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 Suffer her not to be withdrawn from your hand, if you would not lose her.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.”