r five hundred
pounds; nay, for five thousand: for there is a certain marriage
certificate in the way--a glorious golden venture! You shall go halves,
if we win. We'll have him, dead or alive. What say you for London, Mr.
Tyrconnel? Shall we start at once?"

"With all my sowl," replied Titus. "I'm with you." And away this _par
nobile_ scoured.

Ranulph, meantime, plunged into the vault. The floor was slippery, and
he had nigh stumbled. Loud and deep lamentations, and a wailing sound,
like that of a lament for the dead, resounded in his ears. A light at
the further extremity of the vault attracted his attention. He was
filled with terrible forebodings; but the worst reality was not so
terrible as suspense. He rushed towards the light. He passed the massive
pillars, and there, by the ruddy torch flame, discovered two female
figures. One was an old woman, fantastically attired, wringing her
hands, and moaning, or gibbering wild strains in broken, discordant, yet
pathetic tones. The other was Mrs. Mowbray. Both were images of despair.
Before them lay some motionless object. He noticed not that old woman;
he scarcely saw Mrs. Mowbray; he beheld only that object of horror. It
was the lifeless body of a female. The light fell imperfectly upon the
face; he could not discern the features, but the veil in which it was
swathed: that veil was Eleanor's! He asked no more.

With a wild cry he rushed forward. "Eleanor, my beloved!" shrieked he.

Mrs. Mowbray started at his voice, but appeared stunned and helpless.

"She is dead," said Ranulph, stooping towards the body. "Dead--dead!"

"Ay," echoed the old woman, in accents of equal anguish--"dead--dead!"

"But this is _not_ Eleanor," exclaimed he, as he viewed the features
more closely. "This face, though beautiful, is not hers. This
dishevelled hair is black. The long lashes that shade her cheek are of
the same hue. She is scarce dead. The hand I clasp is yet warm--the
fingers are pliant."

"Yet she is dead," said the old woman, in a broken voice, "she is
slain."

"Who hath slain her?" asked Ranulph.

"I--I--her mother, slew her."

"You!" exclaimed Ranulph, horror-stricken. "And where is Eleanor?" asked
he. "Was she not here?"

"Better she were here now, even though she were as that poor maid,"
groaned Mrs. Mowbray, "than where she is."

"Where is she, then?" asked Ranulph, with frantic eagerness.

"Fled. Whither I know not."

"With whom?"

"With Sir Luke Rookwoo