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 meā, et ą 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 Irę_," and
their voices thundered forth:--

          Rex tremendę 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,
          Quā resurget ex favillā
          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 crossed
by other boards placed horizontally, from which various implements in
use at the mill depended, giving the chamber, imperfectly lighted as it
now was by the lamp borne by Abel, a strange and almost mysterious
appearance. Three or four of the miller's men, armed with pikes, had
followed their master, and, though much alarmed, they vowed to die
rather than give up the abbot.

By this time Hal o' Nabs had joined the group, and proceeding towards a
raised part of the chamber where the grinding-stones were set, he knelt
down, and laying hold of a small ring, raised up a trapdoor. The fresh
air which blew up through the aperture, combined with the rushing sound
of water, showed that the Calder flowed immediately beneath; and, having
made some slight preparation, Hal let himself down into the stream.

At this moment a loud crash was heard, and one of the miller's men cried
out that the arquebussiers had burst open the door.

"Be hondy, then, lads, and let him down!" cried Hal o' Nabs, who had
some difficulty in maintaining his footing on the rough, stony bottom of
the swift stream.

Passively yielding, the abbot suffered the miller and one of the
stoutest of his men to assist him through the trapdoor, while a third
held down the lamp, and showed Hal o' Nabs, up to his middle in the
darkling current, and stretching out his arms to receive the burden. The
light fell upon the huge black circle of the watershed now stopped, and
upon the dripping arches supporting the mill. In another moment the
abbot plunged into the water, the trapdoor was replaced, and bolted
underneath by Hal, who, while guiding his companion along, and bidding
him catch hold of the wood-work of the wheel, heard a heavy trampling of
many feet on the boards above, showing that the pursuers had obtained
admittance.

Encumbered by his heavy vestments, the abbot could with difficulty
contend against the strong current, and he momently expected to be swept
away; but he had a stout and active assistant by his side, who soon
placed him under shelter of the wheel. The trampling overhead continued
for a few minutes, after which all was quiet, and Hal judged that,
finding their search within ineffectual, the enemy would speedily come
forth. Nor was he deceived. Shouts were soon heard at the door of the
mill, and the glare of torches was cast on the stream. Then it was that
Hal dragged his companion into a deep hole, formed by some decay in the
masonry, behind the wheel, where the water rose nearly to their chins,
and where they were completely concealed. Scarcely were they thus
ensconced, than two or three armed men, holding torches aloft, were seen
wading under the archway; but after looking carefully around, and even
approaching close to the water-wheel, these persons could detect
nothing, and withdrew, muttering curses of rage and disappointment.
By-and-by the lights almost wholly disappeared, and the shouts becoming
fainter and more distant, it was evident that the men had gone lower
down the river. Upon this, Hal thought they might venture to quit their
retreat, and accordingly, grasping the abbot's arm, he proceeded to wade
up the stream.

Benumbed with cold, and half dead with terror, Paslew needed all his
companion's support, for he could do little to help himself, added to
which, they occasionally encountered some large stone, or stepped into a
deep hole, so that it required Hal's utmost exertion and strength to
force a way on. At last they were out of the arch, and though both banks
seemed unguarded, yet, for fear of surprise, Hal deemed it prudent still
to keep to the river. Their course was completely sheltered from
observation by the mist that enveloped them; and after proceeding in
this way for some distance, Hal stopped to listen, and while debating
with himself whether he should now quit the river, he fancied he beheld
a black object swimming towards him. Taking it for an otter, with which
voracious animal the Calder, a stream swarming with trout, abounded, and
knowing the creature would not meddle with them unless first attacked,
he paid little attention to it; but he was soon made sensible of his
error. His arm was suddenly seized by a large black hound, whose sharp
fangs met in his flesh. Unable to repress a cry of pain, Hal strove to
disengage himself from his assailant, and, finding it impossible, flung
himself into the water in the hope of drowning him, but, as the hound
still maintained his hold, he searched for his knife to slay him. But he
could not find it, and in his distress applied to Paslew.

"Ha yo onny weepun abowt yo, lort abbut," he cried, "wi' which ey con
free mysel fro' this accussed hound?"

"Alas! no, my son," replied Paslew, "and I fear no weapon will prevail
against it, for I recognise in the animal the hound of the wizard,
Demdike."

"Ey thowt t' dule wur in it," rejoined Hal; "boh leave me to fight it
owt, and do you gain t' bonk, an mey t' best o' your way to t' Wiswall.
Ey'n join ye os soon os ey con scrush this varment's heaod agen a stoan.
Ha!" he added, joyfully, "Ey'n found t' thwittle. Go--go. Ey'n soon be
efter ye."

Feeling he should sink if he remained where he was, and wholly unable to
offer any effectual assistance to his companion, the abbot turned to the
left, where a large oak overhung the stream, and he was climbing the
bank, aided by the roots of the tree, when a man suddenly came from
behind it, seized his hand, and dragged him up forcibly. At the same
moment his captor placed a bugle to his lips, and winding a few notes,
he was instantly answered by shouts, and soon afterwards half a dozen
armed men ran up, bearing torches. Not a word passed between the
fugitive and his captor; but when the men came up, and the torchlight
fell upon the features of the latter, the abbot's worst fears were
realised. It was Demdike.

"False to your king!--false to your oath!--false to all men!" cried the
wizard. "You seek to escape in vain!"

"I merit all your reproaches," replied the abbot; "but it may he some
satisfaction, to you to learn, that I have endured far greater suffering
than if I had patiently awaited my doom."

"I am glad of it," rejoined Demdike, with a savage laugh; "but you have
destroyed others beside yourself. Where is the fellow in the water?
What, ho, Uriel!"

But as no sound reached him, he snatched a torch from one of the
arquebussiers and held it to the river's brink. But he could see neither
hound nor man.

"Strange!" he cried. "He cannot have escaped. Uriel is more than a match
for any man. Secure the prisoner while I examine the stream."

With this, he ran along the bank with great quickness, holding his torch
far over the water, so as to reveal any thing floating within it, but
nothing met his view until he came within a short distance of the mill,
when he beheld a black object struggling in the current, and soon found
that it was his dog making feeble efforts to gain the bank.

"Ah recreant! thou hast let him go," cried Demdike, furiously.

Seeing his master the animal redoubled its efforts, crept ashore, and
fell at his feet, with a last effort to lick his hands.

Demdike held down the torch, and then perceived that the hound was
quite dead. There was a deep gash in its side, and another in the
throat, showing how it had perished.

"Poor Uriel!" he exclaimed; "the only true friend I had. And thou art
gone! The villain has killed thee, but he shall pay for it with his
life."

And hurrying back he dispatched four of the men in quest of the
fugitive, while accompanied by the two others he conveyed Paslew back to
the abbey, where he was placed in a strong cell, from which there was no
possibility of escape, and a guard set over him.

Half an hour after this, two of the arquebussiers returned with Hal o'
Nabs, whom they had succeeded in capturing after a desperate resistance,
about a mile from the abbey, on the road to Wiswall. He was taken to the
guard-room, which had been appointed in one of the lower chambers of the
chapter-house, and Demdike was immediately apprised of his arrival.
Satisfied by an inspection of the prisoner, whose demeanour was sullen
and resolved, Demdike proceeded to the great hall, where the Earl of
Derby, who had returned thither after the midnight mass, was still
sitting with his retainers. An audience was readily obtained by the
wizard, and, apparently well pleased with the result, he returned to the
guard-room. The prisoner was seated by himself in one corner of the
chamber, with his hands tied behind his back with a leathern thong, and
Demdike approaching him, told him that, for having aided the escape of a
condemned rebel and traitor, and violently assaulting the king's lieges
in the execution of their duty, he would be hanged on the morrow, the
Earl of Derby, who had power of life or death in such cases, having so
decreed it. And he exhibited the warrant.

"Soh, yo mean to hong me, eh, wizard?" cried Hal o' Nabs, kicking his
heels with great apparent indifference.

"I do," replied Demdike; "if for nothing else, for slaying my hound."

"Ey dunna think it," replied Hal. "Yo'n alter your moind. Do, mon. Ey'm
nah prepared to dee just yet."

"Then perish in your sins," cried Demdike, "I will not give you an
hour's respite."

"Yo'n be sorry when it's too late," said Hal.

"Tush!" cried Demdike, "my only regret will be that Uriel's slaughter is
paid for by such a worthless life as thine."

"Then whoy tak it?" demanded Hal. "'Specially whon yo'n lose your chilt
by doing so."

"My child!" exclaimed Demdike, surprised. "How mean you, sirrah?"

