Title: The Lancashire Witches
       A Romance of Pendle Forest
Author: William Harrison Ainsworth



[Illustration: NICHOLAS ASSHETON AND THE THREE DOLL WANGOS LEAVING
HOGHTON HALL.]




    _Sir Jeffery_.--Is there a justice in Lancashire has so much
    skill in witches as I have? Nay, I'll speak a proud word; you
    shall turn me loose against any Witch-finder in Europe. I'd
    make an ass of Hopkins if he were alive.--SHADWELL.


Third Edition.


Illustrated by John Gilbert.


London:
George Routledge & Co., Farringdon Street.
1854.


To
James Crossley, Esq.,
(of Manchester,)

President of the Chetham Society,
And the Learned Editor Of
"The Discoverie of Witches in the County of Lancaster,"--

The groundwork of the following pages,--
This Romance,
undertaken at his suggestion,
is inscribed
by his old, and sincerely attached friend,
The Author.




CONTENTS.



INTRODUCTION.

The Last Abbot of Whalley.

   I.    THE BEACON ON PENDLE HILL
  II.    THE ERUPTION
 III.    WHALLEY ABBEY
  IV.    THE MALEDICTION
   V.    THE MIDNIGHT MASS
  VI.    TETER ET FORTIS CARCER
 VII.    THE ABBEY MILL
VIII.    THE EXECUTIONER
  IX.    WISWALL HALL
   X.    THE HOLEHOUSES



BOOK THE FIRST.

Alizon Device.

   I.    THE MAY QUEEN
  II.    THE BLACK CAT AND THE WHITE DOVE
 III.    THE ASSHETONS
  IV.    ALICE NUTTER
   V.    MOTHER CHATTOX
  VI.    THE ORDEAL BY SWIMMING
 VII.    THE RUINED CONVENTUAL CHURCH
VIII.    THE REVELATION
  IX.    THE TWO PORTRAITS IN THE BANQUETING-HALL
   X.    THE NOCTURNAL MEETING



BOOK THE SECOND.

Pendle Forest.

   I.    FLINT
  II.    READ HALL
 III.    THE BOGGART'S GLEN
  IV.    THE REEVE OF THE FOREST
   V.    BESS'S O' TH' BOOTH
  VI.    THE TEMPTATION
 VII.    THE PERAMBULATION OF THE BOUNDARIES
VIII.    ROUGH LEE
  IX.    HOW ROUGH LEE WAS DEFENDED BY NICHOLAS
   X.    ROGER NOWELL AND HIS DOUBLE
  XI.    MOTHER DEMDIKE
 XII.    THE MYSTERIES OF MALKIN TOWER
XIII.    THE TWO FAMILIARS
 XIV.    HOW ROUGH LEE WAS AGAIN BESIEGED
  XV.    THE PHANTOM MONK
 XVI.    ONE O'CLOCK!
XVII.    HOW THE BEACON FIRE WAS EXTINGUISHED


BOOK THE THIRD.

Hoghton Tower.

   I.    DOWNHAM MANOR-HOUSE
  II.    THE PENITENT'S RETREAT
 III.    MIDDLETON HALL
  IV.    THE GORGE OF CLIVIGER
   V.    THE END OF MALKIN TOWER
  VI.    HOGHTON TOWER
 VII.    THE ROYAL DECLARATION CONCERNING LAWFUL SPORTS ON THE SUNDAY
VIII.    HOW KING JAMES HUNTED THE HART AND THE WILD-BOAR IN HOGHTON
            PARK
  IX.    THE BANQUET
   X.    EVENING ENTERTAINMENTS
  XI.    FATALITY
 XII.    THE LAST HOUR
XIII.    THE MASQUE OF DEATH
 XIV.    "ONE GRAVE"
  XV.    LANCASTER CASTLE




INTRODUCTION.

The Last Abbot of Whalley.




CHAPTER I.--THE BEACON ON PENDLE HILL.


There were eight watchers by the beacon on Pendle Hill in Lancashire.
Two were stationed on either side of the north-eastern extremity of the
mountain. One looked over the castled heights of Clithero; the woody
eminences of Bowland; the bleak ridges of Thornley; the broad moors of
Bleasdale; the Trough of Bolland, and Wolf Crag; and even brought within
his ken the black fells overhanging Lancaster. The other tracked the
stream called Pendle Water, almost from its source amid the neighbouring
hills, and followed its windings through the leafless forest, until it
united its waters to those of the Calder, and swept on in swifter and
clearer current, to wash the base of Whalley Abbey. But the watcher's
survey did not stop here. Noting the sharp spire of Burnley Church,
relieved against the rounded masses of timber constituting Townley Park;
as well as the entrance of the gloomy mountain gorge, known as the
Grange of Cliviger; his far-reaching gaze passed over Todmorden, and
settled upon the distant summits of Blackstone Edge.

Dreary was the prospect on all sides. Black moor, bleak fell, straggling
forest, intersected with sullen streams as black as ink, with here and
there a small tarn, or moss-pool, with waters of the same hue--these
constituted the chief features of the scene. The whole district was
barren and thinly-populated. Of towns, only Clithero, Colne, and
Burnley--the latter little more than a village--were in view. In the
valleys there were a few hamlets and scattered cottages, and on the
uplands an occasional "booth," as the hut of the herdsman was termed;
but of more important mansions there were only six, as Merley,
Twistleton, Alcancoats, Saxfeld, Ightenhill, and Gawthorpe. The
"vaccaries" for the cattle, of which the herdsmen had the care, and the
"lawnds," or parks within the forest, appertaining to some of the halls
before mentioned, offered the only evidences of cultivation. All else
was heathy waste, morass, and wood.

Still, in the eye of the sportsman--and the Lancashire gentlemen of the
sixteenth century were keen lovers of sport--the country had a strong
interest. Pendle forest abounded with game. Grouse, plover, and bittern
were found upon its moors; woodcock and snipe on its marshes; mallard,
teal, and widgeon upon its pools. In its chases ranged herds of deer,
protected by the terrible forest-laws, then in full force: and the
hardier huntsman might follow the wolf to his lair in the mountains;
might spear the boar in the oaken glades, or the otter on the river's
brink; might unearth the badger or the fox, or smite the fierce
cat-a-mountain with a quarrel from his bow. A nobler victim sometimes,
also, awaited him in the shape of a wild mountain bull, a denizen of the
forest, and a remnant of the herds that had once browsed upon the hills,
but which had almost all been captured, and removed to stock the park of
the Abbot of Whalley. The streams and pools were full of fish: the
stately heron frequented the meres; and on the craggy heights built the
kite, the falcon, and the kingly eagle.

There were eight watchers by the beacon. Two stood apart from the
others, looking to the right and the left of the hill. Both were armed
with swords and arquebuses, and wore steel caps and coats of buff. Their
sleeves were embroidered with the five wounds of Christ, encircling the
name of Jesus--the badge of the Pilgrimage of Grace. Between them, on
the verge of the mountain, was planted a great banner, displaying a
silver cross, the chalice, and the Host, together with an ecclesiastical
figure, but wearing a helmet instead of a mitre, and holding a sword in
place of a crosier, with the unoccupied hand pointing to the two towers
of a monastic structure, as if to intimate that he was armed for its
defence. This figure, as the device beneath it showed, represented John
Paslew, Abbot of Whalley, or, as he styled himself in his military
capacity, Earl of Poverty.

There were eight watchers by the beacon. Two have been described. Of the
other six, two were stout herdsmen carrying crooks, and holding a couple
of mules, and a richly-caparisoned war-horse by the bridle. Near them
stood a broad-shouldered, athletic young man, with the fresh complexion,
curling brown hair, light eyes, and open Saxon countenance, best seen in
his native county of Lancaster. He wore a Lincoln-green tunic, with a
bugle suspended from the shoulder by a silken cord; and a silver plate
engraved with the three luces, the ensign of the Abbot of Whalley, hung
by a chain from his neck. A hunting knife was in his girdle, and an
eagle's plume in his cap, and he leaned upon the but-end of a crossbow,
regarding three persons who stood together by a peat fire, on the
sheltered side of the beacon. Two of these were elderly men, in the
white gowns and scapularies of Cistertian monks, doubtless from Whalley,
as the abbey belonged to that order. The third and last, and evidently
their superior, was a tall man in a riding dress, wrapped in a long
mantle of black velvet, trimmed with minever, and displaying the same
badges as those upon the sleeves of the sentinels, only wrought in
richer material. His features were strongly marked and stern, and bore
traces of age; but his eye was bright, and his carriage erect and
dignified.

The beacon, near which the watchers stood, consisted of a vast pile of
logs of timber, heaped upon a circular range of stones, with openings to
admit air, and having the centre filled with fagots, and other quickly
combustible materials. Torches were placed near at hand, so that the
pile could be lighted on the instant.

The watch was held one afternoon at the latter end of November, 1536. In
that year had arisen a formidable rebellion in the northern counties of
England, the members of which, while engaging to respect the person of
the king, Henry VIII., and his issue, bound themselves by solemn oath to
accomplish the restoration of Papal supremacy throughout the realm, and
the restitution of religious establishments and lands to their late
ejected possessors. They bound themselves, also, to punish the enemies
of the Romish church, and suppress heresy. From its religious character
the insurrection assumed the name of the Pilgrimage of Grace, and
numbered among its adherents all who had not embraced the new doctrines
in Yorkshire and Lancashire. That such an outbreak should occur on the
suppression of the monasteries, was not marvellous. The desecration and
spoliation of so many sacred structures--the destruction of shrines and
images long regarded with veneration--the ejection of so many
ecclesiastics, renowned for hospitality and revered for piety and
learning--the violence and rapacity of the commissioners appointed by
the Vicar-General Cromwell to carry out these severe measures--all these
outrages were regarded by the people with abhorrence, and disposed them
to aid the sufferers in resistance. As yet the wealthier monasteries in
the north had been spared, and it was to preserve them from the greedy
hands of the visiters, Doctors Lee and Layton, that the insurrection had
been undertaken. A simultaneous rising took place in Lincolnshire,
headed by Makarel, Abbot of Barlings, but it was speedily quelled by the
vigour and skill of the Duke of Suffolk, and its leader executed. But
the northern outbreak was better organized, and of greater force, for it
now numbered thirty thousand men, under the command of a skilful and
resolute leader named Robert Aske.

As may be supposed, the priesthood were main movers in a revolt having
their especial benefit for its aim; and many of them, following the
example of the Abbot of Barlings, clothed themselves in steel instead of
woollen garments, and girded on the sword and the breastplate for the
redress of their grievances and the maintenance of their rights. Amongst
these were the Abbots of Jervaux, Furness, Fountains, Rivaulx, and
Salley, and, lastly, the Abbot of Whalley, before mentioned; a fiery and
energetic prelate, who had ever been constant and determined in his
opposition to the aggressive measures of the king. Such was the
Pilgrimage of Grace, such its design, and such its supporters.

Several large towns had already fallen into the hands of the insurgents.
York, Hull, and Pontefract had yielded; Skipton Castle was besieged, and
defended by the Earl of Cumberland; and battle was offered to the Duke
of Norfolk and the Earl of Shrewsbury, who headed the king's forces at
Doncaster. But the object of the Royalist leaders was to temporise, and
an armistice was offered to the rebels and accepted. Terms were next
proposed and debated.

During the continuance of this armistice all hostilities ceased; but
beacons were reared upon the mountains, and their fires were to be taken
as a new summons to arms. This signal the eight watchers expected.

Though late in November, the day had been unusually fine, and, in
consequence, the whole hilly ranges around were clearly discernible, but
now the shades of evening were fast drawing on.

"Night is approaching," cried the tall man in the velvet mantle,
impatiently; "and still the signal comes not. Wherefore this delay? Can
Norfolk have accepted our conditions? Impossible. The last messenger
from our camp at Scawsby Lees brought word that the duke's sole terms
would be the king's pardon to the whole insurgent army, provided they at
once dispersed--except ten persons, six named and four unnamed."

"And were you amongst those named, lord abbot?" demanded one of the
monks.

"John Paslew, Abbot of Whalley, it was said, headed the list," replied
the other, with a bitter smile. "Next came William Trafford, Abbot of
Salley. Next Adam Sudbury, Abbot of Jervaux. Then our leader, Robert
Aske. Then John Eastgate, Monk of Whalley--"

"How, lord abbot!" exclaimed the monk. "Was my name mentioned?"

"It was," rejoined the abbot. "And that of William Haydocke, also Monk
of Whalley, closed the list."

"The unrelenting tyrant!" muttered the other monk. "But these terms
could not be accepted?"

"Assuredly not," replied Paslew; "they were rejected with scorn. But the
negotiations were continued by Sir Ralph Ellerker and Sir Robert Bowas,
who were to claim on our part a free pardon for all; the establishment
of a Parliament and courts of justice at York; the restoration of the
Princess Mary to the succession; the Pope to his jurisdiction; and our
brethren to their houses. But such conditions will never be granted.
With my consent no armistice should have been agreed to. We are sure to
lose by the delay. But I was overruled by the Archbishop of York and the
Lord Darcy. Their voices prevailed against the Abbot of Whalley--or, if
it please you, the Earl of Poverty."

"It is the assumption of that derisive title which has drawn upon you
the full force of the king's resentment, lord abbot," observed Father
Eastgate.

"It may be," replied the abbot. "I took it in mockery of Cromwell and
the ecclesiastical commissioners, and I rejoice that they have felt the
sting. The Abbot of Barlings called himself Captain Cobbler, because, as
he affirmed, the state wanted mending like old shoon. And is not my
title equally well chosen? Is not the Church smitten with poverty? Have
not ten thousand of our brethren been driven from their homes to beg or
to starve? Have not the houseless poor, whom we fed at our gates, and
lodged within our wards, gone away hungry and without rest? Have not the
sick, whom we would have relieved, died untended by the hedge-side? I am
the head of the poor in Lancashire, the redresser of their grievances,
and therefore I style myself Earl of Poverty. Have I not done well?"

"You have, lord abbot," replied Father Eastgate.

"Poverty will not alone be the fate of the Church, but of the whole
realm, if the rapacious designs of the monarch and his heretical
counsellors are carried forth," pursued the abbot. "Cromwell, Audeley,
and Rich, have wisely ordained that no infant shall be baptised without
tribute to the king; that no man who owns not above twenty pounds a year
shall consume wheaten bread, or eat the flesh of fowl or swine without
tribute; and that all ploughed land shall pay tribute likewise. Thus the
Church is to be beggared, the poor plundered, and all men burthened, to
fatten the king, and fill his exchequer."

