"Ha, ha! old earthworm," cried Dick, "my Nestor of the churchyard, alone! Where the devil are all the folks gone? Where's Sir Luke and his new-found cousin, eh?" Peter hastily explained. "A wedding under ground? famous! the thing of all others I should like to see. I'll hang Bess to this ivy tod, and grub my way with you thither, old mole." "You must stay here, and keep guard," returned Peter. "May I be hanged if I do, when such fun is going on." "Hanged, in all probability, you will be," returned Peter; "but I should not, were I you, desire to anticipate my destiny. Stay here you must, and shall--that's peremptory. You will be the gainer by it. Sir Luke will reward you nobly. I will answer for him. You can serve him most effectually. Ranulph Rookwood and Major Mowbray are expected here." "The devil they are. But how, or why----" "I have not time to explain. In case of a surprise, discharge a pistol; they must not enter the vault. Have you a whistle? for you must play a double part, and we may need your assistance below." "Sir Luke may command me. Here's a pipe as shrill as the devil's own cat-call." "If it will summon you to our assistance below, 'tis all I need. May we rely on you?" "When did Dick Turpin desert his friends? Anywhere on this side the Styx the sound of that whistle will reach me. I'll ride about the court, and stand sentry." "Enough," replied the sexton, as he dived under ground. "Take care of your shins," shouted Dick. "That's a cursed ugly turn, but he's used to the dark. A surprise, eh! I'll just give a look to my snappers--flints all safe. Now I'm ready for them, come when they like." And, having made the circuit of the place, he halted near the mouth of the subterranean chapel, to be within hearing of Peter's whistle, and, throwing his right leg lazily over his saddle, proceeded coolly to light a short pipe--the luxury of the cigar being then unknown,--humming the while snatches of a ballad, the theme of which was his own calling. THE SCAMPSMAN Quis verè rex? SENECA. There is not a king, should you search the world round, So blithe as the king of the road to be found; His pistol's his sceptre, his saddle's his throne, Whence he levies supplies, or enforces a loan. _Derry down._ To this monarch the highway presents a wide field, Where each passing subject a tribute must yield; His palace--the tavern!--receives him at night, Where sweet lips and sound liquor crown all with delight. _Derry down._ The soldier and sailor, both robbers by trade, Full soon on the shelf, if disabled, are laid; The one gets a patch, and the other a peg, But, while luck lasts, the highwayman shakes a loose leg! _Derry down._