"What does it contain?" asked Lady Rookwood.
"A warrior's ashes," returned Alan.
"There is a rusty dagger upon a fold of faded linen," cried Lady Rookwood, holding down the light.
"It is the weapon with which the first dame of the house of Rookwood was stabbed," said Alan, with a grim smile:
"Which whoso findeth in the tomb
Shall clutch until the hour of doom;
And when 'tis grasped by hand of clay,
The curse of blood shall pass away.
So saith the rhyme. Have you seen enough?"
"No," said Lady Rookwood, precipitating herself into the marble coffin. "That weapon shall be mine."
"Come forth—come forth," cried Alan. "My arm trembles—I cannot support the lid."
"I will have it, though I grasp it to eternity," shrieked Lady Rookwood, vainly endeavoring to wrest away the dagger, which was fastened, together with the linen upon which it lay, by some adhesive substance to the bottom of the shell.
At this moment Alan Rookwood happened to cast his eye upward, and he then beheld what filled him with new terror. The axe of the sable statue was poised above its head, as in the act to strike him. Some secret machinery, it was evident, existed between the sarcophagus lid and this mysterious image. But in the first impulse of his alarm Alan abandoned his hold of the slab, and it sunk slowly downwards. He uttered a loud cry as it moved. Lady Rookwood heard this cry. She raised herself at the same moment—the dagger was in her hand—she pressed it against the lid, but its downward force was too great to be withstood. The light was within the sarcophagus, and Alan could discern her features. The expression was terrible. She uttered one shriek and the lid closed for ever.