I will not die; I must not. I am contracted

To a young gentleman.

 

Executioner.

Here's your wedding-ring.

 

---Duchess of Malfy.

 

Slowly did the train descend; solemnly and in silence, as if the rites at which they were about to assist had been those of funereal, and not of nuptial, solemnization. Indeed, to look upon those wild and fierce faces by the ruddily-flashing torchlight, which lent to each a stern and savage expression; to see those scowling visages surrounding a bride from whose pallid cheeks every vestige of color, and almost of animation, had fled; and a bridegroom, with a countenance yet more haggard, and demeanor yet more distracted--the beholder must have imagined that the spectacle was some horrible ceremonial, practised by demons rather than human beings. The arched vault, the pillars, the torchlight, the deep shadows, and the wild figures, formed a picture worthy of Rembrandt or Salvator.

 

"Is Sybil within the chapel?" asked Barbara.

 

"I am here," returned a voice from the altar.

 

"Why do we tarry?" said the gipsy queen. "We are all assembled. To the altar."

 

"To the altar!" shrieked Eleanor. "Oh! no--no----"

 

"Remember my threat, and obey," muttered Barbara. "You are in my power now."

 

A convulsive sob was all the answer Eleanor could make.

 

"Our number is not complete," said the priest, who had looked in vain for the sexton. "Peter Bradley is not with us."

 

"Ha!" exclaimed Barbara. "Let him be sought for instantly."

 

"Their search need not extend beyond this spot," said Peter, stepping forward.

 

The knight of Malta advanced towards the altar. The torchlight reddened upon the huge stone pillars. It fell upon the shrine, and upon the ghastly countenance of Sybil, who stood beside it. Suddenly, as the light approached her, an object, hitherto hidden from view, was revealed. Sybil uttered a prolonged and fearful shriek; the knight recoiled likewise in horror; and a simultaneous cry of astonishment burst from the lips of the foremost of the group. All crowded forwards, and universal consternation prevailed amongst the assemblage. Each one gazed at his neighbor, anxious to learn the occasion of this tumult, and vague fears were communicated to those behind, from the terrified glances, which were the only answers returned by their comrades in front.

 

"Who has dared to bring that body here?" demanded Barbara, in a tone in which anger struggled with apprehension, pointing at the same time to the ghastly corpse of a female, with streaming hair, at the altar's feet. "Who has dared to do this, I say? Quick! remove it. What do you stare at? Cravens! is this the first time you have looked upon a corpse, that you should shrink aghast--that you tremble before it? It is a clod--ay, less than a clod. Away with it! away, I say."

 

"Touch it not," cried Luke, lifting a cloud of black hair from off the features; "it is my mother's body."

 

"My daughter!" exclaimed the sexton.

 

"What!" vociferated Barbara, "is that your daughter--is that the first Lady Rookwood? Are the dead arisen to do honor to these nuptials? Speak! you can, perchance, explain how she came hither."

 

"I know not," returned Peter, glancing fiercely at Barbara; "I may, anon, demand that question of you. How came this body here?"

 

"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 blighted wreath!"

 

Beware my bridal day!

Dying lips my doom have spoken;

Deep tones call me away;

From the grave is sent a token.

Cold, cold fingers bring

That ill-omen'd ring;

Soon will a second heart be broken;

This is my bridal day.

 

There was a deep, profound silence as the last melancholy cadence died away, and many a rugged heart was melted, even to tears. Eleanor, meanwhile, remained in a state of passive stupefaction, vacantly gazing at Sybil, upon whom alone her eyes were fixed, and appearing indistinctly to apprehend the meaning of her song.

 

"This is my bridal day," murmured she, in a low tone, when Sybil had finished. "Said not that sweet voice so? I know 'tis my bridal day. What a church you have chosen, mother! A tomb--a sepulchre--but 'tis meet for such nuptials as mine--and what wedding guests! Was that pale woman in her shroud-like dress invited here by you? Tell me that, mother."

 

"My God, her senses are gone!" cried Mrs. Mowbray. "Why did I venture into this horrible place?"

 

"Ask not why now, madam," rejoined the priest. "The hour for consideration is past. We must act. Let the marriage proceed, at all hazards; we will then take means to extricate ourselves from this accursed place."

 

"Remove that horrible object," said Mrs. Mowbray; "it fascinates the vision of my child."

 

"Lend me your hand, Richard Checkley," said Peter, sternly regarding the priest.

