Rookwood

'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'er-mastered 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 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 I 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 for ever. 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, endeavouring 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.'