"This must be a jest," observed Father Haydocke.

"It is a jest no man laughs at," rejoined the abbot, sternly; "any more
than the king's counsellors will laugh at the Earl of Poverty, whose
title they themselves have created. But wherefore comes not the signal?
Can aught have gone wrong? I will not think it. The whole country, from
the Tweed to the Humber, and from the Lune to the Mersey, is ours; and,
if we but hold together, our cause must prevail."

"Yet we have many and powerful enemies," observed Father Eastgate; "and
the king, it is said, hath sworn never to make terms with us. Tidings
were brought to the abbey this morning, that the Earl of Derby is
assembling forces at Preston, to march upon us."

"We will give him a warm reception if he comes," replied Paslew,
fiercely. "He will find that our walls have not been kernelled and
embattled by licence of good King Edward the Third for nothing; and that
our brethren can fight as well as their predecessors fought in the time
of Abbot Holden, when they took tithe by force from Sir Christopher
Parsons of Slaydburn. The abbey is strong, and right well defended, and
we need not fear a surprise. But it grows dark fast, and yet no signal
comes."

"Perchance the waters of the Don have again risen, so as to prevent the
army from fording the stream," observed Father Haydocke; "or it may be
that some disaster hath befallen our leader."

"Nay, I will not believe the latter," said the abbot; "Robert Aske is
chosen by Heaven to be our deliverer. It has been prophesied that a
'worm with one eye' shall work the redemption of the fallen faith, and
you know that Robert Aske hath been deprived of his left orb by an
arrow."

"Therefore it is," observed Father Eastgate, "that the Pilgrims of Grace
chant the following ditty:--

          "'Forth shall come an Aske with one eye,
          He shall be chief of the company--
          Chief of the northern chivalry.'"

"What more?" demanded the abbot, seeing that the monk appeared to
hesitate.

"Nay, I know not whether the rest of the rhymes may please you, lord
abbot," replied Father Eastgate.

"Let me hear them, and I will judge," said Paslew. Thus urged, the monk
went on:--

          "'One shall sit at a solemn feast,
          Half warrior, half priest,
          The greatest there shall be the least.'"

"The last verse," observed the monk, "has been added to the ditty by
Nicholas Demdike. I heard him sing it the other day at the abbey gate."

"What, Nicholas Demdike of Worston?" cried the abbot; "he whose wife is
a witch?"

"The same," replied Eastgate.

"Hoo be so ceawnted, sure eno," remarked the forester, who had been
listening attentively to their discourse, and who now stepped forward;
"boh dunna yo think it. Beleemy, lort abbut, Bess Demdike's too yunk an
too protty for a witch."

"Thou art bewitched by her thyself, Cuthbert," said the abbot, angrily.
"I shall impose a penance upon thee, to free thee from the evil
influence. Thou must recite twenty paternosters daily, fasting, for one
month; and afterwards perform a pilgrimage to the shrine of our Lady of
Gilsland. Bess Demdike is an approved and notorious witch, and hath been
seen by credible witnesses attending a devil's sabbath on this very
hill--Heaven shield us! It is therefore that I have placed her and her
husband under the ban of the Church; pronounced sentence of
excommunication against them; and commanded all my clergy to refuse
baptism to their infant daughter, newly born."

"Wea's me! ey knoas 't reet weel, lort abbut," replied Ashbead, "and
Bess taks t' sentence sore ta 'ert!"

"Then let her amend her ways, or heavier punishment will befall her,"
cried Paslew, severely. "'_Sortilegam non patieris vivere_' saith the
Levitical law. If she be convicted she shall die the death. That she is
comely I admit; but it is the comeliness of a child of sin. Dost thou
know the man with whom she is wedded--or supposed to be wedded--for I
have seen no proof of the marriage? He is a stranger here."

"Ey knoas neawt abowt him, lort abbut, 'cept that he cum to Pendle a
twalmont agoa," replied Ashbead; "boh ey knoas fu' weel that
t'eawtcumbling felly robt me ot prettiest lass i' aw Lonkyshiar--aigh,
or i' aw Englondshiar, fo' t' matter o' that."

"What manner of man is he?" inquired the abbot.

"Oh, he's a feaw teyke--a varra feaw teyke," replied Ashbead; "wi' a
feace as black as a boggart, sooty shiny hewr loike a mowdywarp, an' een
loike a stanniel. Boh for running, rostling, an' throwing t' stoan, he'n
no match i' this keawntry. Ey'n triet him at aw three gams, so ey con
speak. For't most part he'n a big, black bandyhewit wi' him, and, by th'
Mess, ey canna help thinkin he meys free sumtoimes wi' yor lortship's
bucks."

"Ha! this must be looked to," cried the abbot. "You say you know not
whence he comes? 'Tis strange."

"T' missmannert carl'll boide naw questionin', odd rottle him!" replied
Ashbead. "He awnsurs wi' a gibe, or a thwack o' his staff. Whon ey last
seet him, he threatened t' raddle me booans weel, boh ey sooan lowert
him a peg."

"We will find a way of making him speak," said the abbot.

"He can speak, and right well if he pleases," remarked Father Eastgate;
"for though ordinarily silent and sullen enough, yet when he doth talk
it is not like one of the hinds with whom he consorts, but in good set
phrase; and his bearing is as bold as that of one who hath seen service
in the field."

"My curiosity is aroused," said the abbot. "I must see him."

"Noa sooner said than done," cried Ashbead, "for, be t' Lort Harry, ey
see him stonding be yon moss poo' o' top t' hill, though how he'n getten
theer t' Dule owny knoas."

And he pointed out a tall dark figure standing near a little pool on the
summit of the mountain, about a hundred yards from them.

"Talk of ill, and ill cometh," observed Father Haydocke. "And see, the
wizard hath a black hound with him! It may be his wife, in that
likeness."

"Naw, ey knoas t' hount reet weel, Feyther Haydocke," replied the
forester; "it's a Saint Hubert, an' a rareun fo' fox or badgert. Odds
loife, feyther, whoy that's t' black bandyhewit I war speaking on."

"I like not the appearance of the knave at this juncture," said the
abbot; "yet I wish to confront him, and charge him with his
midemeanours."

"Hark; he sings," cried Father Haydocke. And as he spoke a voice was
heard chanting,--

          "One shall sit at a solemn feast,
          Half warrior, half priest,
          The greatest there shall be the least."

"The very ditty I heard," cried Father Eastgate; "but list, he has more
of it." And the voice resumed,--

          "He shall be rich, yet poor as me,
          Abbot, and Earl of Poverty.
          Monk and soldier, rich and poor,
          He shall be hang'd at his own door."

Loud derisive laughter followed the song.

"By our Lady of Whalley, the knave is mocking us," cried the abbot;
"send a bolt to silence him, Cuthbert."

The forester instantly bent his bow, and a quarrel whistled off in the
direction of the singer; but whether his aim were not truly taken, or he
meant not to hit the mark, it is certain that Demdike remained
untouched. The reputed wizard laughed aloud, took off his felt cap in
acknowledgment, and marched deliberately down the side of the hill.

"Thou art not wont to miss thy aim, Cuthbert," cried the abbot, with a
look of displeasure. "Take good heed thou producest this scurril knave
before me, when these troublous times are over. But what is this?--he
stops--ha! he is practising his devilries on the mountain's side."

It would seem that the abbot had good warrant for what he said, as
Demdike, having paused at a broad green patch on the hill-side, was now
busied in tracing a circle round it with his staff. He then spoke aloud
some words, which the superstitious beholders construed into an
incantation, and after tracing the circle once again, and casting some
tufts of dry heather, which he plucked from an adjoining hillock, on
three particular spots, he ran quickly downwards, followed by his hound,
and leaping a stone wall, surrounding a little orchard at the foot of
the hill, disappeared from view.

"Go and see what he hath done," cried the abbot to the forester, "for I
like it not."

Ashbead instantly obeyed, and on reaching the green spot in question,
shouted out that he could discern nothing; but presently added, as he
moved about, that the turf heaved like a sway-bed beneath his feet, and
he thought--to use his own phraseology--would "brast." The abbot then
commanded him to go down to the orchard below, and if he could find
Demdike to bring him to him instantly. The forester did as he was
bidden, ran down the hill, and, leaping the orchard wall as the other
had done, was lost to sight.

Ere long, it became quite dark, and as Ashbead did not reappear, the
abbot gave vent to his impatience and uneasiness, and was proposing to
send one of the herdsmen in search of him, when his attention was
suddenly diverted by a loud shout from one of the sentinels, and a fire
was seen on a distant hill on the right.

"The signal! the signal!" cried Paslew, joyfully. "Kindle a
torch!--quick, quick!"

And as he spoke, he seized a brand and plunged it into the peat fire,
while his example was followed by the two monks.

"It is the beacon on Blackstone Edge," cried the abbot; "and look! a
second blazes over the Grange of Cliviger--another on Ightenhill--
another on Boulsworth Hill--and the last on the neighbouring
heights of Padiham. Our own comes next. May it light the enemies of our
holy Church to perdition!"

With this, he applied the burning brand to the combustible matter of the
beacon. The monks did the same; and in an instant a tall, pointed flame,
rose up from a thick cloud of smoke. Ere another minute had elapsed,
similar fires shot up to the right and the left, on the high lands of
Trawden Forest, on the jagged points of Foulridge, on the summit of
Cowling Hill, and so on to Skipton. Other fires again blazed on the
towers of Clithero, on Longridge and Ribchester, on the woody eminences
of Bowland, on Wolf Crag, and on fell and scar all the way to Lancaster.
It seemed the work of enchantment, so suddenly and so strangely did the
fires shoot forth. As the beacon flame increased, it lighted up the
whole of the extensive table-land on the summit of Pendle Hill; and a
long lurid streak fell on the darkling moss-pool near which the wizard
had stood. But when it attained its utmost height, it revealed the
depths of the forest below, and a red reflection, here and there, marked
the course of Pendle Water. The excitement of the abbot and his
companions momently increased, and the sentinels shouted as each new
beacon was lighted. At last, almost every hill had its watch-fire, and
so extraordinary was the spectacle, that it seemed as if weird beings
were abroad, and holding their revels on the heights.

Then it was that the abbot, mounting his steed, called out to the
monks--"Holy fathers, you will follow to the abbey as you may. I shall
ride fleetly on, and despatch two hundred archers to Huddersfield and
Wakefield. The abbots of Salley and Jervaux, with the Prior of
Burlington, will be with me at midnight, and at daybreak we shall march
our forces to join the main army. Heaven be with you!"

"Stay!" cried a harsh, imperious voice. "Stay!"

And, to his surprise, the abbot beheld Nicholas Demdike standing before
him. The aspect of the wizard was dark and forbidding, and, seen by the
beacon light, his savage features, blazing eyes, tall gaunt frame, and
fantastic garb, made him look like something unearthly. Flinging his
staff over his shoulder, he slowly approached, with his black hound
following close by at his heels.

"I have a caution to give you, lord abbot," he said; "hear me speak
before you set out for the abbey, or ill will befall you."

"Ill _will_ befall me if I listen to thee, thou wicked churl," cried the
abbot. "What hast thou done with Cuthbert Ashbead?"

"I have seen nothing of him since he sent a bolt after me at your
bidding, lord abbot," replied Demdike.

"Beware lest any harm come to him, or thou wilt rue it," cried Paslew.
"But I have no time to waste on thee. Farewell, fathers. High mass will
be said in the convent church before we set out on the expedition
to-morrow morning. You will both attend it."

"You will never set out upon the expedition, lord abbot," cried Demdike,
planting his staff so suddenly into the ground before the horse's head
that the animal reared and nearly threw his rider.

"How now, fellow, what mean you?" cried the abbot, furiously.

"To warn you," replied Demdike.

"Stand aside," cried the abbot, spurring his steed, "or I will trample
you beneath my horse's feet."

"I might let you ride to your own doom," rejoined Demdike, with a
scornful laugh, as he seized the abbot's bridle. "But you shall hear me.
I tell you, you will never go forth on this expedition. I tell you that,
ere to-morrow, Whalley Abbey will have passed for ever from your
possession; and that, if you go thither again, your life will be
forfeited. Now will you listen to me?"

"I am wrong in doing so," cried the abbot, who could not, however,
repress some feelings of misgiving at this alarming address. "Speak,
what would you say?"

"Come out of earshot of the others, and I will tell you," replied
Demdike. And he led the abbot's horse to some distance further on the
hill.

"Your cause will fail, lord abbot," he then said. "Nay, it is lost
already."

"Lost!" cried the abbot, out of all patience. "Lost! Look around. Twenty
fires are in sight--ay, thirty, and every fire thou seest will summon a
hundred men, at the least, to arms. Before an hour, five hundred men
will be gathered before the gates of Whalley Abbey."

"True," replied Demdike; "but they will not own the Earl of Poverty for
their leader."

"What leader will they own, then?" demanded the abbot, scornfully.

"The Earl of Derby," replied Demdike. "He is on his way thither with
Lord Mounteagle from Preston."

"Ha!" exclaimed Paslew, "let me go meet them, then. But thou triflest
with me, fellow. Thou canst know nothing of this. Whence gott'st thou
thine information?"

"Heed it not," replied the other; "thou wilt find it correct. I tell
thee, proud abbot, that this grand scheme of thine and of thy fellows,
for the restitution of the Catholic Church, has failed--utterly failed."

"I tell thee thou liest, false knave!" cried the abbot, striking him on
the hand with his scourge. "Quit thy hold, and let me go."

"Not till I have done," replied Demdike, maintaining his grasp. "Well
hast thou styled thyself Earl of Poverty, for thou art poor and
miserable enough. Abbot of Whalley thou art no longer. Thy possessions
will be taken from thee, and if thou returnest thy life also will be
taken. If thou fleest, a price will be set upon thy head. I alone can
save thee, and I will do so on one condition."

"Condition! make conditions with thee, bond-slave of Satan!" cried the
abbot, gnashing his teeth. "I reproach myself that I have listened to
thee so long. Stand aside, or I will strike thee dead."

"You are wholly in my power," cried Demdike with a disdainful laugh. And
as he spoke he pressed the large sharp bit against the charger's mouth,
and backed him quickly to the very edge of the hill, the sides of which
here sloped precipitously down. The abbot would have uttered a cry, but
surprise and terror kept him silent.

