"And, surely," cried Luke, impetuously, "_you_ need not boast of the connection! 'Tis not for you, old man, to couple their names together--to exult in your daughter's disgrace and your own dishonor. Shame! shame! Speak not of them in the same breath, if you would not have me invoke curses on the dead! _I_ have no reverence--whatever _you_ may have--for the seducer--for the murderer of my mother." "You have choice store of epithets, in sooth, good grandson," rejoined Peter, with a chuckling laugh. "Sir Piers a murderer!" "Tush!" exclaimed Luke, indignantly, "affect not ignorance. You have better knowledge than I have of the truth or falsehood of the dark tale that has gone abroad respecting my mother's fate; and unless report has belied you foully, had substantial reasons for keeping sealed lips on the occasion. But to change this painful subject," added he, with a sudden alteration of manner, "at what hour did Sir Piers Rookwood die?" "On Thursday last, in the night-time. The exact hour I know not," replied the sexton. "Of what ailment?" "Neither do I know that. His end was sudden, yet not without a warning sign." "What warning?" inquired Luke. "Neither more nor less than the death-omen of the house. You look astonished. Is it possible you have never heard of the ominous Lime-Tree, and the Fatal Bough? Why, 'tis a common tale hereabouts, and has been for centuries. Any old crone would tell it you. Peradventure, you _have_ seen the old avenue of lime-trees leading to the hall, nearly a quarter of a mile in length, and as noble a row of timber as any in the West Riding of Yorkshire. Well, there is one tree--the last on the left hand before you come to the clock-house--larger than all the rest--a huge piece of timber, with broad spreading branches, and of I know not what girth in the trunk. That tree is, in some mysterious manner, connected with the family of Rookwood, and immediately previous to the death of one of that line, a branch is sure to be shed from the parent stem, prognosticating his doom. But you shall hear the legend." And in a strange sepulchral tone, not inappropriate, however, to his subject, Peter chanted the following ballad: THE LEGEND OF THE LIME-TREE Amid the grove o'er-arched above with lime-trees old and tall --The avenue that leads unto the Rookwood's ancient hall--, High o'er the rest its towering crest one tree rears to the sky, And wide out-flings, like mighty wings, its arms umbrageously. Seven yards its base would scarce embrace--a goodly tree I ween, With silver bark, and foliage dark, of melancholy green; And mid its boughs two ravens house, and build from year to year, Their black brood hatch--their black brood watch--then screaming disappear.