 

"No, no," replied the priest, shuddering; "I will not, cannot touch it. Do you alone remove it."

 

Peter approached Luke. The latter now offered no further opposition, and the body was taken away. The eyes of Eleanor followed it into the dark recesses of the vault; and when she could no longer distinguish the white flutter of the cereclothes, her laboring bosom seemed torn asunder with the profound sigh that burst from it, and her head declined upon her shoulder.

 

"Let me see that ring," said the priest, addressing Luke, who still held the wedding-ring between his fingers.

 

"I am not naturally superstitious," said Mrs. Mowbray; "whether my mind be affected with the horrors of this place, I know not; but I have a dread of that ring. She shall not use it."

 

"Where no other can be found," said the priest, with a significant and peculiar look at Mrs. Mowbray, "I see no reason why this should be rejected. I should not have suspected you, madam, of such weakness. Grant there were evil spell, or charm, attached to it, which, trust me, there is not--as how should there be, to a harmless piece of gold?--my benediction, and aspersion with holy lymph, will have sufficient power to exorcise and expel it. To remove your fears it shall be done at once."

 

A cup containing water was brought, together with a plate of salt--which condiment the devil is said to abhor, and which is held to be a symbol of immortality and of eternity; in that, being itself incorruptible, it preserves all else from corruption,--and, with the customary Romish formula of prayer and exorcism, the priest thrice mingled the crystal particles with the pure fluid; after which, taking the ring in his hand with much solemnity, he sprinkled it with a few drops of the water which he had blessed; made the sign of the cross upon the golden circlet; uttered another and more potent exorcism to eradicate and expel every device of Satan, and delivered it back to Luke.

 

"She may wear it now in safety," said the sexton, with strong contempt. "Were the snake himself coiled round that consecrated bauble, the prayers of the devout Father Checkley would unclasp his lithest folds. But wherefore do we tarry now? Naught lies between us and the altar. The path is clear. The bridegroom grows impatient."

 

"And the bride?" asked Barbara.

 

"Is ready," replied the priest. "Madam, delay not longer. Daughter, your hand."

 

Eleanor gave her hand. It was clammy and cold. Supported by her mother, she moved slowly towards the altar, which was but a few steps from where they stood. She offered no resistance, but did not raise her head. Luke was by her side. Then for the first time did the enormity of the cruel, dishonorable act he was about to commit, strike him with its full force. He saw it in its darkest colors. It was one of those terrible moments when the headlong wheel of passion stands suddenly still.

 

"There is yet time," groaned he. "Oh! let me not damn myself perpetually! Let me save her; save Sybil; save myself."

 

They were at the altar--that wild wedding train. High over head the torch was raised. The red light flashed on bridegroom and on bride, giving to the pale features of each an almost livid look; it fell upon the gaunt aspect of the sexton, and lit up the smile of triumphant malice that played upon his face; it fell upon the fantastical habiliments of Barbara, and upon the haughty but perturbed physiognomy of Mrs. Mowbray; it fell upon the salient points of the Gothic arches; upon one molded pillar; upon the marble image of the virgin Thecla; and on the scarcely less marble countenance of Sybil who stood behind the altar, silent, statue-like, immovable. The effect of light and shade on other parts of the scene, upon the wild drapery, and harsh lineaments of many of the group, was also eminently striking.

 

Just as the priest was about to commence the marriage service, a yelling chorus, which the gipsies were accustomed to sing at the celebration of the nuptials of one of their own tribe, burst forth. Nothing could be more horribly discordant than their song.

 

 

WEDDING CHORUS OF GIPSIES

 

Scrape the catgut! pass the liquor!

Let your quick feet move the quicker.

Ta-ra-la!

 

Dance and sing in jolly chorus,

Bride and bridegroom are before us,

And the patrico stands o'er us.

Ta-ra-la!

 

To unite their hands he's ready;

For a moment, pals, be steady;

Cease your quaffing,

Dancing, laughing;

Leave off riot,

And be quiet,

While 'tis doing.

'Tis begun,

All is over!

Two are ONE!

The patrico has link'd 'em;

Daddy Hymen's torch has blink'd 'em.

Amen!

To 't again!

Now for quaffing,

Now for laughing,

Stocking-throwing,

Liquor flowing;

For our bridals are no bridles, and our altars never alter;

From the flagon never flinch we, in the jig we never falter.

No! that's not our way, for we