Peter. "He falls--he sinks--my plans are all

defeated--the last link is snapped. No," added he, recovering his wonted

composure, "his end is not so fated."

Rook had missed his footing. He rolled stumbling down the precipice a

few yards. Luke's fate seemed inevitable. His feet were entangled in the

stirrup, he could not free himself. A birch tree, growing in a chink of

the precipice, arrested his further fall. But for this timely aid all

had been over. Here Luke was enabled to extricate himself from the

stirrup and to regain his feet; seizing the bridle, he dragged his

faulty steed back again to the road.

"You have had a narrow escape, by Jove," said Turpin, who had been

thunderstruck with the whole proceeding. "Those big cattle are always

clumsy; devilish lucky it's no worse."

It was now comparatively smooth travelling; but they had not as yet

reached the valley, and it seemed to be Luke's object to take a

circuitous path. This was so evident that Turpin could not help

commenting upon it.

Luke evaded the question. "The crag is steep there," said he; "besides,

to tell you the truth, I want to surprise them."

"Ho, ho!" laughed Dick. "Surprise them, eh? What a pity the birch tree

was in the way; you would have done it properly then. Egad, here's

another surprise."

Dick's last exclamation was caused by his having suddenly come upon a

wide gully in the rock, through which dashed a headlong torrent, crossed

by a single plank.

"You must be mad to have taken this road," cried Turpin, gazing down

into the roaring depths in which the waterfall raged, and measuring the

distance of the pass with his eye. "So, so, Bess!--Ay, look at it,

wench. Curse me, Luke, if I think your horse will do it, and, therefore,

turn him loose."

But Dick might as well have bidden the cataract to flow backwards. Luke

struck his heels into his horse's sides. The steed galloped to the

brink, snorted, and refused the leap.

"I told you so--he can't do it," said Turpin. "Well, if you are

obstinate, a wilful man must have his way. Stand aside, while I try it

for you." Patting Bess, he put her to a gallop. She cleared the gulf

bravely, landing her rider safely upon the opposite rock.

"Now then," cried Turpin, from the other side of the chasm.

Luke again urged his steed. Encouraged by what he had seen, this time

the horse sprang across without hesitation. The next instant they were

in the valley.

For some time they rode along the banks of the stream in silence. A

sound at length caught the quick ears of the highwayman.

"Hist!" cried he; "some one sings. Do you hear it?"

"I do," replied Luke, the blood rushing to his cheeks.

"And could give a guess at the singer, no doubt," said Turpin, with a

knowing look. "Was it to hear yon woodlark that you nearly broke your

own neck, and put mine in jeopardy?"

"Prithee be silent," whispered Luke.

"I am dumb," replied Turpin; "I like a sweet voice as well as another."

Clear as the note of a bird, yet melancholy as the distant dole of a

vesper-bell, arose the sound of that sweet voice from the wood. A

fragment of a Spanish gipsy song it warbled: Luke knew it well. Thus ran

the romance:

LA GITANILLA

By the Guadalquivir,

Ere the sun be flown,

By that glorious river

Sits a maid alone.

Like the sunset splendor

Of that current bright,

Shone her dark eyes tender

As its witching light.

Like the ripple flowing,

Tinged with purple sheen,

Darkly, richly glowing,

Is her warm cheek seen.

'Tis the Gitanilla

By the stream doth linger,

In the hope that eve

Will her lover bring her.

See, the sun is sinking;

All grows dim, and dies;

See, the waves are drinking

Glories of the skies.

Day's last lustre playeth

On that current dark;

Yet no speck betrayeth

His long looked-for bark.

'Tis the hour of meeting!

Nay, the hour is past;

Swift the time is fleeting!

Fleeteth hope as fast.

Still the Gitanilla

By the stream doth linger,

In the hope that night

Will her lover bring her.

The tender trembling of a guitar was heard in accompaniment of the

ravishing melodist.

The song ceased.

"Where is the bird?" asked Turpin.

"Move on in silence, and you shall see," said Luke; and keeping upon the

turf, so that his horse's tread became inaudible, he presently arrived

at a spot where, through the boughs, the object of his investigation

could plainly be distinguished, though he himself was concealed from

view.

Upon a platform of rock, rising to the height of the trees, nearly

perpendicularly from the river's bed, appeared the figure of the gipsy

maid. Her footstep rested on the extreme edge of the abrupt cliff, at

whose base the water boiled in a deep whirlpool, and the bounding

chamois could not have been more lightly poised. One small hand rested

upon her guitar, the other pressed her brow. Braided hair, of the

jettiest dye and sleekest texture, was twined around her brow in endless

twisted folds:

Rowled it was in many a curious fret,

Much like a rich and curious coronet,

Upon whose arches twenty Cupids lay,

And were as tied, or loth to fly away.[24]

And so exuberant was this rarest feminine ornament, that, after

encompassing her brow, it was passed behind, and hung down in long thick

plaits almost to her feet. Sparkling, as the sunbeams that played upon

her dark yet radiant features, were the large, black, Oriental eyes of

the maiden, and shaded with lashes long and silken. Hers was a Moorish

countenance, in which the magnificence of the eyes eclipses the face, be

it ever so beautiful--an effect to be observed in the angelic pictures

of Murillo,--and the lovely contour is scarcely noticed in the gaze

which those long, languid, luminous orbs attract. Sybil's features were

exquisite, yet you looked only at her eyes--they were the loadstars of

her countenance. Her costume was singular, and partook, like herself, of

other climes. Like the Andalusian dame, her choice of color inclined

towards black, as the material of most of her dress was of that sombre

hue. A bodice of embroidered velvet restrained her delicate bosom's

swell; a rich girdle, from which depended a silver chain, sustaining a

short poniard, bound her waist; around her slender throat was twined a

costly kerchief; and the rest of her dress was calculated to display her

slight, yet faultless, figure to the fullest advantage.

Unconscious that she was the object of regard, she raised her guitar,

and essayed to touch the chords. She struck a few notes, and resumed her

romance:

Swift that stream flows on,

Swift the night is wearing,--

Yet she is not gone,

Though with heart despairing.

Her song died away. Her hand was needed to brush off the tears that were

gathering in her large dark eyes. At once her attitude was changed. The

hare could not have started more suddenly from her form. She heard

accents well known concluding the melody:

Dips an oar-plash--hark!--

Gently on the river;

'Tis her lover's bark.

On the Guadalquivir.

Hark! a song she hears!

Every note she snatches;

As the singer nears,

Her own name she catches.

Now the Gitanilla

Stays not by the water,

For the midnight hour

Hath her lover brought her.

It was her lover's voice. She caught the sound at once, and, starting,

as the roe would arouse herself at the hunter's approach, bounded down

the crag, and ere he had finished the refrain, was by his side.

Flinging the bridle to Turpin, Luke sprang to her, and caught her in his

arms. Disengaging herself from his ardent embrace, Sybil drew back,

abashed at the sight of the highwayman.

"Heed him not," said Luke; "it is a friend."

"He is welcome here then," replied Sybil. "But where have you tarried so

long, dear Luke?" continued she, as they walked to a little distance

from the highwayman. "What hath detained you? The hours have passed

wearily since you departed. You bring good news?"

"Good news, my girl; so good, that I falter even in the telling of it.

You shall know all anon. And see, our friend yonder grows impatient. Are

there any stirring? We must bestow a meal upon him, and that forthwith:

he is one of those who brook not much delay."

"I came not to spoil a love meeting," said Turpin, who had

good-humoredly witnessed the scene; "but, in sober seriousness, if there

is a stray capon to be met with in the land of Egypt, I shall be glad to

make his acquaintance. Methinks I scent a stew afar off."

"Follow me," said Sybil; "your wants shall be supplied."

"Stay," said Luke; "there is one other of our party whose coming we must

abide."

"He is here," said Sybil, observing the sexton at a distance. "Who is

that old man?"

"My grandsire, Peter Bradley."

"Is that Peter Bradley?" asked Sybil.

"Ay, you may well ask whether that old dried-up _otomy_, who ought to

grin in a glass case for folks to stare at, be kith and kin of such a

bang-up cove as your fancy man, Luke," said Turpin, laughing--"but i'

faith he is."

"Though he is your grandsire, Luke," said Sybil, "I like him not. His

glance resembles that of the Evil Eye."

And, in fact, the look which Peter fixed upon her was such as the

rattlesnake casts upon its victim, and Sybil felt like a poor fluttering

bird under the fascination of that venomous reptile. She could not

remove her eyes from his, though she trembled as she gazed. We have said

that Peter's orbs were like those of the toad. Age had not dimmed their

brilliancy. In his harsh features you could only read bitter scorn or

withering hate; but in his eyes resided a magnetic influence of

attraction or repulsion. Sybil underwent the former feeling in a

disagreeable degree. She was drawn to him as by the motion of a

whirlpool, and involuntarily clung to her lover.

"It is the Evil Eye, dear Luke."

"Tut, tut, dear Sybil; I tell you it is my grandsire."

"The girl says rightly, however," rejoined Turpin; "Peter has a

confounded ugly look about the ogles, and stares enough to put a modest

wench out of countenance. Come, come, my old earthworm, crawl along, we

have waited for you long enough. Is this the first time you have seen a

pretty lass, eh?"

