To unite their hands he's ready;

For a moment, pals, be steady;

Cease your quaffing,

Dancing, laughing;

Leave off riot,

And be quiet,

While 'tis doing.

'Tis begun,

All is over!

Two are ONE!

The patrico has link'd 'em;

Daddy Hymen's torch has blink'd 'em.

Amen!

To 't again!

Now for quaffing,

Now for laughing,

Stocking-throwing,

Liquor flowing;

For our bridals are no bridles, and our altars never alter;

From the flagon never flinch we, in the jig we never falter.

No! that's not _our_ way, for _we_

Are staunch lads of Romany.

For our wedding, then, hurrah!

Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!

This uncouth chorus ended, the marriage proceeded. Sybil had

disappeared. Had she fled? No! she was by the bride. Eleanor

mechanically took her place. A faint voice syllabled the responses. You

could scarcely have seen Miss Mowbray's lips move. But the answers were

given, and the priest was satisfied.

He took the ring, and sprinkled it once again with the holy water, in

the form of the cross. He pronounced the prayer: "_Benedic, Domine,

annulum hunc, quem nos in tuo nomine benedicimus, ut quæ eum gestaverit,

fidelitatem integram suo sponso tenens, in pace et voluntate tua

permaneat atque in mutua charitate semper vivat._"

He was about to return the ring to Luke, when the torch, held by the

knight of Malta, was dashed to the ground by some unseen hand, and

instantly extinguished. The wild pageant vanished as suddenly as the

figures cast by a magic-lantern upon a wall disappear when the glass is

removed. A wild hubbub succeeded. Hoarsely above the clamor arose the

voice of Barbara.

"To the door, quickly!--to the door! Let no one pass, I will find out

the author of this mishap anon. Away!"

She was obeyed. Several of the crew stationed themselves at the door.

"Proceed now with the ceremony," continued Barbara. "By darkness, or by

light, the match shall be completed."

The ring was then placed upon the finger of the bride; and as Luke

touched it, he shuddered. It was cold as that of the corpse which he had

clasped but now. The prayer was said, the blessing given, the marriage

was complete.

Suddenly there issued from the darkness deep dirge-like tones, and a

voice solemnly chanted a strain, which all knew to be the death-song of

their race, hymned by wailing women over an expiring sister. The music

seemed to float in the air.

THE SOUL-BELL

Fast the sand of life is falling,

Fast her latest sigh exhaling,

Fast, fast, is she dying.

With death's chills her limbs are shivering,

With death's gasp the lips are quivering,

Fast her soul away is flying.

O'er the mountain-top it fleeteth,

And the skyey wonders greeteth,

Singing loud as stars it meeteth

On its way.

Hark! the sullen Soul-bell tolling,

Hollowly in echoes rolling,

Seems to say--

"She will ope her eyes--oh, never!

Quenched their dark light--gone for ever!

She is dead."

The marriage group yet lingered near the altar, awaiting, it would seem,

permission from the gipsy queen to quit the cell. Luke stirred not.

Clasped in his own, the cold hand of his bride detained him; and when he

would have moved, her tightened grasp prevented his departure.

Mrs. Mowbray's patience was exhausted by the delay. She was not

altogether free from apprehension. "Why do we linger here?" she

whispered to the priest. "Do you, father, lead the way."

"The crowd is dense," replied Checkley. "They resist my effort."

"Are we prisoners here?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, in alarm.

"Let me make the attempt," cried Luke, with fiery impatience. "I will

force a passage out."

"Quit not your bride," whispered Peter, "as you value her safety. Heed

not aught else. She alone is in danger. Suffer her not to be withdrawn

from your hand, if you would not lose her. Remain here. I will bring the

matter to a speedy issue."

"Enough," replied Luke; "I stir not hence." And he drew his bride closer

towards him. He stooped to imprint a kiss upon her lips. A cold shudder

ran through her frame as he touched them, but she resisted not his

embrace.

Peter's attempt to effect an egress was as unsuccessful as that of the

priest. Presenting Excalibur at his bosom, the knight of Malta

challenged him to stand.

"You cannot pass," exclaimed the knight; "our orders are peremptory."

"What am I to understand by this?" said Peter, angrily. "Why are we

detained?"

"You will learn all anon," returned Barbara. "In the meantime you are my

prisoners--or, if you like not the phrase, my wedding guests."

"The wedding is complete," returned the sexton; "the bride and

bridegroom are impatient to depart, and we, the guests--albeit some of

us may be no foes to darkness--desire not to hold our nuptial revels

here."

"Sybil's wedding has not taken place," said Barbara; "you must tarry for

that."

"Ha! now it comes," thought Peter. "And who, may I ask," said he, aloud,

"amongst this goodly company, is to be her bridegroom?"

"The best amongst them," returned Barbara--"Sir Luke Rookwood."

"He has a bride already," replied Peter.

"She may be _removed_," said Barbara, with bitter and peculiar emphasis.

"Dost understand my meaning now?"

"I will not understand it," said Peter. "You cannot mean to destroy her

who now stands at the altar?"

"She who now stands at the altar must make way for a successor. She who

grasps the bridegroom's hand shall die. I swear it by the oath of my

tribe."

"And think you, you will be allowed to execute your murderous intention

with impunity?" shrieked Mrs. Mowbray, in an agony of terror. "Think you

that I will stand by and see my child slaughtered before my face; that

my friends will suffer it? Think you that even your own tribe will dare

to execute your horrible purpose? They will not. They will side with us.

Even now they murmur. What can you hope to gain by an act so wild and

dreadful? What object can you have?"

"The same as your own," reiterated Barbara--"the advancement of my

child. Sybil is as dear to me as Eleanor is to you. She is my child's

child, the daughter of my best beloved daughter. I have sworn to marry

her to Sir Luke Rookwood. The means are in my power. I will keep my vow;

I will wed her to him. You did not hesitate to tear your daughter from

the man she loved, to give her to the man she hated; and for what? For

gold--for power--for rank. I have the same motive. I love my child, and

she loves Sir Luke--has loved him long and truly; therefore shall she

have him. What to me is _your_ child, or _your_ feelings, except they

are subservient to my wishes? She stands in my way. I remove her."

"Who placed her in your path?" asked the sexton. "Did you not lend a

helping hand to create that obstacle yourself?"

"I did," replied Barbara. "Would you know wherefore? I will tell you. I

had a double motive for it. There is a curse upon the house of Rookwood,

that kills the first fair bride each generation leads to the altar. Have

you never heard of it?"

"I have! And did that idle legend sway you?"

"And do you call it idle? _You!_ Well--I had another motive--a

prophecy."

"By yourself uttered," replied Peter.

"Even so," replied Barbara. "The prophecy is fulfilled. The stray rook

is found. The rook hath with rook mated. Luke hath wedded Eleanor. He

will hold possession of his lands. The prophecy is fulfilled."

"But _how_?" asked Peter; "will your art tell you how and why he shall

now hold possession? Can you tell me that?"

"My art goes not so far. I have predicted the event. It has come to

pass. I am satisfied. He has wedded her. Be it mine to free him from

that yoke." And Barbara laughed exultingly.

The sexton approached the old crone, and laid his hand with violence

upon her shoulder.

"Hear _me_," cried he, "and I will tell you that which your juggling art

refuses to reveal. Eleanor Mowbray is heir to the lands of Rookwood! The

estates are _hers_! They were bequeathed to her by her grandsire, Sir

Reginald."

"She was unborn when he died," cried Mrs. Mowbray.

"True," replied Peter; "but the lands were left to your issue _female_,

should such issue be born."

"And did Sir Piers, my brother, know of this? did he see this will,"

asked Mrs. Mowbray, with trembling impatience.

"He did; and withheld the knowledge of it from you and yours."

"Ah! why knew I not this before? Why did you not tell me ere that was

done which cannot be undone? I have sacrificed my child."

"Because it did not chime with my purposes to tell you," replied Peter,

coldly.

"It is false--it is false," cried Mrs. Mowbray, her anger and vexation

getting the better of her fears. "I will not believe it. Who are you,

that pretend to know the secrets of our house?"

"One of that house," replied the sexton.

"Your name?"

"Would you know my name?" answered Peter, sternly. "The time is come

when I will no longer conceal it. I am Alan Rookwood."

"My father's brother!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray.

"Ay, Alan Rookwood. The sworn enemy of your father--of you--of all of

ye: your fate--your destiny--your curse. I am that Alan Rookwood whose

name you breathed in the vault. I am he, the avenger--the avenged. I saw

your father die. I heard his groans--_his groans!_--ha, ha! I saw his

sons die: one fell in battle--I was with him there. The other expired in

his bed. I was with Sir Piers when he breathed his last, and listened to

his death agonies. 'Twas I who counselled him to keep the lands from you

and from your child, and he withheld them. One only amongst the race,

whose name I have cast off, have I loved; and him--because," added he,

with something like emotion--"because he was my daughter's child--Luke

Rookwood. And even he shall minister to my vengeance. He will be your

curse--your daughter's curse--for he loves her not. Yet he is her

husband, and hath her land;--ha, ha!" And he laughed till he became

convulsed with the paroxysm of fiendish exultation.

"Mine ears are stunned," cried Mrs. Mowbray.

"The bride is mine; relinquish her to me," said Barbara. "Advance and

seize her, my children."

Alan Rookwood--for so we shall henceforth denominate the

sexton--suddenly grew calm: he raised the whistle to his lips, and blew

a call so loud and shrill, that those who were advancing hung back

irresolute.

There was a rush at the door of the vault. The sentinels were struck

down; and with pistols in each hand, and followed by two assistants,

Dick Turpin sprang into the thick of the crew.

"Here we are," cried he, "ready for action. Where is Sir Luke Rookwood?

where my churchyard pal, Peter?"

"Here," cried the sexton and Luke simultaneously.

"Then stand aside," cried Dick, pushing in the direction of the sounds,

and bearing down all opposition. "Have a care there--these triggers are

ticklish. Friend or foe, he who touches me shall have a bullet in his

gizzard. Here I am, pal Peter; and here are my two chums, Rust and

Wilder. Cut the whid."

"Have we license to pass scathless now?" asked the sexton; "or shall we

make good our way?"

"You shall not pass," cried Barbara, furiously. "Think you to rob me of

my prey? What, cowards! do you hesitate? Ha!"

"Kindle the torches," cried several voices. "We fight not in the dark."

A pistol was flashed. The torch again blazed. Its light fell upon a

tumultuous group.

"Seize the bride," cried Barbara.

"Hold!" exclaimed a voice from the altar. The voice was that of Sybil.

Her hand was clasped in that of Luke. Eleanor had fainted in the arms of

the gipsy girl Handassah.

"Are you my bride?" ejaculated Luke, in dismay.

"Behold the ring upon my finger! Your own hand placed it there."

"Betrayed!" screamed Alan, in a voice of anguish. "My schemes

annihilated--myself undone--my enemies triumphant--lost! lost! All is

destroyed--all!"

"Joy! joy!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray: "my child is saved."

"And _mine_ destroyed," groaned Barbara. "I have sworn by the cross to

slay the bride--and Sybil is that bride."

_CHAPTER XII_

_ALAN ROOKWOOD_

The wolf shall find her grave, and scrape it up;

Not to devour the corse, but to discover

The horrid murther.

WEBSTER.

"Bravo! capital!" cried Turpin, laughing loud and long as an Olympian

deity; "has this simple wench outwitted you all; turned the tables upon

the whole gang of plotters, eh? Excellent! ha, ha, ha! The next time you

wed, Sir Luke, let me advise you not to choose a wife in the dark. A man

should have all his senses about him on these occasions. Make love when

the liquor's in; marry when it's out, and, above all, with your eyes

open. This beats cock-fighting--ha, ha, ha!--you must excuse me; but,

upon my soul, I can't help it." And his laughter seemed

inextinguishable.

"Take your men without," whispered Alan Rookwood; "keep watch as before,

and let the discharge of a pistol bespeak the approach of danger as

agreed upon; much yet remains to be done here."