"Were it my desire to injure you, I could cast you down the
mountain-side to certain death," pursued Demdike. "But I have no such
wish. On the contrary, I will serve you, as I have said, on one
condition."

"Thy condition would imperil my soul," said the abbot, full of wrath and
alarm. "Thou seekest in vain to terrify me into compliance. _Vade retro,
Sathanas_. I defy thee and all thy works."

Demdike laughed scornfully.

"The thunders of the Church do not frighten me," he cried. "But, look,"
he added, "you doubted my word when I told you the rising was at an end.
The beacon fires on Boulsworth Hill and on the Grange of Cliviger are
extinguished; that on Padiham Heights is expiring--nay, it is out; and
ere many minutes all these mountain watch-fires will have disappeared
like lamps at the close of a feast."

"By our Lady, it is so," cried the abbot, in increasing terror. "What
new jugglery is this?"

"It is no jugglery, I tell you," replied the other.

"The waters of the Don have again arisen; the insurgents have accepted
the king's pardon, have deserted their leaders, and dispersed. There
will be no rising to-night or on the morrow. The abbots of Jervaux and
Salley will strive to capitulate, but in vain. The Pilgrimage of Grace
is ended. The stake for which thou playedst is lost. Thirty years hast
thou governed here, but thy rule is over. Seventeen abbots have there
been of Whalley--the last thou!--but there shall be none more."

"It must be the Demon in person that speaks thus to me," cried the
abbot, his hair bristling on his head, and a cold perspiration bursting
from his pores.

"No matter who I am," replied the other; "I have said I will aid thee on
one condition. It is not much. Remove thy ban from my wife, and baptise
her infant daughter, and I am content. I would not ask thee for this
service, slight though it be, but the poor soul hath set her mind upon
it. Wilt thou do it?"

"No," replied the abbot, shuddering; "I will not baptise a daughter of
Satan. I will not sell my soul to the powers of darkness. I adjure thee
to depart from me, and tempt me no longer."

"Vainly thou seekest to cast me off," rejoined Demdike. "What if I
deliver thine adversaries into thine hands, and revenge thee upon them?
Even now there are a party of armed men waiting at the foot of the hill
to seize thee and thy brethren. Shall I show thee how to destroy them?"

"Who are they?" demanded the abbot, surprised.

"Their leaders are John Braddyll and Richard Assheton, who shall divide
Whalley Abbey between them, if thou stayest them not," replied Demdike.

"Hell consume them!" cried the abbot.

"Thy speech shows consent," rejoined Demdike. "Come this way."

And, without awaiting the abbot's reply, he dragged his horse towards
the but-end of the mountain. As they went on, the two monks, who had
been filled with surprise at the interview, though they did not dare to
interrupt it, advanced towards their superior, and looked earnestly and
inquiringly at him, but he remained silent; while to the men-at-arms and
the herdsmen, who demanded whether their own beacon-fire should be
extinguished as the others had been, he answered moodily in the
negative.

"Where are the foes you spoke of?" he asked with some uneasiness, as
Demdike led his horse slowly and carefully down the hill-side.

"You shall see anon," replied the other.

"You are taking me to the spot where you traced the magic circle," cried
Paslew in alarm. "I know it from its unnaturally green hue. I will not
go thither."

"I do not mean you should, lord abbot," replied Demdike, halting.
"Remain on this firm ground. Nay, be not alarmed; you are in no danger.
Now bid your men advance, and prepare their weapons."

The abbot would have demanded wherefore, but at a glance from Demdike he
complied, and the two men-at-arms, and the herdsmen, arranged
themselves beside him, while Fathers Eastgate and Haydocke, who had
gotten upon their mules, took up a position behind.

Scarcely were they thus placed, when a loud shout was raised below, and
a band of armed men, to the number of thirty or forty, leapt the stone
wall, and began to scale the hill with great rapidity. They came up a
deep dry channel, apparently worn in the hill-side by some former
torrent, and which led directly to the spot where Demdike and the abbot
stood. The beacon-fire still blazed brightly, and illuminated the whole
proceeding, showing that these men, from their accoutrements, were
royalist soldiers.

"Stir not, as you value your life," said the wizard to Paslew; "but
observe what shall follow."




CHAPTER II.--THE ERUPTION.


Demdike went a little further down the hill, stopping when he came to
the green patch. He then plunged his staff into the sod at the first
point where he had cast a tuft of heather, and with such force that it
sank more than three feet. The next moment he plucked it forth, as if
with a great effort, and a jet of black water spouted into the air; but,
heedless of this, he went to the next marked spot, and again plunged the
sharp point of the implement into the ground. Again it sank to the same
depth, and, on being drawn out, a second black jet sprung forth.

Meanwhile the hostile party continued to advance up the dry channel
before mentioned, and shouted on beholding these strange preparations,
but they did not relax their speed. Once more the staff sank into the
ground, and a third black fountain followed its extraction. By this
time, the royalist soldiers were close at hand, and the features of
their two leaders, John Braddyll and Richard Assheton, could be plainly
distinguished, and their voices heard.

"'Tis he! 'tis the rebel abbot!" vociferated Braddyll, pressing forward.
"We were not misinformed. He has been watching by the beacon. The devil
has delivered him into our hands."

"Ho! ho!" laughed Demdike.

"Abbot no longer--'tis the Earl of Poverty you mean," responded
Assheton. "The villain shall be gibbeted on the spot where he has fired
the beacon, as a warning to all traitors."

"Ha, heretics!--ha, blasphemers!--I can at least avenge myself upon
you," cried Paslew, striking spurs into his charger. But ere he could
execute his purpose, Demdike had sprung backward, and, catching the
bridle, restrained the animal by a powerful effort.

"Hold!" he cried, in a voice of thunder, "or you will share their fate."

As the words were uttered, a dull, booming, subterranean sound was
heard, and instantly afterwards, with a crash like thunder, the whole of
the green circle beneath slipped off, and from a yawning rent under it
burst forth with irresistible fury, a thick inky-coloured torrent,
which, rising almost breast high, fell upon the devoted royalist
soldiers, who were advancing right in its course. Unable to avoid the
watery eruption, or to resist its fury when it came upon them, they were
instantly swept from their feet, and carried down the channel.

A sight of horror was it to behold the sudden rise of that swarthy
stream, whose waters, tinged by the ruddy glare of the beacon-fire,
looked like waves of blood. Nor less fearful was it to hear the first
wild despairing cry raised by the victims, or the quickly stifled
shrieks and groans that followed, mixed with the deafening roar of the
stream, and the crashing fall of the stones, which accompanied its
course. Down, down went the poor wretches, now utterly overwhelmed by
the torrent, now regaining their feet only to utter a scream, and then
be swept off. Here a miserable struggler, whirled onward, would clutch
at the banks and try to scramble forth, but the soft turf giving way
beneath him, he was hurried off to eternity.

At another point where the stream encountered some trifling opposition,
some two or three managed to gain a footing, but they were unable to
extricate themselves. The vast quantity of boggy soil brought down by
the current, and which rapidly collected here, embedded them and held
them fast, so that the momently deepening water, already up to their
chins, threatened speedy immersion. Others were stricken down by great
masses of turf, or huge rocky fragments, which, bounding from point to
point with the torrent, bruised or crushed all they encountered, or,
lodging in some difficult place, slightly diverted the course of the
torrent, and rendered it yet more dangerous.

On one of these stones, larger than the rest, which had been stopped in
its course, a man contrived to creep, and with difficulty kept his post
amid the raging flood. Vainly did he extend his hand to such of his
fellows as were swept shrieking past him. He could not lend them aid,
while his own position was so desperately hazardous that he did not dare
to quit it. To leap on either bank was impossible, and to breast the
headlong stream certain death.

On goes the current, madly, furiously, as if rejoicing in the work of
destruction, while the white foam of its eddies presents a fearful
contrast to the prevailing blackness of the surface. Over the last
declivity it leaps, hissing, foaming, crashing like an avalanche. The
stone wall for a moment opposes its force, but falls the next, with a
mighty splash, carrying the spray far and wide, while its own fragments
roll onwards with the stream. The trees of the orchard are uprooted in
an instant, and an old elm falls prostrate. The outbuildings of a
cottage are invaded, and the porkers and cattle, divining their danger,
squeal and bellow in affright. But they are quickly silenced. The
resistless foe has broken down wall and door, and buried the poor
creatures in mud and rubbish.

The stream next invades the cottage, breaks in through door and window,
and filling all the lower part of the tenement, in a few minutes
converts it into a heap of ruin. On goes the destroyer, tearing up more
trees, levelling more houses, and filling up a small pool, till the
latter bursts its banks, and, with an accession to its force, pours
itself into a mill-dam. Here its waters are stayed until they find a
vent underneath, and the action of the stream, as it rushes downwards
through this exit, forms a great eddy above, in which swim some living
things, cattle and sheep from the fold not yet drowned, mixed with
furniture from the cottages, and amidst them the bodies of some of the
unfortunate men-at-arms which have been washed hither.

But, ha! another thundering crash. The dam has burst. The torrent roars
and rushes on furiously as before, joins its forces with Pendle Water,
swells up the river, and devastates the country far and wide.[1]

The abbot and his companions beheld this work of destruction with
amazement and dread. Blanched terror sat in their cheeks, and the blood
was frozen in Paslew's veins; for he thought it the work of the powers
of darkness, and that he was leagued with them. He tried to mutter a
prayer, but his lips refused their office. He would have moved, but his
limbs were stiffened and paralysed, and he could only gaze aghast at the
terrible spectacle.

Amidst it all he heard a wild burst of unearthly laughter, proceeding,
he thought, from Demdike, and it filled him with new dread. But he could
not check the sound, neither could he stop his ears, though he would
fain have done so. Like him, his companions were petrified and
speechless with fear.

After this had endured for some time, though still the black torrent
rushed on impetuously as ever, Demdike turned to the abbot and said,--

"Your vengeance has been fully gratified. You will now baptise my
child?"

"Never, never, accursed being!" shrieked the abbot. "Thou mayst
sacrifice her at thine own impious rites. But see, there is one poor
wretch yet struggling with the foaming torrent. I may save him."

"That is John Braddyll, thy worst enemy," replied Demdike. "If he lives
he shall possess half Whalley Abbey. Thou hadst best also save Richard
Assheton, who yet clings to the great stone below, as if he escapes he
shall have the other half. Mark him, and make haste, for in five minutes
both shall be gone."

"I will save them if I can, be the consequence to myself what it may,"
replied the abbot.

And, regardless of the derisive laughter of the other, who yelled in his
ears as he went, "Bess shall see thee hanged at thy own door!" he dashed
down the hill to the spot where a small object, distinguishable above
the stream, showed that some one still kept his head above water, his
tall stature having preserved him.

"Is it you, John Braddyll?" cried the abbot, as he rode up.

"Ay," replied the head. "Forgive me for the wrong I intended you, and
deliver me from this great peril."

"I am come for that purpose," replied the abbot, dismounting, and
disencumbering himself of his heavy cloak.

By this time the two herdsmen had come up, and the abbot, taking a crook
from one of them, clutched hold of the fellow, and, plunging fearlessly
into the stream, extended it towards the drowning man, who instantly
lifted up his hand to grasp it. In doing so Braddyll lost his balance,
but, as he did not quit his hold, he was plucked forth from the
tenacious mud by the combined efforts of the abbot and his assistant,
and with some difficulty dragged ashore.

"Now for the other," cried Paslew, as he placed Braddyll in safety.

"One-half the abbey is gone from thee," shouted a voice in his ears as
he rushed on.

Presently he reached the rocky fragment on which Ralph Assheton rested.
The latter was in great danger from the surging torrent, and the stone
on which he had taken refuge tottered at its base, and threatened to
roll over.

"In Heaven's name, help me, lord abbot, as thou thyself shall be holpen
at thy need!" shrieked Assheton.

"Be not afraid, Richard Assheton," replied Paslew. "I will deliver thee
as I have delivered John Braddyll."

But the task was not of easy accomplishment. The abbot made his
preparations as before; grasped the hand of the herdsman and held out
the crook to Assheton; but when the latter caught it, the stream swung
him round with such force that the abbot must either abandon him or
advance further into the water. Bent on Assheton's preservation, he
adopted the latter expedient, and instantly lost his feet; while the
herdsman, unable longer to hold him, let go the crook, and the abbot and
Assheton were swept down the stream together.

Down--down they went, destruction apparently awaiting them; but the
abbot, though sometimes quite under the water, and bruised by the rough
stones and gravel with which he came in contact, still retained his
self-possession, and encouraged his companion to hope for succour. In
this way they were borne down to the foot of the hill, the monks, the
herdsmen, and the men-at-arms having given them up as lost. But they yet
lived--yet floated--though greatly injured, and almost senseless, when
they were cast into a pool formed by the eddying waters at the foot of
the hill. Here, wholly unable to assist himself, Assheton was seized by
a black hound belonging to a tall man who stood on the bank, and who
shouted to Paslew, as he helped the animal to bring the drowning man
ashore, "The other half of the abbey is gone from thee. Wilt thou
baptise my child if I send my dog to save thee?"

"Never!" replied the other, sinking as he spoke.

Flashes of fire glanced in the abbot's eyes, and stunning sounds seemed
to burst his ears. A few more struggles, and he became senseless.

But he was not destined to die thus. What happened afterwards he knew
not; but when he recovered full consciousness, he found himself
stretched, with aching limbs and throbbing head, upon a couch in a
monastic room, with a richly-painted and gilded ceiling, with shields at
the corners emblazoned with the three luces of Whalley, and with panels
hung with tapestry from the looms of Flanders, representing divers
Scriptural subjects.

"Have I been dreaming?" he murmured.

"No," replied a tall man standing by his bedside; "thou hast been saved
from one death to suffer another more ignominious."

"Ha!" cried the abbot, starting up and pressing his hand to his temples;
"thou here?"

"Ay, I am appointed to watch thee," replied Demdike. "Thou art a
prisoner in thine own chamber at Whalley. All has befallen as I told
thee. The Earl of Derby is master of the abbey; thy adherents are
dispersed; and thy brethren are driven forth. Thy two partners in
rebellion, the abbots of Jervaux and Salley, have been conveyed to
Lancaster Castle, whither thou wilt go as soon as thou canst be moved."

"I will surrender all--silver and gold, land and possessions--to the
king, if I may die in peace," groaned the abbot.

"It is not needed," rejoined the other. "Attainted of felony, thy lands
and abbey will be forfeited to the crown, and they shall be sold, as I
have told thee, to John Braddyll and Richard Assheton, who will be
rulers here in thy stead."

