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.”
BOOK 4
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 1
THE RENDEZVOUS AT KILBURN
Hind. Drink deep, my brave boys, of the bastinado; Of stramazons, tinctures, and slié passatas; Of the carricado, and rare embrocado; Of blades, and rapier-hilts of surest guard; Of the Vincentio and Burgundian ward. Have we not bravely tossed this bombast foil-button? Win gold and wear gold, boys, ’tis we that merit it.
Prince of Prigs’ Revels.
An excellent Comedy, replete with various conceits and Tarltonian mirth.
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 ruralizing 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, encountered 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 neighboring bed of mignonette and the subdued odor 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 arbor; 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 eyesight was soothed by reposing on the smooth sward of a bowling-green spread out immediately before it, or in dwelling upon gently undulating meads, terminating, at about a mile’s distance, in the woody, spire-crowned heights of Hampstead.
At the left of the table was seated, or rather lounged, a slender, elegant-looking young man, with dark, languid eyes, sallow complexion, and features wearing that peculiarly pensive expression often communicated by dissipation; an expression which, we regret to say, is sometimes found more pleasing than it ought to be in the eyes of the gentle sex. Habited in a light summer riding-dress, fashioned according to the taste of the time, of plain and unpretending material, and rather under than overdressed, he had, perhaps, on that very account, perfectly the air of a gentleman. There was, altogether, an absence of pretension about him, which, combined with great apparent self-possession, contrasted very forcibly with the vulgar assurance of his showy companions. The figure of the youth was slight, even to fragility, giving little outward manifestation of the vigor of frame he in reality possessed. This spark was a no less distinguished personage than Tom King, a noted high-tobygloak of his time, who obtained, from his appearance and address, the sobriquet of the “Gentleman Highwayman.”
Tom was indeed a pleasant fellow in his day. His career was brief, but brilliant: your meteors are ever momentary. He was a younger son of a good family; had good blood in his veins, though not a groat in his pockets. According to the old song —
When he arrived at man’s estate,
It was all the estate he had;
and all the estate he was ever likely to have. Nevertheless, if he had no income, he contrived, as he said, to live as if he had the mines of Peru at his control — a miracle not solely confined to himself. For a moneyless man, he had rather expensive habits.
