"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?"