To return to Eleanor Mowbray. In a state of mind bordering upon distraction, she rushed to her mother, and, flinging her arms wildly round her neck, besought her to protect her. Mrs. Mowbray gazed anxiously upon the altered countenance of her daughter, but a few moments relieved her from much of her uneasiness.--The expression of pain gradually subsided, and the look of vacuity was succeeded by one of frenzied excitement. A film had, for an instant or two, dimmed her eyes; they now gleamed with unnatural lustre. She smiled--the smile was singular; it was not the playful, pleasurable lighting up of the face that it used to be; but it _was_ a smile, and the mother's heart was satisfied. Mrs. Mowbray knew not to what circumstance she could attribute this wondrous change. She looked at the priest. He was more apt in divining the probable cause of the sudden alteration in Eleanor's manner. "What if she has swallowed a love-powder?" said he, approaching Mrs. Mowbray, and speaking in a whisper. "I have heard of such abominable mixtures; indeed, the holy St. Jerome himself relates an instance of similar sorcery, in his life of Hilarius; and these people are said to compound them." "It may be so," replied Mrs. Mowbray, in the same tone. "I think that the peculiar softness in the eye is more than natural." "I will at least hazard an experiment, to attest the truth or fallacy of my supposition," returned the father. "Do you see your destined bridegroom yonder?" continued he, addressing Eleanor. She followed with her eyes in the direction which Father Ambrose pointed. She beheld Luke. We know not how to describe the sensations which now possessed her. She thought not of Ranulph; or, if she did, it was with vague indifference. Wrapped in a kind of mental trance, she yielded to the pleasurable impulse that directed her unsettled fancies towards Luke. For some moments she did not take her eyes from him. The priest and Mrs. Mowbray watched her in silence. Nothing passed between the party till Luke joined them. Eleanor continued gazing at him, and the seeming tenderness of her glance emboldened Luke to advance towards her. The soft fire that dwelt in those orbs was, however, cold as the shining wing of the luciola. Luke approached her; he took her hand--she withdrew it not. He kissed it. Still she withdrew it not, but gazed at him with gently-glimmering eyes. "My daughter is yours, Sir Luke Rookwood," exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray. "What says the maid herself?" asked Luke. Eleanor answered not. Her eyes were still fixed on him. "She will not refuse me her hand," said Luke. The victim resisted not. "To the subterranean shrine," cried Barbara. And she gave the preconcerted signal to the band.