"It is the first time I have seen one so beautiful," said Peter; "and I

crave her pardon if my freedom has offended her. I wonder not at your

enchantment, grandson Luke, now I behold the object of it. But there is

one piece of counsel I would give to this fair maid. The next time she

trusts you from her sight, I would advise her to await you at the

hill-top, otherwise the chances are shrewdly against your reaching the

ground with neck unbroken."

There was something, notwithstanding the satirical manner in which Peter

delivered this speech, calculated to make a more favorable impression

upon Sybil than his previous conduct had inspired her with; and, having

ascertained from Luke to what his speech referred, she extended her hand

to him, yet not without a shudder, as it was enclosed in his skinny

grasp. It was like the fingers of Venus in the grasp of a skeleton.

"This is a little hand," said Peter, "and I have some skill myself in

palmistry. Shall I peruse its lines?"

"Not now, in the devil's name!" said Turpin, stamping impatiently. "We

shall have Old Ruffin himself amongst us presently, if Peter Bradley

grows gallant."

Leading their horses, the party took their way through the trees. A few

minutes' walking brought them in sight of the gipsy encampment, the spot

selected for which might be termed the Eden of the valley. It was a

small green plain, smooth as a well-shorn lawn, kept ever verdant--save

in the spots where the frequent fires had scorched its surface--by the

flowing stream that rushed past it, and surrounded by an amphitheatre of

wooded hills. Here might be seen the canvas tent with its patches of

varied coloring; the rude-fashioned hut of primitive construction; the

kettle slung

Between two poles, upon a stick transverse;

the tethered beasts of burden, the horses, asses, dogs, carts, caravans,

wains, blocks, and other movables and immovables belonging to the

wandering tribe. Glimmering through the trees, at the extremity of the

plain, appeared the ivy-mantled walls of Davenham Priory. Though much

had gone to decay, enough remained to recall the pristine state of this

once majestic pile, and the long, though broken line of Saxon arches,

that still marked the cloister wall; the piers that yet supported the

dormitory; the enormous horse-shoe arch that spanned the court; and,

above all, the great marigold, or circular window, which terminated the

chapel, and which, though now despoiled of its painted honors, retained,

like the skeleton leaf, its fibrous intricacies entire,--all eloquently

spoke of the glories of the past, while they awakened reverence and

admiration for the still enduring beauty of the present.

Towards these ruins Sybil conducted the party.

"Do you dwell therein?" asked Peter, pointing towards the priory.

"That is my dwelling," said Sybil.

"It is one I should covet more than a modern mansion," returned the

sexton.

"I love those old walls better than any house that was ever fashioned,"

replied Sybil.

As they entered the Prior's Close, as it was called, several swarthy

figures made their appearance from the tents. Many a greeting was

bestowed upon Luke, in the wild jargon of the tribe. At length an

uncouth dwarfish figure, with a shock head of black hair, hopped towards

them. He seemed to acknowledge Luke as his master.

"What ho! Grasshopper," said Luke, "take these horses, and see that they

lack neither dressing nor provender."

"And hark ye, Grasshopper," added Turpin; "I give you a special charge

about this mare. Neither dress nor feed her till I see both done myself.

Just walk her for ten minutes, and if you have a glass of ale in the

place, let her sip it."

"Your bidding shall be done," chirped the human insect, as he fluttered

away with his charges.

A motley assemblage of tawny-skinned varlets, dark-eyed women and

children, whose dusky limbs betrayed their lineage, in strange costume,

and of wild deportment, checked the path, muttering welcome upon welcome

into the ear of Luke as he passed. As it was evident he was in no mood

for converse, Sybil, who seemed to exercise considerable authority over

the crew, with a word dispersed them, and they herded back to their

respective habitations.

A low door admitted Luke and his companions into what had once been the

garden, in which some old moss-encrusted apple and walnut-trees were

still standing, bearing a look of antiquity almost as venerable as that

of the adjoining fabric.

Another open door gave them entrance to a spacious chamber, formerly the

eating-room or refectory of the holy brotherhood, and a goodly room it

had been, though now its slender lanceolated windows were stuffed with

hay to keep out the air. Large holes told where huge oaken rafters had

once crossed the roof, and a yawning aperture marked the place where a

cheering fire had formerly blazed. As regarded this latter spot, the

good old custom was not, even now, totally abrogated. An iron plate,

covered with crackling wood, sustained a ponderous black caldron, the

rich steam from which gratefully affected the olfactory organs of the

highwayman.

"That augurs well," said he, rubbing his hands.

"Still hungering after the fleshpots of Egypt," said the sexton, with a

ghastly smile.

"We will see what that kettle contains," said Luke.

"Handassah--Grace!" exclaimed Sybil, calling.

Her summons was answered by two maidens, habited not unbecomingly, in

gipsy gear.

"Bring the best our larder can furnish," said Sybil, "and use despatch.

You have appetites to provide for, sharpened by a long ride in the open

air."

"And by a night's fasting," said Luke, "and solitary confinement to

boot."

"And a night of business," added Turpin--"and plaguy perplexing business

into the bargain."

"And the night of a funeral too," doled Peter; "and that funeral a

father's. Let us have breakfast speedily, by all means. We have rare

appetites."

An old oaken table--it might have been the self-same upon which the holy

friars had broken their morning fast--stood in the middle of the room.

The ample board soon groaned beneath the weight of the savory caldron,

the unctuous contents of which proved to be a couple of dismembered

pheasants, an equal proportion of poultry, great gouts of ham,

mushrooms, onions, and other piquant condiments, so satisfactory to Dick

Turpin, that, upon tasting a mouthful, he absolutely shed tears of

delight. The dish was indeed the triumph of gipsy cookery; and so

sedulously did Dick apply himself to his mess, and so complete was his

abstraction, that he perceived not he was left alone. It was only when

about to wash down the last drumstick of the last fowl with a can of

excellent ale that he made this discovery.

"What! all gone? And Peter Bradley, too? What the devil does this mean?"

mused he. "I must not muddle my brain with any more Pharaoh, though I

have feasted like a king of Egypt. That will never do. Caution, Dick,

caution. Suppose I shift yon brick from the wall, and place this

precious document beneath it. Pshaw! Luke would never play me false. And

now for Bess! Bless her black skin! she'll wonder where I've been so

long. It's not my way to leave her to shift for herself, though she can

do that on a pinch."

Soliloquizing thus, he arose and walked towards the door.

_CHAPTER III_

_SYBIL_

The wiving vine, that round the friendly elm

Twines her soft limbs, and weaves a leafy mantle

For her supporting lover, dares not venture

To mix her humble boughs with the embraces

Of the more lofty cedar.

GLAPTHORNE: _Albertus Wallenstein_.

Beneath a moldering wall, whither they had strayed, to be free from

interruption, and upon a carpet of the greenest moss, sat Sybil and her

lover.

With eager curiosity she listened to his tale. He recounted all that had

befallen him since his departure. He told her of the awful revelations

of the tomb; of the ring that, like a talisman, had conjured up a

thousand brilliant prospects; of his subsequent perils; his escapes; his

rencontre with Lady Rookwood; his visit to his father's body; and his

meeting with his brother. All this she heard with a cheek now flushed

with expectation, now made pale with apprehension; with palpitating

bosom, and suppressed breath. But when taking a softer tone, love,

affection, happiness inspired the theme, and Luke sought to paint the

bliss that should be theirs in his new estate; when he would throw his

fortune into her lap, his titles at her feet, and bid her wear them with

him; when, with ennobled hand and unchanged heart, he would fulfil the

troth plighted in his outcast days; in lieu of tender, grateful

acquiescence, the features of Sybil became overcast, the soft smile

faded away, and, as spring sunshine is succeeded by the sudden shower,

the light that dwelt in her sunny orbs grew dim with tears.

"Why--why is this, dear Sybil?" said Luke, gazing upon her in

astonishment, not unmingled with displeasure. "To what am I to attribute

these tears? You do not, surely, regret my good fortune?"

"Not on your own account, dear Luke," returned she, sadly. "The tears I

shed were for myself--the first, the only tears that I have ever shed

for such cause; and," added she, raising her head like a flower

surcharged with moisture, "they shall be the last."

"This is inexplicable, dear Sybil. Why should you lament for yourself,

if not for me? Does not the sunshine of prosperity that now shines upon

me gild you with the same beam? Did I not even now affirm that the day

that saw me enter the hall of my forefathers should dawn upon our

espousals?"

"True; but the sun that shines upon you, to me wears a threatening

aspect. The day of those espousals will never dawn. You cannot make me

the Lady of Rookwood."

"What do I hear?" exclaimed Luke, surprised at this avowal of his

mistress, sadly and deliberately delivered. "Not wed you! And wherefore

not? Is it the rank I have acquired, or hope to acquire, that displeases

you? Speak, that I may waste no further time in thus pursuing the

shadows of happiness, while the reality fleets from me."

"And _are_ they shadows; and _is_ this the reality, dear Luke? Question

your secret soul, and you will find it otherwise. You could not forego

your triumph; it is not likely. You have dwelt too much upon the proud

title which will be yours to yield it to another, when it may be won so

easily. And, above all, when your mother's reputation, and your own

stained name, may be cleared by one word, breathed aloud, would you fail

to utter it? No, dear Luke, I read your heart; you would not."

