"I come to tell you that there are strangers--ladies--within the priory," said the patrico, gravely. "I have searched for you in vain," continued he, addressing Sybil; "the younger of them seems to need your assistance." "Whence come they?" exclaimed Barbara. "They have ridden, I understand, from Rookwood," answered the patrico. "They were on their way to Davenham, when they were prevented." "From Rookwood?" echoed Sybil. "Their names--did you hear their names?" "Mowbray is the name of both; they are a mother and a daughter; the younger is called----" "Eleanor?" asked Sybil, with an acute foreboding of calamity. "Eleanor is the name, assuredly," replied the patrico, somewhat surprised. "I heard the elder, whom I guess to be her mother, so address her." "Gracious God! She here!" exclaimed Sybil. "Here! Eleanor Mowbray here," cried Barbara; "within my power. Not a moment is to be lost. Balthazar, hasten round the tents--not a man must leave his place--above all, Luke Bradley. See that these Mowbrays are detained within the abbey. Let the bell be sounded. Quick, quick; leave this wench to me; she is not well. I have much to do. Away with thee, man, and let me know when thou hast done it." And as Balthazar departed on his mission, with a glance of triumph in her eyes, Barbara exclaimed, "Soh, no sooner hath the thought possessed me, than the means of accomplishment appear. It shall be done at once. I will tie the knot. I will untie, and then retie it. This weak wench must be nerved to the task," added she, regarding the senseless form of Sybil. "Here is that will stimulate her," opening the cupboard, and taking a small phial; "this will fortify her; and this," continued she, with a ghastly smile, laying her hand upon another vessel, "this shall remove her rival when all is fulfilled; this liquid shall constrain her lover to be her titled, landed husband. Ha, ha!" _CHAPTER V_ _THE INAUGURATION_ _Beggar._ Concert, sir! we have musicians, too, among us. True, merry beggars, indeed, that, being within the reach of the lash for singing libellous songs at London, were fain to fly into one cover, and here they sing all our poets' ditties. They can sing anything, most tunably, sir, but psalms. What they may do hereafter, under a triple tree, is much expected; but they live very civilly and genteelly among us. _Spring._ But what is here--that solemn old fellow, that neither speaks of himself, or any for him? _Beggar._ O, sir, the rarest man of all: he is a prophet. See how he holds up his prognosticating nose. He is divining now. _Spring._ How, a prophet? _Beggar._ Yes, sir; a cunning man, and a fortune-teller; a very ancient stroller all the world over, and has travelled with gipsies: and is a patrico. _The Merry Beggars._