"Would I had perished in the flood!" groaned the abbot.

"Well mayst thou wish so," returned his tormentor; "but thou wert not
destined to die by water. As I have said, thou shalt be hanged at thy
own door, and my wife shall witness thy end."

"Who art thou? I have heard thy voice before," cried the abbot. "It is
like the voice of one whom I knew years ago, and thy features are like
his--though changed--greatly changed. Who art thou?"

"Thou shalt know before thou diest," replied the other, with a look of
gratified vengeance. "Farewell, and reflect upon thy fate."

So saying, he strode towards the door, while the miserable abbot arose,
and marching with uncertain steps to a little oratory adjoining, which
he himself had built, knelt down before the altar, and strove to pray.




CHAPTER III.--WHALLEY ABBEY.


A sad, sad change hath come over the fair Abbey of Whalley. It knoweth
its old masters no longer. For upwards of two centuries and a half hath
the "Blessed Place"[2] grown in beauty and riches. Seventeen abbots have
exercised unbounded hospitality within it, but now they are all gone,
save one!--and he is attainted of felony and treason. The grave monk
walketh no more in the cloisters, nor seeketh his pallet in the
dormitory. Vesper or matin-song resound not as of old within the fine
conventual church. Stripped are the altars of their silver crosses, and
the shrines of their votive offerings and saintly relics. Pyx and
chalice, thuribule and vial, golden-headed pastoral staff, and mitre
embossed with pearls, candlestick and Christmas ship of silver; salver,
basin, and ewer--all are gone--the splendid sacristy hath been
despoiled.

A sad, sad change hath come over Whalley Abbey. The libraries, well
stored with reverend tomes, have been pillaged, and their contents cast
to the flames; and thus long laboured manuscript, the fruit of years of
patient industry, with gloriously illuminated missal, are irrecoverably
lost. The large infirmary no longer receiveth the sick; in the locutory
sitteth no more the guest. No longer in the mighty kitchens are prepared
the prodigious supply of meats destined for the support of the poor or
the entertainment of the traveller. No kindly porter stands at the gate,
to bid the stranger enter and partake of the munificent abbot's
hospitality, but a churlish guard bids him hie away, and menaces him if
he tarries with his halbert. Closed are the buttery-hatches and the
pantries; and the daily dole of bread hath ceased. Closed, also, to the
brethren is the refectory. The cellarer's office is ended. The strong
ale which he brewed in October, is tapped in March by roystering
troopers. The rich muscadel and malmsey, and the wines of Gascoigne and
the Rhine, are no longer quaffed by the abbot and his more honoured
guests, but drunk to his destruction by his foes. The great gallery, a
hundred and fifty feet in length, the pride of the abbot's lodging, and
a model of architecture, is filled not with white-robed ecclesiastics,
but with an armed earl and his retainers. Neglected is the little
oratory dedicated to Our Lady of Whalley, where night and morn the abbot
used to pray. All the old religious and hospitable uses of the abbey are
foregone. The reverend stillness of the cloisters, scarce broken by the
quiet tread of the monks, is now disturbed by armed heel and clank of
sword; while in its saintly courts are heard the ribald song, the
profane jest, and the angry brawl. Of the brethren, only those tenanting
the cemetery are left. All else are gone, driven forth, as vagabonds,
with stripes and curses, to seek refuge where they may.

A sad, sad change has come over Whalley Abbey. In the plenitude of its
pride and power has it been cast down, desecrated, despoiled. Its
treasures are carried off, its ornaments sold, its granaries emptied,
its possessions wasted, its storehouses sacked, its cattle slaughtered
and sold. But, though stripped of its wealth and splendour; though
deprived of all the religious graces that, like rich incense, lent an
odour to the fane, its external beauty is yet unimpaired, and its vast
proportions undiminished.

A stately pile was Whalley--one of the loveliest as well as the largest
in the realm. Carefully had it been preserved by its reverend rulers,
and where reparations or additions were needed they were judiciously
made. Thus age had lent it beauty, by mellowing its freshness and toning
its hues, while no decay was perceptible. Without a struggle had it
yielded to the captor, so that no part of its wide belt of walls or
towers, though so strongly constructed as to have offered effectual
resistance, were injured.

Never had Whalley Abbey looked more beautiful than on a bright clear
morning in March, when this sad change had been wrought, and when, from
a peaceful monastic establishment, it had been converted into a menacing
fortress. The sunlight sparkled upon its grey walls, and filled its
three great quadrangular courts with light and life, piercing the
exquisite carving of its cloisters, and revealing all the intricate
beauty and combinations of the arches. Stains of painted glass fell upon
the floor of the magnificent conventual church, and dyed with rainbow
hues the marble tombs of the Lacies, the founders of the establishment,
brought thither when the monastery was removed from Stanlaw in Cheshire,
and upon the brass-covered gravestones of the abbots in the presbytery.
There lay Gregory de Northbury, eighth abbot of Stanlaw and first of
Whalley, and William Rede, the last abbot; but there was never to lie
John Paslew. The slumber of the ancient prelates was soon to be
disturbed, and the sacred structure within which they had so often
worshipped, up-reared by sacrilegious hands. But all was bright and
beauteous now, and if no solemn strains were heard in the holy pile, its
stillness was scarcely less reverential and awe-inspiring. The old abbey
wreathed itself in all its attractions, as if to welcome back its former
ruler, whereas it was only to receive him as a captive doomed to a
felon's death.

But this was outward show. Within all was terrible preparation. Such
was the discontented state of the country, that fearing some new revolt,
the Earl of Derby had taken measures for the defence of the abbey, and
along the wide-circling walls of the close were placed ordnance and men,
and within the grange stores of ammunition. A strong guard was set at
each of the gates, and the courts were filled with troops. The bray of
the trumpet echoed within the close, where rounds were set for the
archers, and martial music resounded within the area of the cloisters.
Over the great north-eastern gateway, which formed the chief entrance to
the abbot's lodging, floated the royal banner. Despite these warlike
proceedings the fair abbey smiled beneath the sun, in all, or more than
all, its pristine beauty, its green hills sloping gently down towards
it, and the clear and sparkling Calder dashing merrily over the stones
at its base.

But upon the bridge, and by the river side, and within the little
village, many persons were assembled, conversing gravely and anxiously
together, and looking out towards the hills, where other groups were
gathered, as if in expectation of some afflicting event. Most of these
were herdsmen and farming men, but some among them were poor monks in
the white habits of the Cistertian brotherhood, but which were now
stained and threadbare, while their countenances bore traces of severest
privation and suffering. All the herdsmen and farmers had been retainers
of the abbot. The poor monks looked wistfully at their former
habitation, but replied not except by a gentle bowing of the head to the
cruel scoffs and taunts with which they were greeted by the passing
soldiers; but the sturdy rustics did not bear these outrages so tamely,
and more than one brawl ensued, in which blood flowed, while a ruffianly
arquebussier would have been drowned in the Calder but for the exertions
to save him of a monk whom he had attacked.

This took place on the eleventh of March, 1537--more than three months
after the date of the watching by the beacon before recorded--and the
event anticipated by the concourse without the abbey, as well as by
those within its walls, was the arrival of Abbot Paslew and Fathers
Eastgate and Haydocke, who were to be brought on that day from
Lancaster, and executed on the following morning before the abbey,
according to sentence passed upon them.

The gloomiest object in the picture remains to be described, but yet it
is necessary to its completion. This was a gallows of unusual form and
height, erected on the summit of a gentle hill, rising immediately in
front of the abbot's lodgings, called the Holehouses, whose rounded,
bosomy beauty it completely destroyed. This terrible apparatus of
condign punishment was regarded with abhorrence by the rustics, and it
required a strong guard to be kept constantly round it to preserve it
from demolition.

Amongst a group of rustics collected on the road leading to the
north-east gateway, was Cuthbert Ashbead, who having been deprived of
his forester's office, was now habited in a frieze doublet and hose with
a short camlet cloak on his shoulder, and a fox-skin cap, embellished
with the grinning jaws of the beast on his head.

"Eigh, Ruchot o' Roaph's," he observed to a bystander, "that's a fearfo
sect that gallas. Yoan been up to t' Holehouses to tey a look at it,
beloike?"

"Naw, naw, ey dunna loike such sects," replied Ruchot o' Roaph's;
"besoide there wor a great rabblement at t' geate, an one o' them lunjus
archer chaps knockt meh o' t' nob wi' his poike, an towd me he'd hong me
wi' t' abbut, if ey didna keep owt ot wey."

"An sarve te reet too, theaw craddinly carl!" cried Ashbead, doubling
his horny fists. "Odds flesh! whey didna yo ha' a tussle wi' him? Mey
honts are itchen for a bowt wi' t' heretic robbers. Walladey! walladey!
that we should live to see t' oly feythers driven loike hummobees owt o'
t' owd neest. Whey they sayn ot King Harry hon decreet ot we're to ha'
naw more monks or friars i' aw Englondshiar. Ony think o' that. An dunna
yo knoa that t' Abbuts o' Jervaux an Salley wor hongt o' Tizeday at
Loncaster Castle?"

"Good lorjus bless us!" exclaimed a sturdy hind, "we'n a protty king.
Furst he chops off his woife's heaod, an then hongs aw t' priests.
Whot'll t' warlt cum 'to?

"Eigh by t' mess, whot _win_ it cum to?" cried Ruchot o' Roaph's. "But
we darrna oppen owr mows fo' fear o' a gog."

"Naw, beleady! boh eyst oppen moine woide enuff," cried Ashbead; "an' if
a dozen o' yo chaps win join me, eyn try to set t' poor abbut free whon
they brinks him here."

"Ey'd as leef boide till to-morrow," said Ruchot o'Roaph's, uneasily.

"Eigh, thou'rt a timmersome teyke, os ey towd te efore," replied
Ashbead. "But whot dust theaw say, Hal o' Nabs?" he added, to the sturdy
hind who had recently spoken.

"Ey'n spill t' last drop o' meh blood i' t' owd abbut's keawse," replied
Hal o' Nabs. "We winna stond by, an see him hongt loike a dog. Abbut
Paslew to t' reskew, lads!"

"Eigh, Abbut Paslew to t' reskew!" responded all the others, except
Ruchot o' Roaph's.

"This must be prevented," muttered a voice near them. And immediately
afterwards a tall man quitted the group.

"Whoa wor it spoake?" cried Hal o' Nabs. "Oh, ey seen, that he-witch,
Nick Demdike."

"Nick Demdike here!" cried Ashbead, looking round in alarm. "Has he
owerheert us?"

"Loike enow," replied Hal o' Nabs. "But ey didna moind him efore."

"Naw ey noather," cried Ruchot o' Roaph's, crossing himself, and
spitting on the ground. "Owr Leady o' Whalley shielt us fro' t'
warlock!"

"Tawkin o' Nick Demdike," cried Hal o' Nabs, "yo'd a strawnge odventer
wi' him t' neet o' t' great brast o' Pendle Hill, hadna yo, Cuthbert?"

"Yeigh, t' firrups tak' him, ey hadn," replied Ashbead. "Theawst hear aw
abowt it if t' will. Ey wur sent be t' abbut down t' hill to Owen o'
Gab's, o' Perkin's, o' Dannel's, o' Noll's, o' Oamfrey's orchert i'
Warston lone, to luk efter him. Weel, whon ey gets ower t' stoan wa',
whot dun yo think ey sees! twanty or throtty poikemen stonding behint
it, an they deshes at meh os thick os leet, an efore ey con roor oot,
they blintfowlt meh, an clap an iron gog i' meh mouth. Weel, I con
noather speak nor see, boh ey con use meh feet, soh ey punses at 'em
reet an' laft; an be mah troath, lads, yood'n a leawght t' hear how they
roart, an ey should a roart too, if I couldn, whon they began to thwack
me wi' their raddling pows, and ding'd meh so abowt t' heoad, that ey
fell i' a swownd. Whon ey cum to, ey wur loyin o' meh back i' Rimington
Moor. Every booan i' meh hoide wratcht, an meh hewr war clottert wi'
gore, boh t' eebond an t' gog wur gone, soh ey gets o' meh feet, and
daddles along os weel os ey con, whon aw ot wunce ey spies a leet
glenting efore meh, an dawncing abowt loike an awf or a wull-o'-whisp.
Thinks ey, that's Friar Rush an' his lantern, an he'll lead me into a
quagmire, soh ey stops a bit, to consider where ey'd getten, for ey
didna knoa t' reet road exactly; boh whon ey stood still, t' leet stood
still too, on then ey meyd owt that it cum fro an owd ruint tower, an
whot ey'd fancied wur one lantern proved twanty, fo' whon ey reacht t'
tower an peept in thro' a brok'n winda, ey beheld a seet ey'st neer
forgit--apack o' witches--eigh, witches!--sittin' in a ring, wi' their
broomsticks an lanterns abowt em!"

"Good lorjus deys!" cried Hal o' Nabs. "An whot else didsta see, mon?"

"Whoy," replied Ashbead, "t'owd hags had a little figure i' t' midst on
'em, mowded i' cley, representing t' abbut o' Whalley,--ey knoad it be't
moitre and crosier,--an efter each o' t' varment had stickt a pin i' its
'eart, a tall black mon stepped for'ard, an teed a cord rownd its
throttle, an hongt it up."

"An' t' black mon," cried Hal o' Nabs, breathlessly,--"t' black mon wur
Nick Demdike?"

"Yoan guest it," replied Ashbead, "'t wur he! Ey wur so glopp'nt, ey
couldna speak, an' meh blud fruz i' meh veins, when ey heerd a fearfo
voice ask Nick wheere his woife an' chilt were. 'The infant is
unbaptised,' roart t' voice, 'at the next meeting it must be sacrificed.
See that thou bring it.' Demdike then bowed to Summat I couldna see; an
axt when t' next meeting wur to be held. 'On the night of Abbot
Paslew's execution,' awnsert t' voice. On hearing this, ey could bear
nah lunger, boh shouted out, 'Witches! devils! Lort deliver us fro' ye!'
An' os ey spoke, ey tried t' barst thro' t' winda. In a trice, aw t'
leets went out; thar wur a great rash to t' dooer; a whirrin sound i'
th' air loike a covey o' partriches fleeing off; and then ey heerd nowt
more; for a great stoan fell o' meh scoance, an' knockt me down
senseless. When I cum' to, I wur i' Nick Demdike's cottage, wi' his
woife watching ower me, and th' unbapteesed chilt i' her arms."

