But if you won't drink, I will.
Here's to the rest eternal of Sir Piers Rookwood! You'll say amen to
that pledge, or you are neither grandson of mine, nor offspring of his
loins."

"Why should I reverence his memory," answered Luke, bitterly, refusing
the proffered potion, "who showed no fatherly love for me? He disowned
_me_ in life: in death I disown _him_. Sir Piers Rookwood was no father
of mine."

"He was as certainly your father, as Susan Bradley, your mother, was my
daughter," rejoined the sexton.

"And, surely," cried Luke, impetuously, "_you_ need not boast of the
connection! 'Tis not for you, old man, to couple their names
together--to exult in your daughter's disgrace and your own dishonor.
Shame! shame! Speak not of them in the same breath, if you would not
have me invoke curses on the dead! _I_ have no reverence--whatever _you_
may have--for the seducer--for the murderer of my mother."

"You have choice store of epithets, in sooth, good grandson," rejoined
Peter, with a chuckling laugh. "Sir Piers a murderer!"

"Tush!" exclaimed Luke, indignantly, "affect not ignorance. You have
better knowledge than I have of the truth or falsehood of the dark tale
that has gone abroad respecting my mother's fate; and unless report has
belied you foully, had substantial reasons for keeping sealed lips on
the occasion. But to change this painful subject," added he, with a
sudden alteration of manner, "at what hour did Sir Piers Rookwood die?"

"On Thursday last, in the night-time. The exact hour I know not,"
replied the sexton.

"Of what ailment?"

"Neither do I know that. His end was sudden, yet not without a warning
sign."

"What warning?" inquired Luke.

"Neither more nor less than the death-omen of the house. You look
astonished. Is it possible you have never heard of the ominous
Lime-Tree, and the Fatal Bough? Why, 'tis a common tale hereabouts, and
has been for centuries. Any old crone would tell it you. Peradventure,
you _have_ seen the old avenue of lime-trees leading to the hall, nearly
a quarter of a mile in length, and as noble a row of timber as any in
the West Riding of Yorkshire. Well, there is one tree--the last on the
left hand before you come to the clock-house--larger than all the
rest--a huge piece of timber, with broad spreading branches, and of I
know not what girth in the trunk. That tree is, in some mysterious
manner, connected with the family of Rookwood, and immediately previous
to the