"It bodes ill to Ranulph," whispered Luke, "does it not?"
"Perchance," muttered Alan. "'Tis a vast bough!"
"We meet within an hour," said Luke, abruptly.
"Within the tomb of our ancestry," replied Alan; "I will await you there."
And as he rode away, Alan murmured to himself the following verse from one of his own ballads:
But whether gale or calm prevail, or threatening cloud hath fled,
By hand of Fate, predestinate, a limb that tree will shed—
A verdant bough, untouched, I trow, by axe or tempest's breath—
To Rookwood's head an omen dread of fast approaching death.