"Ey mean this," replied Hal, coolly; "that if ey dee to-morrow mornin'
your chilt dees too. Whon ey ondertook this job ey calkilated mey
chances, an' tuk precautions eforehond. Your chilt's a hostage fo mey
safety."

"Curses on thee and thy cunning," cried Demdike; "but I will not be
outwitted by a hind like thee. I will have the child, and yet not be
baulked of my revenge."

"Yo'n never ha' it, except os a breathless corpse, 'bowt mey consent,"
rejoined Hal.

"We shall see," cried Demdike, rushing forth, and bidding the guards
look well to the prisoner.

But ere long he returned with a gloomy and disappointed expression of
countenance, and again approaching the prisoner said, "Thou hast spoken
the truth. The infant is in the hands of some innocent being over whom I
have no power."

"Ey towdee so, wizard," replied Hal, laughing. "Hoind os ey be, ey'm a
match fo' thee,--ha! ha! Neaw, mey life agen t' chilt's. Win yo set me
free?"

Demdike deliberated.

"Harkee, wizard," cried Hal, "if yo're hatching treason ey'n dun. T'
sartunty o' revenge win sweeten mey last moments."

"Will you swear to deliver the child to me unharmed, if I set you free?"
asked Demdike.

"It's a bargain, wizard," rejoined Hal o' Nabs; "ey swear. Boh yo mun
set me free furst, fo' ey winnaw tak your word."

Demdike turned away disdainfully, and addressing the arquebussiers,
said, "You behold this warrant, guard. The prisoner is committed to my
custody. I will produce him on the morrow, or account for his absence to
the Earl of Derby."

One of the arquebussiers examined the order, and vouching for its
correctness, the others signified their assent to the arrangement, upon
which Demdike motioned the prisoner to follow him, and quitted the
chamber. No interruption was offered to Hal's egress, but he stopped
within the court-yard, where Demdike awaited him, and unfastened the
leathern thong that bound together his hands.

"Now go and bring the child to me," said the wizard.

"Nah, ey'st neaw bring it ye myself," rejoined Hal. "Ey knoas better nor
that. Be at t' church porch i' half an hour, an t' bantlin shan be
delivered to ye safe an sound."

And without waiting for a reply, he ran off with great swiftness.

At the appointed time Demdike sought the church, and as he drew near it
there issued from the porch a female, who hastily placing the child,
wrapped in a mantle, in his arms, tarried for no speech from him, but
instantly disappeared. Demdike, however, recognised in her the miller's
daughter, Dorothy Croft.




CHAPTER VIII.--THE EXECUTIONER.


Dawn came at last, after a long and weary night to many within and
without the abbey. Every thing betokened a dismal day. The atmosphere
was damp, and oppressive to the spirits, while the raw cold sensibly
affected the frame. All astir were filled with gloom and despondency,
and secretly breathed a wish that, the tragical business of the day were
ended. The vast range of Pendle was obscured by clouds, and ere long the
vapours descended into the valleys, and rain began to fall; at first
slightly, but afterwards in heavy continuous showers. Melancholy was the
aspect of the abbey, and it required no stretch of imagination to fancy
that the old structure was deploring the fate of its former ruler. To
those impressed with the idea--and many there were who were so--the very
stones of the convent church seemed dissolving into tears. The statues
of the saints appeared to weep, and the great statue of Saint Gregory de
Northbury over the porch seemed bowed down with grief. The grotesquely
carved heads on the spouts grinned horribly at the abbot's destroyers,
and spouted forth cascades of water, as if with the intent of drowning
them. So deluging and incessant were the showers, that it seemed,
indeed, as if the abbey would be flooded. All the inequalities of ground
within the great quadrangle of the cloisters looked like ponds, and the
various water-spouts from the dormitory, the refectory, and the
chapter-house, continuing to jet forth streams into the court below, the
ambulatories were soon filled ankle-deep, and even the lower apartments,
on which they opened, invaded.

Surcharged with moisture, the royal banner on the gate drooped and clung
to the staff, as if it too shared in the general depression, or as if
the sovereign authority it represented had given way. The countenances
and deportment of the men harmonized with the weather; they moved about
gloomily and despondently, their bright accoutrements sullied with the
wet, and their buskins clogged with mire. A forlorn sight it was to
watch the shivering sentinels on the walls; and yet more forlorn to see
the groups of the abbot's old retainers gathering without, wrapped in
their blue woollen cloaks, patiently enduring the drenching showers, and
awaiting the last awful scene. But the saddest sight of all was on the
hill, already described, called the Holehouses. Here two other lesser
gibbets had been erected during the night, one on either hand of the
loftier instrument of justice, and the carpenters were yet employed in
finishing their work, having been delayed by the badness of the weather.
Half drowned by the torrents that fell upon them, the poor fellows were
protected from interference with their disagreeable occupation by half a
dozen well-mounted and well-armed troopers, and by as many halberdiers;
and this company, completely exposed to the weather, suffered severely
from wet and cold. The rain beat against the gallows, ran down its tall
naked posts, and collected in pools at its feet. Attracted by some
strange instinct, which seemed to give them a knowledge of the object of
these terrible preparations, two ravens wheeled screaming round the
fatal tree, and at length one of them settled on the cross-beam, and
could with difficulty be dislodged by the shouts of the men, when it
flew away, croaking hoarsely. Up this gentle hill, ordinarily so soft
and beautiful, but now abhorrent as a Golgotha, in the eyes of the
beholders, groups of rustics and monks had climbed over ground rendered
slippery with moisture, and had gathered round the paling encircling the
terrible apparatus, looking the images of despair and woe.

Even those within the abbey, and sheltered from the storm, shared the
all-pervading despondency. The refectory looked dull and comfortless,
and the logs on the hearth hissed and sputtered, and would not burn.
Green wood had been brought instead of dry fuel by the drowsy henchman.
The viands on the board provoked not the appetite, and the men emptied
their cups of ale, yawned and stretched their arms, as if they would
fain sleep an hour or two longer. The sense of discomfort, was
heightened by the entrance of those whose term of watch had been
relieved, and who cast their dripping cloaks on the floor, while two or
three savage dogs, steaming with moisture, stretched their huge lengths
before the sullen fire, and disputed all approach to it.

Within the great hall were already gathered the retainers of the Earl of
Derby, but the nobleman himself had not appeared. Having passed the
greater part of the night in conference with one person or another, and
the abbot's flight having caused him much disquietude, though he did not
hear of it till the fugitive was recovered; the earl would not seek his
couch until within an hour of daybreak, and his attendants, considering
the state of the weather, and that it yet wanted full two hours to the
time appointed for the execution, did not think it needful to disturb
him. Braddyll and Assheton, however, were up and ready; but, despite
their firmness of nerve, they yielded like the rest to the depressing
influence of the weather, and began to have some misgivings as to their
own share in the tragedy about to be enacted. The various gentlemen in
attendance paced to and fro within the hall, holding but slight converse
together, anxiously counting the minutes, for the time appeared to pass
on with unwonted slowness, and ever and anon glancing through the
diamond panes of the window at the rain pouring down steadily without,
and coming back again hopeless of amendment in the weather.

If such were the disheartening influence of the day on those who had
nothing to apprehend, what must its effect have been on the poor
captives! Woful indeed. The two monks suffered a complete prostration of
spirit. All the resolution which Father Haydocke had displayed in his
interview with the Earl of Derby, failed him now, and he yielded to the
agonies of despair. Father Eastgate was in little better condition, and
gave vent to unavailing lamentations, instead of paying heed to the
consolatory discourse of the monk who had been permitted to visit him.

The abbot was better sustained. Though greatly enfeebled by the
occurrences of the night, yet in proportion as his bodily strength
decreased, his mental energies rallied. Since the confession of his
secret offence, and the conviction he had obtained that his supposed
victim still lived, a weight seemed taken from his breast, and he had no
longer any dread of death. Rather he looked to the speedy termination of
existence with hopeful pleasure. He prepared himself as decently as the
means afforded him permitted for his last appearance before the world,
but refused all refreshment except a cup of water, and being left to
himself was praying fervently, when a man was admitted into his cell.
Thinking it might be the executioner come to summon him, he arose, and
to his surprise beheld Hal o' Nabs. The countenance of the rustic was
pale, but his bearing was determined.

"You here, my son," cried Paslew. "I hoped you had escaped."

"Ey'm i' nah dawnger, feyther abbut," replied Hal. "Ey'n getten leef to
visit ye fo a minute only, so ey mun be brief. Mey yourself easy, ye
shanna dee be't hongmon's honds."

"How, my son!" cried Paslew. "I understand you not."

