Ask of Richard Checkley," said Barbara, turning to the priest. "He can,
perchance, inform you. Priest," added she, in a low voice, "this is your
handiwork."

"Checkley!" screamed Peter. "Is that Richard Checkley? is that----"

"Peace!" thundered Barbara; "will none remove the body? Once more I ask
you, do you fear the dead?"

A murmur arose. Balthazar alone ventured to approach the corpse.

Luke started to his feet as he advanced, his eyes glaring with tiger
fury.

"Back, old man," cried he, "and dare not, any of you, to lay a
sacrilegious finger on her corse, or I will stretch him that advances as
lowly as lies my mother's head. When or how it came hither matters not.
Here, at the altar, has it been placed, and none shall move it hence.
The dead shall witness my nuptials. Fate has ordained it--_my_ fate!
o'er which the dead preside. Her ring shall link me to my bride. I knew
not, when I snatched it from her death-cold finger, to what end I
preserved it. I learn it now. It is here." And he held forth a ring.

"'Tis a fatal boon, that twice-used ring," cried Sybil; "such a ring my
mother, on her death-bed, said should be mine. Such a ring she said
should wed me----"

"Unto whom?" fiercely demanded Luke.

"UNTO DEATH!" she solemnly rejoined.

Luke's countenance fell. He turned aside, deeply abashed, unable further
to brook her gaze; while in accents of such wildly touching pathos as
sank into the hearts of each who heard her--hearts, few of them framed
of penetrable stuff--the despairing maiden burst into the following
strain:

THE TWICE-USED RING

"Beware thy bridal day!"
On her death-bed sighed my mother;
"Beware, beware, I say,
Death shall wed thee, and no other.
Cold the hand shall grasp thee,
Cold the arms shall clasp thee,
Colder lips thy kiss shall smother!
Beware thy bridal kiss!

"Thy wedding ring shall be
From a clay-cold finger taken;
From one that, like to thee,
Was by her love forsaken.
For a twice-used ring
Is a fatal thing;
Her griefs who wore it are partaken--,
Beware that fatal ring!

"The altar and the grave
Many steps are not asunder;
Bright banners o'er thee wave,
Shrouded horror lieth under.
Blithe may sound the bell,
Yet 'twill toll thy knell;
Scathed thy chaplet by the thunder--
Beware that b