Suddenly there issued from the darkness deep dirge-like tones, and a voice solemnly chanted a strain, which all knew to be the death-song of their race, hymned by wailing women over an expiring sister. The music seemed to float in the air.
THE SOUL-BELL
Fast the sand of life is falling,
Fast her latest sigh exhaling,
Fast, fast, is she dying.
With death's chills her limbs are shivering,
With death's gasp the lips are quivering,
Fast her soul away is flying.
O'er the mountain-top it fleeteth,
And the skyey wonders greeteth,
Singing loud as stars it meeteth
On its way.
Hark! the sullen Soul-bell tolling,
Hollowly in echoes rolling,
Seems to say—
"She will ope her eyes—oh, never!
Quenched their dark light—gone for ever!
She is dead."
The marriage group yet lingered near the altar, awaiting, it would seem, permission from the gipsy queen to quit the cell. Luke stirred not. Clasped in his own, the cold hand of his bride detained him; and when he would have moved, her tightened grasp prevented his departure.
Mrs. Mowbray's patience was exhausted by the delay. She was not altogether free from apprehension. "Why do we linger here?" she whispered to the priest. "Do you, father, lead the way."
"The crowd is dense," replied Checkley. "They resist my effort."