Peter stopped, for at this moment the flame of the candle suddenly expired, and the speakers were left in total darkness. Something like a groan followed the conclusion of the sexton's discourse. It was evident that it proceeded not from his grandson, as an exclamation burst from him at the same instant. Luke stretched out his arm. A cold hand seemed to press against his own, communicating a chill like death to his frame. "Who is between us?" he ejaculated. "The devil!" cried the sexton, leaping from the coffin-lid with an agility that did him honor. "Is aught between us?" "I will discharge my gun. Its flash will light us." "Do so," hastily rejoined Peter. "But not in this direction." "Get behind me," cried Luke. And he pulled the trigger. A blaze of vivid light illumined the darkness. Still nothing was visible, save the warrior figure, which was seen for a moment, and then vanished like a ghost. The buck-shot rattled against the further end of the vault. "Let us go hence," ejaculated the sexton, who had rushed to the door, and thrown it wide open. "Mole! Mole!" cried he, and the dog sprang after him. "I could have sworn I felt something," said Luke; "whence issued that groan?" "Ask not whence," replied Peter. "Reach me my mattock, and spade, and the lantern; they are behind you. And stay, it were better to bring away the bottle." "Take them, and leave me here." "Alone in the vault?--no, no, Luke, I have not told you half I know concerning that mystic statue. It is said to move--to walk--to raise its axe--be warned, I pray." "Leave me, or abide, if you will, my coming, in the church. If there is aught that may be revealed to my ear alone, I will not shrink from it, though the dead themselves should arise to proclaim the mystery. It may be--but--go--there are your tools." And he shut the door, with a jar that shook the sexton's frame. Peter, after some muttered murmurings at the hardihood and madness, as he termed it, of his grandson, disposed his lanky limbs to repose upon a cushioned bench without the communion railing. As the pale moonlight fell upon his gaunt and cadaverous visage, he looked like some unholy thing suddenly annihilated by the presiding influence of that sacred spot. Mole crouched himself in a ring at his master's feet. Peter had not dozed many minutes, when he was aroused by Luke's return. The latter was very pale, and the damp stood in big drops upon his brow. "Have you made fast the door?" inquired the sexton. "Here is the key." "What have you seen?" he next demanded. Luke made no answer. At that moment, the church clock struck two, breaking the stillness with an iron clang. Luke raised his eyes. A ray of moonlight, streaming obliquely through the painted window, fell upon the gilt lettering of a black mural entablature. The lower part of the inscription was in the shade, but the emblazonment, and the words-- Orate pro anima Reginaldi Rookwood equitis aurati,