"Who has dared to bring that body here?" demanded Barbara, in a tone in which anger struggled with apprehension, pointing at the same time to the ghastly corpse of a female, with streaming hair, at the altar's feet. "Who has dared to do this, I say? Quick! remove it. What do you stare at? Cravens! is this the first time you have looked upon a corpse, that you should shrink aghast—that you tremble before it? It is a clod—ay, less than a clod. Away with it! away, I say."
"Touch it not," cried Luke, lifting a cloud of black hair from off the features; "it is my mother's body."
"My daughter!" exclaimed the sexton.
"What!" vociferated Barbara, "is that your daughter—is that the first Lady Rookwood? Are the dead arisen to do honor to these nuptials? Speak! you can, perchance, explain how she came hither."
"I know not," returned Peter, glancing fiercely at Barbara; "I may, anon, demand that question of you. How came this body here?"
"Ask of Richard Checkley," said Barbara, turning to the priest. "He can, perchance, inform you. Priest," added she, in a low voice, "this is your handiwork."
"Checkley!" screamed Peter. "Is that Richard Checkley? is that——"
"Peace!" thundered Barbara; "will none remove the body? Once more I ask you, do you fear the dead?"
A murmur arose. Balthazar alone ventured to approach the corpse.
Luke started to his feet as he advanced, his eyes glaring with tiger fury.