At a signal from the sexton, Luke also was blindfolded. He ceased to struggle. But his labouring breast told of the strife within.
“Miscreants!” exclaimed the priest, who had hitherto witnessed the proceedings in horror. “Why do not these rocks fall in, and crush you and your iniquities? Save her! oh, save her! Have you no pity for the innocent?”
“Such pity have we,” replied Alan Rookwood, “as you showed my daughter. She was as innocent as Eleanor Mowbray, and yet you did not pity her.”
“Heaven is my witness,” exclaimed the priest, “that I never injured her.”
“Take not Heaven’s name in vain,” cried Alan. “Who stood by while it was doing? Whose firmer hand lent aid to the murderer’s trembling efforts? Whose pressure stifled her thrilling screams, and choked her cries for mercy? Yours—yours; and now you prate to me of pity—you, the slayer of the sleeping and the innocent?”
“‘Tis false,” exclaimed the priest, in extremity of terror.
“False!” echoed Alan. “I had Sir Piers’s own confession. He told me all. You had designs upon Sir Piers, which his wife opposed: you hated her; you were in the confidence of both—how did you keep that confidence? He told me how, by awakening a spirit of jealousy and pride, that o’er-mastered all his better feelings. False! He told me of your hellish machinations; your Jesuitical plots; your schemes. He was too weak, too feeble an instrument to serve you. You left him, but not before she had left him. False! ha, I have that shall instantly convict you. The corpse is here, within this cell. Who brought it hither?”
The priest was silent: he seemed confounded by Alan’s violence.
“I will answer that question,” said Barbara. “It was brought hither by that false priest. His agent, Balthazar has betrayed him. It was brought hither to prevent the discovery of Sir Luke Rookwood’s legitimacy. He meant to make his own terms about it. It has come hither to proclaim his guilt—to be fearful witness against him.” Then, turning to Checkley, she added, “You have called Heaven to witness your innocence: you shall attest it by oath upon that body; and should aught indicate your guilt, I will hang you as I would a dog, and clear off one long score with justice. Do you shrink from this?”
“No,” replied the priest, in a I voice hollow and broken. “Bring me to the body.”
“Seize each an arm,” said Barbara, addressing Zoroaster and the knight of Malta, “and lead him to the corse.”
“I will administer the oath,” said Alan Rookwood, sternly.
“No, not you,” stammered the priest.
“And wherefore not?” asked Alan. “If you are innocent, you need fear nothing from her.”
“I fear nothing from the dead,” replied Checkley; “lead on.”
We will now return to Sybil. She was alone with her victim. They were near the mouth of the cell which had been Prior Cyprian’s flinty dormitory, and were almost involved in darkness. A broken stream of light glanced through the pillars. Eleanor had not spoken. She suffered herself to be dragged thither without resistance, scarcely conscious, it would seem, of her danger. Sybil gazed upon her for some minutes with sorrow and surprise. “She comprehends not her perilous situation,” murmured Sybil. “She knows not that she stands upon the brink of the grave. Oh! would that she could pray. Shall I, her murderess, pray for her? My prayers would not be heard. And yet to kill her unshriven will be a twofold crime. Let me not look on her. My hand trembles. I can scarce grasp the dagger. Let me think on all he has said. I have wronged him. I am his bane, his curse! I have robbed him of all: there is but one remedy—’tis this!—Oh God! she recovers. I cannot do it now.”
It was a fearful moment for Eleanor’s revival, when the bright steel flashed before her eyes. Terror at once restored her. She cast herself at Sybil’s feet.
“Spare, spare me!” cried she. “Oh! what a dream I have had. And to waken thus, with the dagger’s point at my breast. You will not kill me—you, gentle maid, who promised to preserve me. Ah, no, I am sure you will not.”