"Yo'n onderstond me weel enough by-and-by," replied Hal. "Dunnah be
feart whon ye see me next; an comfort yoursel that whotever cums and
goes, your death shall be avenged o' your warst foe."

Paslew would have sought some further explanation, but Hal stepped
quickly backwards, and striking his foot against the door, it was
instantly opened by the guard, and he went forth.

Not long after this, the Earl of Derby entered the great hall, and his
first inquiry was as to the safety of the prisoners. When satisfied of
this, he looked forth, and shuddered at the dismal state of the weather.
While he was addressing some remarks on this subject, and on its
interference with the tragical exhibition about to take place, an
officer entered the hall, followed by several persons of inferior
condition, amongst whom was Hal o' Nabs, and marched up to the earl,
while the others remained standing at a respectful distance.

"What news do you bring me, sir?" cried the earl, noticing the officer's
evident uneasiness of manner. "Nothing hath happened to the prisoners?
God's death! if it hath, you shall all answer for it with your bodies."

"Nothing hath happened to them, my lord," said the officer,--"but--"

"But what?" interrupted the earl. "Out with it quickly."

"The executioner from Lancaster and his two aids have fled," replied the
officer.

"Fled!" exclaimed the earl, stamping his foot with rage; "now as I live,
this is a device to delay the execution till some new attempt at rescue
can be made. But it shall fail, if I string up the abbot myself. Death!
can no other hangmen be found? ha!"

"Of a surety, my lord; but all have an aversion to the office, and hold
it opprobrious, especially to put churchmen to death," replied the
officer.

"Opprobrious or not, it must be done," replied the earl. "See that
fitting persons are provided."

At this moment Hal o' Nabs stepped forward.

"Ey'm willing t' ondertake t' job, my lord, an' t' hong t' abbut,
without fee or rewort," he said.

"Thou bears't him a grudge, I suppose, good fellow," replied the earl,
laughing at the rustic's uncouth appearance; "but thou seem'st a stout
fellow, and one not likely to flinch, and may discharge the office as
well as another. If no better man can be found, let him do it," he added
to the officer.

"Ey humbly thonk your lortship," replied Hal, inwardly rejoicing at the
success of his scheme. But his countenance fell when he perceived
Demdike advance from behind the others.

"This man is not to be trusted, my lord," said Demdike, coming forward;
"he has some mischievous design in making the request. So far from
bearing enmity to the abbot, it was he who assisted him in his attempt
to escape last night."

"What!" exclaimed the earl, "is this a new trick? Bring the fellow
forward, that I may examine him."

But Hal was gone. Instantly divining Demdike's purpose, and seeing his
chance lost, he mingled with the lookers-on, who covered his retreat.
Nor could he be found when sought for by the guard.

"See you provide a substitute quickly, sir," cried the earl, angrily, to
the officer.

"It is needless to take further trouble, my lord," replied Demdike "I am
come to offer myself as executioner."

"Thou!" exclaimed the earl.

"Ay," replied the other. "When I heard that the men from Lancaster were
fled, I instantly knew that some scheme to frustrate the ends of justice
was on foot, and I at once resolved to undertake the office myself
rather than delay or risk should occur. What this man's aim was, who
hath just offered himself, I partly guess, but it hath failed; and if
your lordship will intrust the matter to me, I will answer that no
further impediment shall arise, but that the sentence shall be fully
carried out, and the law satisfied. Your lordship can trust me."

"I know it," replied the earl. "Be it as you will. It is now on the
stroke of nine. At ten, let all be in readiness to set out for Wiswall
Hall. The rain may have ceased by that time, but no weather must stay
you. Go forth with the new executioner, sir," he added to the officer,
"and see all necessary preparations made."

And as Demdike bowed, and departed with the officer, the earl sat down
with his retainers to break his fast.




CHAPTER IX.--WISWALL HALL.


Shortly before ten o'clock a numerous cortčge, consisting of a troop of
horse in their full equipments, a band of archers with their bows over
their shoulders, and a long train of barefoot monks, who had been
permitted to attend, set out from the abbey. Behind them came a varlet
with a paper mitre on his head, and a lathen crosier in his hand,
covered with a surcoat, on which was emblazoned, but torn and reversed,
the arms of Paslew; argent, a fess between three mullets, sable, pierced
of the field, a crescent for difference. After him came another varlet
bearing a banner, on which was painted a grotesque figure in a
half-military, half-monastic garb, representing the "Earl of Poverty,"
with this distich beneath it:--

          Priest and warrior--rich and poor,
          He shall be hanged at his own door.

Next followed a tumbrel, drawn by two horses, in which sat the abbot
alone, the two other prisoners being kept back for the present. Then
came Demdike, in a leathern jerkin and blood-red hose, fitting closely
to his sinewy limbs, and wrapped in a houppeland of the same colour as
the hose, with a coil of rope round his neck. He walked between two
ill-favoured personages habited in black, whom he had chosen as
assistants. A band of halberdiers brought up the rear. The procession
moved slowly along,--the passing-bell tolling each minute, and a muffled
drum sounding hollowly at intervals.

Shortly before the procession started the rain ceased, but the air felt
damp and chill, and the roads were inundated. Passing out at the
north-eastern gateway, the gloomy train skirted the south side of the
convent church, and went on in the direction of the village of Whalley.
When near the east end of the holy edifice, the abbot beheld two coffins
borne along, and, on inquiry, learnt that they contained the bodies of
Bess Demdike and Cuthbert Ashbead, who were about to be interred in the
cemetery. At this moment his eye for the first time encountered that of
his implacable foe, and he then discovered that he was to serve as his
executioner.

At first Paslew felt much trouble at this thought, but the feeling
quickly passed away. On reaching Whalley, every door was found closed,
and every window shut; so that the spectacle was lost upon the
inhabitants; and after a brief halt, the cavalcade get out for Wiswall
Hall.

Sprung from an ancient family residing in the neighbourhood Of Whalley,
Abbot Paslew was the second son of Francis Paslew Of Wiswall Hall, a
great gloomy stone mansion, situated at the foot of the south-western
side of Pendle Hill, where his brother Francis still resided. Of a cold
and cautious character, Francis Paslew, second of the name, held aloof
from the insurrection, and when his brother was arrested he wholly
abandoned him. Still the owner of Wiswall had not altogether escaped
suspicion, and it was probably as much with the view of degrading him as
of adding to the abbot's punishment, that the latter was taken to the
hall on the morning of his execution. Be this as it may, the cortčge
toiled thither through roads bad in the best of seasons, but now, since
the heavy rain, scarcely passable; and it arrived there in about half an
hour, and drew up on the broad green lawn. Window and door of the hall
were closed; no smoke issued from the heavy pile of chimneys; and to all
outward seeming the place was utterly deserted. In answer to inquiries,
it appeared that Francis Paslew had departed for Northumberland on the
previous day, taking all his household with him.

In earlier years, a quarrel having occurred between the haughty abbot
and the churlish Francis, the brothers rarely met, whence it chanced
that John Paslew had seldom visited the place of his birth of late,
though lying so near to the abbey, and, indeed, forming part of its
ancient dependencies. It was sad to view it now; and yet the house,
gloomy as it was, recalled seasons with which, though they might awaken
regret, no guilty associations were connected. Dark was the hall, and
desolate, but on the fine old trees around it the rooks were settling,
and their loud cawings pleased him, and excited gentle emotions. For a
few moments he grew young again, and forgot why he was there. Fondly
surveying the house, the terraced garden, in which, as a boy, he had so
often strayed, and the park beyond it, where he had chased the deer; his
gaze rose to the cloudy heights of Pendle, springing immediately behind
the mansion, and up which he had frequently climbed. The flood-gates of
memory were opened at once, and a whole tide of long-buried feelings
rushed upon his heart.

From this half-painful, half-pleasurable retrospect he was aroused by
the loud blast of a trumpet, thrice blown. A recapitulation of his
offences, together with his sentence, was read by a herald, after which
the reversed blazonry was fastened upon the door of the hall, just below
a stone escutcheon on which was carved the arms of the family; while the
paper mitre was torn and trampled under foot, the lathen crosier broken
in twain, and the scurril banner hacked in pieces.

While this degrading act was performed, a man in a miller's white garb,
with the hood drawn over his face, forced his way towards the tumbrel,
and while the attention of the guard was otherwise engaged, whispered in
Paslew's ear,

"Ey han failed i' mey scheme, feyther abbut, boh rest assured ey'n
avenge you. Demdike shan ha' mey Sheffield thwittle i' his heart 'efore
he's a day older."

"The wizard has a charm against steel, my son, and indeed is proof
against all weapons forged by men," replied Paslew, who recognised the
voice of Hal o' Nabs, and hoped by this assertion to divert him from his
purpose.