"How so?" asked Dick; "it seems to me the job's entirely settled--if not

to _your_ satisfaction. I'm always ready to oblige my friend, Sir Luke;

but curse me if I'd lend my help to any underhand work. Steer clear of

foul play, or Dick Turpin holds no hand with you. As to that poor wench,

if you mean her any harm, curse me if I will----"

"No harm is intended her," replied Alan. "I applaud your magnanimity,"

added he, sarcastically; "such sentiments are, it must be owned, in

excellent keeping with your conduct."

"In keeping or not," replied Turpin, gravely, "cold-blooded murder is

altogether out of my line, and I wash my hands of it. A shot or two in

self defence is another matter; and when----"

"A truce to this," interrupted Alan; "the girl is safe. Will you mount

guard again?"

"If that be the case, certainly," replied Dick. "I shall be glad to get

back to Bess. I couldn't bring her with me into this black hole. A

couple of shots will tell you 'tis Ranulph Rookwood. But mind, no harm

to the gipsy girl--to Lady Rookwood, I should say. She's a jewel, take

my word for it, which Sir Luke must be mad to throw away." And calling

his companions, he departed.

Alan Rookwood bent his steps towards the gipsy queen. Dark thoughts

gathered quickly o'er his brow. He smiled as he drew nigh to Barbara--a

smile it was

That wrinkled up his skin even to the hair.

Barbara looked at him at first with distrust; but as he developed his

secret purposes, that smile became reflected upon her own features.

Their conference took place apart. We willingly leave them to return to

the altar.

Mrs. Mowbray and the priest were still there. Both were occupied in

ineffectual endeavors to restore Eleanor to consciousness. She recovered

from her swoon; but it was evident her senses still wandered; and vainly

did Mrs. Mowbray lavish her tenderest caresses upon her child. Eleanor

returned them not.

Luke, meanwhile, had given vent to the wildest fury. He shook away

Sybil's grasp; he dashed her from him; he regarded her with withering

glances; he loaded her with reproaches. She bore his violence with

meekest submission; she looked imploringly--but she replied not to his

taunts. Again she clung to the hem of his garment when cast aside. Luke

appeared unmoved; what passed within we pause not to examine. He grew

calmer; his calmness was more terrible to Sybil than his previous wrath

had been.

"You are my wife," said he; "what then? By fraud, by stratagem, you have

obtained that title, and, perforce, must keep it. But the title _only_

shall you retain. No rights of wife shall ever be yours. It will be in

your power to call yourself Lady Rookwood--you will be so in name--in

nothing else."

"I shall not bear it long," murmured Sybil.

Luke laughed scornfully, "So you said before," replied he; "and yet I

see not why you are likely to abandon it. The event will show. Thus far

you have deceived me, and I place no further faith in your assertions.

My hand was yours; you refused it. When I would give it to another, you

grasp it clandestinely. Am I to believe you now? The wind will

change--the vane veer with it."

"It will not veer from you," she meekly answered.

"Why did you step between me and my bride?"

"To save her life; to lay down mine for hers."

"An idle subterfuge. You know well that you run no risk of being called

upon to do so. Your life is in no danger. The sacrifice was unnecessary.

I could have dispensed with _your_ assistance; my own arm would have

sufficed to protect Eleanor."

"Your single arm would not have prevailed against numbers: they would

have killed you likewise."

"Tush!" said Luke, fiercely. "Not only have you snatched from me my

bride, you have robbed me of my fair estates, of all, save of my barren

title, and that, even _that_, you have tarnished."

"True, true," sighed Sybil. "I knew not that the lands were hers, else

had I never done it."

"False, false," cried Luke; "false as the rest. _They_ will be

Ranulph's. _She_ will be Ranulph's. I shall still be an outcast, while

Ranulph will riot in my halls--will press her to his bosom. Cling not to

me. Hence! or I will spurn you from me. I am undone, undone by you,

accursed one."

"Oh, curse me not! your words cut deep enough."

"Would they could kill you," cried Luke, with savage bitterness. "You

have placed a bar between me and my prospects, which nothing can now

remove--nothing but--ha!" and his countenance assumed a deadly hue and

fearful expression. "By Heaven, you almost rouse the fell spirit which

it is said dwells within the breast of my devoted race. I feel as if I

could stab thee."

"No, no!" shrieked Sybil; "for mercy's sake, for your own sake, do not

stab me. It is not too late. I will repair my wrong!"

"Ever deceiving! you would again delude me. You cannot repair it. One

way alone remains, and that----"

"I will pursue," responded Sybil, sadly, but firmly.

"Never!" cried Luke; "you shall not. Ha!" exclaimed he, as he found his

arms suddenly pinioned behind him. "What new treachery is this? By whose

orders am I thus fettered?"

"By mine," said Alan Rookwood, stepping forward.

"By yours?" echoed Luke. "And wherefore? Release me."

"Be patient," replied Alan. "You will hear all anon. In the meantime you

must be content to remain my prisoner. Quit not your hold," added he,

addressing the gipsies, who kept charge of Luke.

"Their lives shall answer for their obedience," said Barbara.

Upon a further signal from Alan, Eleanor was torn from her mother's

arms, and a bandage passed so suddenly over Mrs. Mowbray's face, that,

before she could raise a cry of alarm, all possibility of utterance was

effectually prevented. The priest alone was left at liberty.

Barbara snatched the hand of Eleanor. She dragged her to Sybil.

"You are Lady Rookwood," whispered she; "but she has your domains. I

give her to you."

"She is the _only bar_ between thy husband and his rights," whispered

Alan Rookwood, in a tone of horrible irony; "_it is not too late to

repair your wrong_."

"Away, tempter!" cried Sybil, horror-stricken. "I know you well. Yet,"

continued she, in an altered tone, "I will risk all for him. I have done

him wrong. One mode of atonement remains; and, horrible though it be, I

will embrace it. Let me not pause. Give her to me." And she seized upon

the unresisting hand of Eleanor.

"Do you need my aid?" asked Barbara.

"No," replied Sybil; "let none approach us. A clapping of hands will let

you know when all is over." And she dragged her passive victim deeper

into the vault.

"Sybil, Sybil!" cried Luke, struggling with frantic violence to liberate

himself; "hurt her not. I was rash. I was mad. I am calmer now. She

hears me not--she will not turn. God of heaven! she will murder her. It

will be done while I speak. I am the cause of all. Release me, villains!

Would that I had died ere I had seen this day."

At a signal from the sexton, Luke also was blindfolded. He ceased to

struggle. But his laboring breast told of the strife within.

"Miscreants!" exclaimed the priest, who had hitherto witnessed the

proceedings in horror. "Why do not these rocks fall in, and crush you

and your iniquities? Save her! oh, save her! Have you no pity for the

innocent?"

"Such pity have we," replied Alan Rookwood, "as you showed my daughter.

She was as innocent as Eleanor Mowbray, and yet you did not pity _her_."

"Heaven is my witness," exclaimed the priest, "that I never injured

her."

"Take not Heaven's name in vain," cried Alan. "Who stood by while it was

doing? Whose firmer hand lent aid to the murderer's trembling efforts?

Whose pressure stifled her thrilling screams, and choked her cries for

mercy? Yours--yours; and now you prate to me of pity--you, the slayer of

the sleeping and the innocent!"

"'Tis false!" exclaimed the priest, in extremity of terror.

"False!" echoed Alan. "I had Sir Piers's own confession. He told me all.

You had designs upon Sir Piers, which his wife opposed; you hated her;

you were in the confidence of both--how did you keep that confidence? He

told me _how_, by awakening a spirit of jealousy and pride, that

o'ermastered all his better feelings. False! He told me of your hellish

machinations; your Jesuitical plots; your schemes. He was too weak, too

feeble an instrument to serve you. You left him, but not before _she_

had left him. False! ha, I have that shall instantly convict you. The

corpse is here, within this cell. Who brought it hither?"

The priest was silent: he seemed confounded by Alan's violence.

"I will answer that question," said Barbara. "It was brought hither by

that false priest. His agent, Balthazar, has betrayed him. It was

brought hither to prevent the discovery of Sir Luke Rookwood's

legitimacy. He meant to make his own terms about it. It has come hither

to proclaim his guilt--to be a fearful witness against him." Then,

turning to Checkley, she added, "You have called Heaven to witness your

innocence: you shall attest it by oath upon that body; and should aught

indicate your guilt, I will hang you as I would a dog, and clear off one

long score with justice. Do you shrink from this?"

"No," replied the priest, in a voice hollow and broken. "Bring me to the

body."

"Seize each an arm," said Barbara, addressing Zoroaster and the knight

of Malta, "and lead him to the corse."

"I will administer the oath," said Alan Rookwood, sternly.

"No, not you," stammered the priest.

"And wherefore not?" asked Alan. "If you are innocent, you need fear

nothing from her."

"I fear nothing from the _dead_," replied Checkley; "lead on."

We will now return to Sybil. She was alone with her victim. They were

near the mouth of the cell which had been Prior Cyprian's flinty

dormitory, and were almost involved in darkness. A broken stream of

light glanced through the pillars. Eleanor had not spoken. She suffered

herself to be dragged thither without resistance, scarcely conscious, it

would seem, of her danger. Sybil gazed upon her for some minutes with

sorrow and surprise. "She comprehends not her perilous situation,"

murmured Sybil. "She knows not that she stands upon the brink of the

grave. Oh! would that she could pray. Shall I, her murderess, pray for

her? My prayers would not be heard. And yet, to kill her unshriven will

be a twofold crime. Let me not look on her. My hand trembles. I can

scarce grasp the dagger. Let me think on all he has said. I have wronged

him. I am his bane, his curse! I have robbed him of all: there is but

one remedy--'tis _this_!--Oh, God! she recovers. I cannot do it now."

It was a fearful moment for Eleanor's revival, when the bright steel

flashed before her eyes. Terror at once restored her. She cast herself

at Sybil's feet.

"Spare, spare me!" cried she. "Oh! what a dream I have had. And to waken

thus, with the dagger's point at my breast. You will not kill me--you,

gentle maid, who promised to preserve me. Ah, no, I am sure you will

not."

"Appeal no more to me," said Sybil, fiercely. "Make your peace with

Heaven. Your minutes are numbered."

"I cannot pray," said Eleanor, "while you are near me."

"Will you pray if I retire and leave you?"

"No, no. I dare not--cannot," shrieked Eleanor, in extremity of terror.

"Oh! do not leave me, or let me go."

"If you stir," said Sybil, "I stab you to the heart."

"I will not stir. I will kneel here forever. Stab me as I kneel--as I

pray to you. You cannot kill me while I cling to you thus--while I kiss

your hands--while I bedew them with my tears. Those tears will not sully

them like my blood."

"Maiden," said Sybil, endeavoring to withdraw her hand, "let go your

hold--your sand is run."

"Mercy!"

"It is in vain. Close your eyes."

"No, I will fix them on you thus--you cannot strike then. I will cling

to you--embrace you. Your nature is not cruel--your soul is full of

pity. It melts--those tears--you will be merciful. You cannot

deliberately kill me."

"I cannot--I cannot!" said Sybil, with a passionate outburst of grief.

"Take your life on one condition."

"Name it."

"That you wed Sir Luke Rookwood."

"Ah!" exclaimed Eleanor, "all rushes back upon me at that name; the

whole of that fearful scene passes in review before me."

"Do you reject my proposal?"

"I dare not."

"I must have your oath. Swear by every hope of eternity that you will

wed none other than him."

"By every hope, I swear it."

"Handassah, you will bear this maiden's oath in mind, and witness its

fulfilment."

"I will," replied the gipsy girl, stepping forward from a recess, in

which she had hitherto remained unnoticed.

"Enough. I am satisfied. Tarry with me. Stir not--scream not, whatever

you may see or hear. Your life depends upon your firmness. When I am no

more----"

"No more?" echoed Eleanor, in horror.

"Be calm," said Sybil. "When I am dead, clap your hands together. They

will come to seek you--they will find me in your stead. Then rush to

him--to Sir Luke Rookwood. He will protect you. Say to him hereafter

that I died for the wrong I did him--that I died, and blessed him."

"Can you not live, and save me?" sobbed Eleanor.

"Ask it not. While I live, your life is in danger. When I am gone, none

will seek to harm you. Fare you well! Remember your oath, and you, too,

remember it, Handassah. Remember also--ha! that groan!"

All started, as a deep groan knelled in their ears.

"Whence comes that sound?" cried Sybil. "Hist!--a voice?"