"And if I could _not_ forego this, wherefore is it that you refuse to be

a sharer in my triumph? Why will you render my honors valueless when I

have acquired them? You love me not."

"Not love you, Luke?"

"Approve it, then."

"I do approve it. Bear witness the sacrifice I am about to make of all

my hopes, at the shrine of my idolatry to you. Bear witness the agony of

this hour. Bear witness the horror of the avowal, that I never can be

yours. As Luke Bradley, I would joyfully--oh, how joyfully!--have been

your bride. As Sir Luke Rookwood"--and she shuddered as she pronounced

the name--"I never can be so."

"Then, by Heaven! Luke Bradley will I remain. But wherefore--wherefore

not as Sir Luke Rookwood?"

"Because," replied Sybil, with reluctance--"because I am no longer your

equal. The gipsy's low-born daughter is no mate for Sir Luke Rookwood.

Love cannot blind me, dear Luke. It cannot make me other than I am; it

cannot exalt me in my own esteem, nor in that of the world, with which

you, alas! too soon will mingle, and which will regard even me as--no

matter what!--it shall not scorn me as your bride. I will not bring

shame and reproach upon you. Oh! if for me, dear Luke, the proud ones of

the earth were to treat you with contumely, this heart would break with

agony. For myself, I have pride sufficient--perchance too much.

Perchance 'tis pride that actuates me now. I know not. But for you I am

all weakness. As you were heretofore, I would have been to you the

tenderest and truest wife that ever breathed; as you are now----"

"Hear me, Sybil."

"Hear _me_ out, dear Luke. One other motive there is that determines my

present conduct, which, were all else surmounted, would in itself

suffice. Ask me not what that is. I cannot explain it. For your own

sake; I implore you, be satisfied with my refusal."

"What a destiny is mine!" exclaimed Luke, striking his forehead with his

clenched hand. "No choice is left me. Either way I destroy my own

happiness. On the one hand stands love--on the other, ambition; yet

neither will conjoin."

"Pursue, then, ambition," said Sybil, energetically, "if you _can_

hesitate. Forget that I have ever existed; forget you have ever loved;

forget that such a passion dwells within the human heart, and you may

still be happy, though you are great."

"And do you deem," replied Luke, with frantic impatience, "that I _can_

accomplish this; that I _can_ forget that I have loved you; that I _can_

forget you? Cost what it will, the effort shall be made. Yet by our

former love, I charge you tell me what has wrought this change in you!

Why do you _now_ refuse me?"

"I have said you are Sir Luke Rookwood," returned Sybil, with painful

emotion. "Does that name import nothing?"

"Imports it aught of ill?"

"To me, everything of ill. It is a fated house. Its line are all

predestined."

"To what?" demanded Luke.

"To _murder_!" replied Sybil, with solemn emphasis. "To the murder of

their wives. Forgive me, Luke, if I have dared to utter this. Yourself

compelled me to it."

Amazement, horror, wrath, kept Luke silent for a few moments. Starting

to his feet, he cried:

"And can you suspect me of a crime so foul? Think you, because I shall

assume the name, that I shall put on the nature likewise of my race? Do

you believe me capable of aught so horrible?"

"Oh, no, I believe it not. I am sure you would not do it. Your soul

would reject with horror such a deed. But if Fate should guide your

hand, if the avenging spirit of your murdered ancestress should point to

the steel, you could not shun it then."

"In Heaven's name! to what do you allude?"

"To a tradition of your house," replied Sybil. "Listen to me, and you

shall hear the legend." And with a pathos that produced a thrilling

effect upon Luke, she sang the following ballad:

THE LEGEND OF THE LADY OF ROOKWOOD

Grim Ranulph home hath at midnight come, from the long wars of the

Roses,

And the squire, who waits at his ancient gates, a secret dark

discloses;

To that varlet's words no response accords his lord, but his visage

stern

Grows ghastly white in the wan moonlight, and his eyes like the lean

wolf's burn.

To his lady's bower, at that lonesome hour, unannounced, is Sir

Ranulph gone;

Through the dim corridor, through the hidden door, he glides--she is

all alone!

Full of holy zeal doth his young dame kneel at the meek Madonna's feet,

Her hands are pressed on her gentle breast, and upturned is her aspect

sweet.

Beats Ranulph's heart with a joyful start, as he looks on her

guiltless face;

And the raging fire of his jealous ire is subdued by the words of

grace;

His own name shares her murmured prayers--more freely can he breathe;

But ah! that look! Why doth he pluck his poniard from its sheath?

On a footstool thrown, lies a costly gown of saye and of minevere

--A mantle fair for the dainty wear of a migniard cavalier,--

And on it flung, to a bracelet hung, a picture meets his eye;

"By my father's head!" grim Ranulph said, "false wife, thy end draws

nigh."

From off its chain hath the fierce knight ta'en that fond and fatal

pledge;

His dark eyes blaze, no word he says, thrice gleams his dagger's edge!

Her blood it drinks, and, as she sinks, his victim hears his cry:

"For kiss impure of paramour, adult'ress, dost thou die!"

Silent he stood, with hands embrued in gore, and glance of flame,

As thus her plaint, in accents faint, made his ill-fated dame:

"Kind Heaven can tell, that all too well, I've loved thee, cruel lord;

But now with hate commensurate, assassin, thou'rt abhorred.

"I've loved thee long, through doubt and wrong; I've loved thee and

no other;

And my love was pure for my paramour, for alas! he was my brother!

The Red, Red Rose, on _thy_ banner glows, on _his_ pennon gleams the

White,

And the bitter feud, that ye both have rued, forbids ye to unite.

"My bower he sought, what time he thought thy jealous vassals slept,

Of joy we dreamed, and never deemed that watch those vassals kept;

An hour flew by, too speedily!--that picture was his boon:

Ah! little thrift to me that gift: he left me all too soon!

"Wo worth the hour! dark fates did lower, when our hands were first

united,

For my heart's firm truth, 'mid tears and ruth, with death hast thou

requited:

In prayer sincere, full many a year of my wretched life I've spent;

But to hell's control would I give my soul to work thy chastisement!"

These wild words said, low drooped her head, and Ranulph's

life-blood froze,

For the earth did gape, as an awful shape from out its depths arose:

"Thy prayer is heard, Hell hath concurred," cried the fiend, "thy

soul is mine!

Like fate may dread each dame shall wed with Ranulph or his line!"

Within the tomb to await her doom is that hapless lady sleeping,

And another bride by Ranulph's side through the livelong night is

weeping.

_This_ dame declines--a third repines, and fades, like the rest, away;

Her lot she rues, whom a Rookwood woos--_cursed is her Wedding Day_!

"And this is the legend of my ancestress?" said Luke, as Sybil's strains

were ended.

"It is," replied she.

"An idle tale," observed Luke, moodily.

"Not so," answered Sybil. "Has not the curse of blood clung to all your

line? Has it not attached to your father--to Sir Reginald--Sir

Ralph--Sir Ranulph--to all? Which of them has escaped it? And when I

tell you this, dear Luke; when I find you bear the name of this accursed

race, can you wonder if I shudder at adding to the list of the victims

of that ruthless spirit, and that I tremble for you? I would die _for_

you willingly--but not by your hand. I would not that my blood, which I

would now pour out for you as freely as water, should rise up in

judgment against you. For myself I have no tears--for _you_, a thousand.

My mother, upon her death-bed, told me I should never be yours. I

believed her not, for I was happy then. She said that we never should be

united; or, if united----?"

"What, in Heaven's name?"

"That you would be my destroyer. How could I credit her words then? How

can I doubt them now, when I find you are a Rookwood? And think not,

dear Luke, that I am ruled by selfish fears in this resolution. To

renounce you may cost me my life; but the deed will be my own. You may

call me superstitious, credulous: I have been nurtured in credulity. It

is the faith of my fathers. There are those, methinks, who have an

insight into futurity; and such boding words have been spoken, that, be

they true or false, I will not risk their fulfilment in my person. I may

be credulous; I may be weak; I may be erring; but I am steadfast in

this. Bid me perish at your feet, and I will do it. I will not be your

Fate. I will not be the wretched instrument of your perdition. I will

love, worship, watch, serve, perish for you--but I'll not wed you."

Exhausted by the vehemence of her emotion, she would have sunk upon the

ground, had not Luke caught her in his arms. Pressing her to his bosom,

he renewed his passionate protestations. Every argument was unavailing.

Sybil appeared inflexible.

"You love me as you have ever loved me?" said she, at length.

"A thousand-fold more fervently," replied Luke; "put it to the test."

"How if I dare to do so? Consider well: I may ask too much."

"Name it. If it be not to surrender you, by my mother's body I will obey

you."

"I would propose an oath."

"Ha!"

"A solemn, binding oath, that; if you wed me not, you will not wed

another. Ha! do you start? Have I appalled you?"

"I start? I will take it. Hear me--by----"

"Hold!" exclaimed a voice behind them. "Do not forswear yourself." And

immediately afterwards the sexton made his appearance. There was a

malignant smile upon his countenance. The lovers started at the ominous

interruption.

"Begone!" cried Luke.

"Take not that oath," said Peter, "and I leave you. Remember the counsel

I gave you on our way hither."

"What counsel did he give you, Luke?" inquired Sybil, eagerly, of her

lover.