"Ha! say yo so, feythur abbut?" cried Hal. "Then ey'n reach him wi'
summot sacred." And he disappeared.

At this moment, word was given to return, and in half an hour the
cavalcade arrived at the abbey in the same order it had left it.

Though the rain had ceased, heavy clouds still hung overhead,
threatening another deluge, and the aspect of the abbey remained gloomy
as ever. The bell continued to toll; drums were beaten; and trumpets
sounded from the outer and inner gateway, and from the three
quadrangles. The cavalcade drew up in front of the great northern
entrance; and its return being announced within, the two other captives
were brought forth, each fastened upon a hurdle, harnessed to a stout
horse. They looked dead already, so ghastly was the hue of their cheeks.

The abbot's turn came next. Another hurdle was brought forward, and
Demdike advanced to the tumbrel. But Paslew recoiled from his touch, and
sprang to the ground unaided. He was then laid on his back upon the
hurdle, and his hands and feet were bound fast with ropes to the twisted
timbers. While this painful task was roughly performed by the wizard's
two ill-favoured assistants, the crowd of rustics who looked on,
murmured and exhibited such strong tokens of displeasure, that the guard
thought it prudent to keep them off with their halberts. But when all
was done, Demdike motioned to a man standing behind him to advance, and
the person who was wrapped in a russet cloak complied, drew forth an
infant, and held it in such way that the abbot could see it. Paslew
understood what was meant, but he uttered not a word. Demdike then knelt
down beside him, as if ascertaining the security of the cords, and
whispered in his ear:--

"Recall thy malediction, and my dagger shall save thee from the last
indignity."

"Never," replied Paslew; "the curse is irrevocable. But I would not
recall it if I could. As I have said, thy child shall be a witch, and
the mother of witches--but all shall be swept off--all!"

"Hell's torments seize thee!" cried the wizard, furiously.

"Nay, thou hast done thy worst to me," rejoined Paslew, meekly, "thou
canst not harm me beyond the grave. Look to thyself, for even as thou
speakest, thy child is taken from thee."

And so it was. While Demdike knelt beside Paslew, a hand was put forth,
and, before the man who had custody of the infant could prevent it, his
little charge was snatched from him. Thus the abbot saw, though the
wizard perceived it not. The latter instantly sprang to his feet.

"Where is the child?" he demanded of the fellow in the russet cloak.

"It was taken from me by yon tall man who is disappearing through the
gateway," replied the other, in great trepidation.

"Ha! _he_ here!" exclaimed Demdike, regarding the dark figure with a
look of despair. "It is gone from me for ever!"

"Ay, for ever!" echoed the abbot, solemnly.

"But revenge is still left me--revenge!" cried Demdike, with an
infuriated gesture.

"Then glut thyself with it speedily," replied the abbot; "for thy time
here is short."

"I care not if it be," replied Demdike; "I shall live long enough if I
survive thee."




CHAPTER X.--THE HOLEHOUSES.


At this moment the blast of a trumpet resounded from the gateway, and
the Earl of Derby, with the sheriff on his right hand, and Assheton on
the left, and mounted on a richly caparisoned charger, rode forth. He
was preceded by four javelin-men, and followed by two heralds in their
tabards.

To doleful tolling of bells--to solemn music--to plaintive hymn chanted
by monks--to roll of muffled drum at intervals--the sad cortčge set
forth. Loud cries from the bystanders marked its departure, and some of
them followed it, but many turned away, unable to endure the sight of
horror about to ensue. Amongst those who went on was Hal o' Nabs, but he
took care to keep out of the way of the guard, though he was little
likely to be recognised, owing to his disguise.

Despite the miserable state of the weather, a great multitude was
assembled at the place of execution, and they watched the approaching
cavalcade with moody curiosity. To prevent disturbance, arquebussiers
were stationed in parties here and there, and a clear course for the
cortčge was preserved by two lines of halberdiers with crossed pikes.
But notwithstanding this, much difficulty was experienced in mounting
the hill. Rendered slippery by the wet, and yet more so by the trampling
of the crowd, the road was so bad in places that the horses could
scarcely drag the hurdles up it, and more than one delay occurred. The
stoppages were always denounced by groans, yells, and hootings from the
mob, and these neither the menaces of the Earl of Derby, nor the active
measures of the guard, could repress.

At length, however, the cavalcade reached its destination. Then the
crowd struggled forward, and settled into a dense compact ring, round
the circular railing enclosing the place of execution, within which were
drawn up the Earl of Derby, the sheriff, Assheton, and the principal
gentlemen, together with Demdike and his assistants; the guard forming a
circle three deep round them.

Paslew was first unloosed, and when he stood up, he found Father Smith,
the late prior, beside him, and tenderly embraced him.

"Be of good courage, Father Abbot," said the prior; "a few moments, and
you will be numbered with the just."

"My hope is in the infinite mercy of Heaven, father," replied Paslew,
sighing deeply. "Pray for me at the last."

"Doubt it not," returned the prior, fervently. "I will pray for you now
and ever."

Meanwhile, the bonds of the two other captives were unfastened, but they
were found wholly unable to stand without support. A lofty ladder had
been placed against the central scaffold, and up this Demdike, having
cast off his houppeland, mounted and adjusted the rope. His tall gaunt
figure, fully displayed in his tight-fitting red garb, made him look
like a hideous scarecrow. His appearance was greeted by the mob with a
perfect hurricane of indignant outcries and yells. But he heeded them
not, but calmly pursued his task. Above him wheeled the two ravens, who
had never quitted the place since daybreak, uttering their discordant
cries. When all was done, he descended a few steps, and, taking a black
hood from his girdle to place over the head of his victim, called out in
a voice which had little human in its tone, "I wait for you, John
Paslew."

"Are you ready, Paslew?" demanded the Earl of Derby.

"I am, my lord," replied the abbot. And embracing the prior for the last
time, he added, "_Vale, carissime frater, in ęternum vale! et Dominus
tecum sit in ultionem inimicorum nostrorum_!"

"It is the king's pleasure that you say not a word in your justification
to the mob, Paslew," observed the earl.

"I had no such intention, my lord," replied the abbot.

"Then tarry no longer," said the earl; "if you need aid you shall have
it."

"I require none," replied Paslew, resolutely.

With this he mounted the ladder, with as much firmness and dignity as if
ascending the steps of a tribune.

Hitherto nothing but yells and angry outcries had stunned the ears of
the lookers-on, and several missiles had been hurled at Demdike, some of
which took effect, though without occasioning discomfiture; but when
the abbot appeared above the heads of the guard, the tumult instantly
subsided, and profound silence ensued. Not a breath was drawn by the
spectators. The ravens alone continued their ominous croaking.

Hal o' Nabs, who stood on the outskirts of the ring, saw thus far but he
could bear it no longer, and rushed down the hill. Just as he reached
the level ground, a culverin was fired from the gateway, and the next
moment a loud wailing cry bursting from the mob told that the abbot was
launched into eternity.

Hal would not look back, but went slowly on, and presently afterwards
other horrid sounds dinned in his ears, telling that all was over with
the two other sufferers. Sickened and faint, he leaned against a wall
for support. How long he continued thus, he knew not, but he heard the
cavalcade coming down the hill, and saw the Earl of Derby and his
attendants ride past. Glancing toward the place of execution, Hal then
perceived that the abbot had been cut down, and, rousing himself, he
joined the crowd now rushing towards the gate, and ascertained that the
body of Paslew was to be taken to the convent church, and deposited
there till orders were to be given respecting its interment. He learnt,
also, that the removal of the corpse was intrusted to Demdike. Fired by
this intelligence, and suddenly conceiving a wild project of vengeance,
founded upon what he had heard from the abbot of the wizard being proof
against weapons forged by men, he hurried to the church, entered it, the
door being thrown open, and rushing up to the gallery, contrived to get
out through a window upon the top of the porch, where he secreted
himself behind the great stone statue of Saint Gregory.

The information he had obtained proved correct. Ere long a mournful
train approached the church, and a bier was set down before the porch. A
black hood covered the face of the dead, but the vestments showed that
it was the body of Paslew.

At the head of the bearers was Demdike, and when the body was set down
he advanced towards it, and, removing the hood, gazed at the livid and
distorted features.

"At length I am fully avenged," he said.

"And Abbot Paslew, also," cried a voice above him.

