"And did Sir Piers, my brother, know of this? did he see this will," asked Mrs. Mowbray, with trembling impatience.
"He did; and withheld the knowledge of it from you and yours."
"Ah! why knew I not this before? Why did you not tell me ere that was done which cannot be undone? I have sacrificed my child."
"Because it did not chime with my purposes to tell you," replied Peter, coldly.
"It is false—it is false," cried Mrs. Mowbray, her anger and vexation getting the better of her fears. "I will not believe it. Who are you, that pretend to know the secrets of our house?"
"One of that house," replied the sexton.
"Your name?"
"Would you know my name?" answered Peter, sternly. "The time is come when I will no longer conceal it. I am Alan Rookwood."
"My father's brother!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray.
"Ay, Alan Rookwood. The sworn enemy of your father—of you—of all of ye: your fate—your destiny—your curse. I am that Alan Rookwood whose name you breathed in the vault. I am he, the avenger—the avenged. I saw your father die. I heard his groans—his groans!—ha, ha! I saw his sons die: one fell in battle—I was with him there. The other expired in his bed. I was with Sir Piers when he breathed his last, and listened to his death agonies. 'Twas I who counselled him to keep the lands from you and from your child, and he withheld them. One only amongst the race, whose name I have cast off, have I loved; and him—because," added he, with something like emotion—"because he was my daughter's child—Luke Rookwood. And even he shall minister to my vengeance. He will be your curse—your daughter's curse—for he loves her not. Yet he is her husband, and hath her land;—ha, ha!" And he laughed till he became convulsed with the paroxysm of fiendish exultation.