"It is that of the priest," cried Eleanor. "Hark! he groans. They have

murdered him! Kind Heaven, receive his soul!"

"Pray for me," cried Sybil: "pray fervently; avert your face; down on

your knees--down--down! Farewell, Handassah!" And breaking from them,

she rushed into the darkest recesses of the vault.

We must now quit this painful scene for another scarcely less painful,

and return to the unfortunate priest.

Checkley had been brought before the body of Susan Rookwood. Even in the

gloom, the shimmer of the white cereclothes, and the pallid features of

the corpse, were ghastly enough. The torchlight made them terrible.

"Kneel!" said Alan Rookwood. The priest complied. Alan knelt beside him.

"Do you know these features?" demanded he. "Regard them well. Fix your

eyes full upon them. Do you know them?"

"I do."

"Place your hand upon her breast. Does not the flesh creep and shrink

beneath your touch? Now raise your hand--make the cross of your faith

upon her bosom. By that faith you swear you are innocent."

"I do," returned the priest; "are you now satisfied?"

"No," replied Alan. "Let the torch be removed. Your innocence must be

more deeply attested," continued he, as the light was withdrawn. "This

proof will not fail. Entwine your fingers round her throat."

"Have I not done enough?"

"Your hesitation proves your guilt," said Alan.

"That proof is wanting, then?" returned the priest; "my hand is upon her

throat--what more?"

"As you hope for mercy in your hour of need, swear that you never

conspired against her life, or refused her mercy."

"I swear it."

"May the dead convict you of perjury if you have forsworn yourself,"

said Alan; "you are free. Take away your hand!"

"Ha! what is this?" exclaimed the priest. "You have put some jugglery

upon me. I cannot withdraw my hand. It sticks to her throat, as though

'twere glued by blood. Tear me away. I have not force enough to liberate

myself. Why do you grin at me? The corpse grins likewise. It is

jugglery. I am innocent. You would take away my life. Tear me away, I

say: the veins rise; they blacken; they are filling with new blood. I

feel them swell; they coil like living things around my fingers. She is

alive."

"And you are innocent?"

"I am--I am. Let not my ravings convict me. For Jesu's sake, release

me."

"Blaspheme not, but arise. I hold you not."

"You do," groaned the priest. "Your grasp tightens round my throat; your

hard and skinny fingers are there--I strangle--help!"

"Your own fears strangle you. My hand is at my side," returned Alan

calmly.

"Villain, you lie. Your grasp is like a vice. The strength of a thousand

devils is in your hand. Will none lend help? I never pressed so hard.

Your daughter never suffered this torture--never--never. I

choke--choke--oh!" And the priest rolled heavily backwards.

There was a deep groan; a convulsive rattle in the throat; and all was

still.

"He is dead--strangled," cried several voices, holding down the torch.

The face of the priest was blackened and contorted; his eyeballs

protruded from their sockets; his tongue was nearly bitten through in

the desperate efforts he had made to release himself from Alan's gripe;

his hair was erect with horror. It was a ghastly sight.

A murmur arose amongst the gipsies. Barbara deemed it prudent to appease

them.

"He was guilty," cried she. "He was the murderer of Susan Rookwood."

"And I, _her father_, have avenged her," said Alan, sternly.

The dreadful silence that followed this speech was broken by the report

of a pistol. The sound, though startling, was felt almost as a relief.

"We are beset," cried Alan. "Some of you fly to reconnoitre."

"To your posts," cried Barbara.

Several of the crew flocked to the entrance.

"Unbind the prisoners," shouted Alan.

Mrs. Mowbray and Luke were accordingly set free.

Two almost simultaneous reports of a pistol were now heard.

"'Tis Ranulph Rookwood," said Alan; "that was the preconcerted signal."

"Ranulph Rookwood," echoed Eleanor, who caught the exclamation: "he

comes to save me."

"Remember your oath," gasped a dying voice. "He is no longer yours."

"Alas! alas!" sobbed Eleanor, tremblingly.

A moment afterwards a faint clapping of hands reached the ears of

Barbara.

"All is over," muttered she.

"Ha!" exclaimed Alan Rookwood, with a frightful look. "Is it done?"

Barbara motioned him towards the further end of the vault.

_CHAPTER XIII_

_MR. COATES_

_Grimm._ Look, captain, here comes one of the bloodhounds of justice.

_Schw._ Down with him. Don't let him utter a word.

_Moor._ Silence, I will hear him.

SCHILLER: _The Robbers_.

Gladly do we now exchange the dank atmosphere of Saint Cyprian's cell,

and the horrors which have detained us there so long, for balmy air,

genial sunshine, and the boon companionship of Dick Turpin. Upon

regaining the verdant ruins of the ancient priory, all appeared pretty

much as our highwayman had left it. Dick wended towards his mare. Black

Bess uttered an affectionate whinnying sound as he approached her, and

yielded her sleek neck to his caresses. No Bedouin Arab ever loved his

horse more tenderly than Turpin.

"'Twill be a hard day when thou and I part!" murmured he, affectionately

patting her soft and silky cheeks. Bess thrust her nose into his hand,

biting him playfully, as much as to say, "That day will never arrive."

Turpin, at least, understood the appeal in that sense; he was skilled in

the language of the Houyhnhnms. "I would rather lose my right hand than

_that_ should happen," sighed he; "but there's no saying: the best of

friends must part; and thou and I may be one day separated: thy

destination is the knacker--mine, perhaps, the gibbet.--We are neither

of us cut out for old age, that's certain. Curse me if I can tell how it

is; since I've been in that vault, I've got some queer crotchet into my

head. I can't help likening thee to that poor gipsy wench, Sybil; but

may I be scragged if I'd use thee as her lover has used her. Ha!"

exclaimed he, drawing a pistol with a suddenness that made his

companions, Rust and Wilder, start, "we are watched. See you not how yon

shadow falls from behind the wall?"

"I do," replied Rust.

"The varmint shall be speedily unearthed," said Wilder, rushing to the

spot.

In another instant the shadow manifested itself in a substantial little

personage, booted, spurred, and mud-bespattered. He was brought before

our highwayman, who had, meanwhile, vaulted into his saddle.

"Mr. Coates!" cried Dick, bursting into a loud laugh at the ridiculous

figure presented to his view, "or the mud deceives me."

"It does not deceive you, Captain Turpin," replied the attorney; "you

do, indeed, behold that twice unfortunate person."

"What brings you here?" asked Dick. "Ah! I see, you are come to pay me

my wager."

"I thought you gave me a _discharge_ for that," rejoined Coates, unable,

even in his distress, to resist the too-tempting quibble.

"True, but it was _in blank_," replied Turpin readily; "and that don't

hold good in law, you know. You have thrown away a second chance. Play

or pay, all the world over. I shan't _let you off_ so easily this time,

depend upon it. Come, post the pony, or take your measure on that sod.

No more replications or rejoinders, sir, down with the dust. Fake his

clies, pals. Let us see what he has about him."

"In the twinkling of a bed-post," replied Rust. "We'll turn him inside

out. What's here?" cried he, searching the attorney's pockets. "A brace

of barkers," handing a pair of pistols to Turpin, "a haddock, stuffed

with nothing, I'm thinking; one quid, two coach-wheels, half a bull,

three hogs, and a kick; a d--d dicky concern, captain."

"Three hogs and a kick," muttered Coates; "the knave says true enough."

"Is there nothing else?" demanded Dick.

"Only an old snuffy fogle and a pewter sneezer."

"No reader?[90] Try his hoxter."[91]

"Here's a pit-man,[92] captain."

"Give it me. Ah! this will do," cried Dick, examining the contents of

the pocket-book. "This is a glorious windfall indeed; a bill of exchange

for 500_l._, payable _on demand_, eh, Mr. Coates? Quick! indorse it,

sir. Here's pen and ink. Rascal! if you attempt to tear the bill, I'll

blow your brains out. Steady, sir, sign. Good!" added he, as Coates most

reluctantly indorsed the bill. "Good! good! I'll be off with this bill

to London to-night, before you can stop it. No courier can beat

Bess--ha, ha! Eh! what's this?" continued Dick, as, unfolding another

leaf of the pocket-book, he chanced upon a letter; "My Lady Rookwood's

superscription! Excuse me, Mr. Coates, I must have a peep at her

ladyship's billet-doux. All's safe with me--man of honor. I must detain

your _reader_ a moment longer."

"You should take charge of yourself, then," replied Coates, sulkily.

"_You_ appear to be my reader."

"Bravo!" cried Turpin. "You may jest now with impunity, Mr. Coates. You

have paid dear enough for your jokes; and when should a man be allowed

to be pleasant, if not at his own expense?--ha, ha! What's this?"

exclaimed he, opening the letter. "A ring, as I'm awake! and from her

ladyship's own fair finger, I'll be sworn, for it bears her cipher,

ineffaceably impressed as your image upon her heart--eh, Coates? Egad!

you are a lucky dog, after all, to receive _such_ a favor from _such_ a

lady--ha, ha! Meantime, I'll take care of it for you," continued Dick,

slipping the ring on his little finger.

Turpin, we have before remarked, had a turn for mimicry; and it was with

an irresistible feeling of deferential awe creeping over him that Coates

heard the contents of Lady Rookwood's epistle delivered with an

enunciation as peremptory and imperious as that of her ladyship's self.

The letter was hastily indited, in a clear, firm hand, and partook of

its writer's decision of character. Dick found no difficulty in

deciphering it. Thus ran the missive:

"Assured of your devotion and secrecy, I commit my own honor, and

that of my son, to your charge. Time will not permit me to see you,

or I would not write. But I place myself entirely in your hands. You

will not dare to betray my confidence. To the point:--A Major

Mowbray has just arrived here with intelligence that the body of

Susan Bradley--you will know to whom I allude--has been removed from

our family vault by a Romish priest and his assistants. How it came

there, or why it has been removed, I know not; it is not my present

purpose to inquire. Suffice it, that it now lies in a vault beneath

the ruins of Davenham Priory. My son, Sir Ranulph, who has lent a

credulous ear to the artful tales of the impostor who calls this

woman mother, is at present engaged in arming certain of the

household, and of the tenantry, to seize upon and bring away this

body, as resistance is apprehended from a horde of gipsies who

infest the ruins. Now, mark me. THAT BODY MUST NOT BE FOUND! Be it

your business to prevent its discovery. Take the fleetest horse you

can procure; spare neither whip nor spur. Haste to the priory;

procure by any means, and at any expense, the assistance of the

gipsies. Find out the body; conceal it, destroy it--do what you

will, so my son find it not. Fear not his resentment; I will bear

you harmless of the consequences with him. You will act upon my

responsibility. I pledge my honor for your safety. Use all despatch,

and calculate upon due requital from

"MAUD ROOKWOOD.

"Haste, and God speed you!"

"God speed you!" echoed Dick, in his own voice, contemptuously. "The

devil drive you! would have been a fitter postscript. And it was upon

this precious errand you came, Mr. Coates?"

"Precisely," replied the attorney; "but I find the premises preoccupied.

Fast as I have ridden, you are here before me."

"And what do you now propose to do?" asked Turpin.

"Bargain with you for the body," replied Coates, in an insinuating tone.

"With _me_!" said Dick; "do you take me for a resurrection cove; for a

dealer in dead stock, eh! sirrah?"

"I take you for one sufficiently _alive_, in a general way, to his own

interests," returned Coates. "These gentlemen may not, perhaps, be quite

so scrupulous, when they hear my proposals."

"Be silent, sir," interrupted Turpin. "Hist! I hear the tramp of horses'

hoofs without. Hark! that shout."

"Make your own terms before they come," said Coates. "Leave all to me.

I'll put 'em on a wrong scent."

"To the devil with your terms," cried Turpin; "the signal!" And he

pulled the trigger of one of Coates's pistols, the shot of which rang in

the ears of the astounded attorney as it whizzed past him. "Drag him

into the mouth of the vault," thundered Turpin: "he will be a capital

cover in case of attack. Look to your sticks, and be on the

alert;--away!"

Vainly did the unfortunate attorney kick and struggle, swear and scream;

his hat was pushed over his eyes; his bob-wig thrust into his mouth; and

his legs tripped from under him. Thus blind, dumb, and half-suffocated,

he was hurried into the entrance of the cell.