Demdike looked up, but the look was his last, for the ponderous statue
of Saint Gregory de Northbury, launched from its pedestal, fell upon his
head, and crushed him to the ground. A mangled and breathless mass was
taken from beneath the image, and the hands and visage of Paslew were
found spotted with blood dashed from the gory carcass. The author of the
wizard's destruction was suspected, but never found, nor was it
positively known who had done the deed till years after, when Hal o'
Nabs, who meanwhile had married pretty Dorothy Croft, and had been
blessed by numerous offspring in the union, made his last confession,
and then he exhibited no remarkable or becoming penitence for the act,
neither was he refused absolution.

Thus it came to pass that the abbot and his enemy perished together. The
mutilated remains of the wizard were placed in a shell, and huddled into
the grave where his wife had that morning been laid. But no prayer was
said over him. And the superstitious believed that the body was carried
off that very night by the Fiend, and taken to a witch's sabbath in the
ruined tower on Rimington Moor. Certain it was, that the unhallowed
grave was disturbed. The body of Paslew was decently interred in the
north aisle of the parish church of Whalley, beneath a stone with a
Gothic cross sculptured upon it, and bearing the piteous
inscription:--"_Miserere mei_."

But in the belief of the vulgar the abbot did not rest tranquilly. For
many years afterwards a white-robed monastic figure was seen to flit
along the cloisters, pass out at the gate, and disappear with a wailing
cry over the Holehouses. And the same ghostly figure was often seen to
glide through the corridor in the abbot's lodging, and vanish at the
door of the chamber leading to the little oratory. Thus Whalley Abbey
was supposed to be haunted, and few liked to wander through its deserted
cloisters, or ruined church, after dark. The abbot's tragical end was
thus recorded:--


          Johannes Paslew: Capitali Effectus Supplicio.
          12ŗ Mensis Martii, 1537.

As to the infant, upon whom the abbot's malediction fell, it was
reserved for the dark destinies shadowed forth in the dread anathema he
had uttered: to the development of which the tragic drama about to
follow is devoted, and to which the fate of Abbot Paslew forms a
necessary and fitting prologue. Thus far the veil of the Future may be
drawn aside. That infant and her progeny became the LANCASHIRE WITCHES.


END OF THE INTRODUCTION.




THE LANCASHIRE WITCHES.

BOOK THE FIRST.

Alizon Device.




CHAPTER I.--THE MAY QUEEN.


On a May-day in the early part of the seventeenth century, and a most
lovely May-day, too, admirably adapted to usher in the merriest month of
the year, and seemingly made expressly for the occasion, a wake was held
at Whalley, to which all the neighbouring country folk resorted, and
indeed many of the gentry as well, for in the good old times, when
England was still merry England, a wake had attractions for all classes
alike, and especially in Lancashire; for, with pride I speak it, there
were no lads who, in running, vaulting, wrestling, dancing, or in any
other manly exercise, could compare with the Lancashire lads. In
archery, above all, none could match them; for were not their ancestors
the stout bowmen and billmen whose cloth-yard shafts, and trenchant
weapons, won the day at Flodden? And were they not true sons of their
fathers? And then, I speak it with yet greater pride, there were few, if
any, lasses who could compare in comeliness with the rosy-cheeked,
dark-haired, bright-eyed lasses of Lancashire.

Assemblages of this kind, therefore, where the best specimens of either
sex were to be met with, were sure to be well attended, and in spite of
an enactment passed in the preceding reign of Elizabeth, prohibiting
"piping, playing, bear-baiting, and bull-baiting on the Sabbath-days, or
on any other days, and also superstitious ringing of bells, wakes, and
common feasts," they were not only not interfered with, but rather
encouraged by the higher orders. Indeed, it was well known that the
reigning monarch, James the First, inclined the other way, and, desirous
of checking the growing spirit of Puritanism throughout the kingdom, had
openly expressed himself in favour of honest recreation after evening
prayers and upon holidays; and, furthermore, had declared that he liked
well the spirit of his good subjects in Lancashire, and would not see
them punished for indulging in lawful exercises, but that ere long he
would pay them a visit in one of his progresses, and judge for himself,
and if he found all things as they had been represented to him, he would
grant them still further licence. Meanwhile, this expression of the
royal opinion removed every restriction, and old sports and pastimes,
May-games, Whitsun-ales, and morris-dances, with rush-bearings,
bell-ringings, wakes, and feasts, were as much practised as before the
passing of the obnoxious enactment of Elizabeth. The Puritans and
Precisians discountenanced them, it is true, as much as ever, and would
have put them down, if they could, as savouring of papistry and
idolatry, and some rigid divines thundered against them from the pulpit;
but with the king and the authorities in their favour, the people little
heeded these denunciations against them, and abstained not from any
"honest recreation" whenever a holiday occurred.

If Lancashire was famous for wakes, the wakes of Whalley were famous
even in Lancashire. The men of the district were in general a hardy,
handsome race, of the genuine Saxon breed, and passionately fond of all
kinds of pastime, and the women had their full share of the beauty
indigenous to the soil. Besides, it was a secluded spot, in the heart of
a wild mountainous region, and though occasionally visited by travellers
journeying northward, or by others coming from the opposite direction,
retained a primitive simplicity of manners, and a great partiality for
old customs and habits.

The natural beauties of the place, contrasted with the dreary region
around it, and heightened by the picturesque ruins of the ancient abbey,
part of which, namely, the old abbot's lodgings, had been converted into
a residence by the Asshetons, and was now occupied by Sir Ralph
Assheton, while the other was left to the ravages of time, made it
always an object of attraction to those residing near it; but when on
the May-day in question, there was not only to be a wake, but a May-pole
set on the green, and a rush-bearing with morris-dancers besides,
together with Whitsun-ale at the abbey, crowds flocked to Whalley from
Wiswall, Cold Coates, and Clithero, from Ribchester and Blackburn, from
Padiham and Pendle, and even from places more remote. Not only was John
Lawe's of the Dragon full, but the Chequers, and the Swan also, and the
roadside alehouse to boot. Sir Ralph Assheton had several guests at the
abbey, and others were expected in the course of the day, while Doctor
Ormerod had friends staying with him at the vicarage.

Soon after midnight, on the morning of the festival, many young persons
of the village, of both sexes, had arisen, and, to the sound of horn,
had repaired to the neighbouring woods, and there gathered a vast stock
of green boughs and flowering branches of the sweetly-perfumed hawthorn,
wild roses, and honeysuckle, with baskets of violets, cowslips,
primroses, blue-bells, and other wild flowers, and returning in the same
order they went forth, fashioned the branches into green bowers within
the churchyard, or round about the May-pole set up on the green, and
decorated them afterwards with garlands and crowns of flowers. This
morning ceremonial ought to have been performed without wetting the
feet: but though some pains were taken in the matter, few could achieve
the difficult task, except those carried over the dewy grass by their
lusty swains. On the day before the rushes had been gathered, and the
rush cart piled, shaped, trimmed, and adorned by those experienced in
the task, (and it was one requiring both taste and skill, as will be
seen when the cart itself shall come forth,) while others had borrowed
for its adornment, from the abbey and elsewhere, silver tankards,
drinking-cups, spoons, ladles, brooches, watches, chains, and bracelets,
so as to make an imposing show.

Day was ushered in by a merry peal of bells from the tower of the old
parish church, and the ringers practised all kinds of joyous changes
during the morning, and fired many a clanging volley. The whole village
was early astir; and as these were times when good hours were kept; and
as early rising is a famous sharpener of the appetite, especially when
attended with exercise, so an hour before noon the rustics one and all
sat down to dinner, the strangers being entertained by their friends,
and if they had no friends, throwing themselves upon the general
hospitality. The alehouses were reserved for tippling at a later hour,
for it was then customary for both gentleman and commoner, male as well
as female, as will be more fully shown hereafter, to take their meals at
home, and repair afterwards to houses of public entertainment for wine
or other liquors. Private chambers were, of course, reserved for the
gentry; but not unfrequently the squire and his friends would take their
bottle with the other guests. Such was the invariable practice in the
northern counties in the reign of James the First.

