The sexton held the lantern so as to throw its light upon the steps as they entered the gloomy receptacle of the departed. Eleanor half repented having ventured within its dreary limits, so much did the appearance of the yawning catacombs, surcharged with mortality, and, above all, the ghostly figure of the grim knight, affect her with dread, as she looked wistfully around. She required all the support her brother's arm could afford her; nor was Mrs. Mowbray altogether unmoved. "And all the family are here interred, you say?" inquired the latter. "All," replied the sexton. "Where, then, lies Sir Reginald's younger brother?" "Who?" exclaimed Peter, starting. "Alan Rookwood." "What of him?" "Nothing of moment. But I thought you could, perhaps, inform me. He died young." "He did," replied Peter, in an altered tone--"very young; but not before he had lived to an old age of wretchedness. Do you know his story, madam?" "I have heard it." "From your father's lips?" "From Sir Reginald Rookwood's--never. Call him not my father, sirrah; even _here_ I will not have him named so to me." "Your pardon, madam," returned the sexton. "Great cruelty was shown to the Lady Eleanor, and may well call forth implacable resentment in her child; yet methinks the wrong he did his brother Alan was the foulest stain with which Sir Reginald's black soul was dyed." "With what particular wrong dost thou charge Sir Reginald?" demanded Major Mowbray. "What injury did he inflict upon his brother Alan?" "He wronged his brother's honor," replied the sexton; "he robbed him of his wife, poisoned his existence, and hurried him to an untimely grave." Eleanor shudderingly held back during this horrible narration, the hearing of which she would willingly have shunned, had it been possible. "Can this be true?" asked the major. "Too true, my son," replied Mrs. Mowbray, sorrowfully. "And where lies the unfortunate Alan?" asked Major Mowbray. "'Twixt two cross roads. Where else should the suicide lie?" Evading any further question, Peter hastily traversed the vault, elevating the light so as to reveal the contents of each cell. One circumstance filled him with surprise and dismay--he could nowhere perceive the coffin of his daughter. In vain he peered into every catacomb--they were apparently undisturbed; and, with much internal marvelling and misgiving, Peter gave up the search. "That vision is now explained," muttered he; "the body is removed, but by whom? Death! can I doubt? It must be Lady Rookwood--who else can have any interest in its removal. She has acted boldly. But she shall yet have reason to repent her temerity." As he continued his search, his companions silently followed. Suddenly he stopped, and, signifying that all was finished, they not unwillingly quitted this abode of horror, leaving him behind them.