"We spoke of you, fond girl," replied Peter. "I cautioned him against

the match. I knew not your sentiments, or I had spared myself the

trouble. You have judged wisely. Were he to wed you, ill would come of

it. But he _must_ wed another."

"MUST!" cried Sybil, her eyes absolutely emitting sparkles of

indignation from their night-like depths; and, unsheathing as she spoke

the short poniard which she wore at her girdle, she rushed towards

Peter, raising her hand to strike.

"_Must_ wed another! And dare you counsel this?"

"Put up your dagger, fair maiden," said Peter, calmly. "Had I been

younger, your eyes might have had more terrors for me than your weapon;

as it is, I am proof against both. You would not strike an old man like

myself, and of your lover's kin?"

Sybil's uplifted hand fell to her side.

"'Tis true," continued the sexton, "I dared to give him this advice; and

when you have heard me out, you will not, I am persuaded, think me so

unreasonable as, at first, I may appear to be. I have been an unseen

listener to your converse; not that I desire to pry into your

secrets--far from it; I overheard you by accident. I applaud your

resolution; but if you are inclined to sacrifice all for your lover's

weal, do not let the work be incomplete. Bind him not by oaths which he

will regard as spiders' webs, to be burst through at pleasure. You see,

as well as I do, that he is bent on being lord of Rookwood; and, in

truth, to an aspiring mind, such a desire is natural, is praiseworthy.

It will be pleasant, as well as honorable, to efface the stain cast upon

his birth. It will be an act of filial duty in him to restore his

mother's good name; and I, her father, laud his anxiety on that score;

though, to speak truth, fair maid, I am not so rigid as your nice

moralists in my view of human nature, and can allow a latitude to love

which their nicer scruples will not admit. It will be a proud thing to

triumph over his implacable foe; and this he may accomplish----"

"Without marriage," interrupted Sybil, angrily.

"True," returned Peter; "yet not maintain it. May win it, but not wear

it. You have said truly, the house of Rookwood is a fated house; and it

hath been said likewise, that if he wed not one of his own kindred--that

if Rook mate not with Rook, his possessions shall pass away from his

hands. Listen to this prophetic quatrain:

When the stray Rook shall perch on the topmost bough,

There shall be clamor and screeching, I trow;

But of right to, and rule of the ancient nest,

The Rook that with Rook mates shall hold him possest.

You hear what these quaint rhymes say. Luke is, doubtless, the stray

rook, and a fledgeling hath flown hither from a distant country. He must

take her to his mate, or relinquish her and 'the ancient nest' to his

brother. For my own part, I disregard such sayings. I have little faith

in prophecy and divination. I know not what Eleanor Mowbray, for so she

is called, can have to do with the tenure of the estates of Rookwood.

But if Luke Rookwood, after he has lorded it for awhile in splendor, be

cast forth again in rags and wretchedness, let him not blame his

grandsire for his own want of caution."

"Luke, I implore you, tell me," said Sybil, who had listened,

horror-stricken, to the sexton, shuddering, as it were, beneath the

chilly influence of his malevolent glance, "is this true? Does your fate

depend upon Eleanor Mowbray? Who is she? What has she to do with

Rookwood? Have you seen her? Do you love her?"

"I have never seen her," replied Luke.

"Thank Heaven for that!" cried Sybil. "Then you love her not?"

"How were that possible?" returned Luke. "Do I not say I have not seen

her?"

"Who is she, then?"

"This old man tells me she is my cousin. She is betrothed to my brother

Ranulph."

"How?" ejaculated Sybil. "And would you snatch his betrothed from your

brother's arms? Would you do him this grievous wrong? Is it not enough

that you must wrest from him that which he has long deemed his own? And

if he has falsely deemed it so, it will not make his loss the less

bitter. If you do thus wrong your brother, do not look for happiness; do

not look for respect; for neither will be your portion. Even this

stony-hearted old man shrinks aghast at such a deed. His snake-like eyes

are buried on the ground. See, I have moved even _him_."

And in truth Peter did appear, for an instant, strangely moved.

"'Tis nothing," returned he, mastering his emotion by a strong effort.

"What is all this to me? I never had a brother. I never had aught--wife,

child, or relative, that loved me. And I love not the world, nor the

things of the world, nor those that inhabit the world. But I know what

sways the world and its inhabitants; and that is, SELF! AND

SELF-INTEREST! Let Luke reflect on this. The key to Rookwood is Eleanor

Mowbray. The hand that grasps hers, grasps those lands; thus saith the

prophecy."

"It is a lying prophecy."

"It was uttered by one of your race."

"By whom?"

"By Barbara Lovel," said Peter, with a sneer of triumph.

"Ha!"

"Heed him not," exclaimed Luke, as Sybil recoiled at this intelligence.

"I am yours."

"Not mine! not mine!" shrieked she; "but, oh! not _hers_!"

"Whither go you?" cried Luke, as Sybil, half bewildered, tore herself

from him.

"To Barbara Lovel."

"I will go with you."

"No! let me go alone. I have much to ask her; yet tarry not with this

old man, dear Luke, or close your ears to his crafty talk. Avoid him.

Oh, I am sick at heart. Follow me not; I implore you, follow me not."

And with distracted air she darted amongst the mouldering cloisters,

leaving Luke stupefied with anguish and surprise. The sexton maintained

a stern and stoical composure.

"She is a woman, after all," muttered he; "all her high-flown resolves

melt like snow in the sunshine at the thought of a rival. I congratulate

you, grandson Luke; you are free from your fetters."

"Free!" echoed Luke. "Quit my sight; I loathe to look upon you. You have

broken the truest heart that ever beat in woman's bosom."

"Tut, tut," returned Peter; "it is not broken yet. Wait till we hear

what old Barbara has got to say; and, meanwhile, we must arrange with

Dick Turpin the price of that certificate. The knave knows its value

well. Come, be a man. This is worse than womanish."

And at length he succeeded, half by force and half by persuasion, in

dragging Luke away with him.

_CHAPTER IV_

_BARBARA LOVEL_

Los Gitanos son encantadores, adivinos, magos, chyromanticos, que

dicen por las rayas de las manos lo Futuro, que ellos llaman

Buenaventura, y generalmente son dados à toda supersticion.

DOCTOR SANCHO DE MONCADA.

_Discurso sobre Espulsion de los Gitanos._

Like a dove escaped from the talons of the falcon, Sybil fled from the

clutches of the sexton. Her brain was in a whirl, her blood on fire. She

had no distinct perception of external objects; no definite notion of

what she herself was about to do, and glided more like a flitting spirit

than a living woman along the ruined ambulatory. Her hair had fallen in

disorder over her face. She stayed not to adjust it, but tossed aside

the blinding locks with frantic impatience. She felt as one may feel who

tries to strain his nerves, shattered by illness, to the endurance of

some dreadful, yet necessary pain.

Sybil loved her granddame, old Barbara; but it was with a love tempered

by fear. Barbara was not a person to inspire esteem or to claim

affection. She was regarded by the wild tribe which she ruled as their

queen-elect, with some such feeling of inexplicable awe as is

entertained by the African slave for the Obeah woman. They acknowledged

her power, unhesitatingly obeyed her commands, and shrank with terror

from her anathema, which was indeed seldom pronounced; but when uttered,

was considered as doom. Her tribe she looked upon as her flock, and

stretched her maternal hand over all, ready alike to cherish or

chastise; and having already survived a generation, that which

succeeded, having from infancy imbibed a superstitious veneration for

the "cunning woman," as she was called, the sentiment could never be

wholly effaced. Winding her way, she knew not how, through roofless

halls, over disjointed fragments of fallen pillars, Sybil reached a

flight of steps. A door, studded with iron nails, stayed her progress;

it was an old, strong oaken frame, surmounted by a Gothic arch, in the

keystone of which leered one of those grotesque demoniacal faces with

which the fathers of the church delighted to adorn their shrines. Sybil

looked up--her glance encountered the fantastical visage. It recalled

the features of the sexton, and seemed to mock her--to revile her. Her

fortitude at once deserted her. Her fingers were upon the handle of the

door. She hesitated: she even drew back, with the intention of

departing, for she felt then that she dared not face Barbara. It was too

late--she had moved the handle. A deep voice from within called to her

by name. She dared not disobey that call--she entered.

The room in which Sybil found herself was the only entire apartment now

existing in the priory. It had survived the ravages of time; it had

escaped the devastation of man, whose ravages outstrip those of time.

Octagonal, lofty, yet narrow, you saw at once that it formed the

interior of a turret. It was lighted by a small oriel window, commanding

a lovely view of the scenery around, and paneled with oak, richly

wrought in ribs and groins; and from overhead depended a molded ceiling

of honeycomb plaster-work. This room had something, even now, in the

days of its desecration, of monastic beauty about it. Where the odor of

sanctity had breathed forth, the fumes of idolatry prevailed; but

imagination, ever on the wing, flew back to that period--and a tradition

to that effect warranted the supposition--when, perchance, it had been

the sanctuary and the privacy of the prior's self.

