"Yet she is dead," said the old woman, in a broken voice, "she is slain." "Who hath slain her?" asked Ranulph. "I--I--her mother, slew her." "You!" exclaimed Ranulph, horror-stricken. "And where is Eleanor?" asked he. "Was she not here?" "Better she were here now, even though she were as that poor maid," groaned Mrs. Mowbray, "than where she is." "Where is she, then?" asked Ranulph, with frantic eagerness. "Fled. Whither I know not." "With whom?" "With Sir Luke Rookwood--with Alan Rookwood. They have borne her hence. Ranulph, you are too late." "Gone!" cried Ranulph, fiercely springing to his feet. "How escaped they? There appears to be but one entrance to this vault. I will search each nook and cranny." "'Tis vain," replied Mrs. Mowbray. "There is another outlet through yon cell. By that passage they escaped." "Too true, too true," shouted Ranulph, who flew to examine the cell. "And wherefore followed you not?" "The stone rolled to its mouth, and resisted my efforts. I could not follow." "Torture and death! She is lost to me for ever!" cried Ranulph, bitterly. "No!" exclaimed Barbara, clutching his arm. "Place your trust in me, and I will find her for you." "You!" ejaculated Ranulph. "Even I," replied Barbara. "Your wrongs shall be righted--my Sybil be avenged." _BOOK IV_ _THE RIDE TO YORK_ Then one halloo, boys! one loud cheering halloo! To the swiftest of coursers, the gallant, the true, For the sportsman unborn shall the memory bless Of the horse of the highwayman, bonny Black Bess. RICHARD TURPIN. _CHAPTER I_ _THE RENDEZVOUS AT KILBURN_ _Hind._ Drink deep, my brave boys, of the bastinado; Of stramazons, tinctures, and slié passatas; Of the carricado, and rare embrocado; Of blades, and rapier-hilts of surest guard; Of the Vincentio and Burgundian ward. Have we not bravely tossed this bombast foil-button? Win gold and wear gold, boys, 'tis we that merit it. _Prince of Prigs' Revels._ _An excellent Comedy, replete with various conceits and Tarltonian mirth._