All exclamations of wonder on the part of the rustics, and inquiries as
to the issue of the adventure, were checked by the approach of a monk,
who, joining the assemblage, called their attention to a priestly train
slowly advancing along the road.

"It is headed," he said, "by Fathers Chatburne and Chester, late bursers
of the abbey. Alack! alack! they now need the charity themselves which
they once so lavishly bestowed on others."

"Waes me!" ejaculated Ashbead. "Monry a broad merk han ey getten fro
'em."

"They'n been koind to us aw," added the others.

"Next come Father Burnley, granger, and Father Haworth, cellarer,"
pursued the monk; "and after them Father Dinkley, sacristan, and Father
Moore, porter."

"Yo remember Feyther Moore, lads," cried Ashbead.

"Yeigh, to be sure we done," replied the others; "a good mon, a reet
good mon! He never sent away t' poor--naw he!"

"After Father Moore," said the monk, pleased with their warmth, "comes
Father Forrest, the procurator, with Fathers Rede, Clough, and Bancroft,
and the procession is closed by Father Smith, the late prior."

"Down o' yer whirlybooans, lads, as t' oly feythers pass," cried
Ashbead, "and crave their blessing."

And as the priestly train slowly approached, with heads bowed down, and
looks fixed sadly upon the ground, the rustic assemblage fell upon their
knees, and implored their benediction. The foremost in the procession
passed on in silence, but the prior stopped, and extending his hands
over the kneeling group, cried in a solemn voice,

"Heaven bless ye, my children! Ye are about to witness a sad spectacle.
You will see him who hath clothed you, fed you, and taught you the way
to heaven, brought hither a prisoner, to suffer a shameful death."

"Boh we'st set him free, oly prior," cried Ashbead. "We'n meayed up our
moinds to 't. Yo just wait till he cums."

"Nay, I command you to desist from the attempt, if any such you
meditate," rejoined the prior; "it will avail nothing, and you will
only sacrifice your own lives. Our enemies are too strong. The abbot
himself would give you like counsel."

Scarcely were the words uttered than from the great gate of the abbey
there issued a dozen arquebussiers with an officer at their head, who
marched directly towards the kneeling hinds, evidently with the
intention of dispersing them. Behind them strode Nicholas Demdike. In an
instant the alarmed rustics were on their feet, and Ruchot o' Roaph's,
and some few among them, took to their heels, but Ashbead, Hal o' Nabs,
with half a dozen others, stood their ground manfully. The monks
remained in the hope of preventing any violence. Presently the
halberdiers came up.

"That is the ringleader," cried the officer, who proved to be Richard
Assheton, pointing out Ashbead; "seize him!"

"Naw mon shall lay honts o' meh," cried Cuthbert.

And as the guard pushed past the monks to execute their leader's order,
he sprang forward, and, wresting a halbert from the foremost of them,
stood upon his defence.

"Seize him, I say!" shouted Assheton, irritated at the resistance
offered.

"Keep off," cried Ashbead; "yo'd best. Loike a stag at bey ey'm
dawngerous. Waar horns! waar horns! ey sey."

The arquebussiers looked irresolute. It was evident Ashbead would only
be taken with life, and they were not sure that it was their leader's
purpose to destroy him.

"Put down thy weapon, Cuthbert," interposed the prior; "it will avail
thee nothing against odds like these."

"Mey be, 'oly prior," rejoined Ashbead, flourishing the pike: "boh ey'st
ony yield wi' loife."

"I will disarm him," cried Demdike, stepping forward.

"Theaw!" retorted Ashbead, with a scornful laugh, "Cum on, then. Hadsta
aw t' fiends i' hell at te back, ey shouldna fear thee."

"Yield!" cried Demdike in a voice of thunder, and fixing a terrible
glance upon him.

"Cum on, wizard," rejoined Ashbead undauntedly. But, observing that his
opponent was wholly unarmed, he gave the pike to Hal o' Nabs, who was
close beside him, observing, "It shall never be said that Cuthbert
Ashbead feawt t' dule himsel unfairly. Nah, touch me if theaw dar'st."

Demdike required no further provocation. With almost supernatural force
and quickness he sprung upon the forester, and seized him by the throat.
But the active young man freed himself from the gripe, and closed with
his assailant. But though of Herculean build, it soon became evident
that Ashbead would have the worst of it; when Hal o' Nabs, who had
watched the struggle with intense interest, could not help coming to his
friend's assistance, and made a push at Demdike with the halbert.

Could it be that the wrestlers shifted their position, or that the
wizard was indeed aided by the powers of darkness? None could tell, but
so it was that the pike pierced the side of Ashbead, who instantly fell
to the ground, with his adversary upon him. The next instant his hold
relaxed, and the wizard sprang to his feet unharmed, but deluged in
blood. Hal o' Nabs uttered a cry of keenest anguish, and, flinging
himself upon the body of the forester, tried to staunch the wound; but
he was quickly seized by the arquebussiers, and his hands tied behind
his back with a thong, while Ashbead was lifted up and borne towards the
abbey, the monks and rustics following slowly after; but the latter were
not permitted to enter the gate.

As the unfortunate keeper, who by this time had become insensible from
loss of blood, was carried along the walled enclosure leading to the
abbot's lodging, a female with a child in her arms was seen advancing
from the opposite side. She was tall, finely formed, with features of
remarkable beauty, though of a masculine and somewhat savage character,
and with magnificent but fierce black eyes. Her skin was dark, and her
hair raven black, contrasting strongly with the red band wound around
it. Her kirtle was of murrey-coloured serge; simply, but becomingly
fashioned. A glance sufficed to show her how matters stood with poor
Ashbead, and, uttering a sharp angry cry, she rushed towards him.

"What have you done?" she cried, fixing a keen reproachful look on
Demdike, who walked beside the wounded man.

"Nothing," replied Demdike with a bitter laugh; "the fool has been hurt
with a pike. Stand out of the way, Bess, and let the men pass. They are
about to carry him to the cell under the chapter-house."

"You shall not take him there," cried Bess Demdike, fiercely. "He may
recover if his wound be dressed. Let him go to the infirmary--ha, I
forgot--there is no one there now."

"Father Bancroft is at the gate," observed one of the arquebussiers; "he
used to act as chirurgeon in the abbey."

"No monk must enter the gate except the prisoners when they arrive,"
observed Assheton; "such are the positive orders of the Earl of Derby."

"It is not needed," observed Demdike, "no human aid can save the man."

"But can other aid save him?" said Bess, breathing the words in her
husband's ears.

"Go to!" cried Demdike, pushing her roughly aside; "wouldst have me save
thy lover?"

"Take heed," said Bess, in a deep whisper; "if thou save him not, by the
devil thou servest! thou shalt lose me and thy child."

Demdike did not think proper to contest the point, but, approaching
Assheton, requested that the wounded man might be conveyed to an arched
recess, which he pointed out. Assent being given, Ashbead was taken
there, and placed upon the ground, after which the arquebussiers and
their leader marched off; while Bess, kneeling down, supported the head
of the wounded man upon her knee, and Demdike, taking a small phial from
his doublet, poured some of its contents clown his throat. The wizard
then took a fold of linen, with which he was likewise provided, and,
dipping it in the elixir, applied it to the wound.

In a few moments Ashbead opened his eyes, and looking round wildly,
fixed his gaze upon Bess, who placed her finger upon her lips to enjoin
silence, but he could not, or would not, understand the sign.

"Aw's o'er wi' meh, Bess," he groaned; "but ey'd reyther dee thus, wi'
thee besoide meh, than i' ony other wey."

"Hush!" exclaimed Bess, "Nicholas is here."

"Oh! ey see," replied the wounded man, looking round; "but whot matters
it? Ey'st be gone soon. Ah, Bess, dear lass, if theawdst promise to
break thy compact wi' Satan--to repent and save thy precious sowl--ey
should dee content."

"Oh, do not talk thus!" cried Bess. "You will soon be well again."

"Listen to me," continued Ashbead, earnestly; "dust na knoa that if thy
babe be na bapteesed efore to-morrow neet, it'll be sacrificed to t'
Prince o' Darkness. Go to some o' t' oly feythers--confess thy sins an'
implore heaven's forgiveness--an' mayhap they'll save thee an' thy
infant."

"And be burned as a witch," rejoined Bess, fiercely. "It is useless,
Cuthbert; I have tried them all. I have knelt to them, implored them,
but their hearts are hard as flints. They will not heed me. They will
not disobey the abbot's cruel injunctions, though he be their superior
no longer. But I shall be avenged upon him--terribly avenged."

"Leave meh, theaw wicked woman." cried Ashbead; "ey dunna wish to ha'
thee near meh. Let meh dee i' peace."

"Thou wilt not die, I tell thee, Cuthbert," cried Bess; "Nicholas hath
staunched thy wound."

"He stawncht it, seyst to?" cried Ashbead, raising. "Ey'st never owe meh
loife to him."

And before he could be prevented he tore off the bandage, and the blood
burst forth anew.

"It is not my fault if he perishes now," observed Demdike, moodily.

"Help him--help him!" implored Bess.

"He shanna touch meh," cried Ashbead, struggling and increasing the
effusion. "Keep him off, ey adjure thee. Farewell, Bess," he added,
sinking back utterly exhausted by the effort.

"Cuthbert!" screamed Bess, terrified by his looks, "Cuthbert! art thou
really dying? Look at me, speak to me! Ha!" she cried, as if seized by a
sudden idea, "they say the blessing of a dying man will avail. Bless my
child, Cuthbert, bless it!"

"Give it me!" groaned the forester.

Bess held the infant towards him; but before he could place his hands
upon it all power forsook him, and he fell back and expired.

"Lost! lost! for ever lost!" cried Bess, with a wild shriek.

At this moment a loud blast was blown from the gate-tower, and a
trumpeter called out,

"The abbot and the two other prisoners are coming."

"To thy feet, wench!" cried Demdike, imperiously, and seizing the
bewildered woman by the arm; "to thy feet, and come with me to meet
him!"




CHAPTER IV.--THE MALEDICTION.


The captive ecclesiastics, together with the strong escort by which they
were attended, under the command of John Braddyll, the high sheriff of
the county, had passed the previous night at Whitewell, in Bowland
Forest; and the abbot, before setting out on his final journey, was
permitted to spend an hour in prayer in a little chapel on an adjoining
hill, overlooking a most picturesque portion of the forest, the beauties
of which were enhanced by the windings of the Hodder, one of the
loveliest streams in Lancashire. His devotions performed, Paslew,
attended by a guard, slowly descended the hill, and gazed his last on
scenes familiar to him almost from infancy. Noble trees, which now
looked like old friends, to whom he was bidding an eternal adieu, stood
around him. Beneath them, at the end of a glade, couched a herd of deer,
which started off at sight of the intruders, and made him envy their
freedom and fleetness as he followed them in thought to their solitudes.
At the foot of a steep rock ran the Hodder, making the pleasant music of
other days as it dashed over its pebbly bed, and recalling times, when,
free from all care, he had strayed by its wood-fringed banks, to listen
to the pleasant sound of running waters, and watch the shining pebbles
beneath them, and the swift trout and dainty umber glancing past.

A bitter pang was it to part with scenes so fair, and the abbot spoke no
word, nor even looked up, until, passing Little Mitton, he came in sight
of Whalley Abbey. Then, collecting all his energies, he prepared for the
shock he was about to endure. But nerved as he was, his firmness was
sorely tried when he beheld the stately pile, once his own, now gone
from him and his for ever. He gave one fond glance towards it, and then
painfully averting his gaze, recited, in a low voice, this
supplication:--

    "_Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam. Et
    secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum, dele iniquitatem
    meam. Amplius lava me ab iniquitate meâ, et à peccato meo
    munda me._"

But other thoughts and other emotions crowded upon him, when he beheld
the groups of his old retainers advancing to meet him: men, women, and
children pouring forth loud lamentations, prostrating themselves at his
feet, and deploring his doom. The abbot's fortitude had a severe trial
here, and the tears sprung to his eyes. The devotion of these poor
people touched him more sharply than the severity of his adversaries.

"Bless ye! bless ye! my children," he cried; "repine not for me, for I
bear my cross with resignation. It is for me to bewail your lot, much
fearing that the flock I have so long and so zealously tended will fall
into the hands of other and less heedful pastors, or, still worse, of
devouring wolves. Bless ye, my children, and be comforted. Think of the
end of Abbot Paslew, and for what he suffered."

"Think that he was a traitor to the king, and took up arms in rebellion
against him," cried the sheriff, riding up, and speaking in a loud
voice; "and that for his heinous offences he was justly condemned to
death."

Murmurs arose at this speech, but they were instantly checked by the
escort.

"Think charitably of me, my children," said the abbot; "and the blessed
Virgin keep you steadfast in your faith. Benedicite!"

"Be silent, traitor, I command thee," cried the sheriff, striking him
with his gauntlet in the face.

The abbot's pale check burnt crimson, and his eye flashed fire, but he
controlled himself, and answered meekly,--

"Thou didst not speak in such wise, John Braddyll, when I saved thee
from the flood."

"Which flood thou thyself caused to burst forth by devilish arts,"
rejoined the sheriff. "I owe thee little for the service. If for naught
else, thou deservest death for thy evil doings on that night."

The abbot made no reply, for Braddyll's allusion conjured up a sombre
train of thought within his breast, awakening apprehensions which he
could neither account for, nor shake off. Meanwhile, the cavalcade
slowly approached the north-east gateway of the abbey--passing through
crowds of kneeling and sorrowing bystanders;--but so deeply was the
abbot engrossed by the one dread idea that possessed him, that he saw
them not, and scarce heard their woful lamentations. All at once the
cavalcade stopped, and the sheriff rode on to the gate, in the opening
of which some ceremony was observed. Then it was that Paslew raised his
eyes, and beheld standing before him a tall man, with a woman beside him
bearing an infant in her arms. The eyes of the pair were fixed upon him
with vindictive exultation. He would have averted his gaze, but an
irresistible fascination withheld him.

"Thou seest all is prepared," said Demdike, coming close up the mule on
which Paslew was mounted, and pointing to the gigantic gallows, looming
above the abbey walls; "wilt them now accede to my request?" And then he
added, significantly--"on the same terms as before."

The abbot understood his meaning well. Life and freedom were offered him
by a being, whose power to accomplish his promise he did not doubt. The
struggle was hard; but he resisted the temptation, and answered
firmly,--

"No."