Wrapped in a cloak composed of the skins of various animals, upon a low

pallet, covered with stained scarlet cloth, sat Barbara. Around her head

was coiffed, in folds like those of an Asiatic turban, a rich, though

faded shawl, and her waist was encircled with the magic zodiacal

zone--proper to the sorceress--the _Mago Cineo_ of the Cingara--whence

the name Zingaro, according to Moncada--which Barbara had brought from

Spain. From her ears depended long golden drops, of curious antique

fashioning; and upon her withered fingers, which looked like a coil of

lizards, were hooped a multitude of silver rings, of the purest and

simplest manufacture. They seemed almost of massive unwrought metal. Her

skin was yellow as the body of a toad; corrugated as its back. She might

have been steeped in saffron from her finger tips, the nails of which

were of the same hue, to such portions of her neck as were visible, and

which was puckered up like the throat of a turtle. To look at her, one

might have thought the embalmer had experimented her art upon herself.

So dead, so bloodless, so blackened seemed the flesh, where flesh

remained, leather could scarce be tougher than her skin. She seemed like

an animated mummy. A frame so tanned, appeared calculated to endure for

ages; and, perhaps, might have done so. But, alas! the soul cannot be

embalmed. No oil can re-illumine that precious lamp! And that Barbara's

vital spark was fast waning, was evident from her heavy, blood-shot

eyes, once of a swimming black, and lengthy as a witch's, which were now

sinister and sunken.

The atmosphere of the room was as strongly impregnated as a museum with

volatile odors, emitted from the stores of drugs with which the shelves

were loaded, as well as from various stuffed specimens of birds and wild

animals. Barbara's only living companion was a monstrous owl, which,

perched over the old gipsy's head, hissed a token of recognition as

Sybil advanced. From a hook, placed in the plaster roof, was suspended a

globe of crystal glass, about the size and shape of a large gourd,

filled with a pure pellucid liquid, in which a small snake, the Egyptian

aspic, described perpetual gyrations.

Dim were the eyes of Barbara, yet not altogether sightless. The troubled

demeanor of her grandchild struck her as she entered. She felt the hot

drops upon her hand as Sybil stooped to kiss it; she heard her

vainly-stifled sobs.

"What ails you, child?" said Barbara, in a voice that rattled in her

throat, and hollow as the articulation of a phantom. "Have you heard

tidings of Luke Bradley? Has any ill befallen him? I said you would

either hear of him or see him this morning. He is not returned, I see.

What have you heard?"

"He _is_ returned," replied Sybil, faintly; "and no ill hath happened to

him."

"He _is_ returned, and you are here," echoed Barbara. "No ill hath

happened to _him_, thou sayest--am I to understand there is--to _you_?"

Sybil answered not. She could not answer.

"I see, I see," said Barbara, more gently, her head and hand shaking

with paralytic affection: "a quarrel, a lover's quarrel. Old as I am, I

have not forgotten my feelings as a girl. What woman ever does, if she

be woman? and you, like your poor mother, are a true-hearted wench. She

loved her husband, as a husband should be loved, Sybil; and though she

loved me well, she loved him better, as was right. Ah! it was a bitter

day when she left me for Spain; for though, to one of our wandering

race, all countries are alike, yet the soil of our birth is dear to us,

and the presence of our kindred dearer. Well, well, I will not think of

that. She is gone. Nay, take it not so to heart, wench. Luke has a hasty

temper. 'Tis not the first time I have told you so. He will not bear

rebuke, and you have questioned him too shrewdly touching his absence.

Is it not so? Heed it not. Trust me, you will have him seek your

forgiveness ere the shadows shorten 'neath the noontide sun."

"Alas! alas!" said Sybil, sadly, "this is no lover's quarrel, which may,

at once, be forgotten and forgiven--would it were so!"

"What is it, then?" asked Barbara; and without waiting Sybil's answer,

she continued, with vehemence, "has he wronged you? Tell me, girl, in

what way? Speak, that I may avenge you, if your wrong requires revenge.

Are you blood of mine, and think I will not do this for you, girl? None

of the blood of Barbara Lovel were ever unrevenged. When Richard Cooper

stabbed my first-born, Francis, he fled to Flanders to escape my wrath.

But he did not escape it. I pursued him thither. I hunted him out; drove

him back to his own country, and brought him to the gallows. It took a

power of gold. What matter? Revenge is dearer than gold. And as it was

with Richard Cooper, so it shall be with Luke Bradley. I will catch him,

though he run. I will trip him, though he leap. I will reach him, though

he flee afar. I will drag him hither by the hair of his head," added

she, with a livid smile, and clutching at the air with her hands, as if

in the act of pulling some one towards her. "He shall wed you within the

hour, if you will have it, or if your honor need that it should be so.

My power is not departed from me. My people are yet at my command. I am

still their queen, and woe to him that offendeth me!"

"Mother! mother!" cried Sybil, affrighted at the storm she had

unwittingly aroused, "he has not injured me. 'Tis I alone who am to

blame, not Luke."

"You speak in mysteries," said Barbara.

"Sir Piers Rookwood is dead."

"Dead!" echoed Barbara, letting fall her hazel rod. "Sir Piers dead!"

"And Luke Bradley----"

"Ha!"

"Is his successor."

"Who told you that?" asked Barbara, with increased astonishment.

"Luke himself. All is disclosed." And Sybil hastily recounted Luke's

adventures. "He is now Sir Luke Rookwood."

"This is news, in truth," said Barbara; "yet not news to weep for. You

should rejoice, not lament. Well, well, I foresaw it. I shall live to

see all accomplished; to see my Agatha's child ennobled; to see her

wedded; ay, to see her well wedded."

"Dearest mother!"

"I can endow you, and I will do it. You shall bring your husband not

alone beauty, you shall bring him wealth."

"But, mother----"

"My Agatha's daughter shall be Lady Rookwood."

"Never! It cannot be."

"What cannot be?"

"The match you now propose."

"What mean you, silly wench? Ha! I perceive the meaning of those tears.

The truth flashes upon me. He has discarded you."

"No, by the Heaven of Heavens, he is still the same--unaltered in

affection."

"If so, your tears are out of place."

"Mother, it is not fitting that I, a gipsy born, should wed with him."

"Not fitting! Ha! and you my child! Not fitting! Get up, or I will spurn

you. Not fitting! This from you to me! I tell you it _is_ fitting; you

shall have a dower as ample as that of any lady in the land. Not

fitting! Do you say so, because you think that he derives himself from a

proud and ancient line--ancient and proud--ha, ha! I tell you, girl,

that for his one ancestor I can number twenty; for the years in which

his lineage hath flourished, my race can boast centuries, and was a

people--a kingdom!--ere the land in which he dwells was known. What! if,

by the curse of Heaven, we were driven forth, the curse of hell rests

upon his house."

"I know it," said Sybil; "a dreadful curse, which, if I wed him, will

alight on me."

"No; not on you; you shall avoid that curse. I know a means to satisfy

the avenger. Leave that to me."

"I dare not, as it never can be; yet, tell me--you saw the body of

Luke's ill-fated mother. Was she poisoned? Nay, you may speak. Sir

Piers's death releases you from your oath. How died she?"

"By strangulation," said the old gipsy, raising her palsied hand to her

throat.

"Oh!" cried Sybil, gasping with horror. "Was there a ring upon her

finger when you embalmed the body?"

"A ring--a wedding-ring! The finger was crookened. Listen, girl, I could

have told Luke the secret of his birth long ago, but the oath imposed by

Sir Piers sealed fast my lips. His mother was wedded to Sir Piers; his

mother was murdered by Sir Piers. Luke was entrusted to my care by his

father. I have brought him up with you. I have affianced you together;

and I shall live to see you united. He is now Sir Luke. He is your

husband."

"Do not deceive yourself, mother," said Sybil, with a fearful

earnestness. "He is not yet Sir Luke Rookwood; would he had no claim to

be so! The fortune that has hitherto been so propitious may yet desert

him. Bethink you of a prophecy you uttered."

"A prophecy? Ha!"

And with slow enunciation Sybil pronounced the mystic words which she

had heard repeated by the sexton.

As she spoke, a gloom, like that of a thunder-cloud, began to gather

over the brow of the old gipsy. The orbs of her sunken eyes expanded,

and wrath supplied her frame with vigor. She arose.

"Who told you that?" cried Barbara.

"Luke's grandsire, Peter Bradley."

"How learnt he it?" said Barbara. "It was to one who hath long been in

his grave I told it; so long ago, it had passed from my memory. 'Tis

strange! old Sir Reginald had a brother, I know. But there is no other

of the house."

"There is a cousin, Eleanor Mowbray."

"Ha! I see; a daughter of that Eleanor Rookwood who fled from her

father's roof. Fool, fool. Am I caught in my own toils? Those words were

words of truth and power, and compel the future and 'the will be' as

with chains of brass. They must be fulfilled, yet not by Ranulph. He

shall never wed Eleanor."

"Whom then shall she wed?"

"His elder brother."

"Mother!" shrieked Sybil. "Do you say so? Oh! recall your words."

"I may not; it is spoken. Luke shall wed her."

"Oh God, support me!" exclaimed Sybil.

"Silly wench, be firm. It must be as I say. He shall wed her--yet shall

he wed her not. The nuptial torch shall be quenched as soon as lighted;

the curse of the avenger shall fall--yet not on thee."

"Mother," said Sybil, "if sin must fall upon some innocent head, let it

be on mine--not upon hers. I love him, I would gladly die for him. She

is young--unoffending--perhaps happy. Oh! do not let her perish."

"Peace, I say!" cried Barbara, "and mark me. This is your birthday.

