of the hall. The rain had now
entirely ceased; the thunder muttered from afar, and the lightning
seemed only to lick the moisture from the trees. The bell continued to
toll, and its loud booming awoke the drowsy echoes of the valley. On the
sudden, a solitary, startling concussion of thunder was heard; and
presently a man rushed down from the belfry, with the tidings that he
had seen a ball of fire fall from a cloud right over the hall. Every ear
was on the alert for the next sound; none was heard. It was the crisis
of the storm. Still the funeral procession advanced not. The strong
sheen of the torchlight was still visible from the bottom of the avenue,
now disappearing, now brightly glimmering, as if the bearers were
hurrying to and fro amongst the trees. It was evident that much
confusion prevailed, and that some misadventure had occurred. Each man
muttered to his neighbor, and few were there who had not in a measure
surmised the cause of the delay. At this juncture, a person without his
hat, breathless with haste and almost palsied with fright, rushed
through the midst of them and, stumbling over the threshold, fell
headlong into the church.

"What's the matter, Master Plant? What has happened? Tell us! Tell us!"
exclaimed several voices simultaneously.

"Lord have mercy upon us!" cried Plant, gasping for utterance, and not
attempting to raise himself. "It's horrible! dreadful! oh!--oh!"

"What has happened?" inquired Peter, approaching the fallen man.

"And dost _thou_ need to ask, Peter Bradley? thou, who foretold it all?
but I will not say what I think, though my tongue itches to tell thee
the truth. Be satisfied, thy wizard's lore has served thee right--he is
dead."

"Who? Ranulph Rookwood? Has anything befallen him, or the prisoner, Luke
Bradley?" asked the sexton, with eagerness.

A scream here burst forth from one who was standing behind the group;
and, in spite of the efforts of her mother to withhold her, Eleanor
Mowbray rushed forward.

"Has aught happened to Sir Ranulph?" asked she.

"Noa--noa--not to Sir Ranulph--he be with the body."

"Heaven be thanked for that!" exclaimed Eleanor. And then, as if ashamed
of her own vehemence, and, it might seem, apparent indifference to
another's fate, she inquired who was hurt.

"It be poor neighbor Toft, that be killed by a thunderbolt, ma'am,"
replied Plant.

Exclamations of horror burst from all around.

No one was more surprised at this intelligen