Dick, meanwhile, dashed to the arched outlet of the ruin. He there drew

in the rein, and Black Bess stood motionless as a statue.

_CHAPTER XIV_

_DICK TURPIN_

Many a fine fellow with a genius extensive enough to have effected

universal reformation has been doomed to perish by the halter. But

does not such a man's renown extend through centuries and tens of

centuries, while many a prince would be overlooked in history were

it not the historian's interest to increase the number of his pages?

Nay, when the traveller sees a gibbet, does he not exclaim, "That

fellow was no fool!" and lament the hardship of the

times?--SCHILLER: _The Robbers_.

Turpin's quick eye ranged over the spreading sward in front of the

ancient priory, and his brow became contracted. The feeling, however,

was transient. The next instant saw him the same easy, reckless being he

had been before. There was a little more paleness in his cheek than

usual; but his look was keener, and his knees involuntarily clasped the

saddle more firmly. No other symptom of anxiety was perceptible. It

would be no impeachment to Dick's valor were it necessary to admit that

a slight tremor crossed him as he scanned the formidable array of his

opponents. The admission is needless. Dick himself would have been the

last man to own it; nor shall we do the memory of our undaunted

highwayman any such injustice. Turpin was intrepid to a fault. He was

rash; apt to run into risks for the mere pleasure of getting out of

them: danger was his delight, and the degree of excitement was always in

proportion to the peril incurred. After the first glance, he became, to

use his own expressive phrase, "as cool as a cucumber;" and continued,

as long as they permitted him, like a skilful commander, calmly to

calculate the numerical strength of his adversaries, and to arrange his

own plan of resistance.

This troop of horsemen, for such it was, might probably amount in the

aggregate to twenty men, and presented an appearance like that of a

strong muster at a rustic fox-chase, due allowance being made for the

various weapons of offence; to-wit: naked sabers, firelocks, and a world

of huge horse-pistols, which the present _field_ carried along with

them. This resemblance was heightened by the presence of an old huntsman

and a gamekeeper or two, in scarlet and green jackets, and a few yelping

hounds that had followed after them. The majority of the crew consisted

of sturdy yeomen; some of whom, mounted upon wild, unbroken colts, had

pretty lives of it to maintain their seats, and curvetted about in "most

admired disorder;" others were seated upon more docile, but quite as

provoking specimens of the cart-horse breed, whose sluggish sides,

reckless alike of hobnailed heel or ash sapling, refused to obey their

riders' intimations to move; while others again, brought stiff,

wrong-headed ponies to the charge--obstinate, impracticable little

brutes, who seemed to prefer revolving on their own axis, and describing

absurd rotatory motions, to proceeding in the direct and proper course

pointed out to them. Dick could scarcely forbear laughing at these

ridiculous man[oe]uvres; but his attention was chiefly attracted towards

three individuals, who were evidently the leaders of this warlike

expedition. In the thin, tall figure of the first of these he recognized

Ranulph Rookwood. With the features and person of the second of the

group he was not entirely unacquainted, and fancied--nor incorrectly

fancied--that his military bearing, or, as he would have expressed it,

"the soldier-like cut of his jib," could belong to no other than Major

Mowbray, whom he had once eased of a purse on Finchley Common. In the

round, rosy countenance and robustious person of the last of the trio he

discovered his ancient ally, Titus Tyrconnel.

"Ah, Titus, my jewel, are you there?" exclaimed Dick, as he

distinguished the Irishman. "Come, I have _one_ friend among them whom I

may welcome. So, they see me now. Off they come, pell-mell. Back, Bess,

back!--slowly, wench, slowly--there--stand!" And Bess again remained

motionless.

The report of Turpin's pistol reached the ears of the troop; and as all

were upon the alert, he had scarcely presented himself at the gateway,

when a loud shout was raised, and the whole cavalcade galloped towards

him, creating, as may be imagined, the wildest disorder; each horseman

yelling, as he neared the arch, and got involved in the press occasioned

by the unexpected concentration of forces at that point, while oaths and

blows, kicks and cuffs, were reciprocated with such hearty good-will,

that, had Turpin ever read Ariosto or Cervantes, or heard of the discord

of King Agramante's camp, this _mêlée_ must have struck him as its

realization. As it was, entertaining little apprehension of the result,

he shouted encouragement to them. Scarcely, however, had the foremost

horseman disentangled himself from the crowd, and, struggling to the

door, was in the act of levelling his pistol at Turpin's head, when a

well-directed ball pierced the brain of his charger, and horse and man

rolled to the ground. Vowing vengeance, a second succeeded, and was in

like manner compelled to bite the dust.

"That will let Old Peter know that Ranulph Rookwood is at hand,"

exclaimed Dick. "I shan't throw away another shot."

The scene at the archway was now one of complete confusion. Terrified by

the shots, some of the boors would have drawn back, while others, in

mid career, advanced, and propelled them forwards. It was like the

meeting of two tides. Here and there, regardless of the bit, and scared

by the firing, a wild colt broke all bounds, and, hurling his rider in

the air, darted off into the green; or, in another case, rushed forward,

and encountering the prostrate cattle cumbering the entrance to the

priory hall, stumbled, and precipitated his master neck-over-heels at

the very feet of his enemy. During all this tumult, a few shots were

fired at the highwayman, which, without doing him a jot of mischief,

tended materially to increase their own confusion.

The voice of Turpin was now heard above the din and turmoil to sound a

parley; and as he appeared disposed to offer no opposition, some of his

antagonists ventured to raise themselves from the ground, and to

approach him.

"I demand to be led to Sir Ranulph Rookwood," said Turpin.

"He is here," said Ranulph, riding up. "Villain, you are my prisoner."

"As you list, Sir Ranulph," returned Dick, coolly; "but let me have a

word in private with you ere you do aught you may repent hereafter."

"No words, sir--deliver up your arms, or----"

"My pistols are at your service," replied Dick. "I have just discharged

them."

"You may have others. We must search you."

"Hold!" cried Dick; "if you will not listen to me, read that paper." And

he handed Ranulph his mother's letter to Mr. Coates. It was without the

superscription, which he had thrown aside.

"My mother's hand!" exclaimed Ranulph, reddening with anger, as he

hastily perused its contents. "And she sent this to you? You lie,

villain--'tis a forgery."

"Let this speak for me," returned Dick, holding out the finger upon

which Lady Rookwood's ring was placed. "Know you that cipher?"

"You have stolen it," retorted Ranulph. "My mother," added he, in a

deep, stern whisper, articulated only for Turpin's hearing, "would never

have entrusted her honor to a highwayman's keeping."

"She has entrusted more--her life," replied Dick, in a careless tone.

"She would have bribed me to do murder."

"Murder!" echoed Ranulph, aghast.

"Ay, to murder your brother," returned Dick; "but let that pass. You

have read that note. I have acted solely upon your mother's

responsibility. Lady Rookwood's _honor_ is pledged for my safety. Of

course her son will set me free."

"Never!"

"Well, as you please. Your mother is in my power. Betray me, and you

betray her."

"No more!" returned Ranulph, sternly. "Go your ways. You are free."

"Pledge me your word of honor I am safe." Ranulph had scarcely given his

pledge, when Major Mowbray rode furiously up. A deep flush of anger

burnt upon his cheeks; his sword was drawn in his hand. He glanced at

Turpin, as if he would have felled him from his saddle.

"This is the ruffian," cried the major, fiercely, "by whom I was

attacked some months ago, and for whose apprehension the reward of three

hundred pounds is offered by his majesty's proclamation, with a free

pardon to his accomplices. This is Richard Turpin. He has just added

another crime to his many offences. He has robbed my mother and sister.

The postboy knew him the moment he came up. Where are they, villain?

Whither are they gone?--answer!"

"I know not," replied Turpin, calmly. "Did not the lad tell you they

were rescued?"

"Rescued!--by whom?" asked Ranulph, with great emotion.

"By one who calls himself Sir Luke Rookwood," answered Turpin, with a

meaning smile.

"By him!" ejaculated Ranulph. "Where are they now?"

"I have already answered that question," said Dick. "I repeat, I know

not."

"You are my prisoner," cried the major, seizing Turpin's bridle.

"I have Sir Ranulph's word for my safety," rejoined Turpin. "Let go my

rein."

"How is this?" asked Major Mowbray, incredulously.

"Ask me not. Release him," replied Ranulph.

"Ranulph," said the major, "you ask an impossibility. My honor--my

duty--is implicated in this man's capture."

"The honor of all of us is involved in his deliverance," returned

Ranulph, in a whisper. "Let him go. I will explain all hereafter. Let us

search for them--for Eleanor. Surely, after this, you will help us to

find them," added he, addressing Turpin.

"I wish, with all my soul, I could do so," replied the highwayman.

"I see'd the ladies cross the brook, and enter these old ruins,"

interposed the postboy, who had now joined the party. "I see'd 'em from

where I stood on the hill-side; and as I kept a pretty sharp look-out,

and have a tolerably bright eye of my own, I don't think as how they

ever comed out again."

"Some one is hidden within yon fissure in the wall," exclaimed Ranulph;

"I see a figure move."

And he flung himself from his horse, rushing towards the mouth of the

cell. Imitating his example, Major Mowbray followed his friend, sword in

hand.

"The game begins now in right earnest," said Dick to himself; "the old

fox will be soon unearthed. I must look to my snappers." And he thrust

his hand quietly into his pocket in search of a pistol.

Just as Ranulph and the major reached the recess they were startled by

the sudden apparition of the ill-fated attorney.

"Mr. Coates!" exclaimed Ranulph, in surprise. "What do you here, sir?"

"I--I--that is--Sir Ranulph--you must excuse me, sir--particular

business--can't say," returned the trembling attorney; for at this

instant his eye caught that of Turpin, and the ominous reflexion of a

polished-steel barrel, held carelessly towards him. He was aware, also,

that on the other hand he was, in like manner, the mark of Rust and

Wilder; those polite gentlemen having threatened him with a brace of

slugs in his brain if he dared to betray their hiding-place. "It is

necessary that I should be _guarded_ in my answers," murmured he.

"Is there any one within that place besides yourself?" said the major,

making a movement thither.

"No, sir, nobody at all," answered Coates, hastily, fancying at the same

time that he heard the click of the pistol that was to be his

death-warrant.

"How came you here, sir?" demanded Ranulph.

"Do you mean in this identical spot?" replied Coates, evasively.

"You can have no difficulty in answering that question," said the major,

sternly.

"Pardon me, sir. I find considerable difficulty in answering any

question, situated as I am."

"Have you seen Miss Mowbray?" asked Ranulph, eagerly.

"Or my mother?" said the major, in the same breath.

"Neither," replied Coates, rather relieved by these questions.

"I suspect you are deceiving us, sir," said the major. "Your manner is

confused. I am convinced you know more of this matter than you choose to

explain; and if you do not satisfy me at once, fully and explicitly, I

vow to Heaven----" and the major's sword described a glittering circle

round his head.

"Are you privy to their concealment?" asked Ranulph. "Have you seen

aught of them, or of Luke Bradley?"

"Speak, or this moment is your last," said the major.

"If it _is_ my last, I _cannot_ speak," returned Coates. "I can make

neither head nor tail of your questions, gentlemen."

"And you positively assure me you have not seen Mrs. Mowbray and her

daughter?" said Ranulph.

Turpin here winked at Coates. The attorney understood him.

"I don't positively assert that," faltered he.

"How!--you _have_ seen them?" shouted Ranulph.

"Where are they?--in safety--speak!" added the major.

Another expressive gesture from the highwayman communicated to the

attorney the nature of his reply.

"Without, sir--without--yonder," he replied. "I will show you myself.

Follow, gentlemen, follow." And away scampered Coates, without once

venturing to look behind him.

In an instant the ruined hall was deserted, and Turpin alone left

behind. In the excitement of the moment his presence had been forgotten.

In an instant afterwards the _arena_ was again occupied by a company

equally numerous. Rust and Wilder issued from their hiding-places,

followed by a throng of the gipsy crew.

"Where is Sir Luke Rookwood?" asked Turpin.

"He remains below," was the answer returned.

"And Peter Bradley?"

"Stays there likewise."

"No matter. Now make ready, pals. Give 'em one shout--Hurrah!"