"Then die the felon death thou meritest," cried Bess, fiercely; "and I
will glut mine eyes with the spectacle."

Incensed beyond endurance, the abbot looked sternly at her, and raised
his hand in denunciation. The action and the look were so appalling,
that the affrighted woman would have fled if her husband had not
restrained her.

"By the holy patriarchs and prophets; by the prelates and confessors; by
the doctors of the church; by the holy abbots, monks, and eremites, who
dwelt in solitudes, in mountains, and in caverns; by the holy saints and
martyrs, who suffered torture and death for their faith, I curse thee,
witch!" cried Paslew. "May the malediction of Heaven and all its hosts
alight on the head of thy infant--"

"Oh! holy abbot," shrieked Bess, breaking from her husband, and flinging
herself at Paslew's feet, "curse me, if thou wilt, but spare my innocent
child. Save it, and we will save thee."

"Avoid thee, wretched and impious woman," rejoined the abbot; "I have
pronounced the dread anathema, and it cannot be recalled. Look at the
dripping garments of thy child. In blood has it been baptised, and
through blood-stained paths shall its course be taken."

"Ha!" shrieked Bess, noticing for the first time the ensanguined
condition of the infant's attire. "Cuthbert's blood--oh!"

"Listen to me, wicked woman," pursued the abbot, as if filled with a
prophetic spirit. "Thy child's life shall be long--beyond the ordinary
term of woman--but it shall be a life of woe and ill."

"Oh! stay him--stay him; or I shall die!" cried Bess.

But the wizard could not speak. A greater power than his own apparently
overmastered him.

"Children shall she have," continued the abbot, "and children's
children, but they shall be a race doomed and accursed--a brood of
adders, that the world shall flee from and crush. A thing accursed, and
shunned by her fellows, shall thy daughter be--evil reputed and evil
doing. No hand to help her--no lip to bless her--life a burden; and
death--long, long in coming--finding her in a dismal dungeon. Now,
depart from me, and trouble me no more."

Bess made a motion as if she would go, and then turning, partly round,
dropped heavily on the ground. Demdike caught the child ere she fell.

"Thou hast killed her!" he cried to the abbot.

"A stronger voice than mine hath spoken, if it be so," rejoined Paslew.
"_Fuge miserrime, fuge malefice, quia judex adest iratus_."

At this moment the trumpet again sounded, and the cavalcade being put in
motion, the abbot and his fellow-captives passed through the gate.

Dismounting from their mules within the court, before the chapter-house,
the captive ecclesiastics, preceded by the sheriff were led to the
principal chamber of the structure, where the Earl of Derby awaited
them, seated in the Gothic carved oak chair, formerly occupied by the
Abbots of Whalley on the occasions of conferences or elections. The earl
was surrounded by his officers, and the chamber was filled with armed
men. The abbot slowly advanced towards the earl. His deportment was
dignified and firm, even majestic. The exaltation of spirit, occasioned
by the interview with Demdike and his wife, had passed away, and was
succeeded by a profound calm. The hue of his cheek was livid, but
otherwise he seemed wholly unmoved.

The ceremony of delivering up the bodies of the prisoners to the earl
was gone through by the sheriff, and their sentences were then read
aloud by a clerk. After this the earl, who had hitherto remained
covered, took off his cap, and in a solemn voice spoke:--

"John Paslew, somewhile Abbot of Whalley, but now an attainted and
condemned felon, and John Eastgate and William Haydocke, formerly
brethren of the same monastery, and confederates with him in crime, ye
have heard your doom. To-morrow you shall die the ignominious death of
traitors; but the king in his mercy, having regard not so much to the
heinous nature of your offences towards his sovereign majesty as to the
sacred offices you once held, and of which you have been shamefully
deprived, is graciously pleased to remit that part of your sentence,
whereby ye are condemned to be quartered alive, willing that the hearts
which conceived so much malice and violence against him should cease to
beat within your own bosoms, and that the arms which were raised in
rebellion against him should be interred in one common grave with the
trunks to which they belong."

"God save the high and puissant king, Henry the Eighth, and free him
from all traitors!" cried the clerk.

"We humbly thank his majesty for his clemency," said the abbot, amid the
profound silence that ensued; "and I pray you, my good lord, when you
shall write to the king concerning us, to say to his majesty that we
died penitent of many and grave offences, amongst the which is chiefly
that of having taken up arms unlawfully against him, but that we did so
solely with the view of freeing his highness from evil counsellors, and
of re-establishing our holy church, for the which we would willingly
die, if our death might in anywise profit it."

"Amen!" exclaimed Father Eastgate, who stood with his hands crossed upon
his breast, close behind Paslew. "The abbot hath uttered my sentiments."

"He hath not uttered mine," cried Father Haydocke. "I ask no grace from
the bloody Herodias, and will accept none. What I have done I would do
again, were the past to return--nay, I would do more--I would find a way
to reach the tyrant's heart, and thus free our church from its worst
enemy, and the land from a ruthless oppressor."

"Remove him," said the earl; "the vile traitor shall be dealt with as he
merits. For you," he added, as the order was obeyed, and addressing the
other prisoners, "and especially you, John Paslew, who have shown some
compunction for your crimes, and to prove to you that the king is not
the ruthless tyrant he hath been just represented, I hereby in his name
promise you any boon, which you may ask consistently with your
situation. What favour would you have shown you?"

The abbot reflected for a moment.

"Speak thou, John Eastgate," said the Earl of Derby, seeing that the
abbot was occupied in thought.

"If I may proffer a request, my lord," replied the monk, "it is that our
poor distraught brother, William Haydocke, be spared the quartering
block. He meant not what he said."

"Well, be it as thou wilt," replied the earl, bending his brows, "though
he ill deserves such grace. Now, John Paslew, what wouldst thou?"

Thus addressed, the abbot looked up.

"I would have made the same request as my brother, John Eastgate, if he
had not anticipated me, my lord," said Paslew; "but since his petition
is granted, I would, on my own part, entreat that mass be said for us in
the convent church. Many of the brethren are without the abbey, and, if
permitted, will assist at its performance."

"I know not if I shall not incur the king's displeasure in assenting,"
replied the Earl of Derby, after a little reflection; "but I will hazard
it. Mass for the dead shall be said in the church at midnight, and all
the brethren who choose to come thither shall be permitted to assist at
it. They will attend, I doubt not, for it will be the last time the
rites of the Romish Church will be performed in those Walls. They shall
have all required for the ceremonial."

"Heaven's blessings on you, my lord," said the abbot.

"But first pledge me your sacred word," said the earl, "by the holy
office you once held, and by the saints in whom you trust, that this
concession shall not be made the means of any attempt at flight."

"I swear it," replied the abbot, earnestly.

"And I also swear it," added Father Eastgate.

"Enough," said the earl. "I will give the requisite orders. Notice of
the celebration of mass at midnight shall be proclaimed without the
abbey. Now remove the prisoners."

Upon this the captive ecclesiastics were led forth. Father Eastgate was
taken to a strong room in the lower part of the chapter-house, where all
acts of discipline had been performed by the monks, and where the
knotted lash, the spiked girdle, and the hair shirt had once hung; while
the abbot was conveyed to his old chamber, which had been prepared for
his reception, and there left alone.




CHAPTER V.--THE MIDNIGHT MASS.


Dolefully sounds the All Souls' bell from the tower of the convent
church. The bell is one of five, and has obtained the name because it is
tolled only for those about to pass away from life. Now it rings the
knell of three souls to depart on the morrow. Brightly illumined is the
fane, within which no taper hath gleamed since the old worship ceased,
showing that preparations are made for the last service. The organ, dumb
so long, breathes a low prelude. Sad is it to hear that knell--sad to
view those gloriously-dyed panes--and to think why the one rings and the
other is lighted up.

Word having gone forth of the midnight mass, all the ejected brethren
flock to the abbey. Some have toiled through miry and scarce passable
roads. Others have come down from the hills, and forded deep streams at
the hazard of life, rather than go round by the far-off bridge, and
arrive too late. Others, who conceive themselves in peril from the share
they have taken in the late insurrection, quit their secure retreats,
and expose themselves to capture. It may be a snare laid for them, but
they run the risk. Others, coming from a yet greater distance, beholding
the illuminated church from afar, and catching the sound of the bell
tolling at intervals, hurry on, and reach the gate breathless and
wellnigh exhausted. But no questions are asked. All who present
themselves in ecclesiastical habits are permitted to enter, and take
part in the procession forming in the cloister, or proceed at once to
the church, if they prefer it.

Dolefully sounds the bell. Barefooted brethren meet together,
sorrowfully salute each other, and form in a long line in the great area
of the cloisters. At their head are six monks bearing tall lighted
candles. After them come the quiristers, and then one carrying the Host,
between the incense-bearers. Next comes a youth holding the bell. Next
are placed the dignitaries of the church, the prior ranking first, and
the others standing two and two according to their degrees. Near the
entrance of the refectory, which occupies the whole south side of the
quadrangle, stand a band of halberdiers, whose torches cast a ruddy
glare on the opposite tower and buttresses of the convent church,
revealing the statues not yet plucked from their niches, the crosses on
the pinnacles, and the gilt image of Saint Gregory de Northbury, still
holding its place over the porch. Another band are stationed near the
mouth of the vaulted passage, under the chapter-house and vestry, whose
grey, irregular walls, pierced by numberless richly ornamented windows,
and surmounted by small turrets, form a beautiful boundary on the right;
while a third party are planted on the left, in the open space, beneath
the dormitory, the torchlight flashing ruddily upon the hoary pillars
and groined arches sustaining the vast structure above them.

Dolefully sounds the bell. And the ghostly procession thrice tracks the
four ambulatories of the cloisters, solemnly chanting a requiem for the
dead.

Dolefully sounds the bell. And at its summons all the old retainers of
the abbot press to the gate, and sue for admittance, but in vain. They,
therefore, mount the neighbouring hill commanding the abbey, and as the
solemn sounds float faintly by, and glimpses are caught of the
white-robed brethren gliding along the cloisters, and rendered
phantom-like by the torchlight, the beholders half imagine it must be a
company of sprites, and that the departed monks have been permitted for
an hour to assume their old forms, and revisit their old haunts.

Dolefully sounds the bell. And two biers, covered with palls, are borne
slowly towards the church, followed by a tall monk.

The clock was on the stroke of twelve. The procession having drawn up
within the court in front of the abbot's lodging, the prisoners were
brought forth, and at sight of the abbot the whole of the monks fell on
their knees. A touching sight was it to see those reverend men prostrate
before their ancient superior,--he condemned to die, and they deprived
of their monastic home,--and the officer had not the heart to interfere.
Deeply affected, Paslew advanced to the prior, and raising him,
affectionately embraced him. After this, he addressed some words of
comfort to the others, who arose as he enjoined them, and at a signal
from the officer, the procession set out for the church, singing the
"_Placebo_." The abbot and his fellow captives brought up the rear, with
a guard on either side of them. All Souls' bell tolled dolefully the
while.

Meanwhile an officer entered the great hall, where the Earl of Derby was
feasting with his retainers, and informed him that the hour appointed
for the ceremonial was close at hand. The earl arose and went to the
church attended by Braddyll and Assheton. He entered by the western
porch, and, proceeding to the choir, seated himself in the
magnificently-carved stall formerly used by Paslew, and placed where it
stood, a hundred years before, by John Eccles, ninth abbot.

Midnight struck. The great door of the church swung open, and the organ
pealed forth the "_De profundis_." The aisles were filled with armed
men, but a clear space was left for the procession, which presently
entered in the same order as before, and moved slowly along the
transept. Those who came first thought it a dream, so strange was it to
find themselves once again in the old accustomed church. The good prior
melted into tears.

At length the abbot came. To him the whole scene appeared like a vision.
The lights streaming from the altar--the incense loading the air--the
deep diapasons rolling overhead--the well-known faces of the
brethren--the familiar aspect of the sacred edifice--all these filled
him with emotions too painful almost for endurance. It was the last time
he should visit this holy place--the last time he should hear those
solemn sounds--the last time he should behold those familiar
objects--ay, the last! Death could have no pang like this! And with
heart wellnigh bursting, and limbs scarcely serving their office, he
tottered on.

Another trial awaited him, and one for which he was wholly unprepared.
As he drew near the chancel, he looked down an opening on the right,
which seemed purposely preserved by the guard. Why were those tapers
burning in the side chapel? What was within it? He looked again, and
beheld two uncovered biers. On one lay the body of a woman. He started.
In the beautiful, but fierce features of the dead, he beheld the witch,
Bess Demdike. She was gone to her account before him. The malediction he
had pronounced upon her child had killed her.

Appalled, he turned to the other bier, and recognised Cuthbert Ashbead.
He shuddered, but comforted himself that he was at least guiltless of
his death; though he had a strange feeling that the poor forester had in
some way perished for him.

But his attention was diverted towards a tall monk in the Cistertian
habit, standing between the bodies, with the cowl drawn over his face.
As Paslew gazed at him, the monk slowly raised his hood, and partially
disclosed features that smote the abbot as if he had beheld a spectre.
Could it be? Could fancy cheat him thus? He looked again. The monk was
still standing there, but the cowl had dropped over his face. Striving
to shake off the horror that possessed him, the abbot staggered forward,
and reaching the presbytery, sank upon his knees.

The ceremonial then commenced. The solemn requiem was sung by the choir;
and three yet living heard the hymn for the repose of their souls.
Always deeply impressive, the service was unusually so on this sad
occasion, and the melodious voices of the singers never sounded so
mournfully sweet as then--the demeanour of the prior never seemed so
dignified, nor his accents so touching and solemn. The sternest hearts
were softened.

But the abbot found it impossible to fix his attention on the service.
The lights at the altar burnt dimly in his eyes--the loud antiphon and
the supplicatory prayer fell upon a listless ear. His whole life was
passing in review before him. He saw himself as he was when he first
professed his faith, and felt the zeal and holy aspirations that filled
him then. Years flew by at a glance, and he found himself sub-deacon;
the sub-deacon became deacon; and the deacon, sub-prior, and the end of
his ambition seemed plain before him. But he had a rival; his fears told
him a superior in zeal and learning: one who, though many years younger
than he, had risen so rapidly in favour with the ecclesiastical
authorities, that he threatened to outstrip him, even now, when the goal
was full in view. The darkest passage of his life approached: a crime
which should cast a deep shadow over the whole of his brilliant
after-career. He would have shunned its contemplation, if he could. In
vain. It stood out more palpably than all the rest. His rival was no
longer in his path. How he was removed the abbot did not dare to think.
But he was gone for ever, unless the tall monk were he!