Eighteen summers have flown over your young head--eighty winters have

sown their snows on mine. _You_ have yet to learn. Years have brought

wrinkles--they have brought wisdom likewise. To struggle with Fate, I

tell you, is to wrestle with Omnipotence. We may foresee, but not avert

our destiny. What will be, shall be. This is your eighteenth birthday,

Sybil: it is a day of fate to you; in it occurs your planetary hour--an

hour of good or ill, according to your actions. I have cast your

horoscope. I have watched your natal star; it is under the baleful

influence of Scorpion, and fiery Saturn sheds his lurid glance upon it.

Let me see your hand. The line of life is drawn out distinct and

clear--it runs--ha! what means that intersection? Beware--beware, my

Sybil. Act as I tell you, and you are safe. I will make another trial,

by the crystal bowl. Attend."

Muttering some strange words, sounding like a spell, Barbara, with the

bifurcate hazel staff which she used as a divining-rod, described a

circle upon the floor. Within this circle she drew other lines, from

angle to angle, forming seven triangles, the bases of which constituted

the sides of a septilateral figure. This figure she studied intently for

a few moments. She then raised her wand and touched the owl with it. The

bird unfolded its wings, and arose in flight; then slowly circled round

the pendulous globe. Each time it drew nearer, until at length it

touched the glassy bowl with its flapping pinions.

"Enough!" ejaculated Barbara. And at another motion from her rod the

bird stayed its flight and returned to its perch.

Barbara arose. She struck the globe with her staff. The pure lymph

became instantly tinged with crimson, as if blood had been commingled

with it. The little serpent could be seen within, coiled up and knotted,

as in the struggles of death.

"Again I say, beware!" ejaculated Barbara, solemnly. "This is ominous of

ill."

Sybil had sunk, from faintness, on the pallet. A knock was heard at the

door.

"Who is without?" cried Barbara.

"'Tis I, Balthazar," replied a voice.

"Thou mayest enter," answered Barbara; and an old man with a long beard,

white as snow, reaching to his girdle, and a costume which might be said

to resemble the raiment of a Jewish high priest, made his appearance.

This venerable personage was no other than the patrico, or hierophant of

the Canting Crew.

"I come to tell you that there are strangers--ladies--within the

priory," said the patrico, gravely. "I have searched for you in vain,"

continued he, addressing Sybil; "the younger of them seems to need your

assistance."

"Whence come they?" exclaimed Barbara.

"They have ridden, I understand, from Rookwood," answered the patrico.

"They were on their way to Davenham, when they were prevented."

"From Rookwood?" echoed Sybil. "Their names--did you hear their names?"

"Mowbray is the name of both; they are a mother and a daughter; the

younger is called----"

"Eleanor?" asked Sybil, with an acute foreboding of calamity.

"Eleanor is the name, assuredly," replied the patrico, somewhat

surprised. "I heard the elder, whom I guess to be her mother, so address

her."

"Gracious God! She here!" exclaimed Sybil.

"Here! Eleanor Mowbray here," cried Barbara; "within my power. Not a

moment is to be lost. Balthazar, hasten round the tents--not a man must

leave his place--above all, Luke Bradley. See that these Mowbrays are

detained within the abbey. Let the bell be sounded. Quick, quick; leave

this wench to me; she is not well. I have much to do. Away with thee,

man, and let me know when thou hast done it." And as Balthazar departed

on his mission, with a glance of triumph in her eyes, Barbara exclaimed,

"Soh, no sooner hath the thought possessed me, than the means of

accomplishment appear. It shall be done at once. I will tie the knot. I

will untie, and then retie it. This weak wench must be nerved to the

task," added she, regarding the senseless form of Sybil. "Here is that

will stimulate her," opening the cupboard, and taking a small phial;

"this will fortify her; and this," continued she, with a ghastly smile,

laying her hand upon another vessel, "this shall remove her rival when

all is fulfilled; this liquid shall constrain her lover to be her

titled, landed husband. Ha, ha!"

_CHAPTER V_

_THE INAUGURATION_

_Beggar._ Concert, sir! we have musicians, too, among us. True,

merry beggars, indeed, that, being within the reach of the lash for

singing libellous songs at London, were fain to fly into one cover,

and here they sing all our poets' ditties. They can sing anything,

most tunably, sir, but psalms. What they may do hereafter, under a

triple tree, is much expected; but they live very civilly and

genteelly among us.

_Spring._ But what is here--that solemn old fellow, that neither

speaks of himself, or any for him?

_Beggar._ O, sir, the rarest man of all: he is a prophet. See how he

holds up his prognosticating nose. He is divining now.

_Spring._ How, a prophet?

_Beggar._ Yes, sir; a cunning man, and a fortune-teller; a very

ancient stroller all the world over, and has travelled with gipsies:

and is a patrico.

_The Merry Beggars._

In consequence of some few words which the sexton let fall in the

presence of the attendants, during breakfast, more perhaps by design

than accident, it was speedily rumored throughout the camp that the

redoubted Richard Turpin was for the time its inmate. This intelligence

produced some such sensation as is experienced by the inhabitants of a

petty town on the sudden arrival of a prince of the blood, a

commander-in-chief, or other illustrious and distinguished personage,

whose fame has been vaunted abroad amongst his fellowmen by Rumor, "and

her thousand tongues;" and who, like our highwayman, has rendered

himself sufficiently notorious to be an object of admiration and

emulation amongst his contemporaries.

All started up at the news. The upright man, the chief of the crew,

arose from his chair, donned his gown of state, a very ancient brocade

dressing-gown, filched, most probably, from the wardrobe of some

strolling player, grasped his baton of office, a stout oaken truncheon,

and sallied forth. The ruffler, who found his representative in a very

magnificently equipped, and by no means ill-favored knave, whose chin

was decorated with a beard as lengthy and as black as Sultan Mahmoud's,

together with the dexterous hooker, issued forth from the hovel which

they termed their boozing ken, eager to catch a glimpse of the prince of

the high-tobygloaks. The limping palliard tore the bandages from his

mock wounds, shouldered his crutch, and trudged hastily after them. The

whip-jack unbuckled his strap, threw away his timber leg, and "leapt

exulting, like the bounding roe." "With such a sail in sight," he said,

"he must heave to, like the rest." The dummerar, whose tongue had been

cut out by the Algerines, suddenly found the use of it, and made the

welkin ring with his shouts. Wonderful were the miracles Dick's advent

wrought. The lame became suddenly active, the blind saw, the dumb spoke;

nay, if truth must be told, absolutely gave utterance to "most

vernacular execrations." Morts, autem morts, walking morts, dells,

doxies, kinching morts, and their coes, with all the shades and grades

of the Canting Crew, were assembled. There were, to use the words of

Brome--

----Stark, errant, downright beggars. Ay,

Without equivocation, statute beggars,

Couchant and passant, guardant, rampant beggars;

Current and vagrant, stockant, whippant beggars![25]

Each sunburnt varlet started from his shed; each dusky dame, with her

brown, half-naked urchins, followed at his heels; each "ripe young

maiden, with the glossy eye," lingered but to sleek her raven tresses,

and to arrange her straw bonnet, and then overtook the others; each

wrinkled beldame hobbled as quickly after as her stiffened joints would

permit; while the ancient patrico, the priest of the crew--who joined

the couples together by the hedge-side, "with the nice custom of dead

horse between"[26]--brought up the rear; all bent on one grand object,

that of having a peep at the "foremost man of all this prigging world!"

Dick Turpin, at the period of which we treat, was in the zenith of his

reputation. His deeds were full blown; his exploits were in every man's

mouth; and a heavy price was set upon his head. That he should show

himself thus openly, where he might be so easily betrayed, excited no

little surprise among the craftiest of the crew, and augured an excess

of temerity on his part. Rash daring was the main feature of Turpin's

character. Like our great Nelson, he knew fear only by name; and when he

thus trusted himself in the hands of strangers, confident in himself and

in his own resources, he felt perfectly easy as to the result. He relied

also in the continuance of his good fortune, which had as yet never

deserted him. Possessed of the belief that his hour was not yet come, he

cared little or nothing for any risk he might incur; and though he

might, undoubtedly, have some presentiment of the probable termination

of his career, he never suffered it to militate against his present

enjoyment, which proved that he was no despicable philosopher.

Turpin was the _ultimus Romanorum_, the last of a race, which--we were

almost about to say we regret--is now altogether extinct. Several

successors he had, it is true, but no name worthy to be recorded after

his own. With him expired the chivalrous spirit which animated

successively the bosoms of so many knights of the road; with him died

away that passionate love of enterprise, that high spirit of devotion to

the fair sex, which was first breathed upon the highway by the gay,

gallant Claude Du-Val, the Bayard of the road--_Le filou sans peur et

sans reproche_--but which was extinguished at last by the cord that tied

the heroic Turpin to the remorseless tree. It were a subject well worthy

of inquiry, to trace this decline and fall of the empire of the tobymen

to its remoter causes; to ascertain the why and the wherefore, that with

so many half-pay captains; so many poor curates; so many lieutenants, of

both services, without hopes of promotion; so many penny-a-liners, and

fashionable novelists; so many damned dramatists, and damning critics;

so many Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviewers; so many detrimental brothers,

and younger sons; when there are horses to be hired, pistols to be

borrowed, purses to be taken, and mails are as plentiful as

partridges--it were worth serious investigation, we repeat, to ascertain

why, with the best material imaginable for a new race of highwaymen, we

have none, not even an amateur. Why do not some of these choice spirits

quit the _salons_ of Pall-Mall, and take to the road? the air of the

heath is more bracing and wholesome, we should conceive, than that of

any "hell" whatever, and the chances of success incomparably greater. We

throw out this hint, without a doubt of seeing it followed up. Probably

the solution of our inquiry may be, that the supply is greater than the

demand; that, in the present state of things, embryo highwaymen may be

more abundant than purses; and then, have we not the horse-patrol? With

such an admirably-organized system of conservation, it is vain to

anticipate a change. The highwaymen, we fear, like their Irish brothers,

the Rapparees, went out with the Tories. They were averse to reform, and

eschewed emancipation.

