“May the dead convict you of perjury if you have foresworn yourself,” said Alan; “you are free. Take away your hand.”
“Ha! what is this?” exclaimed the priest. “You have put some jugglery upon me. I cannot withdraw my hand. It sticks to her throat, as though ’twere glued by blood. Tear me away. I have not force enough to liberate myself. Why do you grin at me? The corpse grins likewise. It is jugglery. I am innocent. You would take away my life. Tear me away, I say: the veins rise; they blacken; they are filling with new blood. I feel them swell; they coil like living things around my fingers. She is alive.”
“And are you innocent?”
“I am—I am. Let not my ravings convict me. For Jesu’s sake release me.”
“Blaspheme not, but arise. I hold you not.”
“You do,” groaned the priest. “Your grasp tightens round my throat; your hard and skinny fingers are there—I strangle—help!”
“Your own fears strangle you. My hand is at my side,” returned Alan, calmly.
“Villain, you lie. Your grasp is like a vice. The strength of a thousand devils is in your hands. Will none lend help? I never pressed so hard. Your daughter never suffered this torture—never—never. I choke—choke—oh!” And the priest rolled heavily backwards.
There was a deep groan; a convulsive rattle in the throat; and all was still.
“He is dead—strangled,” cried several voices, holding down the torch. The face of the priest was blackened and contorted; his eyeballs protruded from their sockets; his tongue was nearly bitten through in the desperate efforts he had made to release himself from Alan’s gripe; his hair was erect with horror. It was a ghastly sight.
A murmur arose among the gipsies. Barbara deemed it prudent to appease them.
“He was guilty,” cried she. “He was the murderer of Susan Rookwood.”
“And I, her father, have avenged her,” said Alan, sternly.
The dreadful silence that followed his speech was broken by the report of a pistol. The sound, though startling, was felt almost as a relief.
“We are beset,” cried Alan. “Some of you fly to reconnoitre.”
“To your posts,” cried Barbara.
Several of the crew flocked to the entrance.
“Unbind the prisoners,” shouted Alan.
Mrs. Mowbray and Luke were accordingly set free.
Two almost simultaneous reports of a pistol were now heard.
“‘Tis Ranulph Rookwood,” said Alan; “that was the preconcerted signal.”
“Ranulph Rookwood,” echoed Eleanor, who caught exclamation: “he comes to save me.”
“Remember your oath,” gasped a dying voice. “He is no longer yours.”
“Alas! alas!” sobbed Eleanor tremblingly.
A moment afterwards a faint clapping of hands reached the ears of Barbara.
“All is over,” muttered she.
“Ha!” exclaimed Alan Rookwood, with a frightful look. “Is it done?”
Barbara motioned him towards the further end of the vault.
| Contents |
CHAPTER XIII
MR. COATES
GLADLY do we now exchange the dank atmosphere of Saint Cyprian’s cell, and the horrors which have detained us there so long, for balmy air, genial sunshine, and the boon companionship of Dick Turpin. Upon regaining the verdant ruins of the ancient priory, all appeared pretty much as our highwayman had left it. Dick wended towards his mare. Black Bess uttered an affectionate whinnying sound as he approached her, and yielded her sleek neck to his caresses. No Bedouin Arab ever loved his horse more tenderly than Turpin.
“‘Twill be a hard day when thou and I part!” murmured he, affectionately patting her soft and silky cheeks. Bess thrust her nose into his hand, biting playfully, as much as to say, “That day will never arrive.” Turpin, at least, understood the appeal in that sense; he was skilled in the language of the Huoyhnymns. “I would rather lose my right hand than that should happen,” sighed he; “but there’s no saying: the best of friends must part; and thou and I may be one day separated: thy destination is the knacker—mine, perhaps, the gibbet. We are neither of us cut out for old age, that’s certain. Curse me, if I can tell how it is; since I’ve been in that vault, I’ve got some queer crotchet into my head. I can’t help likening thee to that poor gipsy wench, Sybil; but may I be scragg’d if I’d use thee as her lover has used her. Ha!” exclaimed he, drawing a pistol with a suddenness that made his companions, Rust and Wilder, start; “we are watched. See you not how yon shadow falls from behind the wall?”