"Because," replied Sybil, with reluctance--"because I am no longer your equal. The gipsy's low-born daughter is no mate for Sir Luke Rookwood. Love cannot blind me, dear Luke. It cannot make me other than I am; it cannot exalt me in my own esteem, nor in that of the world, with which you, alas! too soon will mingle, and which will regard even me as--no matter what!--it shall not scorn me as your bride. I will not bring shame and reproach upon you. Oh! if for me, dear Luke, the proud ones of the earth were to treat you with contumely, this heart would break with agony. For myself, I have pride sufficient--perchance too much. Perchance 'tis pride that actuates me now. I know not. But for you I am all weakness. As you were heretofore, I would have been to you the tenderest and truest wife that ever breathed; as you are now----" "Hear me, Sybil." "Hear _me_ out, dear Luke. One other motive there is that determines my present conduct, which, were all else surmounted, would in itself suffice. Ask me not what that is. I cannot explain it. For your own sake; I implore you, be satisfied with my refusal." "What a destiny is mine!" exclaimed Luke, striking his forehead with his clenched hand. "No choice is left me. Either way I destroy my own happiness. On the one hand stands love--on the other, ambition; yet neither will conjoin." "Pursue, then, ambition," said Sybil, energetically, "if you _can_ hesitate. Forget that I have ever existed; forget you have ever loved; forget that such a passion dwells within the human heart, and you may still be happy, though you are great." "And do you deem," replied Luke, with frantic impatience, "that I _can_ accomplish this; that I _can_ forget that I have loved you; that I _can_ forget you? Cost what it will, the effort shall be made. Yet by our former love, I charge you tell me what has wrought this change in you! Why do you _now_ refuse me?" "I have said you are Sir Luke Rookwood," returned Sybil, with painful emotion. "Does that name import nothing?" "Imports it aught of ill?" "To me, everything of ill. It is a fated house. Its line are all predestined." "To what?" demanded Luke. "To _murder_!" replied Sybil, with solemn emphasis. "To the murder of their wives. Forgive me, Luke, if I have dared to utter this. Yourself compelled me to it." Amazement, horror, wrath, kept Luke silent for a few moments. Starting to his feet, he cried: "And can you suspect me of a crime so foul? Think you, because I shall assume the name, that I shall put on the nature likewise of my race? Do you believe me capable of aught so horrible?" "Oh, no, I believe it not. I am sure you would not do it. Your soul would reject with horror such a deed. But if Fate should guide your hand, if the avenging spirit of your murdered ancestress should point to the steel, you could not shun it then." "In Heaven's name! to what do you allude?"