Unable to endure this terrible retrospect, Paslew strove to bend his
thoughts on other things. The choir was singing the "_Dies Iræ_," and
their voices thundered forth:--

          Rex tremendæ majestatis,
          Qui salvandos salvas gratis,
          Salva me, fons pietatis!

Fain would the abbot have closed his ears, and, hoping to stifle the
remorseful pangs that seized upon his very vitals with the sharpness of
serpents' teeth, he strove to dwell upon the frequent and severe acts of
penance he had performed. But he now found that his penitence had never
been sincere and efficacious. This one damning sin obscured all his good
actions; and he felt if he died unconfessed, and with the weight of
guilt upon his soul, he should perish everlastingly. Again he fled from
the torment of retrospection, and again heard the choir thundering
forth--

          Lacrymosa dies illa,
          Quâ resurget ex favillâ
          Judicandus homo reus.
          Huic ergo parce, Deus!
          Pie Jesu Domine!
          Dona eis requiem.

"Amen!" exclaimed the abbot. And bowing his head to the ground, he
earnestly repeated--

          "Pie Jesu Domine!
          Dona eis requiem."

Then he looked up, and resolved to ask for a confessor, and unburthen
his soul without delay.

The offertory and post-communion were over; the "_requiescant in
pace_"--awful words addressed to living ears--were pronounced; and the
mass was ended.

All prepared to depart. The prior descended from the altar to embrace
and take leave of the abbot; and at the same time the Earl of Derby came
from the stall.

"Has all been done to your satisfaction, John Paslew?" demanded the
earl, as he drew near.

"All, my good lord," replied the abbot, lowly inclining his head; "and I
pray you think me not importunate, if I prefer one other request. I
would fain have a confessor visit me, that I may lay bare my inmost
heart to him, and receive absolution."

"I have already anticipated the request," replied the earl, "and have
provided a priest for you. He shall attend you, within an hour, in your
own chamber. You will have ample time between this and daybreak, to
settle your accounts with Heaven, should they be ever so weighty."

"I trust so, my lord," replied Paslew; "but a whole life is scarcely
long enough for repentance, much less a few short hours. But in regard
to the confessor," he continued, filled with misgiving by the earl's
manner, "I should be glad to be shriven by Father Christopher Smith,
late prior of the abbey."

"It may not be," replied the earl, sternly and decidedly. "You will find
all you can require in him I shall send."

The abbot sighed, seeing that remonstrance was useless.

"One further question I would address to you, my lord," he said, "and
that refers to the place of my interment. Beneath our feet lie buried
all my predecessors--Abbots of Whalley. Here lies John Eccles, for whom
was carved the stall in which your lordship hath sat, and from which I
have been dethroned. Here rests the learned John Lyndelay, fifth abbot;
and beside him his immediate predecessor, Robert de Topcliffe, who, two
hundred and thirty years ago, on the festival of Saint Gregory, our
canonised abbot, commenced the erection of the sacred edifice above us.
At that epoch were here enshrined the remains of the saintly Gregory,
and here were also brought the bodies of Helias de Workesley and John de
Belfield, both prelates of piety and wisdom. You may read the names
where you stand, my lord. You may count the graves of all the abbots.
They are sixteen in number. There is one grave yet unoccupied--one stone
yet unfurnished with an effigy in brass."

"Well!" said the Earl of Derby.

"When I sat in that stall, my lord," pursued Paslew, pointing to the
abbot's chair; "when I was head of this church, it was my thought to
rest here among my brother abbots."

"You have forfeited the right," replied the earl, sternly. "All the
abbots, whose dust is crumbling beneath us, died in the odour of
sanctity; loyal to their sovereigns, and true to their country, whereas
you will die an attainted felon and rebel. You can have no place amongst
them. Concern not yourself further in the matter. I will find a fitting
grave for you,--perchance at the foot of the gallows."

And, turning abruptly away, he gave the signal for general departure.

Ere the clock in the church tower had tolled one, the lights were
extinguished, and of the priestly train who had recently thronged the
fane, all were gone, like a troop of ghosts evoked at midnight by
necromantic skill, and then suddenly dismissed. Deep silence again
brooded in the aisles; hushed was the organ; mute the melodious choir.
The only light penetrating the convent church proceeded from the moon,
whose rays, shining through the painted windows, fell upon the graves of
the old abbots in the presbytery, and on the two biers within the
adjoining chapel, whose stark burthens they quickened into fearful
semblance of life.




CHAPTER VI.--TETER ET FORTIS CARCER.


Left alone, and unable to pray, the abbot strove to dissipate his
agitation of spirit by walking to and fro within his chamber; and while
thus occupied, he was interrupted by a guard, who told him that the
priest sent by the Earl of Derby was without, and immediately afterwards
the confessor was ushered in. It was the tall monk, who had been
standing between the biers, and his features were still shrouded by his
cowl. At sight of him, Paslew sank upon a seat and buried his face in
his hands. The monk offered him no consolation, but waited in silence
till he should again look up. At last Paslew took courage and spoke.

"Who, and what are you?" he demanded.

"A brother of the same order as yourself," replied the monk, in deep and
thrilling accents, but without raising his hood; "and I am come to hear
your confession by command of the Earl of Derby."

"Are you of this abbey?" asked Paslew, tremblingly.

"I was," replied the monk, in a stern tone; "but the monastery is
dissolved, and all the brethren ejected."

"Your name?" cried Paslew.

"I am not come here to answer questions, but to hear a confession,"
rejoined the monk. "Bethink you of the awful situation in which you are
placed, and that before many hours you must answer for the sins you have
committed. You have yet time for repentance, if you delay it not."

"You are right, father," replied the abbot. "Be seated, I pray you, and
listen to me, for I have much to tell. Thirty and one years ago I was
prior of this abbey. Up to that period my life had been blameless, or,
if not wholly free from fault, I had little wherewith to reproach
myself--little to fear from a merciful judge--unless it were that I
indulged too strongly the desire of ruling absolutely in the house in
which I was then only second. But Satan had laid a snare for me, into
which I blindly fell. Among the brethren was one named Borlace Alvetham,
a young man of rare attainment, and singular skill in the occult
sciences. He had risen in favour, and at the time I speak of was elected
sub-prior."

"Go on," said the monk.

"It began to be whispered about within the abbey," pursued Paslew, "that
on the death of William Rede, then abbot, Borlace Alvetham would succeed
him, and then it was that bitter feelings of animosity were awakened in
my breast against the sub-prior, and, after many struggles, I resolved
upon his destruction."

"A wicked resolution," cried the monk; "but proceed."

"I pondered over the means of accomplishing my purpose," resumed Paslew,
"and at last decided upon accusing Alvetham of sorcery and magical
practices. The accusation was easy, for the occult studies in which he
indulged laid him open to the charge. He occupied a chamber overlooking
the Calder, and used to break the monastic rules by wandering forth at
night upon the hills. When he was absent thus one night, accompanied by
others of the brethren, I visited his chamber, and examined his papers,
some of which were covered with mystical figures and cabalistic
characters. These papers I seized, and a watch was set to make prisoner
of Alvetham on his return. Before dawn he appeared, and was instantly
secured, and placed in close confinement. On the next day he was brought
before the assembled conclave in the chapter-house, and examined. His
defence was unavailing. I charged him with the terrible crime of
witchcraft, and he was found guilty."

A hollow groan broke from the monk, but he offered no other
interruption.

"He was condemned to die a fearful and lingering death," pursued the
abbot; "and it devolved upon me to see the sentence carried out."

"And no pity for the innocent moved you?" cried the monk. "You had no
compunction?"

"None," replied the abbot; "I rather rejoiced in the successful
accomplishment of my scheme. The prey was fairly in my toils, and I
would give him no chance of escape. Not to bring scandal upon the
abbey, it was decided that Alvetham's punishment should be secret."

"A wise resolve," observed the monk.

"Within the thickness of the dormitory walls is contrived a small
singularly-formed dungeon," continued the abbot. "It consists of an
arched cell, just large enough to hold the body of a captive, and permit
him to stretch himself upon a straw pallet. A narrow staircase mounts
upwards to a grated aperture in one of the buttresses to admit air and
light. Other opening is there none. '_Teter et fortis carcer_' is this
dungeon styled in our monastic rolls, and it is well described, for it
is black and strong enough. Food is admitted to the miserable inmate of
the cell by means of a revolving stone, but no interchange of speech can
be held with those without. A large stone is removed from the wall to
admit the prisoner, and once immured, the masonry is mortised, and made
solid as before. The wretched captive does not long survive his doom, or
it may be he lives too long, for death must be a release from such
protracted misery. In this dark cell one of the evil-minded brethren,
who essayed to stab the Abbot of Kirkstall in the chapter-house, was
thrust, and ere a year was over, the provisions were untouched--and the
man being known to be dead, they were stayed. His skeleton was found
within the cell when it was opened to admit Borlace Alvetham."

"Poor captive!" groaned the monk.

"Ay, poor captive!" echoed Paslew. "Mine eyes have often striven to
pierce those stone walls, and see him lying there in that narrow
chamber, or forcing his way upwards, to catch a glimpse of the blue sky
above him. When I have seen the swallows settle on the old buttress, or
the thin grass growing between the stones waving there, I have thought
of him."

"Go on," said the monk.

"I scarce can proceed," rejoined Paslew. "Little time was allowed
Alvetham for preparation. That very night the fearful sentence was
carried out. The stone was removed, and a new pallet placed in the cell.
At midnight the prisoner was brought to the dormitory, the brethren
chanting a doleful hymn. There he stood amidst them, his tall form
towering above the rest, and his features pale as death. He protested
his innocence, but he exhibited no fear, even when he saw the terrible
preparations. When all was ready he was led to the breach. At that awful
moment, his eye met mine, and I shall never forget the look. I might
have saved him if I had spoken, but I would not speak. I turned away,
and he was thrust into the breach. A fearful cry then rang in my ears,
but it was instantly drowned by the mallets of the masons employed to
fasten up the stone."

There was a pause for a few moments, broken only by the sobs of the
abbot. At length, the monk spoke.

"And the prisoner perished in the cell?" he demanded in a hollow voice.

"I thought so till to-night," replied the abbot. "But if he escaped it,
it must have been by miracle; or by aid of those powers with whom he was
charged with holding commerce."

"He did escape!" thundered the monk, throwing back his hood. "Look up,
John Paslew. Look up, false abbot, and recognise thy victim."

"Borlace Alvetham!" cried the abbot. "Is it, indeed, you?"

"You see, and can you doubt?" replied the other. "But you shall now hear
how I avoided the terrible death to which you procured my condemnation.
You shall now learn how I am here to repay the wrong you did me. We have
changed places, John Paslew, since the night when I was thrust into the
cell, never, as you hoped, to come forth. You are now the criminal, and
I the witness of the punishment."

"Forgive me! oh, forgive me! Borlace Alvetham, since you are, indeed,
he!" cried the abbot, falling on his knees.

"Arise, John Paslew!" cried the other, sternly. "Arise, and listen to
me. For the damning offences into which I have been led, I hold you
responsible. But for you I might have died free from sin. It is fit you
should know the amount of my iniquity. Give ear to me, I say. When first
shut within that dungeon, I yielded to the promptings of despair.
Cursing you, I threw myself upon the pallet, resolved to taste no food,
and hoping death would soon release me. But love of life prevailed. On
the second day I took the bread and water allotted me, and ate and
drank; after which I scaled the narrow staircase, and gazed through the
thin barred loophole at the bright blue sky above, sometimes catching
the shadow of a bird as it flew past. Oh, how I yearned for freedom
then! Oh, how I wished to break through the stone walls that held me
fast! Oh, what a weight of despair crushed my heart as I crept back to
my narrow bed! The cell seemed like a grave, and indeed it was little
better. Horrible thoughts possessed me. What if I should be wilfully
forgotten? What if no food should be given me, and I should be left to
perish by the slow pangs of hunger? At this idea I shrieked aloud, but
the walls alone returned a dull echo to my cries. I beat my hands
against the stones, till the blood flowed from them, but no answer was
returned; and at last I desisted from sheer exhaustion. Day after day,
and night after night, passed in this way. My food regularly came. But I
became maddened by solitude; and with terrible imprecations invoked aid
from the powers of darkness to set me free. One night, while thus
employed, I was startled by a mocking voice which said,

"'All this fury is needless. Thou hast only to wish for me, and I come.'

[Illustration: ALVETHAM AND JOHN PASLEW.]

"It was profoundly dark. I could see nothing but a pair of red orbs,
glowing like flaming carbuncles.

"'Thou wouldst be free,' continued the voice. 'Thou shalt be so. Arise,
and follow me.'

"At this I felt myself grasped by an iron arm, against which all
resistance would have been unavailing, even if I had dared to offer it,
and in an instant I was dragged up the narrow steps. The stone wall
opened before my unseen conductor, and in another moment we were upon
the roof of the dormitory. By the bright starbeams shooting down from
above, I discerned a tall shadowy figure standing by my side.

"'Thou art mine,' he cried, in accents graven for ever on my memory;
'but I am a generous master, and will give thee a long term of freedom.
Thou shalt be avenged upon thine enemy--deeply avenged.'

"'Grant this, and I am thine,' I replied, a spirit of infernal vengeance
possessing me. And I knelt before the fiend.

"'But thou must tarry for awhile,' he answered, 'for thine enemy's time
will be long in coming; but it _will_ come. I cannot work him immediate
harm; but I will lead him to a height from which he will assuredly fall
headlong. Thou must depart from this place; for it is perilous to thee,
and if thou stayest here, ill will befall thee. I will send a rat to thy
dungeon, which shall daily devour the provisions, so that the monks
shall not know thou hast fled. In thirty and one years shall the abbot's
doom be accomplished. Two years before that time thou mayst return. Then
come alone to Pendle Hill on a Friday night, and beat the water of the
moss pool on the summit, and I will appear to thee and tell thee more.
Nine and twenty years, remember!'

"With these words the shadowy figure melted away, and I found myself
standing alone on the mossy roof of the dormitory. The cold stars were
shining down upon me, and I heard the howl of the watch-dogs near the
gate. The fair abbey slept in beauty around me, and I gnashed my teeth
with rage to think that you had made me an outcast from it, and robbed
me of a dignity which might have been mine. I was wroth also that my
vengeance should be so long delayed. But I could not remain where I was,
so I clambered down the buttress, and fled away."

