Rookwood

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 stair 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.'

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'Bess charged and cleared the lower part of the mouldering priory walls.'

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

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 ruralising 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, encounter 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 neighbouring bed of mignonette, and the subdued odour 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 arbour; 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