ht me to the tomb of her destroyer--when he is beyond the reach of
my vengeance?"

Luke exhibited so much frantic violence of manner and gesture, that the
sexton entertained some little apprehension that his intellects were
unsettled by the shock of the intelligence. It was, therefore, in what
he intended for a soothing tone that he attempted to solicit his
grandson's attention.

"I will hear nothing more," interrupted Luke, and the vaulted chamber
rang with his passionate lamentations. "Am I the sport of this mocking
fiend?" cried he, "to whom my agony is derision--my despair a source of
enjoyment--beneath whose withering glance my spirit shrinks--who, with
half-expressed insinuations, tortures my soul, awakening fancies that
goad me on to dark and desperate deeds? Dead mother! upon thee I call.
If in thy grave thou canst hear the cry of thy most wretched son,
yearning to avenge thee--answer me, if thou hast the power. Let me have
some token of the truth or falsity of these wild suppositions, that I
may wrestle against this demon. But no," added he, in accents of
despair, "no ear listens to me, save his to whom my wretchedness is food
for mockery."

"Could the dead hear thee, thy mother might do so," returned the sexton.
"She lies within this space."

Luke staggered back, as if struck by a sudden shot. He spoke not, but
fell with a violent shock against a pile of coffins, at which he caught
for support.

"What have I done?" he exclaimed, recoiling.

A thundering crash resounded through the vault. One of the coffins,
dislodged from its position by his fall, tumbled to the ground, and,
alighting upon its side, split asunder.

"Great Heavens! what is this?" cried Luke, as a dead body, clothed in
all the hideous apparel of the tomb, rolled forth to his feet.

"It is your mother's corpse," answered the sexton, coldly; "I brought
you hither to behold it. But you have anticipated my intentions."

"_This_ my mother?" shrieked Luke, dropping upon his knees by the body,
and seizing one of its chilly hands, as it lay upon the floor, with the
face upwards.

The sexton took the candle from the sconce.

"Can this be death?" shouted Luke. "Impossible! Oh, God! she stirs--she
moves. The light!--quick. I see her stir! This is dreadful!"

"Do not deceive yourself," said the sexton, in a tone which betrayed
more emotion than was his wont. "'Tis the bewilderment of fancy. She
will never stir again."

And he shaded the can