Soon after mid-day, and when the bells began to peal merrily again (for
even ringers must recruit themselves), at a small cottage in the
outskirts of the village, and close to the Calder, whose waters swept
past the trimly kept garden attached to it, two young girls were
employed in attiring a third, who was to represent Maid Marian, or Queen
of May, in the pageant then about to ensue. And, certainly, by sovereign
and prescriptive right of beauty, no one better deserved the high title
and distinction conferred upon her than this fair girl. Lovelier maiden
in the whole county, and however high her degree, than this rustic
damsel, it was impossible to find; and though the becoming and fanciful
costume in which she was decked could not heighten her natural charms,
it certainly displayed them to advantage. Upon her smooth and beautiful
brow sat a gilt crown, while her dark and luxuriant hair, covered behind
with a scarlet coif, embroidered with gold; and tied with yellow, white,
and crimson ribands, but otherwise wholly unconfirmed, swept down
almost to the ground. Slight and fragile, her figure was of such just
proportion that every movement and gesture had an indescribable charm.
The most courtly dame might have envied her fine and taper fingers, and
fancied she could improve them by protecting them against the sun, or by
rendering them snowy white with paste or cosmetic, but this was
questionable; nothing certainly could improve the small foot and
finely-turned ankle, so well displayed in the red hose and smart little
yellow buskin, fringed with gold. A stomacher of scarlet cloth, braided
with yellow lace in cross bars, confined her slender waist. Her robe was
of carnation-coloured silk, with wide sleeves, and the gold-fringed
skirt descended only a little below the knee, like the dress of a modern
Swiss peasant, so as to reveal the exquisite symmetry of her limbs. Over
all she wore a surcoat of azure silk, lined with white, and edged with
gold. In her left hand she held a red pink as an emblem of the season.
So enchanting was her appearance altogether, so fresh the character of
her beauty, so bright the bloom that dyed her lovely checks, that she
might have been taken for a personification of May herself. She was
indeed in the very May of life--the mingling of spring and summer in
womanhood; and the tender blue eyes, bright and clear as diamonds of
purest water, the soft regular features, and the merry mouth, whose
ruddy parted lips ever and anon displayed two rows of pearls, completed
the similitude to the attributes of the jocund month.

Her handmaidens, both of whom were simple girls, and though not
destitute of some pretensions to beauty themselves, in nowise to be
compared with her, were at the moment employed in knotting the ribands
in her hair, and adjusting the azure surcoat.

Attentively watching these proceedings sat on a stool, placed in a
corner, a little girl, some nine or ten years old, with a basket of
flowers on her knee. The child was very diminutive, even for her age,
and her smallness was increased by personal deformity, occasioned by
contraction of the chest, and spinal curvature, which raised her back
above her shoulders; but her features were sharp and cunning, indeed
almost malignant, and there was a singular and unpleasant look about the
eyes, which were not placed evenly in the head. Altogether she had a
strange old-fashioned look, and from her habitual bitterness of speech,
as well as from her vindictive character, which, young as she was, had
been displayed, with some effect, on more than one occasion, she was no
great favourite with any one. It was curious now to watch the eager and
envious interest she took in the progress of her sister's adornment--for
such was the degree of relationship in which she stood to the May
Queen--and when the surcoat was finally adjusted, and the last riband
tied, she broke forth, having hitherto preserved a sullen silence.

[Illustration: THE MAY QUEEN.]

"Weel, sister Alizon, ye may a farrently May Queen, ey mun say" she
observed, spitefully, "but to my mind other Suky Worseley, or Nancy
Holt, here, would ha' looked prottier."

"Nah, nah, that we shouldna," rejoined one of the damsels referred to;
"there is na a lass i' Lonkyshiar to hold a condle near Alizon Device."

"Fie upon ye, for an ill-favort minx, Jennet," cried Nancy Holt; "yo're
jealous o' your protty sister."

"Ey jealous," cried Jennet, reddening, "an whoy the firrups should ey be
jealous, ey, thou saucy jade! Whon ey grow older ey'st may a prottier
May Queen than onny on you, an so the lads aw tell me."

"And so you will, Jennet," said Alizon Device, checking, by a gentle
look, the jeering laugh in which Nancy seemed disposed to indulge--"so
you will, my pretty little sister," she added, kissing her; "and I will
'tire you as well and as carefully as Susan and Nancy have just 'tired
me."

"Mayhap ey shanna live till then," rejoined Jennet, peevishly, "and when
ey'm dead an' gone, an' laid i' t' cowld churchyard, yo an they win be
sorry fo having werreted me so."

"I have never intentionally vexed you, Jennet, love," said Alizon, "and
I am sure these two girls love you dearly."

"Eigh, we may allowance fo her feaw tempers," observed Susan Worseley;
"fo we knoa that ailments an deformities are sure to may folk fretful."

"Eigh, there it is," cried Jennet, sharply. "My high shoulthers an sma
size are always thrown i' my feace. Boh ey'st grow tall i' time, an get
straight--eigh straighter than yo, Suky, wi' your broad back an short
neck--boh if ey dunna, whot matters it? Ey shall be feared at onny
rate--ay, feared, wenches, by ye both."

"Nah doubt on't, theaw little good-fo'-nothin piece o' mischief,"
muttered Susan.

"Whot's that yo sayn, Suky?" cried Jennet, whose quick ears had caught
the words, "Tak care whot ye do to offend me, lass," she added, shaking
her thin fingers, armed with talon-like claws, threateningly at her, "or
ey'll ask my granddame, Mother Demdike, to quieten ye."

At the mention of this name a sudden shade came over Susan's
countenance. Changing colour, and slightly trembling, she turned away
from the child, who, noticing the effect of her threat, could not
repress her triumph. But again Alizon interposed.

"Do not be alarmed, Susan," she said, "my grandmother will never harm
you, I am sure; indeed, she will never harm any one; and do not heed
what little Jennet says, for she is not aware of the effect of her own
words, or of the injury they might do our grandmother, if repeated."

"Ey dunna wish to repeat them, or to think of em," sobbed Susan.

"That's good, that's kind of you, Susan," replied Alizon, taking her
hand. "Do not be cross any more, Jennet. You see you have made her
weep."

"Ey'm glad on it," rejoined the little girl, laughing; "let her cry on.
It'll do her good, an teach her to mend her manners, and nah offend me
again."

"Ey didna mean to offend ye, Jennet," sobbed Susan, "boh yo're so
wrythen an marr'd, a body canna speak to please ye."

"Weel, if ye confess your fault, ey'm satisfied," replied the little
girl; "boh let it be a lesson to ye, Suky, to keep guard o' your tongue
i' future."

"It shall, ey promise ye," replied Susan, drying her eyes.

At this moment a door opened, and a woman entered from an inner room,
having a high-crowned, conical-shaped hat on her head, and broad white
pinners over her cheeks. Her dress was of dark red camlet, with
high-heeled shoes. She stooped slightly, and being rather lame,
supported herself on a crutch-handled stick. In age she might be between
forty and fifty, but she looked much older, and her features were not at
all prepossessing from a hooked nose and chin, while their sinister
effect was increased by a formation of the eyes similar to that in
Jennet, only more strongly noticeable in her case. This woman was
Elizabeth Device, widow of John Device, about whose death there was a
mystery to be inquired into hereafter, and mother of Alizon and Jennet,
though how she came to have a daughter so unlike herself in all respects
as the former, no one could conceive; but so it was.

"Soh, ye ha donned your finery at last, Alizon," said Elizabeth. "Your
brother Jem has just run up to say that t' rush-cart has set out, and
that Robin Hood and his merry men are comin' for their Queen."

"And their Queen is quite ready for them," replied Alizon, moving
towards the door.

"Neigh, let's ha' a look at ye fust, wench," cried Elizabeth, staying
her; "fine fitthers may fine brids--ey warrant me now yo'n getten these
May gewgaws on, yo fancy yourself a queen in arnest."

"A queen of a day, mother; a queen of a little village festival; nothing
more," replied Alizon. "Oh, if I were a queen in right earnest, or even
a great lady--"

"Whot would yo do?" demanded Elizabeth Device, sourly.

"I'd make you rich, mother, and build you a grand house to live in,"
replied Alizon; "much grander than Browsholme, or Downham, or
Middleton."

"Pity yo're nah a queen then, Alizon," replied Elizabeth, relaxing her
harsh features into a wintry smile.

"Whot would ye do fo me, Alizon, if ye were a queen?" asked little
Jennet, looking up at her.

"Why, let me see," was the reply; "I'd indulge every one of your whims
and wishes. You should only need ask to have."

"Poh--poh--yo'd never content her," observed Elizabeth, testily.

"It's nah your way to try an content me, mother, even whon ye might,"
rejoined Jennet, who, if she loved few people, loved her mother least of
all, and never lost an opportunity of testifying her dislike to her.

"Awt o'pontee, little wasp," cried her mother; "theaw desarves nowt boh
whot theaw dustna get often enough--a good whipping."

"Yo hanna towd us whot yo'd do fo yurself if yo war a great lady,
Alizon?" interposed Susan.

"Oh, I haven't thought about myself," replied the other, laughing.

"Ey con tell ye what she'd do, Suky," replied little Jennet, knowingly;
"she'd marry Master Richard Assheton, o' Middleton."

"Jennet!" exclaimed Alizon, blushing crimson.

"It's true," replied the little girl; "ye knoa ye would, Alizon, Look at
her feace," she added, with a screaming laugh.