Lest any one should think we have overrated the pleasures of the

highwayman's existence, they shall hear what "the right villainous" Jack

Hall, a celebrated tobyman of his day, has got to say on the subject.

"His life--the highwayman's--has, generally, the most mirth and the

least care in it of any man's breathing, and all he deals for is clear

profit: he has that point of good conscience, that he always sells as

he buys, a good pennyworth, which is something rare, since he trades

with so small a stock. The _fence_[27] and he are like the devil and the

doctor, they live by one another; and, like traitors, 'tis best to keep

each other's counsel. He has this point of honesty, that he never robs

the house he frequents"--Turpin had the same scruples respecting the

Hall of Rookwood in Sir Piers's lifetime--; "and perhaps pays his debts

better than some others, for he holds it below the dignity of his

employment to commit so ungenteel a crime as insolvency, and loves to

pay nobly. He has another quality, not much amiss, that he takes no more

than he has occasion for"--Jack, we think, was a little mistaken here--;

"which he verifies this way: he craves no more while that lasts. He is a

less nuisance in a commonwealth than a miser, because the money he

engrosses all circulates again, which the other hoards as though 'twere

only to be found again at the day of judgment. He is the tithe-pig of

his family, which the gallows, instead of the parson, claims as its due.

He has reason enough to be bold in his undertakings, for, though all the

world threaten him, he stands in fear of but one man in it, and that's

the hangman; and with him, too, he is generally in fee: however, I

cannot affirm he is so valiant that he dares look any man in the face,

for in that point he is now and then, a little modest. Newgate may be

said to be his country-house, where he frequently lives so many months

in the year; and he is not so much concerned to be carried thither for a

small matter, if 'twere only for the benefit of renewing his

acquaintance there. He holds a petit larceny as light as a nun does

auricular confession, though the priest has a more compassionate

character than the hangman. Every man in this community is esteemed

according to his particular quality, of which there are several degrees,

though it is contrary often to public government; for here a man shall

be valued purely for his merit, and rise by it too, though it be but to

a halter, in which there is a great deal of glory in dying like a hero,

and making a decent figure in the cart to the last two staves of the

fifty-first psalm."[28]

This, we repeat, is the plain statement of a practical man, and again we

throw out the hint for adoption. All we regret is, that we are now

degenerated from the grand tobyman to the cracksman and the sneak, about

whom there are no redeeming features. How much lower the next generation

of thieves will dive it boots not to conjecture:

Ætas parentum pejor avis tulit,

Nos nequiores; mox daturos,

Progeniem vitiosiorem.

"Cervantes laughed Spain's chivalry away," sang Byron; and if Gay did

not extinguish the failing flame of our _night_ errantry--unlike the

"Robbers" of Schiller, which is said to have inflamed the Saxon youth

with an irrepressible mania for brigandage--, the "Beggar's Opera"

helped not to fan the dying fire. That laugh was fatal, as laughs

generally are. Macheath gave the highwayman his _coup de grâce_.

The last of this race--for we must persist in maintaining that he _was_

the last--, Turpin, like the setting sun, threw up some parting rays of

glory, and tinged the far highways with a luster that may yet be traced

like a cloud of dust raised by his horse's retreating heels. Unequalled

in the command of his steed, the most singular feat that the whole race

of the annals of horsemanship has to record, and of which we may have

more to say hereafter, was achieved by him. So perfect was his

jockeyship, so clever his management of the animal he mounted, so

intimately acquainted was he with every cross-road in the neighborhood

of the metropolis--a book of which he constructed, and carried

constantly about his person--, as well as with many other parts of

England, particularly the counties of Chester, York, and Lancaster, that

he outstripped every pursuer, and baffled all attempts at capture. His

reckless daring, his restless rapidity--for so suddenly did he change

his ground, and renew his attacks in other quarters, that he seemed to

be endowed with ubiquity,--his bravery, his resolution, and, above all,

his generosity, won for him a high reputation amongst his compatriots,

and even elicited applauses from those upon whom he levied his

contributions.

Beyond dispute, he ruled as master of the road. His hands were, as yet,

unstained with blood; he was ever prompt to check the disposition to

outrage, and to prevent, as much as lay in his power, the commission of

violence by his associates. Of late, since he had possessed himself of

his favorite mare, Black Bess, his robberies had been perpetrated with a

suddenness of succession, and at distances so apparently impracticable,

that the idea of all having been executed by one man, was rejected as an

impossibility; and the only way of reconciling the description of the

horse and rider, which tallied in each instance, was the supposition

that these attacks were performed by confederates similarly mounted and

similarly accoutred.

There was, in all this, as much of the "_famæ sacra fames_" as of the

"_auri_;" of the hungering after distinction, as well as of the appetite

of gain. Enamored of his vocation, Turpin delighted to hear himself

designated as the Flying Highwayman; and it was with rapturous triumph

that he found his single-handed feats attributed to a band of marauders.

But this state of things could not long endure; his secret was blown;

the vigilance of the police was aroused; he was tracked to his haunts;

and, after a number of hairbreadth 'scapes, which he only effected by

miracle, or by the aid of his wonder-working mare, he reluctantly

quitted the heathy hills of Bagshot, the Pampas plains of Hounslow--over

which like an archetype of the galloping Sir Francis Head, he had so

often scoured,--the gorsy commons of Highgate, Hampstead, and Finchley,

the marshy fields of Battersea, almost all of which he had been known to

visit in a single night, and leaving these beaten tracks to the

occupation of younger and less practised hands, he bequeathed to them,

at the same time, his own reversionary interest in the gibbets thereupon

erected, and betook himself to the country.

After a journey of more or less success, our adventurer found himself at

Rookwood, whither he had been invited after a grand field-day by its

hospitable and by no means inquisitive owner. Breach of faith and good

fellowship formed no part of Turpin's character; he had his lights as

well as his shades; and as long as Sir Piers lived, his purse and

coffers would have been free from molestation, except, "so far," Dick

said, "as a cog or two of dice went. My dice, you know, are longs for

odd and even, a bale of bar'd cinque deuces," a pattern of which he

always carried with him; beyond this, excepting a take-in at a steeple

chase, Rookwood church being the mark, a "do" at a leap, or some such

trifle, to which the most scrupulous could not raise an objection, Dick

was all fair and above-board. But when poor Sir Piers had "put on his

wooden surtout," to use Dick's own expressive metaphor, his

conscientious scruples evaporated into thin air. Lady Rookwood was

nothing to him; there was excellent booty to be appropriated--

The wise _convey_ it call.

He began to look about for hands; and having accidentally encountered

his old comrades, Rust and Wilder, they were let into the business,

which was imperfectly accomplished in the manner heretofore described.

To return from this digression. When Turpin presented himself at the

threshold of the door, on his way to inquire after his mare, to his

astonishment he found it closely invested. A cheering shout from the

tawny throng, succeeded by a general clapping of hands, and attended by

a buzzing susurration of applause, such as welcomes the entrance of a

popular actor upon the stage, greeted the appearance of the highwayman.

At the first sight of the crowd he was a little startled, and

involuntarily sought for his pistols. But the demonstrations of

admiration were too unequivocal to be for a moment mistaken; his hand

was drawn from his pocket to raise his hat from his brow.

Thunders of applause.

Turpin's external man, we have before said, was singularly

prepossessing. It was especially so in the eyes of _the_ sex--fair we

certainly cannot say upon the present occasion--, amongst whom not a

single dissentient voice was to be heard. All concurred in thinking him

a fine fellow; could plainly read his high courage in his bearing; his

good breeding in his débonnaire deportment; and his manly beauty in his

extravagant red whiskers. Dick saw the effect that he produced. He was

at home in a moment. Your true highwayman has ever a passion for effect.

This does not desert him at the gallows; it rises superior to death

itself, and has been known to influence the manner of his dangling from

the gibbet! To hear some one cry, "There goes a proper handsome man,"

saith our previously quoted authority, Jack Hall, "somewhat ameliorates

the terrible thoughts of the meagre tyrant death; and to go in a dirty

shirt were enough to save the hangman a labor, and make a man die with

grief and shame at being in that deplorable condition." With a gracious

smile of condescension, like a popular orator--with a look of blarney

like that of O'Connell, and of assurance like that of Hume--he surveyed

the male portion of the spectators, tipped a knowing wink at the

prettiest brunettes he could select, and finally cut a sort of fling

with his well-booted legs, that brought down another appeal of rapturous

applause.

"A rank scamp!"[29] cried the upright man; and this exclamation, however

equivocal it may sound, was intended, on his part, to be highly

complimentary.

