On the other hand, headed by Major Mowbray and Ranulph, the troop of yeomen pressed on undauntedly; and where the sturdy farmers could get a firm gripe of their lithe antagonists, or deliver a blow with their ox-like fists, they seldom failed to make good the advantage which superior weight and strength gave them. It will thus be seen that as yet they were pretty well matched. Numbers were in favour of the gipsies, but courage was equally distributed, and, perhaps, what is emphatically called "bottom," was in favour of the rustics. Be this as it may, from what had already occurred, there was every prospect of a very serious termination to the fray.
From time to time Turpin glanced to the entrance of the cell, in the expectation of seeing Sir Luke Rookwood make his appearance; and, as he was constantly disappointed in his expectation, he could not conceal his chagrin. At length he resolved to despatch a messenger to him, and one of the crew accordingly departed upon this errand. He returned presently with a look of blank dismay.
In our hasty narrative of the fight we have not paused to particularise, neither have we enumerated, the list of the combatants. Amongst them, however, were Jerry Juniper, the knight of Malta, and Zoroaster. Excalibur, as may be conceived, had not been idle; but that trenchant blade had been shivered by Ranulph Rookwood in the early stage of the business, and the knight left weaponless. Zoroaster, who was not merely a worshipper of fire, but a thorough milling-cove, had engaged to some purpose in a pugilistic encounter with the rustics; and, having fought several rounds, now "bore his blushing honours thick upon him."
Jerry, like Turpin, had remained tolerably quiescent. "The proper moment," he said, "had not arrived." A fatality seemed to attend Turpin's immediate companions. Rust was the first who fell; Wilder also was now among the slain. Things were precisely in this condition when the messenger returned. A marked change was instantly perceptible in Turpin's manner. He no longer looked on with indifference. He seemed angry and distrustful. He gnawed his lip, ever a sign with him of vexation. Addressing a few words to those about him, he then spoke more loudly to the rest of the crew. Being in the jargon of the tawny tribe, his words were not intelligible to the opposite party; but their import was soon made known by the almost instant and total relinquishment of the field by the gipsies. They took to their heels at once, to a man, leaving only a few desperately wounded behind them; and, flying along the intricate ruins of the priory, baffled all pursuit, wherever it was attempted. Jerry Juniper was the last in the retreat; but, upon receiving a hint from Dick, he vaulted like a roe over the heads of his adversaries, and made good his escape. Turpin alone remained. He stood like a lion at bay, quietly regarding the huntsmen hurtling around him. Ranulph Rookwood rode up and bade him surrender.
"Detain me not," cried he, in a voice of thunder. "If you would save her who is dear to you, descend into that vault. Off, I say."
And Turpin shook away, with ease, the grasp that Ranulph had laid upon him.
"Villain, you do not escape me this time," said Major Mowbray, interposing himself between Turpin and the outlet.
"Major Mowbray, I would not have your blood upon my head," said Dick. "Let me pass." And he levelled a pistol.
"Fire, if you dare!" said the major, raising his sword. "You pass not. I will die rather than allow you to escape. Barricade the door. Strike him down if he attempts to pass. Richard Turpin, I arrest you in the King's name. You hear, my lads, in His Majesty's name. I command you to assist me in this highwayman's capture. Two hundred pounds for his head."
"Two hundred devils!" exclaimed Dick, with a laugh of disdain. "Go, seek your mother and sister within yon vault, Major Mowbray; you will find employment enough there."
Saying which, he suddenly forced Bess to back a few yards; then, striking his heels sharply into her sides, ere his purpose could be divined by the spectators, charged, and cleared the lower part of the mouldering priory walls. The feat was apparently accomplished with no great effort by his admirable and unequalled mare.
"By the powers!" cried Titus, "and he's given us the slip after all. And just when we thought to make sure of him, too. Why, Mr. Coates, that wall must be higher than a five-barred gate, or any stone wall in my own country. It's just the most extraordinary lepp I ever set eyes on!"
"The devil's in the fellow, certainly, or in his mare," returned Coates; "but if he escapes me, I'll forgive him. I know whither he's bound. He's off to London with my bill of exchange. I'll be up with him. I'll track him like a bloodhound, slowly and surely, as my father the thief-taker used to follow up a scent. Recollect the hare and the tortoise. The race is not always to the swift. What say you? 'Tis a match for five hundred pounds; nay, for five thousand: for there is a certain marriage certificate in the way—a glorious golden venture! You shall go halves, if we win. We'll have him, dead or alive. What say you for London, Mr. Tyrconnel? Shall we stair at once."
"With all my sowl," replied Titus. "I'm with you." And away this par nobile scoured.
Ranulph, meantime, plunged into the vault. The floor was slippery, and he had nigh stumbled. Loud and deep lamentations, and a wailing sound, like that of a lament for the dead, resounded in his ears. A light at the further extremity of the vault attracted his attention. He was filled with terrible forebodings; but the worst reality was not so terrible as suspense. He rushed towards the light. He passed the massive pillars, and there, by the ruddy torch flame, discovered two female figures. One was an old woman, fantastically attired, wringing her hands, and moaning, or gibbering wild strains in broken, discordant, yet pathetic tones. The other was Mrs. Mowbray. Both were images of despair. Before them lay some motionless object. He noticed not that old woman; he scarcely saw Mrs. Mowbray; he beheld only that object of horror. It was the lifeless body of a female. The light fell imperfectly upon the face; he could not discern the features, but the veil in which it was swathed: that veil was Eleanor's! He asked no more.
With a wild cry he rushed forward. "Eleanor, my beloved," shrieked he.
Mrs. Mowbray started at his voice, but appeared stunned and helpless.
"She is dead," said Ranulph, stooping towards the body. "Dead—dead!"
"Ay," echoed the old woman, in accents of equal anguish—"dead—dead!"
"But this is not Eleanor," exclaimed he, as he viewed the features more closely. "This face, though beautiful, is not hers. This dishevelled hair is black. The long lashes that shade her cheek are of the same hue. She is scarce dead. The hand I clasp is yet warm—the fingers are pliant."
"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.