"Hurrah!" replied the crowd, at the top of their voices.

Ranulph Rookwood and his companions heard this shout. Mr. Coates had

already explained the stratagem practised upon them by the wily

highwayman, as well as the perilous situation in which he himself had

been placed; and they were in the act of returning to make good his

capture, when the loud shouts of the crew arrested them. From the

clamor, it was evident that considerable reinforcement must have arrived

from some unlooked-for quarter; and, although burning to be avenged

upon the audacious highwayman, the major felt it would be a task of

difficulty, and that extreme caution could alone ensure success. With

difficulty restraining the impatience of Ranulph, who could scarcely

brook these few minutes of needful delay, Major Mowbray gave particular

instructions to each of the men in detail, and caused several of them to

dismount. By this arrangement Mr. Coates found himself accommodated with

a steed and a pair of pistols, with which latter he vowed to wreak his

vengeance upon some of his recent tormentors. After a short space of

time occupied in this manner, the troop slowly advanced towards the

postern, in much better order than upon the previous occasion; but the

stoutest of them quailed as they caught sight of the numerous gipsy-gang

drawn out in battle array within the abbey walls. Each party scanned the

other's movements in silence and wonder, anxiously awaiting, yet in a

measure dreading, their leader's signal to begin. That signal was not

long delayed. A shot from the ranks of Rookwood did instant and bitter

execution. Rob Rust was stretched lifeless upon the ground. Nothing more

was needed. The action now became general. Fire arms were discharged on

both sides, without much damage to either party. But a rush being made

by a detachment of horse, headed by Major Mowbray, the conflict soon

became more serious. The gipsies, after the first fire, threw aside

their pistols, and fought with long knives, with which they inflicted

desperate gashes, both on men and horses. Major Mowbray was slightly

wounded in the thigh, and his steed receiving the blow intended for

himself, stumbled and threw his rider. Luckily for the major, Ranulph

Rookwood was at hand, and with the butt-end of a heavy-handled pistol

felled the ruffian to the earth, just as he was upon the point of

repeating the thrust.

Turpin, meanwhile, had taken comparatively a small share in the

conflict. He seemed to content himself with acting upon the defensive,

and except in the case of Titus Tyrconnel, whom, espying amidst the

crowd, he had considerably alarmed by sending a bullet through his wig,

he did not fire a single shot. He also succeeded in unhorsing Coates, by

hurling, with great dexterity, the empty pistol at his head. Though

apparently unconcerned in the skirmish, he did not flinch from it, but

kept his ground unyieldingly. "A charmed life" he seemed to bear; for

amid the shower of bullets, many of which were especially aimed at

himself, he came off unhurt.

"He that's born to be hanged will never be drowned, that's certain,"

said Titus. "It's no use trying to bring him down. But, by Jasus! he's

spoiled my best hat and wig, anyhow. There's a hole in my beaver as big

as a crown piece."

"Your own crown's safe, and that's some satisfaction," said Coates;

"whereas mine has a bump on it as large as a swan's egg. Ah! if we could

only get behind him."

The strife continued to rage without intermission; and though there were

now several ghastly evidences of its fury, in the shape of wounded men

and slaughtered or disabled horses, whose gaping wounds flooded the turf

with gore, it was still difficult to see upon which side victory would

eventually declare herself. The gipsies, though by far the greater

sufferers of the two, firmly maintained their ground. Drenched in the

blood of the horses they had wounded, and brandishing their long knives,

they presented a formidable and terrific appearance, the effect of which

was not at all diminished by their wild yells and savage gesticulations.

On the other hand, headed by Major Mowbray and Ranulph, the troop of

yeomen pressed on undauntedly; and where the sturdy farmers could get a

firm gripe of their lithe antagonists, or deliver a blow with their

ox-like fists, they seldom failed to make good the advantages which

superior weight and strength gave them. It will thus be seen that as yet

they were pretty well matched. Numbers were in favor of the gipsies, but

courage was equally distributed, and, perhaps, what is emphatically

called "bottom," was in favor of the rustics. Be this as it may, from

what had already occurred, there was every prospect of a very serious

termination to the fray.

From time to time Turpin glanced to the entrance of the cell, in the

expectation of seeing Sir Luke Rookwood make his appearance; and, as he

was constantly disappointed in his expectation, he could not conceal his

chagrin. At length he resolved to despatch a messenger to him, and one

of the crew accordingly departed upon this errand. He returned presently

with a look of blank dismay.

In our hasty narrative of the fight we have not paused to particularize,

neither have we enumerated, the list of the combatants. Amongst them,

however, were Jerry Juniper, the knight of Malta, and Zoroaster.

Excalibur, as may be conceived, had not been idle; but that trenchant

blade had been shivered by Ranulph Rookwood in the early stage of the

business, and the knight left weaponless. Zoroaster, who was not merely

a worshipper of fire, but a thorough milling-cove, had engaged to some

purpose in a pugilistic encounter with the rustics; and, having fought

several rounds, now "bore his blushing honors thick upon him." Jerry,

like Turpin, had remained tolerably quiescent. "The proper moment," he

said, "had not arrived." A fatality seemed to attend Turpin's immediate

companions. Rust was the first who fell; Wilder also was now among the

slain. Things were precisely in this condition when the messenger

returned. A marked change was instantly perceptible in Turpin's manner.

He no longer looked on with indifference. He seemed angry and

distrustful. He gnawed his lip, ever a sign with him of vexation.

Addressing a few words to those about him, he then spoke more loudly to

the rest of the crew. Being in the jargon of the tawny tribe, his words

were not intelligible to the opposite party; but their import was soon

made known by the almost instant and total relinquishment of the field

by the gipsies. They took to their heels at once, to a man, leaving only

a few desperately wounded behind them; and, flying along the intricate

ruins of the priory, baffled all pursuit, wherever it was attempted.

Jerry Juniper was the last in the retreat; but, upon receiving a hint

from Dick, he vaulted like a roe over the heads of his adversaries, and

made good his escape. Turpin alone remained. He stood like a lion at

bay, quietly regarding the huntsmen hurtling around him. Ranulph

Rookwood rode up and bade him surrender.

"Detain me not," cried he, in a voice of thunder. "If you would save her

who is dear to you, descend into that vault. Off, I say."

And Turpin shook away, with ease, the grasp that Ranulph had laid upon

him.

"Villain! you do not escape me this time," said Major Mowbray,

interposing himself between Turpin and the outlet.

"Major Mowbray, I would not have your blood upon my head," said Dick.

"Let me pass," and he levelled a pistol.

"Fire, if you dare!" said the major, raising his sword. "You pass not. I

will die rather than allow you to escape. Barricade the door. Strike him

down if he attempts to pass. Richard Turpin, I arrest you in the king's

name. You hear, my lads, in his majesty's name. I command you to assist

me in this highwayman's capture. Two hundred pounds for his head."

"Two hundred devils!" exclaimed Dick, with a laugh of disdain. "Go, seek

your mother and sister within yon vault, Major Mowbray; you will find

employment enough there."

Saying which, he suddenly forced Bess to back a few yards; then,

striking his heels sharply into her sides, ere his purpose could be

divined by the spectators, charged, and cleared the lower part of the

mouldering priory walls. This feat was apparently accomplished with no

great effort by his admirable and unequalled mare.

"By the powers!" cried Titus, "and he's given us the slip after all. And

just when we thought to make sure of him, too. Why, Mr. Coates, that

wall must be higher than a five-barred gate, or any stone wall in my own

country. It's just the most extraordinary lepp I ever set eyes on!"

"The devil's in the fellow, certainly, or in his mare," returned Coates;

"but if he escapes me, I'll forgive him. I know whither he's bound. He's

off to London with my bill of exchange. I'll be up with him. I'll track

him like a bloodhound, slowly and surely, as my father, the thief-taker,

used to follow up a scent. Recollect the hare and the tortoise. The race

is not always to the swift. What say you? 'Tis a match for five hundred

pounds; nay, for five thousand: for there is a certain marriage

certificate in the way--a glorious golden venture! You shall go halves,

if we win. We'll have him, dead or alive. What say you for London, Mr.

Tyrconnel? Shall we start at once?"

"With all my sowl," replied Titus. "I'm with you." And away this _par

nobile_ scoured.

Ranulph, meantime, plunged into the vault. The floor was slippery, and

he had nigh stumbled. Loud and deep lamentations, and a wailing sound,

like that of a lament for the dead, resounded in his ears. A light at

the further extremity of the vault attracted his attention. He was

filled with terrible forebodings; but the worst reality was not so

terrible as suspense. He rushed towards the light. He passed the massive

pillars, and there, by the ruddy torch flame, discovered two female

figures. One was an old woman, fantastically attired, wringing her

hands, and moaning, or gibbering wild strains in broken, discordant, yet

pathetic tones. The other was Mrs. Mowbray. Both were images of despair.

Before them lay some motionless object. He noticed not that old woman;

he scarcely saw Mrs. Mowbray; he beheld only that object of horror. It

was the lifeless body of a female. The light fell imperfectly upon the

face; he could not discern the features, but the veil in which it was

swathed: that veil was Eleanor's! He asked no more.

With a wild cry he rushed forward. "Eleanor, my beloved!" shrieked he.

Mrs. Mowbray started at his voice, but appeared stunned and helpless.

"She is dead," said Ranulph, stooping towards the body. "Dead--dead!"

"Ay," echoed the old woman, in accents of equal anguish--"dead--dead!"

"But this is _not_ Eleanor," exclaimed he, as he viewed the features

more closely. "This face, though beautiful, is not hers. This

dishevelled hair is black. The long lashes that shade her cheek are of

the same hue. She is scarce dead. The hand I clasp is yet warm--the

fingers are pliant."

"Yet she is dead," said the old woman, in a broken voice, "she is

slain."

"Who hath slain her?" asked Ranulph.

"I--I--her mother, slew her."

"You!" exclaimed Ranulph, horror-stricken. "And where is Eleanor?" asked

he. "Was she not here?"

"Better she were here now, even though she were as that poor maid,"

groaned Mrs. Mowbray, "than where she is."

"Where is she, then?" asked Ranulph, with frantic eagerness.

"Fled. Whither I know not."

"With whom?"

"With Sir Luke Rookwood--with Alan Rookwood. They have borne her hence.

Ranulph, you are too late."

"Gone!" cried Ranulph, fiercely springing to his feet. "How escaped

they? There appears to be but one entrance to this vault. I will search

each nook and cranny."

"'Tis vain," replied Mrs. Mowbray. "There is another outlet through yon

cell. By that passage they escaped."

"Too true, too true," shouted Ranulph, who flew to examine the cell.

"And wherefore followed you not?"

"The stone rolled to its mouth, and resisted my efforts. I could not

follow."

"Torture and death! She is lost to me for ever!" cried Ranulph,

bitterly.

"No!" exclaimed Barbara, clutching his arm. "Place your trust in me, and

I will find her for you."

"You!" ejaculated Ranulph.

"Even I," replied Barbara. "Your wrongs shall be righted--my Sybil be

avenged."

_BOOK IV_

_THE RIDE TO YORK_

Then one halloo, boys! one loud cheering halloo!

To the swiftest of coursers, the gallant, the true,

For the sportsman unborn shall the memory bless

Of the horse of the highwayman, bonny Black Bess.

RICHARD TURPIN.

_CHAPTER I_

_THE RENDEZVOUS AT KILBURN_

_Hind._ Drink deep, my brave boys, of the bastinado;

Of stramazons, tinctures, and slié passatas;

Of the carricado, and rare embrocado;

Of blades, and rapier-hilts of surest guard;

Of the Vincentio and Burgundian ward.

Have we not bravely tossed this bombast foil-button?

Win gold and wear gold, boys, 'tis we that merit it.

_Prince of Prigs' Revels._

_An excellent Comedy, replete with various conceits and Tarltonian

mirth._

The present straggling suburb at the north-west of the metropolis, known

as Kilburn, had scarcely been called into existence a century ago, and

an ancient hostel, with a few detached farmhouses, were the sole

habitations to be found in the present populous vicinage. The place of

refreshment for the ruralizing cockney of 1737 was a substantial-looking

tenement of the good old stamp, with great bay windows, and a balcony in

front, bearing as its ensign the jovial visage of the lusty knight, Jack

Falstaff. Shaded by a spreading elm, a circular bench embraced the aged

trunk of the tree, sufficiently tempting, no doubt, to incline the

wanderer on those dusty ways to "rest and be thankful," and to cry

_encore_ to a frothing tankard of the best ale to be obtained within the

chimes of Bow bells.

