"Mine ears are stunned," cried Mrs. Mowbray.
"The bride is mine; relinquish her to me," said Barbara. "Advance and seize her, my children."
Alan Rookwood—for so we shall henceforth denominate the sexton—suddenly grew calm: he raised the whistle to his lips, and blew a call so loud and shrill, that those who were advancing hung back irresolute.
There was a rush at the door of the vault. The sentinels were struck down; and with pistols in each hand, and followed by two assistants, Dick Turpin sprang into the thick of the crew.
"Here we are," cried he, "ready for action. Where is Sir Luke Rookwood? where my churchyard pal, Peter?"
"Here," cried the sexton and Luke simultaneously.
"Then stand aside," cried Dick, pushing in the direction of the sounds, and bearing down all opposition. "Have a care there—these triggers are ticklish. Friend or foe, he who touches me shall have a bullet in his gizzard. Here I am, pal Peter; and here are my two chums, Rust and Wilder. Cut the whid."
"Have we license to pass scathless now?" asked the sexton; "or shall we make good our way?"
"You shall not pass," cried Barbara, furiously. "Think you to rob me of my prey? What, cowards! do you hesitate? Ha!"
"Kindle the torches," cried several voices. "We fight not in the dark."