gave the preconcerted signal to the band.
The signal was repeated by the gipsy crew. We may here casually note, that the crew had been by no means uninterested or silent spectators of passing events, but had, on the contrary, indulged themselves in a variety of conjectures as to their probable issue. Several bets were pending as to whether it would be a match or not after all. Zoroaster took long odds that the match was off — offering a bean to half-a-quid— in other words, a guinea to a half-guinea — that Sybil would be the bride. His offer was taken at once by Jerry Juniper, and backed by the knight of Malta.
“Ha! there’s the signal,” cried the knight; “I’ll trouble you for the bean.”
“And I,” added Jerry Juniper, “for another.”
“See ’em fairly spliced first,” replied the Magus; “that’s vot I betted.”
“Vell, vell, a few minutes will settle that. Come, pals, to the autem ken. Avay. Mind and obey orders.”
“Ay, ay,” answered the crew.
“Here’s a torch for the altar of Hymen,” said the knight, flashing his torch in the eyes of the patrico as he passed him.
“For the halter of Haman, you might say,” returned Balthazar, sulkily. “It’s well if some of us don’t swing for it.”
“You don’t say,” rejoined the perplexed Magus, “swing! Egad I fear it’s a ticklish business. But there’s no fighting shy, I fear, with Barbara present; and then there’s that infernal autem-bawler; it will be so cursedly regular. If you had done the job, Balty, it would not have signified a brass farden. Luckily there will be no vitnesses to snitch upon us. There will be no one in the vault besides ourselves.”
“There will be a silent and a solemn witness,” returned Balthazar, “and one whom you expect not.”
“Eh! Vot’s that you say? a spy?”
But the patrico was gone.
“Make way there — make way, pals, for the bride and bridegroom,” cried the knight of Malta, drawing Excalibur, and preparing to lead the way to the vault.
The train began to move. Eleanor leaned upon the arm of her mother. Beside them stalked Barbara, with an aspect of triumph. Luke followed with the priest. One by one the assemblage quitted the apartment.
The sexton alone lingered. “The moment is at hand,” said he, musingly, “when all shall be consummated.”
A few steps brought him into the court. The crowd was there still. A brief delay had taken place. The knight of Malta then entered the mouth of the vault. He held his torch so as to reveal a broken flight of steps, conducting, it would seem, to regions of perpetual night. So thought Eleanor, as she shudderingly gazed into the abyss. She hesitated; she trembled; she refused. But her mother’s entreaties, and Barbara’s threatening looks, induced, in the end, reluctant compliance. At length the place was empty. Peter was about to follow, when the sound of a horse’s hoofs broke upon his ear. He tarried for an instant, and the mounted figure of the highwayman burst within the limits of the court.
“Ha, ha! old earthworm,” cried Dick, “my Nestor of the churchyard, alone! Where the devil are all the folks gone? Where’s Sir Luke and his new-found cousin, eh?”
Peter hastily explained.
“A wedding under ground? famous! the thing of all others I should like to see. I’ll hang Bess to this ivy tod, and grub my way with you thither, old mole.”
“You must stay here, and keep guard,” returned Peter.
“May I be hanged if I do, when such fun is going on.”
“Hanged, in all probability, you will be,” returned Peter; “but I should not, were I you, desire to anticipate my destiny. Stay here you must, and shall — that’s peremptory. You will be the gainer by it. Sir Luke will reward you nobly. I will answer for him. You can serve him most effectually. Ranulph Rookwood and Major Mowbray are expected here.”
“The devil they are. But how, or why ——”
“I have not time to explain. In case of a surprise, discharge a pistol; they must not enter the vault. Have you a whistle? for you must play a double part, and we may need your assistance below.”
“Sir Luke may command me. Here’s a pipe as shrill as the devil’s own cat-call.”
“If it will summon you to our assistance below, ’tis all I need. May we rely on you?”
“When did Dick Turpin desert his friends? Anywhere on this side the Styx the sound of that whistle will reach me. I’ll ride about the court, and stand sentry.”
“Enough,” replied the sexton, as he dived under ground.
“Take care of your shins,” shouted Dick. “That’s a cursed ugly turn, but he’s used to the dark. A surprise, eh! I’ll just give a look to my snappers — flints all safe. Now I’m ready for them, come when they like.” And, having made the circuit of the place, he halted near the mouth of the subterranean chapel, to be within hearing of Peter’s whistle, and, throwing his right leg lazily over his saddle, proceeded coolly to light a short pipe — the luxury of the cigar being then unknown — humming the while snatches of a ballad, the theme of which was his own calling.
THE SCAMPSMAN
Quis verè rex?
Seneca.
There is not a king, should you search the world round,
So blithe as the king of the road to be found;
His pistol’s his sceptre, his saddle’s his throne,
Whence he levies supplies, or enforces a loan.
Derry down.
To this monarch the highway presents a wide field,
Where each passing subject a tribute must yield;
His palace — the tavern! — receives him at night,
Where sweet lips and sound liquor crown all with delight.
Derry down.
The soldier and sailor, both robbers by trade,
Full soon on the shelf, if disabled, are laid;
The one gets a patch, and the other a peg,
But, while luck lasts, the highwayman shakes a loose leg!
Derry down.
Most fowl rise at dawn, but the owl wakes at e’en,
And a jollier bird can there nowhere be seen;
Like the owl, our snug scampsman his snooze takes by day,
And, when night draws her curtain, scuds after his prey!
