"Ay, aught sooner than that. But I would not murder both."
"Both!" echoed Alan. "I understand you not."
"Sybil and Eleanor," replied Luke; "for, as surely as I live, Sybil's death will lie at my door."
"How so?" asked Alan; "the poison was self-ministered."
"True," replied Luke, with terrible emphasis, "but I spoke daggers. Hearken to me," said he, hollowly whispering in his grandsire's ears. "Methinks I am not long for this world. I have seen her since her death!"
"Tut, tut," replied Alan. "'Tis not for you—a man—to talk thus. A truce to these womanish fancies."
"Womanish or not," returned Luke; "either my fancy has deceived me, or I beheld her, distinctly as I now behold you, within yon cave, while you were sleeping by my side."
"It is disordered fancy," said Alan Rookwood. "You will live—live to inherit Rookwood—live to see them fall crushed beneath your feet. For myself, if I but see you master of Eleanor's hand, or know that she no longer lives to bless your rival, or to mar your prospects, I care not how soon I brave my threatened doom."
"Of one or other you shall be resolved to-night," said Luke, placing the dagger within his vest.
At this moment a trampling of a horse was heard before the hovel, and in another instant a loud knocking resounded from the door. The ferryman instantly extinguished the light, motioning his companions to remain silent.