Upon a table, green as the privet and holly that formed the walls of the

bower in which it was placed, stood a great china bowl, one of those

leviathan memorials of bygone wassailry which we may sometimes

espy--reversed in token of its desuetude--perched on the top of an old

japanned closet, but seldom, if ever, encountered in its proper position

at the genial board. All the appliances of festivity were at hand.

Pipes and rummers strewed the board. Perfume, subtle, yet mellow, as of

pine and lime, exhaled from out the bowl, and, mingling with the scent

of a neighboring bed of mignonette and the subdued odor of the Indian

weed, formed altogether as delectable an atmosphere of sweets as one

could wish to inhale on a melting August afternoon. So, at least,

thought the inmates of the arbor; nor did they by any means confine

themselves to the gratification of a single sense. The ambrosial

contents of the china bowl proved as delicious to the taste as its

bouquet was grateful to the smell; while the eyesight was soothed by

reposing on the smooth sward of a bowling-green spread out immediately

before it, or in dwelling upon gently undulating meads, terminating, at

about a mile's distance, in the woody, spire-crowned heights of

Hampstead.

At the left of the table was seated, or rather lounged, a slender,

elegant-looking young man, with dark, languid eyes, sallow complexion,

and features wearing that peculiarly pensive expression often

communicated by dissipation; an expression which, we regret to say, is

sometimes found more pleasing than it ought to be in the eyes of the

gentle sex. Habited in a light summer riding-dress, fashioned according

to the taste of the time, of plain and unpretending material, and rather

under than overdressed, he had, perhaps, on that very account, perfectly

the air of a gentleman. There was, altogether, an absence of pretension

about him, which, combined with great apparent self-possession,

contrasted very forcibly with the vulgar assurance of his showy

companions. The figure of the youth was slight, even to fragility,

giving little outward manifestation of the vigor of frame he in reality

possessed. This spark was a no less distinguished personage than Tom

King, a noted high-tobygloak of his time, who obtained, from his

appearance and address, the _sobriquet_ of the "Gentleman Highwayman."

Tom was indeed a pleasant fellow in his day. His career was brief, but

brilliant: your meteors are ever momentary. He was a younger son of a

good family; had good blood in his veins, though not a groat in his

pockets. According to the old song--

When he arrived at man's estate,

It was _all the estate_ he had;

and all the estate he was ever likely to have. Nevertheless, if he had

no income, he contrived, as he said, to live as if he had the mines of

Peru at his control--a miracle not solely confined to himself. For a

moneyless man, he had rather expensive habits. He kept his three nags;

and, if fame does not belie him, a like number of mistresses; nay, if we

are to place any faith in certain scandalous chronicles to which we have

had access, he was for some time the favored lover of a celebrated

actress, who, for the time, supplied him with the means of keeping up

his showy establishment. But things could not long hold thus. Tom was a

model of infidelity, and that was the only failing his mistress could

not overlook. She dismissed him at a moment's notice. Unluckily, too, he

had other propensities which contributed to involve him. He had a taste

for the turf--a taste for play--was well known in the hundreds of Drury,

and cut no mean figure at Howell's, and the faro tables there-anent. He

was the glory of the Smyrna, D'Osyndar's, and other chocolate houses of

the day; and it was at this time he fell into the hands of certain

dexterous sharpers, by whom he was at first plucked and subsequently

patronized. Under their tuition he improved wonderfully. He turned his

wit and talent to some account. He began to open his eyes. His nine

days' blindness was over. The dog saw. But, in spite of his quickness,

he was at length discovered, and ejected from Howell's in a manner that

left him no alternative. He must either have called out his adversary,

or have gone out himself. He preferred the latter, and took to the road;

and in his new line he was eminently successful. Fortunately, he had no

scruples to get over. Tom had what Sir Walter Scott happily denominates

"an indistinct notion of _meum_ and _tuum_," and became confirmed in the

opinion that everything he could lay hands upon constituted lawful

spoil. And then, even those he robbed, admitted that he was the most

gentlemanlike highwayman they had ever the fortune to meet with, and

trusted they might always be so lucky. So popular did he become upon the

road, that it was accounted a distinction to be stopped by him; he made

a point of robbing none but gentlemen, and--Tom's shade would quarrel

with us were we to omit them--ladies. His acquaintance with Turpin was

singular, and originated in a rencontre. Struck with his appearance,

Dick presented a pistol, and bade King deliver. The latter burst into a

laugh, and an explanation immediately ensued. Thenceforward they became

sworn brothers--the Pylades and Orestes of the road; and though seldom

seen together in public, had many a merry moonlight ride in company.

Tom still maintained three mistresses, his valet, his groom--tiger, we

should have called him,--"and many a change of clothes besides," says

his biographer, "with which he appeared more like a lord than a

highwayman." And what more, we should like to know, would a lord wish to

have? Few younger sons, we believe, can boast so much; and it is chiefly

on their account, with some remote view to the benefit of the unemployed

youth of all professions, that we have enlarged so much upon Tom King's

history. The road, we must beg to repeat, is still open; the chances are

greater than they ever were; we fully believe it is _their_ only road to

preferment, and we are sadly in want of highwaymen!

Fancy Tom lounging at D'Osyndar's, carelessly tapping his boots on the

steps; there he stands! Is he not a devilish good-looking, gentlemanlike

sort of fellow? You could never have taken him for a highwayman but for

our information. A waiter appears--supper is ordered at twelve--a

broiled chicken and a bottle of Burgundy--his groom brings his nags to

the door--he mounts. It is his custom to ride out on an evening--he is

less liable to interruption.[93] At Marylebone Fields--now the Regent's

Park,--his groom leaves him. He has a mistress in the neighborhood. He

is absent for a couple of hours, and returns gay or dispirited, as his

luck may have turned out. At twelve he is at supper, and has the night

before him. How very easy all this seems. Can it be possible we have no

Tom Kings?

To return to Tom as he was in the arbor. Judging from his manner, he

appeared to be almost insensible to the presence of his companions, and

to be scarcely a partaker in their revelry. His back was towards his

immediate neighbor; his glass sparkled untouched at his elbow; and one

hand, beautifully white and small, a mark of his birth and

breeding--_crede_ Byron--rested upon the edge of the table, while his

thin, delicate digits, palpably demonstrative of his faculty of

adaptation--_crede_ James Hardy Vaux--were employed with a silver

toothpick. In other respects, he seemed to be lost in reverie, and was,

in all probability, meditating new exploits.

Next to King sat our old friend Jerry Juniper; not, however, the Jerry

of the gipsies, but a much more showy-looking personage. Jerry was no

longer a gentleman of "three _outs_"--the difficulty would now have been

to say what he was "without." Snakelike he had cast his slough, and

rejoiced in new and brilliant investiture. His were "speaking garments,

speaking pockets too." His linen was of the finest, his hose of the

smartest. Gay rings glittered on his fingers; a crystal snuff-box

underwent graceful manipulation; a handsome gold repeater was sometimes

drawn from its location with a monstrous bunch of onions--_anglicè_,

seals--depending from its massive chain. Lace adorned his wrists, and

shoes--of which they had been long unconscious,--with buckles nearly as

large as themselves, confined his feet. A rich-powdered peruke and

silver-hilted sword completed the gear of the transmogrified Jerry, or,

as he now chose to be designated, Count Albert Conyers. The fact was,

that Jerry, after the _fracas_, apprehensive that the country would be

too hot for him, had, in company with Zoroaster, quitted the ranks of

the Canting Crew, and made the best of his way to town. A lucky _spice_

on the road set them up; and having some acquaintance with Tom King, the

party, on their arrival, sought him out at his customary haunt,

D'Osyndar's, and enlisted under his banners.

Tom received them with open arms, gave them unlimited use of his

wardrobe, and only required a little trifling assistance in return. He

had a grand scheme _in petto_, in the execution of which they could

mainly assist him. Jerry was a _Greek_ by nature, and could _land_ a

flat as well as the best of them. Zoroaster was just the man to _lose_ a

fight; or, in the language of the _Fancy_, to _play a cross_. No two

_legs_ could serve Tom's purposes better. He welcomed them with

fraternal affection.

We will now proceed to reconnoitre Jerry's opposite neighbor, who was,

however, no other than that Upright Man,

The Magus Zoroaster, that great name.

Changed as was Juniper, the Magus was yet more whimsically

metamorphosed. Some traces of Jerry still remained, but not a vestige

was left of the original Dimber Damber. His tawny mother had not known

her son. This alteration, however, was not owing to change of dress; it

was the result of the punishment he had received at the "_set-to_" at

the priory. Not a feature was in its place; his swollen lip trespassed

upon the precincts of his nose; his nose trod hard upon his cheek; while

his cheek again, not to be behind the rest, rose up like an

apple-dumpling under his single eye,--single, we say--for, alas! there

was no speculation in the other. His dexter daylight was utterly

darkened, and, indeed, the orb that remained was as sanguinary a

luminary as ever struggled through a London fog at noonday. To borrow a

couplet or so from the laureate of the _Fancy_:

--------One of his peepers was put

On the bankruptcy list, with his shop windows shut,

While the other made nearly as tag-rag a show,

All rimmed round with black like the _Courier_ in woe.

One black patch decorated his rainbow-colored cheek; another adorned his

chin; a grinder having been dislodged, his pipe took possession of the

aperture. His toggery was that of a member of the prize-ring; what we

now call a "belcher" bound his throat; a spotted _fogle_ bandaged his

_jobbernowl_, and shaded his right peeper, while a white beaver crowned

the occiput of the Magus. And though, at first sight, there would appear

to be some incongruity in the association of such a battered character

as the Upright Man with his smart companions, the reader's wonder will

rapidly diminish, when he reflects that any distinguished P. C. man can

ever find a ready passport to the most exclusive society. Viewed in this

light, Zoroaster's familiarity with his _swell_ acquaintance occasioned

no surprise to old Simon Carr, the bottle-nosed landlord of the

Falstaff, who was a man of discernment in his way, and knew a thing or

two. Despite such striking evidences to the contrary, the Magus was

perfectly at his ease, and sacrificing as usual to the god of flame. His

mithra, or pipe, the symbol of his faith, was zealously placed between

his lips, and never did his Chaldean, Bactrian, Persian, Pamphylian,

Proconnesian, or Babylonian namesake, whichever of the six was the true

Zoroaster--_vide_ Bayle,--respire more fervently at the altar of fire,

than our Magus at the end of his enkindled tube. In his creed we believe

Zoroaster was a dualist, and believed in the co-existence and mystical

relation of the principles of good and ill; his pipe being his Yezdan,

or benign influence; his empty pouch his Ahreman, or the devil. We shall

not pause to examine his tenets; we meddle with no man's religious

opinions, and shall leave the Magus to the enjoyment of his own

sentiments, be they what they may.

One guest alone remains, and him we shall briefly dismiss. The reader,

we imagine, will scarcely need to be told who was the owner of those

keen gray eyes; those exuberant red whiskers; that airy azure frock. It

was

Our brave co-partner of the roads.

Skilful surveyor of highways and hedges;

in a word--Dick Turpin!

Dick had been called upon to act as president of the board, and an

excellent president he made, sedulously devoting himself to the due

administration of the punch-bowl. Not a rummer was allowed to stand

empty for an instant. Toast, sentiment, and anacreontic song, succeeded

each other at speedy intervals; but there was no speechifying--no

politics. He left church and state to take care of themselves. Whatever

his politics might be, Dick never allowed them to interfere with his

pleasures. His maxim was to make the most of the passing moment; the

_dum vivimus vivamus_ was never out of his mind; a precautionary measure

which we recommend to the adoption of all gentlemen of the like, or any

other precarious profession.

Notwithstanding all Dick's efforts to promote conviviality, seconded by

the excellence of the beverage itself, conversation, somehow or other,

began to flag; from being general it became particular. Tom King, who

was no punch-bibber, especially at that time of day, fell into a deep

reverie; your gamesters often do so; while the Magus, who had smoked

himself drowsy, was composing himself to a doze. Turpin seized this

opportunity of addressing a few words on matters of business to Jerry

Juniper, or, as he now chose to be called, Count Conyers.

