.

_CHAPTER VII_

_MRS. MOWBRAY_

Well, go thy ways, old Nick Machiavel, there will never be the peer
of thee for wholesome policy and good counsel: thou took'st pains to
chalk men out the dark paths and hidden plots of murther and deceit,
and no man has the grace to follow thee. The age is unthankful, thy
principles are quite forsaken, and worn out of memory.

SHAKERLEY MARMION'S _Antiquary_.

Sybil's sudden entrance filled the group that surrounded Miss Mowbray
with new dismay. But she saw them not. Her soul seemed riveted by
Eleanor, towards whom she rushed; and while her eye wandered over her
beauty, she raised the braided hair from her brow, revealing the clear,
polished forehead. Wonder, awe, devotion, pity, usurped the place of
hatred. The fierce expression that had lit up her dark orbs was
succeeded by tender commiseration. She looked an imploring appeal at
Barbara.

"Ay, ay," returned the old gipsy, extending at the same time the phial;
"I understand. Here is that will bring the blood once more into her
pallid cheeks, and kindle the fire within her eyes. Give her of this."

The effect of the potion was almost instantaneous, amply attesting
Barbara's skill in its concoction. Stifled respiration first proclaimed
Eleanor's recovery. She opened her large and languid eyes; her bosom
heaved almost to bursting; her pulses throbbed quickly and feverishly;
and as the stimulant operated, the wild lustre of excitement blazed in
her eyes.

Sybil took her hand to chafe it. The eyes of the two maidens met. They
gazed upon each other steadfastly and in silence. Eleanor knew not whom
she regarded, but she could not mistake that look of sympathy; she could
not mistake the tremulous pressure of her hand; she felt the silent
trickling tears. She returned the sympathizing glance, and gazed with
equal wonder upon the ministering fairy, for such she almost seemed,
that knelt before her. As her looks wandered from the kindly glance of
Sybil to the withered and inauspicious aspect of the gipsy queen, and
shifted thence to the dusky figures of her attendants, filled with
renewed apprehension, she exclaimed, "Who are these, and where am I?"

"You are in safety," replied Luke. "This is the ruined priory of St.
Francis; and those strange personages are a horde of gipsies. You need
fear no injury from them."

"My deliverer!" murmured Eleanor; when all at once the