Rookwood

are these, and where am I?'

'You are in safety,' replied Luke. 'This is the ruined priory of St. Francis; and those strange personages are a horde of gipsies. You need fear no injury from them.'

'My deliverer!' murmured Eleanor; when all at once the recollection that he had avowed himself a Rookwood, and the elder brother of Ranulph, flashed across her memory. 'Gipsies! did you not say these people were gipsies? Your own attire is the same as theirs. You are not, cannot be the brother of Ranulph.'

'I do not boast the same mother,' returned Luke, proudly; 'but my father was Sir Piers Rookwood, and I am his elder born.'

He turned away. Dark thoughts swept across his brain. Maddened by the beauty of Eleanor, stung by her slights, and insensible to the silent agony of Sybil, who sought in vain to catch his eye, he thought of nothing but of revenge, and the accomplishment of his purposes. All within was a wild and fearful turmoil. His better principles were stifled by the promptings of evil. 'Methinks,' cried he, half aloud, 'if the Tempter were near to offer that maiden to me, even at the peril of my soul's welfare, I could not resist it.'

The Tempter was at hand. He is seldom absent on occasions like the present. The sexton stood beside his grandson. Luke started. He eyed Peter from head to foot, almost expecting to find the cloven foot, supposed to be proper to the fiend. Peter grinned in ghastly derision.

'Soh! you would summon hell to your aid; and lo! the devil is at your elbow. Well, she is yours.'

'Make good your words,' cried Luke, impatiently.

'Softly—softly,' returned Peter. 'Moderate yourself and your wishes shall be accomplished. Your own desires chime with those of others; nay, with those of Barbara. She would wed you to Miss Mowbray. You stare. But it is so. This is a cover for some deeper plot; no matter. It shall go hard, despite her cunning, if I foil her not at her own weapons. There is more mischief in that old woman's brain than was ever hatched within the crocodile's egg; yet she shall find her match. Do not thwart her; leave all to me. She is about it now,' added he, noticing Barbara and Mrs. Mowbray in conference together. 'Be patient—I will watch her.' And he quitted his grandson for the purpose of scanning more closely the man?uvres of the old gipsy.

Barbara, meanwhile, had not remained inactive.

'You need fear no relapse in your daughter; I will answer for that,' said the old gipsy to Mrs. Mowbray; 'Sybil will tend her. Quit not the maiden's side,' continued she, addressing her grandchild, adding, in a whisper, 'Be cautious—alarm her not—mine eye will be upon you—drop not a word.'

So saying, she shuffled to a little distance with Mrs. Mowbray, keeping Sybil in view, and watching every motion, as the panther watches the gambols of a fawn.

'Know you who speaks to you?' said the old crone, in the peculiar low and confidential tone assumed by her tribe to strangers. 'Have you forgotten the name of Barbara Lovel?'

'I have no distinct remembrance of it,' returned Mrs. Mowbray.

'Think again,' said Barbara; 'and though years are flown, you may perchance recall the black gipsy woman, who, when you were surrounded with gay gallants, with dancing plumes, perused your palm, and whispered in your ear the favoured suitor's name. Bide with me a moment, madam,' said Barbara, seeing that Mrs. Mowbray shrank from the recollection thus conjured up; 'I am old—very old; I have survived the shows of flattery, and being vested with a power over my people, am apt, perchance, to take too much upon myself with others.' The old gipsy paused here, and then, assuming a more familiar tone, exclaimed, 'The estates of Rookwood are ample—'

'Woman, what mean you?'

'They should have been yours, lady, and would have been, but for that marriage. You would have beseemed them bravely. Sir Reginald was wilful, and erased the daughter's name to substitute that of his son. Pity it is that so fair a creature as Miss Mowbray should lack the dower her beauty and her birth entitle her to expect. Pity that Ranulph Rookwood should lose his title, at the moment when he deemed it was dropping into his possession. Pity that those broad lands should pass away from you and your children, as they will do, if Ranulph and Eleanor are united.'

'They never shall be united,' replied Mrs. Mowbray, hastily.

''Twere indeed to wed your child to beggary,' said Barbara.

Mrs. Mowbray sighed deeply.

'There is a way,' continued the old crone, in a deep whisper, 'by which the estates might still be hers and yours.'

'Indeed!' said Mrs. Mowbray, eagerly.

'Sir Piers Rookwood had two sons.'

'Ha!'

'The elder is here.'

'Luke—Sir Luke. He brought us hither.'

'He loves your daughter. I saw his gaze of passion just now. I am old now, but I have some skill in lovers' glances. Why not wed her to him? I read hands—read hearts, you know. They were born for each other. Now, madam, do you understand me?'

'But,' returned Mrs. Mowbray, with hesitation, 'though I might wish for—though I might sanction this, Eleanor is betrothed to Ranulph—she loves him.'

'Think not of her, if you are satisfied. She cannot judge so well for herself as you can for her. She is a child, and knows not what she loves. Her affection will soon be Luke's. He is a noble youth—the image of his grandfather, your father, Sir Reginald; and if your daughter be betrothed to anyone, 'twas to the heir of Rookwood. That was an essential part of the contract. Why should the marriage not take place at once, and here?'

'Here! How were that possible?'

'You are within sacred walls. I will take you where an altar stands. There is no lack of holy priest to join their