"My dear count," said Dick, in a low and confidential tone, "you are

aware that my errand to town is accomplished. I have _smashed_ Lawyer

Coates's _screen_, pocketed the _dimmock_--here 'tis," continued he,

parenthetically, slapping his pockets,--"and done t'other trick in prime

twig for Tom King. With a cool thousand in hand, I might, if I chose,

rest awhile on my oars. But a quiet life don't suit me. I must be

moving. So I shall start to Yorkshire to-night."

"Indeed!" said the _soi-disant_ count, in a languid tone--"so soon?"

"I have nothing to detain me," replied Dick. "And, to tell you the

truth, I want to see how matters stand with Sir Luke Rookwood. I should

be sorry if he went to the wall for want of any assistance I can render

him."

"True," returned the count; "one would regret such an occurrence,

certainly. But I fear your assistance may arrive a little too late. He

is pretty well done up, I should imagine, by this time."

"That remains to be seen," said Turpin. "His case is a bad one, to be

sure, but I trust not utterly hopeless. With all his impetuosity and

pride, I like the fellow, and will help him, if I can. It will be a

difficult game to set him on his legs, but I think it may be done. That

underground marriage was sheer madness, and turned out as ill as such a

scheme might have been expected to do. Poor Sybil! if I could pipe an

eye for anything, it should be for her. I can't get her out of my head.

Give me a pinch of snuff. Such thoughts unman one. As to the priest,

that's a totally different affair. If he strangled his daughter, old

Alan did right to take the law into his own hands, and throttle him in

return. I'd have done the same thing myself; and, being a proscribed

Jesuit, returned, as I understand, without the king's license for so

doing, why Father Checkley's murder--if it must be so called, I can't

abide hard terms--won't lie very heavy at Alan's door. That, however,

has nothing to do with Sir Luke. He was neither accessory nor

principal. Still he will be in danger, at least from Lady Rookwood. The

whole county of York, I make no doubt, is up in arms by this time."

"Then why go thither?" asked the count, somewhat ironically; "for my

part, I've a strange fancy for keeping out of harm's way as long as

possible."

"Every man to his taste," returned Turpin; "I love to confront danger.

Run away! pshaw! always meet your foe."

"True," replied the count, "half-way! but you go the whole distance.

What prudent man would beard the lion in his den?"

"I never was a prudent man," rejoined Dick, smiling; "I have no

superfluous caution about me. Come what will, I shall try to find out

this Luke Rookwood, and offer him my purse, such as it is, and it is now

better lined than usual; a hand free to act as he lists; and a head

which, imprudent though it be, can often think better for others than

for its own master."

"Vastly fine!" exclaimed the count, with an ill-disguised sneer. "I hope

you don't forget that the marriage certificate which you hold is

perfectly valueless now. The estates, you are aware----"

"Are no longer Sir Luke's. I see what you are driving at, count,"

returned Dick, coldly. "But he will need it to establish his claim to

the title, and he shall have it. While he was Sir Luke, with ten

thousand a year, I drove a hard bargain, and would have stood out for

the last stiver. Now that he is one of '_us_', a mere Knight of the

Road, he shall have it and welcome."

"Perhaps Lady Rookwood, or Mrs. Mowbray, might be inclined to treat,"

maliciously insinuated the count; "the title may be worth something to

Ranulph."

"It is worth more to Luke; and if it were _not_, he gets it. Are you

satisfied?"

"Perfectly," replied the count, with affected _bonhomie_; "and I will

now let you into a secret respecting Miss Mowbray, from which you may

gather something for your guidance in this matter; and if the word of a

woman is at all to be trusted, though individually I cannot say I have

much faith in it, Sir Luke's planetary hour is not yet completely

overcast."

"That's exactly what I wish to know, my dear fellow," said Turpin,

eagerly. "You have already told me you were witness to a singular

interview between Miss Mowbray and Sir Luke after my departure from the

priory. If I mistook you not, the whole business will hinge upon that.

What occurred? Let me have every particular. The whole history and

mystery."

"You shall have it with pleasure," said the count; "and I hope it may

tend to your benefit. After I had quitted the scene of action at the

priory, and at your desire left the Rookwood party masters of the field,

I fled with the rest of the crew towards the rocks. There we held a

council of war for a short time. Some were for returning to the fight;

but this was negatived entirely, and in the end it was agreed that those

who had wives, daughters, and sisters, should join them as speedily as

possible at their retreat in the Grange. As I happened to have none of

these attractive ties, and had only a troublesome mistress, who I

thought could take care of herself, I did not care to follow them, but

struck deeper into the wood, and made my way, guided by destiny, I

suppose, towards the cave."

"The cave!" cried Dick, rubbing his hands; "I delight in a cave. Tom

King and I once had a cave of our own at Epping, and I'll have another

one of these fine days. A cave is as proper to a high-tobyman as a

castle to a baron. Pray go on."

"The cave I speak of," continued the count, "was seldom used, except

upon great emergencies, by any of the Stop Hole Abbey crew. It was a

sort of retiring den of our old lioness Barbara, and, like all

belonging to her, respected by her dupes. However, the cave is a good

cave for all that; is well concealed by brushwood, and comfortably

lighted from a crevice in the rock above; it lies near the brink of the

stream, amongst the woods just above the waterfall, and is somewhat

difficult of approach."

"I know something of the situation," said Turpin.

"Well," returned the count, "not to lose time, into this den I crept,

and, expecting to find it vacant, you may imagine my surprise on

discovering that it was already occupied, and that Sir Luke Rookwood,

his granddad, old Alan, Miss Mowbray, and, worst of all, the very person

I wished most to avoid, my old flame Handassah, constituted the party.

Fortunately, they did not perceive my entrance, and I took especial care

not to introduce myself. Retreat, however, was for the moment

impracticable, and I was compelled to be a listener. I cannot tell what

had passed between the parties before my arrival, but I heard Miss

Mowbray implore Sir Luke to conduct her to her mother. He seemed half

inclined to comply with her entreaties; but old Alan shook his head. It

was then Handassah put in a word; the minx was ever ready at that. 'Fear

not,' said she, 'that she will wed Sir Ranulph. Deliver her to her

friends, I beseech you, Sir Luke, and woo her honorably. She will accept

you.' Sir Luke stared incredulously, and grim old Alan smiled. 'She has

sworn to be yours,' continued Handassah; 'sworn it by every hope of

heaven, and the oath has been sealed by blood--by Sybil's blood.'--'Does

she speak the truth?' asked Sir Luke, trembling with agitation. Miss

Mowbray answered not. 'You will not deny it, lady,' said Handassah. 'I

heard that oath proposed. I saw it registered. You cannot deny it.'--'I

do not,' replied Miss Mowbray, with much anguish of manner; 'if he claim

me, I am his.'--'And he will claim you,' said Alan Rookwood,

triumphantly. 'He has your oath, no matter how extorted--you must fulfil

your vow.'--'I am prepared to do so,' said Eleanor. 'But if you would

not utterly destroy me, let this maid conduct me to my mother, to my

friends.'--'To Ranulph?' asked Sir Luke, bitterly.--'No, no,' returned

Miss Mowbray, in accents of deepest despair, 'to my mother--I wish not

to behold him again.'--'Be it so,' cried Sir Luke; 'but remember, in

love or hate, you are mine; I shall claim the fulfilment of your oath.

Farewell. Handassah will lead you to your mother.' Miss Mowbray bowed

her head, but returned no answer, while, followed by old Alan, Sir Luke

departed from the cavern."

"Whither went they?" demanded Turpin.

"That I know not," replied Jerry. "I was about to follow, when I was

prevented by the abrupt entrance of another party. Scarcely, I think,

could the two Rookwoods have made good their retreat, when shouts were

heard without, and young Ranulph and Major Mowbray forced their way,

sword in hand, into the cave. Here was a situation--for _me_, I mean--to

the young lady, I make no doubt, it was pleasant enough. But my neck was

in jeopardy. However, you know I am not deficient in strength, and, upon

the present occasion, I made the best use of the agility with which

nature has endowed me. Amidst the joyous confusion--the sobbings, and

embracings, and congratulations that ensued--I contrived, like a wild

cat, to climb the rocky sides of the cave, and concealed myself behind a

jutting fragment of stone. It was well I did so, for scarcely was I

hidden, when in came old Barbara, followed by Mrs. Mowbray, and a dozen

others."

"Barbara!" ejaculated Dick. "Was she a prisoner?"

"No," replied Jerry; "the old hell-cat is too deep for that. She had

betrayed Sir Luke, and hoped they would seize him and his granddad. But

the birds were flown."

"I'm glad she was baulked," said Dick. "Was any search made after them?"

"Can't say," replied Jerry. "I could only indistinctly catch the sounds

of their voices from my lofty retreat. Before they left the cavern, I

made out that Mrs. Mowbray resolved to go to Rookwood, and to take her

daughter thither--a proceeding to which the latter demurred."

"To Rookwood," said Dick, musingly. "Will she keep her oath, I wonder?"

"That's more than I can say," said Jerry, sipping his punch. "'Tis a

deceitful sex!"

"'Tis a deceitful sex, indeed," echoed Dick, tossing off a tumbler. "For

one Sybil we meet with twenty Handassahs, eh, count?"

"Twenty!--say rather a hundred," replied Jerry. "'Tis a vile sex."

_CHAPTER II_

_TOM KING_

_Grimm._ How gloriously the sun sets to-night.

_Moor._ When I was a boy, my favorite thought was, that I should

live and die like yonder glorious orb. It was a boyish thought.

_Grimm._ True, captain.

_The Robbers._

"Peace, base calumniators," exclaimed Tom King, aroused from his

toothpick reverie by these aspersions of the best part of creation.

"Peace, I say. None shall dare abuse that dear devoted sex in the

hearing of their champion, without pricking a lance with him in their

behalf. What do you, either of you, who abuse woman in that wholesale

style, know of her? Nothing--less than nothing; and yet you venture,

upon your paltry experience, to lift up your voices and decry the sex.

Now I _do_ know her; and upon my own experience avouch, that, as a sex,

woman, compared with man, is as an angel to a devil. As a sex, woman is

faithful, loving, self-sacrificing. _We_ 'tis that make her otherwise;

_we_, selfish, exacting, neglectful men; we teach her indifference, and

then blame her apt scholarship. We spoil our own hand, and then blame

the cards. No abuse of women in my hearing. Give me a glass of grog,

Dick. 'The sex!--three times three!'--and here's a song for you into the

bargain." Saying which, in a mellow, plaintive tone, Tom gave the

following:

PLEDGE OF THE HIGHWAYMAN

Come, fill up a bumper to Eve's fairest daughters,

Who have lavished their smiles on the brave and the free;

Toast the sweethearts of DUDLEY, HIND, WILMOT, and WATERS,[94]

Whate'er their attraction, whate'er their degree.

Pledge! pledge in a bumper, each kind-hearted maiden,

Whose bright eyes were dimmed at the highwayman's fall;

Who stood by the gallows with sorrow o'erladen,

Bemoaning the fate of the gallant DU-VAL!

Here's to each lovely lass chance of war bringeth near one,

Whom, with manner impassioned, we tenderly stop;

And to whom, like the lover addressing his dear one,

In terms of entreaty _the question_ we pop.

How oft, in such case, rosy lips have proved sweeter

Than the rosiest book, bright eyes saved a bright ring;

While that _one other_ kiss has brought off a _repeater_,

And a bead as a _favor_--the _favorite_ string.

With our hearts ready rifled, each pocket we rifle,

With the pure flame of chivalry stirring our breasts;

Life's risk for our _mistress's praise_ is a trifle;

And each purse as a _trophy_ our _homage_ attests.

Then toss off your glasses to all girls of spirit,

Ne'er with names, or with number, your memories vex;

Our toast, boys, embraces each woman of merit,

And, for fear of omission, we'll drink the WHOLE SEX.