"I believe ye," returned the ruffler, stroking his chin--"one may see

that he's no half swell by the care with which he cultivates the best

gifts of nature, his whiskers. He's a rank nib."[30]

"Togged out to the ruffian, no doubt," said the palliard, who was

incomparably the shabbiest rascal in the corps. "Though a needy mizzler

mysel, I likes to see a cove vot's vel dressed. Jist twig his swell

kickseys and pipes;[31] if they ain't the thing, I'm done. Lame Harry

can't dance better nor he--no, nor Jerry Juniper neither."

"I'm dumb founded," roared the dummerar, "if he can't patter romany[32]

as vel as the best on us! He looks like a rum 'un."

"And a rum 'un he be, take my word for it," returned the whip-jack, or

sham sailor. "Look at his rigging--see how he flashes his

sticks[33]--those are the tools to rake a three-decker. He's as clever a

craft as I've seen this many a day, or I'm no judge."

The women were equally enchanted--equally eloquent in the expression of

their admiration.

"What ogles!" cried a mort.

"What pins!" said an autem mort, or married woman.

"Sharp as needles," said a dark-eyed dell, who had encountered one of

the free and frolicsome glances which our highwayman distributed so

liberally among the petticoats.

It was at this crisis Dick took off his hat. Cæsar betrayed his

baldness.

"A thousand pities!" cried the men, compassionating his thinly covered

skull, and twisting their own ringlets, glossy and luxuriant, though

unconscious of Macassar. "A thousand pities that so fine a fellow should

have a sconce like a cocoanut!"

"But then his red whiskers," rejoined the women, tired of the uniformity

of thick black heads of hair; "what a warmth of coloring they impart to

his face; and then only look how beautifully bushy they make his cheeks

appear!"

La Fosseuse and the court of the Queen of Navarre were not more smitten

with the Sieur de Croix's jolly pair of whiskers.

The hawk's eye of Turpin ranged over the whole assemblage. Amidst that

throng of dark faces there was not one familiar to him.

Before him stood the upright man, Zoroaster--so was he called--, a

sturdy, stalwart rogue, whose superior strength and stature--as has not

unfrequently been the case in the infancy of governments that have risen

to more importance than is likely to be the case with that of Lesser

Egypt--had been the means of his elevation to his present dignified

position. Zoroaster literally _fought_ his way upwards, and had at first

to maintain his situation by the strong arm; but he now was enabled to

repose upon his hard-won laurels, to smoke "the calumet of peace," and

quaff his tipple with impunity. For one of gipsy blood, he presented an

unusually jovial, liquor-loving countenance: his eye was mirthful; his

lip moist, as if from oft potations; his cheek mellow as an Orleans

plum, which fruit, in color and texture, it mightily resembled. Strange

to say, also, for one of that lithe race, his person was heavy and

hebetudinous; the consequence, no doubt, of habitual intemperance. Like

Cribb, he waxed obese upon the championship. There was a kind of mock

state in his carriage, as he placed himself before Turpin, and with his

left hand twisted up the tail of his dressing-gown, while the right

thrust his truncheon into his hip, which was infinitely diverting to the

highwayman.

Turpin's attention, however, was chiefly directed towards his neighbor,

the ruffler, in whom he recognized a famous impostor of the day, with

whose history he was sufficiently well acquainted to be able at once to

identify the individual. We have before stated, that a magnificent

coal-black beard decorated the chin of this worthy; but this was not

all--his costume was in perfect keeping with his beard, and consisted of

a very theatrical-looking tunic, upon the breast of which was

embroidered, in golden wire, the Maltese cross; while over his shoulders

were thrown the folds of an ample cloak of Tyrian hue. To his side was

girt a long and doughty sword, which he termed, in his knightly phrase,

Excalibur; and upon his profuse hair rested a hat as broad in the brim

as a Spanish sombrero.

Exaggerated as this description may appear, we can assure our readers

that it is not overdrawn; and that a counterpart of the sketch we have

given of the ruffler certainly "strutted his hour" upon the stage of

human life, and that the very ancient and discriminating city of

Canterbury--to which be all honor--was his theatre of action. His

history is so far curious, that it exemplifies, more strongly than a

thousand discourses could do, how prone we are to be governed by

appearances, and how easily we may be made the dupes of a plausible

impostor. Be it remembered, however, that we treat of the eighteenth

century, before the march of intellect had commenced; we are much too

knowing to be similarly practised upon in these enlightened times. But

we will let the knight of Malta, for such was the title assumed by the

ruffler, tell his own story in his own way hereafter; contenting

ourselves with the moral precepts we have already deduced from it.

Next to the knight of Malta stood the whip-jack, habited in his sailor

gear--striped shirt and dirty canvas trousers; and adjoining him was the

palliard, a loathsome tatterdemalion, his dress one heap of rags, and

his discolored skin one mass of artificial leprosy and imposthumes.

As Turpin's eye shifted from one to another of these figures, he chanced

upon an individual who had been long endeavoring to arrest his

attention. This personage was completely in the background. All that

Dick could discern of him was a brown curly head of hair, carelessly

arranged in the modern mode; a handsome, impudent, sun-freckled face,

with one eye closed, and the other occupied by a broken bottle-neck,

through which, as a substitute for a lorgnette, the individual

reconnoitered him. A cocked hat was placed in a very _dégagée_ manner

under his arm, and he held an ebony cane in his hand, very much in the

style of a "_fassionable_," as the French have it, of the present day.

This glimpse was sufficient to satisfy Turpin. He recognized in this

whimsical personage an acquaintance.

Jerry Juniper was what the classical Captain Grose would designate a

"gentleman with three outs," and, although he was not entirely without

wit, nor, his associates avouched, without money, nor, certainly, in his

own opinion, had that been asked, without manners; yet was he assuredly

without shoes, without stockings, without shirt. This latter deficiency

was made up by a voluminous cravat, tied with proportionately large

bows. A jaunty pair of yellow breeches, somewhat faded; a waistcoat of

silver brocade, richly embroidered, somewhat tarnished and lack-lustre;

a murrey-colored velvet coat, somewhat chafed, completed the costume of

this beggar Brummell, this mendicant macaroni!

Jerry Juniper was a character well known at the time, as a constant

frequenter of all races, fairs, regattas, ship-launches, bull-baits, and

prize-fights, all of which he attended, and to which he transported

himself with an expedition little less remarkable than that of Turpin.

You met him at Epsom, at Ascot, at Newmarket, at Doncaster, at the

Roodee of Chester, at the Curragh of Kildare. The most remote as well as

the most adjacent meeting attracted him. The cock-pit was his constant

haunt, and in more senses than one was he a _leg_. No opera-dancer could

be more agile, more nimble; scarcely, indeed, more graceful, than was

Jerry, with his shoeless and stockingless feet; and the manner in which

he executed a pirouette, or a pas, before a line of carriages, seldom

failed to procure him "golden opinions from all sorts of dames." With

the ladies, it must be owned, Jerry was rather upon too easy terms; but

then, perhaps, the ladies were upon too easy terms with Jerry; and if a

bright-eyed fair one condescended to jest with him, what marvel if he

should sometimes slightly transgress the laws of decorum. These

aberrations, however, were trifling; altogether he was so well known,

and knew everybody else so well, that he seldom committed himself; and,

singular to say, could on occasions even be serious. In addition to his

other faculties, no one cut a sly joke, or trolled a merry ditty, better

than Jerry. His peculiarities, in short, were on the pleasant side, and

he was a general favorite in consequence.

No sooner did Jerry perceive that he was recognized, than, after kissing

his hand, with the air of a _petit-maître_, to the highwayman, he strove

to edge his way through the crowd. All his efforts were fruitless; and,

tired of a situation in the rear rank, so inconsistent, he conceived,

with his own importance, he had recourse to an expedient often practised

with success in harlequinades, and not unfrequently in real life, where

a flying leap is occasionally taken over our heads. He ran back a few

yards to give himself an impetus, returned, and, placing his hands upon

the shoulders of a stalwart vagabond near to him, threw a summerset upon

the broad cap of a palliard, who was so jammed in the midst that he

could not have stirred to avoid the shock; thence, without pausing, he

vaulted forwards, and dropped lightly upon the ground in front of

Zoroaster, and immediately before the highwayman.

Dick laughed immoderately at Jerry's man[oe]uvre. He shook his old chum

cordially by the hand, saying, in a whisper, "What the devil brings you

here, Jerry?"

"I might retort, and ask you that question, Captain Turpin," replied

Jerry, _sotto voce_. "It is odd to see me here, certainly--quite out of

my element--lost amongst this _canaille_--this Canting Crew--all the

fault of a pair of gipsy eyes, bright as a diamond, dark as a sloe. You

comprehend--a little affair, ha! Liable to these things. Bring your ear

closer, my boy; be upon your guard--keep a sharp look out--there's a

devil of a reward upon your head--I won't answer for all those rascals."

"Thank you for the hint, Jerry," replied Dick, in the same tone. "I

calculated my chances pretty nicely when I came here. But if I should

perceive any symptoms of foul play--any attempt to snitch or nose,

amongst this pack of peddlers--I have a friend or two at hand, who won't

be silent upon the occasion. Rest assured I shall have my eye upon the

gnarling scoundrels. I won't be sold for nothing."