"Can this be?" cried the abbot, who had listened in rapt wonderment to
the narration. "Two years after your immurement in the cell, the food
having been for some time untouched, the wall was opened, and upon the
pallet was found a decayed carcase in mouldering, monkish vestments."

"It was a body taken from the charnel, and placed there by the demon,"
replied the monk. "Of my long wanderings in other lands and beneath
brighter skies I need not tell you; but neither absence nor lapse of
years cooled my desire of vengeance, and when the appointed time drew
nigh I returned to my own country, and came hither in a lowly garb,
under the name of Nicholas Demdike."

"Ha!" exclaimed the abbot.

"I went to Pendle Hill, as directed," pursued the monk, "and saw the
Dark Shape there as I beheld it on the dormitory roof. All things were
then told me, and I learnt how the late rebellion should rise, and how
it should be crushed. I learnt also how my vengeance should be
satisfied."

Paslew groaned aloud. A brief pause ensued, and deep emotion marked the
accents of the wizard as he proceeded.

"When I came back, all this part of Lancashire resounded with praises of
the beauty of Bess Blackburn, a rustic lass who dwelt in Barrowford. She
was called the Flower of Pendle, and inflamed all the youths with love,
and all the maidens with jealousy. But she favoured none except Cuthbert
Ashbead, forester to the Abbot of Whalley. Her mother would fain have
given her to the forester in marriage, but Bess would not be disposed of
so easily. I saw her, and became at once enamoured. I thought my heart
was seared; but it was not so. The savage beauty of Bess pleased me more
than the most refined charms could have done, and her fierce character
harmonised with my own. How I won her matters not, but she cast off all
thoughts of Ashbead, and clung to me. My wild life suited her; and she
roamed the wastes with me, scaled the hills in my company, and shrank
not from the weird meetings I attended. Ill repute quickly attended her,
and she became branded as a witch. Her aged mother closed her doors upon
her, and those who would have gone miles to meet her, now avoided her.
Bess heeded this little. She was of a nature to repay the world's
contumely with like scorn, but when her child was born the case became
different. She wished to save it. Then it was," pursued Demdike,
vehemently, and regarding the abbot with flashing eyes--"then it was
that I was again mortally injured by you. Then your ruthless decree to
the clergy went forth. My child was denied baptism, and became subject
to the fiend."

"Alas! alas!" exclaimed Paslew.

"And as if this were not injury enough," thundered Demdike, "you have
called down a withering and lasting curse upon its innocent head, and
through it transfixed its mother's heart. If you had complied with that
poor girl's request, I would have forgiven you your wrong to me, and
have saved you."

There was a long, fearful silence. At last Demdike advanced to the
abbot, and, seizing his arm, fixed his eyes upon him, as if to search
into his soul.

"Answer me, John Paslew!" he cried; "answer me, as you shall speedily
answer your Maker. Can that malediction be recalled? Dare not to trifle
with me, or I will tear forth your black heart, and cast it in your
face. Can that curse be recalled? Speak!"

"It cannot," replied the abbot, half dead with terror.

"Away, then!" thundered Demdike, casting him from him. "To the
gallows!--to the gallows!" And he rushed out of the room.




CHAPTER VII.--THE ABBEY MILL.


For a while the abbot remained shattered and stupefied by this terrible
interview. At length he arose, and made his way, he scarce knew how, to
the oratory. But it was long before the tumult of his thoughts could be
at all allayed, and he had only just regained something like composure
when he was disturbed by hearing a slight sound in the adjoining
chamber. A mortal chill came over him, for he thought it might be
Demdike returned. Presently, he distinguished a footstep stealthily
approaching him, and almost hoped that the wizard would consummate his
vengeance by taking his life. But he was quickly undeceived, for a hand
was placed on his shoulder, and a friendly voice whispered in his ears,
"Cum along wi' meh, lort abbut. Get up, quick--quick!"

Thus addressed, the abbot raised his eyes, and beheld a rustic figure
standing beside him, divested of his clouted shoes, and armed with a
long bare wood-knife.

"Dunna yo knoa me, lort abbut?" cried the person. "Ey'm a freent--Hal o'
Nabs, o' Wiswall. Yo'n moind Wiswall, yeawr own birthplace, abbut? Dunna
be feert, ey sey. Ey'n getten a steigh clapt to yon windaw, an' you con
be down it i' a trice--an' along t' covert way be t' river soide to t'
mill."

But the abbot stirred not.

"Quick! quick!" implored Hal o' Nabs, venturing to pluck the abbot's
sleeve. "Every minute's precious. Dunna be feert. Ebil Croft, t' miller,
is below. Poor Cuthbert Ashbead would ha' been here i'stead o' meh if he
couldn; boh that accursed wizard, Nick Demdike, turned my hont agen him,
an' drove t' poike head intended for himself into poor Cuthbert's side.
They clapt meh i' a dungeon, boh Ebil monaged to get me out, an' ey then
swore to do whot poor Cuthbert would ha' done, if he'd been livin'--so
here ey am, lort abbut, cum to set yo free. An' neaw yo knoan aw abowt
it, yo con ha nah more hesitation. Cum, time presses, an ey'm feert o'
t' guard owerhearing us."

"I thank you, my good friend, from the bottom of my heart," replied the
abbot, rising; "but, however strong may be the temptation of life and
liberty which you hold out to me, I cannot yield to it. I have pledged
my word to the Earl of Derby to make no attempt to escape. Were the
doors thrown open, and the guard removed, I should remain where I am."

"Whot!" exclaimed Hal o' Nabs, in a tone of bitter disappointment; "yo
winnaw go, neaw aw's prepared. By th' Mess, boh yo shan. Ey'st nah go
back to Ebil empty-handed. If yo'n sworn to stay here, ey'n sworn to set
yo free, and ey'st keep meh oath. Willy nilly, yo shan go wi' meh, lort
abbut!"

"Forbear to urge me further, my good Hal," rejoined Paslew. "I fully
appreciate your devotion; and I only regret that you and Abel Croft have
exposed yourselves to so much peril on my account. Poor Cuthbert
Ashbead! when I beheld his body on the bier, I had a sad feeling that he
had died in my behalf."

"Cuthbert meant to rescue yo, lort abbut," replied Hal, "and deed
resisting Nick Demdike's attempt to arrest him. Boh, be aw t' devils!"
he added, brandishing his knife fiercely, "t' warlock shall ha' three
inches o' cowd steel betwixt his ribs, t' furst time ey cum across him."

"Peace, my son," rejoined the abbot, "and forego your bloody design.
Leave the wretched man to the chastisement of Heaven. And now, farewell!
All your kindly efforts to induce me to fly are vain."

"Yo winnaw go?" cried Hal o'Nabs, scratching his head.

"I cannot," replied the abbot.

"Cum wi' meh to t' windaw, then," pursued Hal, "and tell Ebil so. He'll
think ey'n failed else."

"Willingly," replied the abbot.

And with noiseless footsteps he followed the other across the chamber.
The window was open, and outside it was reared a ladder.

"Yo mun go down a few steps," said Hal o' Nabs, "or else he'll nah hear
yo."

The abbot complied, and partly descended the ladder.

"I see no one," he said.

"T' neet's dark," replied Hal o' Nabs, who was close behind him. "Ebil
canna be far off. Hist! ey hear him--go on."

The abbot was now obliged to comply, though he did so with, reluctance.
Presently he found himself upon the roof of a building, which he knew to
be connected with the mill by a covered passage running along the south
bank of the Calder. Scarcely had he set foot there, than Hal o' Nabs
jumped after him, and, seizing the ladder, cast it into the stream, thus
rendering Paslew's return impossible.

"Neaw, lort abbut," he cried, with a low, exulting laugh, "yo hanna
brok'n yor word, an ey'n kept moine. Yo're free agen your will."

"You have destroyed me by your mistaken zeal," cried the abbot,
reproachfully.

"Nowt o't sort," replied Hal; "ey'n saved yo' fro' destruction. This
way, lort abbut--this way."

And taking Paslew's arm he led him to a low parapet, overlooking the
covered passage before described. Half an hour before it had been bright
moonlight, but, as if to favour the fugitive, the heavens had become
overcast, and a thick mist had arisen from the river.

"Ebil! Ebil!" cried Hal o' Nabs, leaning over the parapet.

"Here," replied a voice below. "Is aw reet? Is he wi' yo?"

"Yeigh," replied Hal.

"Whot han yo dun wi' t' steigh?" cried Ebil.

"Never yo moind," returned Hal, "boh help t' abbut down."

Paslew thought it vain to resist further, and with the help of Hal o'
Nabs and the miller, and further aided by some irregularities in the
wall, he was soon safely landed near the entrance of the passage. Abel
fell on his knees, and pressed the abbot's hand to his lips.

"Owr Blessed Leady be praised, yo are free," he cried.

"Dunna stond tawking here, Ebil," interposed Hal o' Nabs, who by this
time had reached the ground, and who was fearful of some new
remonstrance on the abbot's part. "Ey'm feerd o' pursuit."

"Yo' needna be afeerd o' that, Hal," replied the miller. "T' guard are
safe enough. One o' owr chaps has just tuk em up a big black jack fu' o'
stout ele; an ey warrant me they winnaw stir yet awhoile. Win it please
yo to cum wi' me, lort abbut?"

With this, he marched along the passage, followed by the others, and
presently arrived at a door, against which he tapped. A bolt being
withdrawn, it was instantly opened to admit the party, after which it
was as quickly shut, and secured. In answer to a call from the miller, a
light appeared at the top of a steep, ladder-like flight of wooden
steps, and up these Paslew, at the entreaty of Abel, mounted, and found
himself in a large, low chamber, the roof of which was crossed by great
beams, covered thickly with cobwebs, whitened by flour, while the floor
was strewn with empty sacks and sieves.

The person who held the light proved to be the miller's daughter,
Dorothy, a blooming lass of eighteen, and at the other end of the
chamber, seated on a bench before a turf fire, with an infant on her
knees, was the miller's wife. The latter instantly arose on beholding
the abbot, and, placing the child on a corn bin, advanced towards him,
and dropped on her knees, while her daughter imitated her example. The
abbot extended his hands over them, and pronounced a solemn benediction.

"Bring your child also to me, that I may bless it," he said, when he
concluded.

"It's nah my child, lort abbut," replied the miller's wife, taking up
the infant and bringing it to him; "it wur brought to me this varry neet
by Ebil. Ey wish it wur far enough, ey'm sure, for it's a deformed
little urchon. One o' its een is lower set than t' other; an t' reet
looks up, while t' laft looks down."

And as she spoke she pointed to the infant's face, which was disfigured
as she had stated, by a strange and unnatural disposition of the eyes,
one of which was set much lower in the head than the other. Awakened
from sleep, the child uttered a feeble cry, and stretched out its tiny
arms to Dorothy.

"You ought to pity it for its deformity, poor little creature, rather
than reproach it, mother," observed the young damsel.

"Marry kem eawt!" cried her mother, sharply, "yo'n getten fine feelings
wi' your larning fro t' good feythers, Dolly. Os ey said efore, ey wish
t' brat wur far enough."

"You forget it has no mother," suggested Dorothy, kindly.

"An naw great matter, if it hasn't," returned the miller's wife. "Bess
Demdike's neaw great loss."

"Is this Bess Demdike's child?" cried Paslew, recoiling.

"Yeigh," exclaimed the miller's wife. And mistaking the cause of
Paslew's emotion, she added, triumphantly, to her daughter, "Ey towd te,
wench, ot t' lort abbut would be of my way o' thinking. T' chilt has got
the witch's mark plain upon her. Look, lort abbut, look!"

But Paslew heeded her not, but murmured to himself:--

"Ever in my path, go where I will. It is vain to struggle with my fate.
I will go back and surrender myself to the Earl of Derby."

"Nah,--nah!--yo shanna do that," replied Hal o' Nabs, who, with the
miller, was close beside him. "Sit down o' that stoo' be t' fire, and
take a cup o' wine t' cheer yo, and then we'n set out to Pendle Forest,
where ey'st find yo a safe hiding-place. An t' ony reward ey'n ever ask
for t' sarvice shan be, that yo'n perform a marriage sarvice fo' me and
Dolly one of these days." And he nudged the damsel's elbow, who turned
away, covered with blushes.

The abbot moved mechanically to the fire, and sat down, while the
miller's wife, surrendering the child with a shrug of the shoulders and
a grimace to her daughter, went in search of some viands and a flask of
wine, which she set before Paslew. The miller then filled a
drinking-horn, and presented it to his guest, who was about to raise it
to his lips, when a loud knocking was heard at the door below.

The knocking continued with increased violence, and voices were heard
calling upon the miller to open the door, or it would be broken down. On
the first alarm Abel had flown to a small window whence he could
reconnoitre those below, and he now returned with a face white with
terror, to say that a party of arquebussiers, with the sheriff at their
head, were without, and that some of the men were provided with torches.

"They have discovered my evasion, and are come in search of me,"
observed the abbot rising, but without betraying any anxiety. "Do not
concern yourselves further for me, my good friends, but open the door,
and deliver me to them."

"Nah, nah, that we winnaw," cried Hal o' Nabs, "yo're neaw taen yet,
feyther abbut, an' ey knoa a way to baffle 'em. If y'on let him down
into t' river, Ebil, ey'n manage to get him off."

"Weel thowt on, Nab," cried the miller, "theawst nah been mey mon seven
year fo nowt. Theaw knoas t' ways o' t' pleck."

"Os weel os onny rotten abowt it," replied Hal o' Nabs. "Go down to t'
grindin'-room, an ey'n follow i' a troice."

And as Abel snatched up the light, and hastily descended the steps with
Paslew, Hal whispered in Dorothy's ears--

"Tak care neaw one fonds that chilt, Dolly, if they break in. Hide it
safely; an whon they're gone, tak it to't church, and place it near t'
altar, where no ill con cum to it or thee. Mey life may hong upon it."

And as the poor girl, who, as well as her mother, was almost frightened
out of her wits, promised compliance, he hurried down the steps after
the others, muttering, as the clamour without was redoubled--

"Eigh, roar on till yo're hoarse. Yo winnaw get in yet awhile, ey'n
promise ye."

Meantime, the abbot had been led to the chief room of the mill, where
all the corn formerly consumed within the monastery had been prepared,
and which the size of the chamber itself, together with the vastness of
the stones used in the operation of grinding, and connected with the
huge water-wheel outside, proved to be by no means inconsiderable.
Strong shafts of timber supported the flooring above, and were cross