"Howd te tongue, little plague," cried Elizabeth, rapping her knuckles
with her stick, "and behave thyself, or theaw shanna go out to t' wake."

Jennet dealt her mother a bitterly vindictive look, but she neither
uttered cry, nor made remark.

In the momentary silence that ensued the blithe jingling of bells was
heard, accompanied by the merry sound of tabor and pipe.

"Ah! here come the rush-cart and the morris-dancers," cried Alizon,
rushing joyously to the window, which, being left partly open, admitted
the scent of the woodbine and eglantine by which it was overgrown, as
well as the humming sound of the bees by which the flowers were invaded.

Almost immediately afterwards a frolic troop, like a band of masquers,
approached the cottage, and drew up before it, while the jingling of
bells ceasing at the same moment, told that the rush-cart had stopped
likewise. Chief amongst the party was Robin Hood clad in a suit of
Lincoln green, with a sheaf of arrows at his back, a bugle dangling from
his baldric, a bow in his hand, and a broad-leaved green hat on his
head, looped up on one side, and decorated with a heron's feather. The
hero of Sherwood was personated by a tall, well-limbed fellow, to whom,
being really a forester of Bowland, the character was natural. Beside
him stood a very different figure, a jovial friar, with shaven crown,
rubicund cheeks, bull throat, and mighty paunch, covered by a russet
habit, and girded in by a red cord, decorated with golden twist and
tassel. He wore red hose and sandal shoon, and carried in his girdle a
Wallet, to contain a roast capon, a neat's tongue, or any other dainty
given him. Friar Tuck, for such he was, found his representative in Ned
Huddlestone, porter at the abbey, who, as the largest and stoutest man
in the village, was chosen on that account to the part. Next to him came
a character of no little importance, and upon whom much of the mirth of
the pageant depended, and this devolved upon the village cobbler, Jack
Roby, a dapper little fellow, who fitted the part of the Fool to a
nicety. With bauble in hand, and blue coxcomb hood adorned with long
white asses' ears on head, with jerkin of green, striped with yellow;
hose of different colours, the left leg being yellow, with a red
pantoufle, and the right blue, terminated with a yellow shoe; with bells
hung upon various parts of his motley attire, so that he could not move
without producing a jingling sound, Jack Roby looked wonderful indeed;
and was constantly dancing about, and dealing a blow with his bauble.
Next came Will Scarlet, Stukely, and Little John, all proper men and
tall, attired in Lincoln green, like Robin Hood, and similarly equipped.
Like him, too, they were all foresters of Bowland, owning service to the
bow-bearer, Mr. Parker of Browsholme hall; and the representative of
Little John, who was six feet and a half high, and stout in proportion,
was Lawrence Blackrod, Mr. Parker's head keeper. After the foresters
came Tom the Piper, a wandering minstrel, habited for the occasion in a
blue doublet, with sleeves of the same colour, turned up with yellow,
red hose, and brown buskins, red bonnet, and green surcoat lined with
yellow. Beside the piper was another minstrel, similarly attired, and
provided with a tabor. Lastly came one of the main features of the
pageant, and which, together with the Fool, contributed most materially
to the amusement of the spectators. This was the Hobby-horse. The hue of
this, spirited charger was a pinkish white, and his housings were of
crimson cloth hanging to the ground, so as to conceal the rider's real
legs, though a pair of sham ones dangled at the side. His bit was of
gold, and his bridle red morocco leather, while his rider was very
sumptuously arrayed in a purple mantle, bordered with gold, with a rich
cap of the same regal hue on his head, encircled with gold, and having a
red feather stuck in it. The hobby-horse had a plume of nodding feathers
on his head, and careered from side to side, now rearing in front, now
kicking behind, now prancing, now gently ambling, and in short indulging
in playful fancies and vagaries, such as horse never indulged in before,
to the imminent danger, it seemed, of his rider, and to the huge delight
of the beholders. Nor must it be omitted, as it was matter of great
wonderment to the lookers-on, that by some legerdemain contrivance the
rider of the hobby-horse had a couple of daggers stuck in his cheeks,
while from his steed's bridle hung a silver ladle, which he held now and
then to the crowd, and in which, when he did so, a few coins were sure
to rattle. After the hobby-horse came the May-pole, not the tall pole so
called and which was already planted in the green, but a stout staff
elevated some six feet above the head of the bearer, with a coronal of
flowers atop, and four long garlands hanging down, each held by a
morris-dancer. Then came the May Queen's gentleman usher, a fantastic
personage in habiliments of blue guarded with white, and holding a long
willow wand in his hand. After the usher came the main troop of
morris-dancers--the men attired in a graceful costume, which set off
their light active figures to advantage, consisting of a slashed-jerkin
of black and white velvet, with cut sleeves left open so as to reveal
the snowy shirt beneath, white hose, and shoes of black Spanish leather
with large roses. Ribands were every where in their dresses--ribands and
tinsel adorned their caps, ribands crossed their hose, and ribands were
tied round their arms. In either hand they held a long white
handkerchief knotted with ribands. The female morris-dancers were
habited in white, decorated like the dresses of the men; they had
ribands and wreaths of flowers round their heads, bows in their hair,
and in their hands long white knotted kerchiefs.

In the rear of the performers in the pageant came the rush-cart drawn by
a team of eight stout horses, with their manes and tails tied with
ribands, their collars fringed with red and yellow worsted, and hung
with bells, which jingled blithely at every movement, and their heads
decked with flowers. The cart itself consisted of an enormous pile of
rushes, banded and twisted together, rising to a considerable height,
and terminated in a sharp ridge, like the point of a Gothic window. The
sides and top were decorated with flowers and ribands, and there were
eaves in front and at the back, and on the space within them, which was
covered with white paper, were strings of gaudy flowers, embedded in
moss, amongst which were suspended all the ornaments and finery that
could be collected for the occasion: to wit, flagons of silver, spoons,
ladles, chains, watches, and bracelets, so as to make a brave and
resplendent show. The wonder was how articles of so much value would be
trusted forth on such an occasion; but nothing was ever lost. On the top
of the rush-cart, and bestriding its sharp ridges, sat half a dozen men,
habited somewhat like the morris-dancers, in garments bedecked with
tinsel and ribands, holding garlands formed by hoops, decorated with
flowers, and attached to poles ornamented with silver paper, cut into
various figures and devices, and diminishing gradually in size as they
rose to a point, where they were crowned with wreaths of daffodils.

A large crowd of rustics, of all ages, accompanied the morris-dancers
and rush-cart.

This gay troop having come to a halt, as described, before the cottage,
the gentleman-usher entered it, and, tapping against the inner door with
his wand, took off his cap as soon as it was opened, and bowing
deferentially to the ground, said he was come to invite the Queen of May
to join the pageant, and that it only awaited her presence to proceed to
the green. Having delivered this speech in as good set phrase as he
could command, and being the parish clerk and schoolmaster to boot,
Sampson Harrop by name, he was somewhat more polished than the rest of
the hinds; and having, moreover, received a gracious response from the
May Queen, who condescendingly replied that she was quite ready to
accompany him, he took her hand, and led her ceremoniously to the door,
whither they were followed by the others.

Loud was the shout that greeted Alizon's appearance, and tremendous was
the pushing to obtain a sight of her; and so much was she abashed by the
enthusiastic greeting, which was wholly unexpected on her part, that she
would have drawn back again, if it had been possible; but the usher led
her forward, and Robin Hood and the foresters having bent the knee
before her, the hobby-horse began to curvet anew among the spectators,
and tread on their toes, the fool to rap their knuckles with his bauble,
the piper to play, the taborer to beat his tambourine, and the
morris-dancers to toss their kerchiefs over their heads. Thus the
pageant being put in motion, the rush-cart began to roll on, its horses'
bells jingling merrily, and the spectators cheering lustily.




CHAPTER II.--THE BLACK CAT AND THE WHITE DOVE.


Little Jennet watched her sister's triumphant departure with a look in
which there was far more of envy than sympathy, and, when her mother
took her hand to lead her forth, she would not go, but saying she did
not care for any such idle sights, went back sullenly to the inner room.
When there, however, she could not help peeping through the window, and
saw Susan and Nancy join the revel rout, with feelings of increased
bitterness.

"Ey wish it would rain an spile their finery," she said, sitting down on
her stool, and plucking the flowers from her basket in pieces. "An yet,
why canna ey enjoy such seets like other folk? Truth is, ey've nah heart
for it."

