no — no ——”
“Remember my threat, and obey,” muttered Barbara. “You are in my power now.”
A convulsive sob was all the answer Eleanor could make.
“Our number is not complete,” said the priest, who had looked in vain for the sexton. “Peter Bradley is not with us.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Barbara. “Let him be sought for instantly.”
“Their search need not extend beyond this spot,” said Peter, stepping forward.
The knight of Malta advanced towards the altar. The torchlight reddened upon the huge stone pillars. It fell upon the shrine, and upon the ghastly countenance of Sybil, who stood beside it. Suddenly, as the light approached her, an object, hitherto hidden from view, was revealed. Sybil uttered a prolonged and fearful shriek; the knight recoiled likewise in horror; and a simultaneous cry of astonishment burst from the lips of the foremost of the group. All crowded forwards, and universal consternation prevailed amongst the assemblage. Each one gazed at his neighbor, anxious to learn the occasion of this tumult, and vague fears were communicated to those behind, from the terrified glances, which were the only answers returned by their comrades in front.
“Who has dared to bring that body here?” demanded Barbara, in a tone in which anger struggled with apprehension, pointing at the same time to the ghastly corpse of a female, with streaming hair, at the altar’s feet. “Who has dared to do this, I say? Quick! remove it. What do you stare at? Cravens! is this the first time you have looked upon a corpse, that you should shrink aghast — that you tremble before it? It is a clod — ay, less than a clod. Away with it! away, I say.”
“Touch it not,” cried Luke, lifting a cloud of black hair from off the features; “it is my mother’s body.”
“My daughter!” exclaimed the sexton.
“What!” vociferated Barbara, “is that your daughter — is that the first Lady Rookwood? Are the dead arisen to do honor to these nuptials? Speak! you can, perchance, explain how she came hither.”
“I know not,” returned Peter, glancing fiercely at Barbara; “I may, anon, demand that question of you. How came this body here?”
“Ask of Richard Checkley,” said Barbara, turning to the priest. “He can, perchance, inform you. Priest,” added she, in a low voice, “this is your handiwork.”
“Checkley!” screamed Peter. “Is that Richard Checkley? is that ——”
“Peace!” thundered Barbara; “will none remove the body? Once more I ask you, do you fear the dead?”
A murmur arose. Balthazar alone ventured to approach the corpse.
Luke started to his feet as he advanced, his eyes glaring with tiger fury.
“Back, old man,” cried he, “and dare not, any of you, to lay a sacrilegious finger on her corse, or I will stretch him that advances as lowly as lies my mother’s head. When or how it came hither matters not. Here, at the altar, has it been placed, and none shall move it hence. The dead shall witness my nuptials. Fate has ordained it —my fate! o’er which the dead preside. Her ring shall link me to my bride. I knew not, when I snatched it from her death-cold finger, to what end I preserved it. I learn it now. It is here.” And he held forth a ring.
“’Tis a fatal boon, that twice-used ring,” cried Sybil; “such a ring my mother, on her death-bed, said should be mine. Such a ring she said should wed me ——”
“Unto whom?” fiercely demanded Luke.
“Unto Death!“ she solemnly rejoined.
Luke’s countenance fell. He turned aside, deeply abashed, unable further to brook her gaze; while in accents of such wildly touching pathos as sank into the hearts of each who heard her — hearts, few of them framed of penetrable stuff — the despairing maiden burst into the following strain:
THE TWICE-USED RING
“Beware thy bridal day!”
On her death-bed sighed my mother;
“Beware, beware, I say,
Death shall wed thee, and no other.
Cold the hand shall grasp thee,
Cold the arms shall clasp thee,
Colder lips thy kiss shall smother!
Beware thy bridal kiss!
“Thy wedding ring shall be
From a clay-cold finger taken;
From one that, like to thee,
Was by her love forsaken.
For a twice-used ring
Is a fatal thing;
Her griefs who wore it are partaken —
Beware that fatal ring!
“The altar and the grave
Many steps are not asunder;
Bright banners o’er thee wave,
Shrouded horror lieth under.
Blithe may sound the bell,
Yet ’twill toll thy knell;
Scathed thy chaplet by the thunder —
Beware that blighted wreath!”
Beware my bridal day!
Dying lips my doom have spoken;
Deep tones call me away;
From the grave is sent a token.
Cold, cold fingers bring
That ill-omen’d ring;
Soon will a second heart be broken; This is my bridal day.
There was a deep, profound silence as the last melancholy cadence died away, and many a rugged heart was melted, even to tears. Eleanor, meanwhile, remained in a state of passive stupefaction, vacantly gazing at Sybil, upon whom alone her eyes were fixed, and appearing indistinctly to apprehend the meaning of her song.
“This is my bridal day,” murmured she, in a low tone, when Sybil had finished. “Said not that sweet voice so? I know ’tis my bridal day. What a church you have chosen, mother! A tomb — a sepulchre — but ’tis meet for such nuptials as mine — and what wedding guests! Was that pale woman in her shroud-like dress invited here by you? Tell me that, mother.”
“My God, her senses are gone!” cried Mrs. Mowbray. “Why did I venture into this horrible place?”
“Ask not why now, madam,” rejoined the priest. “The hour for consideration is past. We must act. Let the marriage proceed, at all
