is bitter as your own to Sir Reginald."

"Name him not," shrieked Alan. "But, oh! to think upon the bride he
robbed me of--the young--the beautiful!--whom I loved to madness; whose
memory is a barbed shaft, yet rankling keen as ever at my heart. God of
Justice! how is it that I have thus long survived? But some men die by
inches. My dying lips shall name him once again, and then 'twill be but
to blend his name with curses."

"I speak of him no more," said Luke. "I will meet you in the vault."

"Remember, to-morrow is her wedding day with Ranulph."

"Think you I forget it?"

"Bear it constantly in mind. To-morrow's dawn must see her _yours_ or
_his_. You have her oath. To you or to death she is affianced. If she
should hesitate in her election, do not you hesitate. Woman's will is
fickle; her scruples of conscience will be readily overcome; she will
not heed her vows--but let her not escape you. Cast off all your
weakness. You are young, and not as I am, age-enfeebled. Be firm, and,"
added he, with a look of terrible meaning, "if all else should fail--if
you are surrounded--if you cannot bear her off--use this," and he placed
a dagger in Luke's hands. "It has avenged me, ere now, on a perjured
wife, it will avenge you of a forsworn mistress, and remove all obstacle
to Rookwood."

Luke took the weapon.

"Would you have me kill her?" demanded he.

"Sooner than she should be Ranulph's."

"Ay, aught sooner than that. But I would not murder both."

"Both!" echoed Alan. "I understand you not."

"Sybil and Eleanor," replied Luke; "for, as surely as I live, Sybil's
death will lie at my door."

"How so?" asked Alan; "the poison was self-ministered."

"True," replied Luke, with terrible emphasis, "but I _spoke daggers_.
Hearken to me," said he, hollowly whispering in his grandsire's ears.
"Methinks I am not long for this world. I have seen her since her
death!"

"Tut, tut," replied Alan. "'Tis not for you--a man--to talk thus. A
truce to these womanish fancies."

"Womanish or not," returned Luke; "either my fancy has deceived me, or I
beheld her, distinctly as I now behold you, within yon cave, while you
were sleeping by my side."

"It is disordered fancy," said Alan Rookwood. "You will live--live to
inherit Rookwood--live to see them fall crushed beneath your feet. For
myself, if I but see you master of Eleanor's hand, or know that she no
longer lives to bless your rival, or to mar your prospects, I care not