of cut and thrust, which Luke had some difficulty in parrying; but as yet no wounds were inflicted. Soldier as was the Major, Luke was not a whit inferior to him in his knowledge of the science of defence, and in the exercise of the broadsword he was perhaps the more skilful of the two: upon the present occasion his coolness stood him in admirable stead. Seeing him hard pressed, Turpin would have come to his assistance; but Luke shouted to him to stand aside, and all that Dick could do, amid the terrific clash of steel, was to kick the tables out of the way of the combatants. Luke’s aim was now slightly grazed by a cut made by the Major, which he had parried. The smart of the wound roused his ire. He attacked his adversary in his turn, with so much vigor and good will, that, driven backwards by the irresistible assault, Major Mowbray stumbled over the ferryman’s body, which happened to lie in his way; and his sword being struck from his grasp, his life became at once at his assailant’s disposal.
Luke sheathed his sword. “Major Mowbray,” said he, sternly, “your life is in my power. I spare it for the blood that is between us — for your sister’s sake. I would not raise my hand against her brother.”
“I disclaim your kindred with me, villain!” wrathfully exclaimed the Major. “I hold you no otherwise than as a wretched impostor, who has set up claims he cannot justify; and as to my sister, if you dare to couple her name ——” and the Major made an ineffectual attempt to raise himself, and to regain his sword, which Turpin, however, removed.
“Dare!” echoed Luke, scornfully; “hereafter, you may learn to fear my threats, and acknowledge the extent of my daring; and in that confidence I give you life. Listen to me, sir. I am bound for Rookwood. I have private access to the house — to your sister’s chamber —her chamber— mark you that! I shall go armed — attended. This night she shall be mine. From you — from Ranulph — from Lady Rookwood, from all will I bear her off. She shall be mine, and you, before the dawn, my brother, or ——” And Luke paused.
“What further villainy remains untold?” inquired the Major, fiercely.
“You shall bewail your sister’s memory,” replied Luke, gloomily.
“I embrace the latter alternative with rapture,” replied the Major —“God grant her firmness to resist you. But I tremble for her.” And the stern soldier groaned aloud in his agony.
“Here is a cord to bind him,” said Turpin; “he must remain a prisoner here.”
“Right,” said Alan Rookwood, “unless — but enough blood has been shed already.”
“Ay, marry has there,” said Dick, “and I had rather not have given Conkey Jem a taste of blue plumb, had there been any other mode of silencing the snitching scoundrel, which there was not. As to the Major, he’s a gallant enemy, and shall have fair play as long as Dick Turpin stands by. Come, sir,” added he, to the Major, as he bound him hand and foot with the rope, “I’ll do it as gently as I can. You had better submit with a good grace. There’s no help for it. And now for my friend Paterson, who was so anxious to furnish me with a hempen cravat, before my neck was in order, he shall have an extra twist of the rope himself, to teach him the inconvenience of a tight neckcloth when he recovers.” Saying which, he bound Paterson in such a manner, that any attempt at liberation on the chief constable’s part would infallibly strangle him. “As to you, Mr. Coates,” said he, addressing the trembling man of law, “you shall proceed to Rookwood with us. You may yet be useful, and I’ll accommodate you with a seat behind my own saddle — a distinction I never yet conferred upon any of your tribe. Recollect the countryman at the Bowling-green at York — ha, ha! Come along, sir.” And having kicked out the turf fire, Dick prepared to depart.
It would be vain to describe the feelings of rage and despair which agitated the major’s bosom, as he saw the party quit the hovel, accompanied by Coates. Aware as he was of their destination, after one or two desperate but ineffectual attempts to liberate himself, by which he only increased the painful constriction of his bonds, without in the slightest degree ameliorating his condition, he resigned himself, with bitterest forebodings, to his fate. There was no one even to sympathize with his sufferings. Beside him lay the gory corpse of the ferryman, and, at a little distance, the scarcely more animate frame of the chief constable. And here we must leave him, to follow, for a short space, the course of Luke and his companions.
Concerning themselves little about their own steeds, the party took those which first offered, and embarking man and horse in the boat, soon pushed across the waters of the lutulent Don. Arrived at the opposite banks of the river, they mounted, and, guided by Luke, after half an hour’s sharp riding, arrived at the skirts of Rookwood Park. Entering this beautiful sylvan domain, they rode for some time silently among the trees, till they reached the knoll whence Luke beheld the hall on the eventful night of his discovery of his mother’s wedding ring. A few days only had elapsed, but during that brief space what storms had swept over his bosom — what ravages had they not made! He was then all ardor — all impetuosity — all independence. The future presented a bright unclouded prospect. Wealth, honors, and happiness apparently awaited him. It was still the same exquisite scene, hushed, holy, tranquil — even solemn, as upon that glorious night. The moon was out, silvering wood and water, and shining on the white walls of the tranquil mansion. Nature was calm, serene, peaceful as ever. Beneath the trees, he saw the bounding deer — upon the water, the misty wreaths of vapor — all, all was dreamy, delightful, soothing, all save his heart —there was the conflict —there the change. Was it a troubled dream, with the dark oppression of which he was struggling, or was it stern, waking, actual life? That moment’s review of his wild career was terrible. He saw to what extremes his ungovernable passions had hurried him; he saw their inevitable consequences; he saw also his own fate; but he rushed madly on.
He swept round the park, keeping under the covert of the wood, till he arrived at the avenue leading to the mansion. The stems of the aged limes gleamed silvery white in the moonshine. Luke drew in the rein beneath one of the largest of the trees.
“A branch has fallen,” said he, as his grandsire joined him.
“Ha!” exclaimed Alan, “a branch from that tree?”
“It bodes ill to Ranulph,” whispered Luke, “does it not?”
“Perchance,” muttered Alan. “’Tis a vast bough!”
“We meet within an hour,” said Luke, abruptly.
“Within the tomb of our ancestry,” replied Alan; “I will await you there.”
And as he rode away, Alan murmured to himself the following verse from one of his own ballads:
But whether gale or calm prevail, or threatening cloud hath fled,
By hand of Fate, predestinate, a limb that tree will shed —
A verdant bough, untouched, I trow, by axe or tempest’s breath —
To Rookwood’s head an omen dread of fast approaching death.
CHAPTER 3
HANDASSAH
I have heard it rumored for these many years, None of our family dies but there is seen The shape of an old woman, which is given By tradition to us to have been murthered By her nephews for her riches. Such a figure One night, as the prince sat up late at ‘s book, Appeared to him; when, crying out for help, The gentleman of his chamber found
