continued Barbara. “By darkness, or by light, the match shall be completed.”
The ring was then placed upon the finger of the bride; and as Luke touched it, he shuddered. It was cold as that of the corpse which he had clasped but now. The prayer was said, the blessing given, the marriage was complete.
Suddenly there issued from the darkness deep dirge-like tones, and a voice solemnly chanted a strain, which all knew to be the death-song of their race, hymned by wailing women over an expiring sister. The music seemed to float in the air.
THE SOUL-BELL
Fast the sand of life is falling,
Fast her latest sigh exhaling,
Fast, fast, is she dying.
With death’s chills her limbs are shivering,
With death’s gasp the lips are quivering,
Fast her soul away is flying.
O’er the mountain-top it fleeteth,
And the skyey wonders greeteth,
Singing loud as stars it meeteth
On its way.
Hark! the sullen Soul-bell tolling,
Hollowly in echoes rolling,
Seems to say —
“She will ope her eyes — oh, never!
Quenched their dark light — gone for ever!
She is dead.”
The marriage group yet lingered near the altar, awaiting, it would seem, permission from the gipsy queen to quit the cell. Luke stirred not. Clasped in his own, the cold hand of his bride detained him; and when he would have moved, her tightened grasp prevented his departure.
Mrs. Mowbray’s patience was exhausted by the delay. She was not altogether free from apprehension. “Why do we linger here?” she whispered to the priest. “Do you, father, lead the way.”
“The crowd is dense,” replied Checkley. “They resist my effort.”
“Are we prisoners here?” asked Mrs. Mowbray, in alarm.
“Let me make the attempt,” cried Luke, with fiery impatience. “I will force a passage out.”
“Quit not your bride,” whispered Peter, “as you value her safety. Heed not aught else. She alone is in danger. Suffer her not to be withdrawn from your hand, if you would not lose her. Remain here. I will bring the matter to a speedy issue.”
“Enough,” replied Luke; “I stir not hence.” And he drew his bride closer towards him. He stooped to imprint a kiss upon her lips. A cold shudder ran through her frame as he touched them, but she resisted not his embrace.
Peter’s attempt to effect an egress was as unsuccessful as that of the priest. Presenting Excalibur at his bosom, the knight of Malta challenged him to stand.
“You cannot pass,” exclaimed the knight; “our orders are peremptory.”
“What am I to understand by this?” said Peter, angrily. “Why are we detained?”
“You will learn all anon,” returned Barbara. “In the meantime you are my prisoners — or, if you like not the phrase, my wedding guests.”
“The wedding is complete,” returned the sexton; “the bride and bridegroom are impatient to depart, and we, the guests — albeit some of us may be no foes to darkness — desire not to hold our nuptial revels here.”
“Sybil’s wedding has not taken place,” said Barbara; “you must tarry for that.”
“Ha! now it comes,” thought Peter. “And who, may I ask,” said he, aloud, “amongst this goodly company, is to be her bridegroom?”
“The best amongst them,” returned Barbara —“Sir Luke Rookwood.”
“He has a bride already,” replied Peter.
“She may be removed,” said Barbara, with bitter and peculiar emphasis. “Dost understand my meaning now?”
“I will not understand it,” said Peter. “You cannot mean to destroy her who now stands at the altar?”
“She who now stands at the altar must make way for a successor. She who grasps the bridegroom’s hand shall die. I swear it by the oath of my tribe.”
“And think you, you will be allowed to execute your murderous intention with impunity?” shrieked Mrs. Mowbray, in an agony of terror. “Think you that I will stand by and see my child slaughtered before my face; that my friends will suffer it? Think you that even your own tribe will dare to execute your horrible purpose? They will not. They will side with us. Even now they murmur. What can you hope to gain by an act so wild and dreadful? What object can you have?”
“The same as your own,” reiterated Barbara —“the advancement of my child. Sybil is as dear to me as Eleanor is to you. She is my child’s child, the daughter of my best beloved daughter. I have sworn to marry her to Sir Luke Rookwood. The means are in my power. I will keep my vow; I will wed her to him. You did not hesitate to tear your daughter from the man she loved, to give her to the man she hated; and for what? For gold — for power — for rank. I have the same motive. I love my child, and she loves Sir Luke — has loved him long and truly; therefore shall she have him. What to me is your child, or your feelings, except they are subservient to my wishes? She stands in my way. I remove her.”
“Who placed her in your path?” asked the sexton. “Did you not lend a helping hand to create that obstacle yourself?”
“I did,” replied Barbara. “Would you know wherefore? I will tell you. I had a double motive for it. There is a curse upon the house of Rookwood, that kills the first fair bride each generation leads to the altar. Have you never heard of it?”
“I have! And did that idle legend sway you?”
“And do you call it idle? You! Well — I had another motive — a prophecy.”
“By yourself uttered,” replied Peter.
“Even so,” replied Barbara. “The prophecy is fulfilled. The stray rook is found. The rook hath with rook mated. Luke hath wedded Eleanor. He will hold possession of his lands. The prophecy is fulfilled.”
“But how?” asked Peter; “will your art tell you how and why he shall now hold possession? Can you tell me that?”
“My art goes not so far. I have predicted the event. It has come to pass. I am satisfied. He has wedded her. Be it mine to free him from that yoke.” And Barbara laughed exultingly.
The sexton approached the old crone, and laid his hand with violence upon her shoulder.
“Hear me,” cried he, “and I will
