hing?"

"Imports it aught of ill?"

"To me, everything of ill. It is a fated house. Its line are all
predestined."

"To what?" demanded Luke.

"To _murder_!" replied Sybil, with solemn emphasis. "To the murder of
their wives. Forgive me, Luke, if I have dared to utter this. Yourself
compelled me to it."

Amazement, horror, wrath, kept Luke silent for a few moments. Starting
to his feet, he cried:

"And can you suspect me of a crime so foul? Think you, because I shall
assume the name, that I shall put on the nature likewise of my race? Do
you believe me capable of aught so horrible?"

"Oh, no, I believe it not. I am sure you would not do it. Your soul
would reject with horror such a deed. But if Fate should guide your
hand, if the avenging spirit of your murdered ancestress should point to
the steel, you could not shun it then."

"In Heaven's name! to what do you allude?"

"To a tradition of your house," replied Sybil. "Listen to me, and you
shall hear the legend." And with a pathos that produced a thrilling
effect upon Luke, she sang the following ballad:

THE LEGEND OF THE LADY OF ROOKWOOD

Grim Ranulph home hath at midnight come, from the long wars of the
Roses,
And the squire, who waits at his ancient gates, a secret dark
discloses;
To that varlet's words no response accords his lord, but his visage
stern
Grows ghastly white in the wan moonlight, and his eyes like the lean
wolf's burn.

To his lady's bower, at that lonesome hour, unannounced, is Sir
Ranulph gone;
Through the dim corridor, through the hidden door, he glides--she is
all alone!
Full of holy zeal doth his young dame kneel at the meek Madonna's feet,
Her hands are pressed on her gentle breast, and upturned is her aspect
sweet.

Beats Ranulph's heart with a joyful start, as he looks on her
guiltless face;
And the raging fire of his jealous ire is subdued by the words of
grace;
His own name shares her murmured prayers--more freely can he breathe;
But ah! that look! Why doth he pluck his poniard from its sheath?

On a footstool thrown, lies a costly gown of saye and of minevere
--A mantle fair for the dainty wear of a migniard cavalier,--
And on it flung, to a bracelet hung, a picture meets his eye;
"By my father's head!" grim Ranulph said, "fal