with an expression of
anguish--"he has awakened thoughts of other days."

"I have done," said Peter, "and must to work. Will you descend with me,
madam, into the sepulchre of your ancestry? All your family lie
within--ay, and the Lady Eleanor, your mother, amongst the number."

Mrs. Mowbray signified her assent, and the party prepared to follow him.

The sexton held the lantern so as to throw its light upon the steps as
they entered the gloomy receptacle of the departed. Eleanor half
repented having ventured within its dreary limits, so much did the
appearance of the yawning catacombs, surcharged with mortality, and,
above all, the ghostly figure of the grim knight, affect her with dread,
as she looked wistfully around. She required all the support her
brother's arm could afford her; nor was Mrs. Mowbray altogether unmoved.

"And all the family are here interred, you say?" inquired the latter.

"All," replied the sexton.

"Where, then, lies Sir Reginald's younger brother?"

"Who?" exclaimed Peter, starting.

"Alan Rookwood."

"What of him?"

"Nothing of moment. But I thought you could, perhaps, inform me. He died
young."

"He did," replied Peter, in an altered tone--"very young; but not before
he had lived to an old age of wretchedness. Do you know his story,
madam?"

"I have heard it."

"From your father's lips?"

"From Sir Reginald Rookwood's--never. Call him not my father, sirrah;
even _here_ I will not have him named so to me."

"Your pardon, madam," returned the sexton. "Great cruelty was shown to
the Lady Eleanor, and may well call forth implacable resentment in her
child; yet methinks the wrong he did his brother Alan was the foulest
stain with which Sir Reginald's black soul was dyed."

"With what particular wrong dost thou charge Sir Reginald?" demanded
Major Mowbray. "What injury did he inflict upon his brother Alan?"

"He wronged his brother's honor," replied the sexton; "he robbed him of
his wife, poisoned his existence, and hurried him to an untimely grave."

Eleanor shudderingly held back during this horrible narration, the
hearing of which she would willingly have shunned, had it been possible.

"Can this be true?" asked the major.

"Too true, my son," replied Mrs. Mowbray, sorrowfully.

"And where lies the unfortunate Alan?" asked Major Mowbray.

"'Twixt two cross roads. Where else should the suicide lie?"

Evading any further question, Peter hastily traversed the vault,
elev