"What!" exclaimed Ranulph, terror-stricken; "is she dead?"
"She is gone."
"Gone! How? Whither?" exclaimed all, their amazement increasing each instant at the terror of the old woman, and the apparently terrible occasion of it.
"Speak!" exclaimed Ranulph; "but why do I loiter? my mother, perchance, is dying—let me go."
The old woman maintained her clutching grasp, which was strong and convulsive as that of one struggling betwixt life and death. "It's of no use, I tell you; it's all over," said she—"the dead are come—the dead are come—and she is gone."
"Whither?—whither?"
"To the grave—to the tomb," said Agnes, in a deep and hollow tone, and with a look that froze Ranulph's soul. "Listen to me, Ranulph Rookwood, my child, my nursling—listen while I can speak. We were alone, your mother and I, after that scene between you; after the dark denunciations she had heaped upon the dead, when I heard a low and gasping kind of sob, and there I saw your mother staring wildly upon the vacancy, as if she saw that of which I dare not think."
"What think you she beheld?" asked Ranulph, quaking with apprehension.
"That which had been your father," returned Agnes, in a hollow tone. "Don't doubt me, sir—you'll find the truth of what I say anon. I am sure he was there. There was a thrilling, speechless horror in the very sight of her countenance that froze my old blood to ice—to the ice in which 'tis now—ough! ough! Well, at length she arose, with her eyes still fixed, and passed through the paneled door without a word. She is gone!"
"What madness is this?" cried Ranulph. "Let me go, woman—'tis that ruffian in disguise—she may be murdered."