"Well," replied Dick, replenishing King's rummer, while he laughed

heartily at his ditty, "I shan't refuse your toast, though my heart

don't respond to your sentiments. Ah, Tom! the sex you praise so much

will, I fear, prove your undoing. Do as you please, but curse me if ever

I pin my life to a petticoat. I'd as soon think of neglecting the four

cautions."

"The four cautions," said King; "what are they?"

"Did you never hear them?" replied Dick. "Attend, then, and be edified."

THE FOUR CAUTIONS

Pay attention to these cautions four,

And through life you will need little more,

Should you dole out your days to threescore

Beware of a pistol before!

Before! before!

Beware of a pistol before!

And when backward his ears are inclined,

And his tail with his ham is combined,

Caution two you will bear in your mind:

Beware of a prancer behind!

Behind! behind!

Beware of a prancer behind!

Thirdly, when in the park you may ride,

On your best bit of blood, sir, astride,

Chatting gay to your old friend's young bride:

Beware of a coach at the side!

At the side! at the side!

Beware of a coach at the side!

Lastly, whether in purple or gray,

Canter, ranter, grave, solemn, or gay,

Whate'er he may do or may say,

Beware of a priest every way!

Every way! every way!

Beware of a priest every way!

"Well," said Tom King, "all you can sing or say don't alter my good

opinion of the women. Not a secret have I from the girl of my heart. She

could have sold me over and over again if she had chosen, but my sweet

Sue is not the wench to do that."

"It is not too late," said Dick. "Your Delilah may yet hand you over to

the Philistines."

"Then I shall die in a good cause," said King; "but

The Tyburn Tree

Has no terrors for me,

Let better men swing--I'm at liberty.

I shall never come to the scragging-post, unless you turn topsman, Dick

Turpin. My nativity has been cast, and the stars have declared I am to

die by the hand of my best friend--and that's you--eh? Dick?"

"It sounds like it," replied Turpin; "but I advise you not to become too

intimate with Jack Ketch. He may prove your best friend, after all."

"Why, faith, that's true," replied King, laughing; "and if I must ride

backwards up Holborn Hill, I'll do the thing in style, and honest Jack

Ketch shall never want his dues. A man should always die game. We none

of us know how soon our turn may come; but come when it will, _I_ shall

never flinch from it.

As the highwayman's life is the fullest of zest,

So the highwayman's death is the briefest and best;

He dies not as other men die, by degrees,

But at once! without flinching--and quite at his ease!

as the song you are so fond of says. When I die it will not be of

consumption. And if the surgeon's knife must come near me, it will be

after death. There's some comfort in that reflection, at all events."

"True," replied Turpin, "and, with a little alteration, my song would

suit you capitally:

There is not a king, should you search the world round,

So blithe as the king's king, TOM KING, to be found;

Dear woman's his empire, each girl is his own,

And he'd have a long reign if he'd let 'em alone.

Ha, ha!"

"Ha, ha!" laughed Tom. "And now, Dick, to change the subject. You are

off, I understand, to Yorkshire to-night. 'Pon my soul, you are a

wonderful fellow--an _alibi_ personified!--here and everywhere at the

same time--no wonder you are called the flying highwayman. To-day in

town--to-morrow at York--the day after at Chester. The devil only knows

where you will pitch your quarters a week hence. There are rumors of you

in all counties at the same moment. This man swears you robbed him at

Hounslow; that on Salisbury Plain; while another avers you monopolize

Cheshire and Yorkshire, and that it isn't safe even to _hunt_ without

pops in your pocket. I heard some devilish good stories of you at

D'Osyndar's t'other day; the fellow who told them to me little thought I

was a brother blade."

"You flatter me," said Dick, smiling complacently; "but it's no merit of

mine. Black Bess alone enables me to do it, and hers be the credit.

Talking of being everywhere at the same time, you shall hear what she

once did for me in Cheshire. Meantime, a glass to the best mare in

England. You won't refuse that toast, Tom. Ah! if your mistress is only

as true to you as my nag to me, you might set at naught the tightest

hempen cravat that was ever twisted, and defy your best friend to hurt

you. Black Bess! and God bless her! And now for the song." Saying which,

with much emotion, Turpin chanted the following rhymes:

BLACK BESS

Let the lover his mistress's beauty rehearse,

And laud her attractions in languishing verse;

Be it mine in rude strains, but with truth to express,

The love that I bear to my bonny Black Bess.

From the west was her dam, from the east was her sire,

From the one came her swiftness, the other her fire;

No peer of the realm better blood can possess

Than flows in the veins of my bonny Black Bess.

Look! Look! how that eyeball grows bright as a brand!

That neck proudly arches, those nostrils expand!

Mark! that wide flowing mane! of which each silky tress

Might adorn prouder beauties--though none like Black Bess.

Mark! that skin sleek as velvet, and dusky as night,

With its jet undisfigured by one lock of white;

That throat branched with veins, prompt to charge or caress

Now is she not beautiful?--bonny Black Bess!

Over highway and by-way, in rough and smooth weather,

Some thousands of miles have we journeyed together;

Our couch the same straw, and our meal the same mess

No couple more constant than I and Black Bess.

By moonlight, in darkness, by night, or by day,

Her headlong career there is nothing can stay;

She cares not for distance, she knows not distress:

Can you show me a courser to match with Black Bess?

"Egad! I should think not," exclaimed King; "you are as sentimental on

the subject of your mare, as I am when I think of my darling Susan. But

pardon my interruption. Pray proceed."

"Let me first clear my throat," returned Dick; "and now to resume:"

Once it happened in Cheshire, near Dunham, I popped

On a horseman alone, whom I speedily stopped;

That I lightened his pockets you'll readily guess--

Quick work makes Dick Turpin when mounted on Bess.

Now it seems the man knew me; "Dick Turpin," said he,

"You shall swing for this job, as you live, d'ye see;"

I laughed at his threats and his vows of redress;

I was sure of an _alibi_ then with Black Bess.

The road was a hollow, a sunken ravine,[95]

Overshadowed completely by wood like a screen;

I clambered the bank, and I needs must confess,

That one touch of the spur grazed the side of Black Bess.

Brake, brook, meadow, and plough'd field, Bess fleetly bestrode,

As the crow wings her flight we selected our road;

We arrived at Hough Green in five minutes, or less--

My neck it was saved by the speed of Black Bess.

Stepping carelessly forward, I lounge on the green,

Taking excellent care that by all I am seen;

Some remarks on time's flight to the squires I address,

But I say not a word of the flight of Black Bess.

I mention the hour--it was just about four--

Play a rubber at bowls--think the danger is o'er;

When athwart my next game, like a checkmate at chess,

Comes the horsemen in search of the rider of Bess.

What matter details? Off with triumph I came;

He swears to the hour, and the squires swear the same;

I had robbed him at _four_!--while at four _they_ profess

I was quietly bowling--all thanks to Black Bess!

Then one halloo, boys, one loud cheering halloo!

To the swiftest of coursers, the gallant, the true!

For the sportsman unborn shall the memory bless

Of the horse of the highwayman, bonny Black Bess!

Loud acclamations rewarded Dick's performance. Awakened from his doze,

Zoroaster beat time to the melody, the only thing, Jerry said, he was

capable of _beating_ in his present shattered condition. After some

little persuasion, the Magus was prevailed upon to enliven the company

with a strain, which he trolled forth after a maudlin manner:

THE DOUBLE CROSS

Though all of us have heard of _crost_ fights,

And certain _gains_, by certain _lost_ fights,

I rather fancies that it's news,

How in a mill, _both_ men should _lose_;

For vere the _odds_ are thus made _even_,

It plays the dickens with the _steven_;[96]

Besides, against all rule they're sinning,

Vere _neither_ has _no_ chance of vinning.

_Ri, tol, lol, &c._

Two _milling coves_, each vide avake,

Vere backed to fight for heavy stake:

But in the mean time, so it vos,

Both _kids_ agreed to _play a cross_;

Bold came each _buffer_[97] to the _scratch_,

To make it look a _tightish match_;

They _peeled_[98] in style, and bets vere making,

'Tvos six to four, but few vere _taking_.

_Ri, tol, lol, &c._

Quite cautiously the mill began,

For neither knew the other's plan;

Each _cull_[99] completely in the _dark_,

Of vot might be his neighbor's _mark_;

Resolved his _fibbing_[100] not to mind,

Nor yet to _pay him back in kind_;

So on each other _kept they tout_,[101]

And _sparred_ a bit, and _dodged_ about,

_Ri, tol, lol, &c._

Vith _mawleys_[102] raised, Tom bent his back,

As if to _plant_ a heavy thwack:

Vile Jem, with neat left-handed _stopper_,

Straight threatened Tommy with a _topper_;

'Tis all my eye! no _claret_ flows,

No _facers_ sound--no smashing blows--

Five minutes pass, yet not a _hit_,

How can it end, pals?--vait a bit.

_Ri, tol, lol, &c._

Each cove vas _teazed_ with double duty,

To please his backers, yet _play booty_;[103]

Ven, luckily for Jem, a _teller_

Vos planted right upon his _smeller_;

Down dropped he, stunned; ven time vas called,

Seconds in vain the _seconds_ bawled;

The _mill_ is o'er, the crosser _crost_,

The loser's _von_, the vinner's _lost_!

_Ri, tol, lol, &c._

The party assumed once more a lively air, and the glass was circulated

so freely, that at last a final charge drained the ample bowl of its

contents.

"The best of friends must part," said Dick; "and I would willingly order

another whiff of punch, but I think we have all had _enough to satisfy

us_, as you milling coves have it, Zory! Your one eye has got a drop in

it already, old fellow; and, to speak the truth, I must be getting into

the saddle without more delay, for I have a long ride before me. And

now, friend Jerry, before I start, suppose you tip us one of your merry

staves; we haven't heard your pipe to-day, and never a cross cove of us

all can throw off so prime a chant as yourself. A song! a song!"

"Ay, a song!" reiterated King and the Magus.

"You do me too much honor, gemmen," said Jerry, modestly, taking a pinch

of snuff; "I am sure I shall be most happy. My chants are all of a sort.

You must make all due allowances--hem!" And, clearing his throat, he

forthwith warbled

THE MODERN GREEK

(_Not_ translated from the Romaic.)

Come, gemmen, name, and make your game,

See, round the ball is spinning.

Black, red, or blue, the colors view,

_Une_, _deux_, _cinque_, 'tis beginning,

Then make your game,

The color name,

While round the ball is spinning.

This sleight of hand my _flat_ shall _land_

While _covered_ by my _bonnet_,[104]

I _plant_ my ball, and boldly call,

Come make your game upon it!

Thus rat-a-tat!

I land my flat!

'Tis black--not red--is winning.

At gay _roulette_ was never met

A lance like mine for _bleeding_!

I'm ne'er _at fault_, at nothing halt,

All other _legs_ preceding.

To all awake,

I never shake

A _mag_[105] unless I nip it.

_Blind-hookey_ sees how well I squeeze

The _well-packed_ cards in shuffling.

Ecarté, whist, I never missed,

A nick the _broads_[106] while ruffling.

Mogul or loo,

The same I do,

I am down to trumps as trippet!

_French hazard_ ta'en, _I nick the main_,

Was ne'er so prime a _caster_.

No _crabs_ for me, I'm fly, d'ye see;

The bank shall change its master.

Seven _quatre_, _trois_,

The stakes are high!

Ten _mains_! ten _mains_ are mine, pals!

At _Rouge et Noir_, you _hellite_[107] choir

I'll make no bones of stripping;

One glorious _coup_ for me shall _do_,

While they may deal each _pip_ in.

_Trente-un-après_

Ne'er clogs my way;

The game--the game's divine, pals.

At billiards set, I make my bet,

I'll _score_ and win the _rub_, pals;

I miss my _cue_, my _hazard_, too,

But yet my foe I'll drub, pals.

That _cannon-twist_,

I ne'er had missed,

Unless to suit my views, pals.

To make all right, the match look _tight_,

This trick, you know, is done, pals;

But now be gay, I'll _show_ my play--

Hurrah! the game is won, pals.

No hand so fine,

No wrist like mine,

No odds I e'er refuse, pals.

Then choose your game; whate'er you name,

To me alike all offers;

Chic-hazard, whist, whate'er you list,

Replenish quick your coffers.

Thus, rat-a-tat!

I _land_ my _flat_!

To every purse I _speak_, pals.