"Folks say," she continued, after a pause, "that grandmother Demdike is
a witch, an con do os she pleases. Ey wonder if she made Alizon so
protty. Nah, that canna be, fo' Alizon's na favourite o' hern. If she
loves onny one it's me. Why dunna she make me good-looking, then? They
say it's sinfu' to be a witch--if so, how comes grandmother Demdike to
be one? Boh ey'n observed that those folks os caws her witch are afeard
on her, so it may be pure spite o' their pert."

As she thus mused, a great black cat belonging to her mother, which had
followed her into the room, rubbed himself against her, putting up his
back, and purring loudly.

"Ah, Tib," said the little girl, "how are ye, Tib? Ey didna knoa ye were
here. Lemme ask ye some questions, Tib?"

The cat mewed, looked up, and fixed his great yellow eyes upon her.

"One 'ud think ye onderstud whot wos said to ye, Tib," pursued little
Jennet. "We'n see whot ye say to this! Shan ey ever be Queen o' May,
like sister Alizon?"

The cat mewed in a manner that the little girl found no difficulty in
interpreting the reply into "No."

"How's that, Tib?" cried Jennet, sharply. "If ey thought ye meant it,
ey'd beat ye, sirrah. Answer me another question, ye saucy knave. Who
will be luckiest, Alizon or me?"

This time the cat darted away from her, and made two or three skirmishes
round the room, as if gone suddenly mad.

"Ey con may nowt o' that," observed Jennet, laughing.

All at once the cat bounded upon the chimney board, over which was
placed a sampler, worked with the name "ALIZON."

"Why Tib really seems to onderstond me, ey declare," observed Jennet,
uneasily. "Ey should like to ask him a few more questions, if ey durst,"
she added, regarding with some distrust the animal, who now returned,
and began rubbing against her as before. "Tib--Tib!"

The cat looked up, and mewed.

"Protty Tib--sweet Tib," continued the little girl, coaxingly. "Whot mun
one do to be a witch like grandmother Demdike?"

The cat again dashed twice or thrice madly round the room, and then
stopping suddenly at the hearth, sprang up the chimney.

"Ey'n frightened ye away ot onny rate," observed Jennet, laughing. "And
yet it may mean summot," she added, reflecting a little, "fo ey'n heerd
say os how witches fly up chimleys o' broomsticks to attend their
sabbaths. Ey should like to fly i' that manner, an change myself into
another shape--onny shape boh my own. Oh that ey could be os protty os
Alizon! Ey dunna knoa whot ey'd nah do to be like her!"

Again the great black cat was beside her, rubbing against her, and
purring. The child was a good deal startled, for she had not seen him
return, and the door was shut, though he might have come in through the
open window, only she had been looking that way all the time, and had
never noticed him. Strange!

"Tib," said the child, patting him, "thou hasna answered my last
question--how is one to become a witch?"

As she made this inquiry the cat suddenly scratched her in the arm, so
that the blood came. The little girl was a good deal frightened, as well
as hurt, and, withdrawing her arm quickly, made a motion of striking the
animal. But starting backwards, erecting his tail, and spitting, the cat
assumed such a formidable appearance, that she did not dare to touch
him, and she then perceived that some drops of blood stained her white
sleeve, giving the spots a certain resemblance to the letters J. and D.,
her own initials.

At this moment, when she was about to scream for help, though she knew
no one was in the house, all having gone away with the May-day
revellers, a small white dove flew in at the open window, and skimming
round the room, alighted near her. No sooner had the cat caught sight of
this beautiful bird, than instead of preparing to pounce upon it, as
might have been expected, he instantly abandoned his fierce attitude,
and, uttering a sort of howl, sprang up the chimney as before. But the
child scarcely observed this, her attention being directed towards the
bird, whose extreme beauty delighted her. It seemed quite tame too, and
allowed itself to be touched, and even drawn towards her, without an
effort to escape. Never, surely, was seen so beautiful a bird--with such
milkwhite feathers, such red legs, and such pretty yellow eyes, with
crimson circles round them! So thought the little girl, as she gazed at
it, and pressed it to her bosom. In doing this, gentle and good thoughts
came upon her, and she reflected what a nice present this pretty bird
would make to her sister Alizon on her return from the merry-making, and
how pleased she should feel to give it to her. And then she thought of
Alizon's constant kindness to her, and half reproached herself with the
poor return she made for it, wondering she could entertain any feelings
of envy towards one so good and amiable. All this while the dove nestled
in her bosom.

While thus pondering, the little girl felt an unaccountable drowsiness
steal over her, and presently afterwards dropped asleep, when she had a
very strange dream. It seemed to her that there was a contest going on
between two spirits, a good one and a bad,--the bad one being
represented by the great black cat, and the good spirit by the white
dove. What they were striving about she could not exactly tell, but she
felt that the conflict had some relation to herself. The dove at first
appeared to have but a poor chance against the claws of its sable
adversary, but the sharp talons of the latter made no impression upon
the white plumage of the bird, which now shone like silver armour, and
in the end the cat fled, yelling as it darted off--"Thou art victorious
now, but her soul shall yet be mine."

Something awakened the little sleeper at the same moment, and she felt
very much terrified at her dream, as she could not help thinking her own
soul might be the one in jeopardy, and her first impulse was to see
whether the white dove was safe. Yes, there it was still nestling in her
bosom, with its head under its wing.

Just then she was startled at hearing her own name pronounced by a
hoarse voice, and, looking up, she beheld a tall young man standing at
the window. He had a somewhat gipsy look, having a dark olive
complexion, and fine black eyes, though set strangely in his head, like
those of Jennet and her mother, coal black hair, and very prominent
features, of a sullen and almost savage cast. His figure was gaunt but
very muscular, his arms being extremely long and his hands unusually
large and bony--personal advantages which made him a formidable
antagonist in any rustic encounter, and in such he was frequently
engaged, being of a very irascible temper, and turbulent disposition. He
was clad in a holiday suit of dark-green serge, which fitted him well,
and carried a nosegay in one hand, and a stout blackthorn cudgel in the
other. This young man was James Device, son of Elizabeth, and some four
or five years older than Alizon. He did not live with his mother in
Whalley, but in Pendle Forest, near his old relative, Mother Demdike,
and had come over that morning to attend the wake.

"Whot are ye abowt, Jennet?" inquired James Device, in tones naturally
hoarse and deep, and which he took as little pains to soften, as he did
to polish his manners, which were more than ordinarily rude and
churlish.

"Whot are ye abowt, ey sey, wench?" he repeated, "Why dunna ye go to t'
green to see the morris-dancers foot it round t' May-pow? Cum along wi'
me."

"Ey dunna want to go, Jem," replied the little girl.

"Boh yo shan go, ey tell ey," rejoined her brother; "ye shan see your
sister dawnce. Ye con sit a whoam onny day; boh May-day cums ony wonst a
year, an Alizon winna be Queen twice i' her life. Soh cum along wi' me,
dereckly, or ey'n may ye."

"Ey should like to see Alizon dance, an so ey win go wi' ye, Jem,"
replied Jennet, getting up, "otherwise your orders shouldna may me stir,
ey con tell ye."

As she came out, she found her brother whistling the blithe air of
"Green Sleeves," cutting strange capers, in imitation of the
morris-dancers, and whirling his cudgel over his head instead of a
kerchief. The gaiety of the day seemed infectious, and to have seized
even him. People stared to see Black Jem, or Surly Jem, as he was
indifferently called, so joyous, and wondered what it could mean. He
then fell to singing a snatch of a local ballad at that time in vogue in
the neighbourhood:--


          "If thou wi' nah my secret tell,
              Ne bruit abroad i' Whalley parish,
          And swear to keep my counsel well,
              Ey win declare my day of marriage."

"Cum along, lass," he cried stopping suddenly in his song, and snatching
his sister's hand. "What han ye getten there, lapped up i' your kirtle,
eh?"

"A white dove," replied Jennet, determined not to tell him any thing
about her strange dream.

"A white dove!" echoed Jem. "Gi' it me, an ey'n wring its neck, an get
it roasted for supper."

"Ye shan do nah such thing, Jem," replied Jennet. "Ey mean to gi' it to
Alizon."

"Weel, weel, that's reet," rejoined Jem, blandly, "it'll may a protty
offering. Let's look at it."

"Nah, nah," said Jennet, pressing the bird gently to her bosom, "neaw
one shan see it efore Alizon."

"Cum along then," cried Jem, rather testily, and mending his pace, "or
we'st be too late fo' t' round. Whoy yo'n scratted yourself," he added,
noticing the red spots on her sleeve.

"Han ey?" she rejoined, evasively. "Oh now ey rekilect, it wos Tib did
it."

"Tib!" echoed Jem, gravely, and glancing uneasily at the marks.

Meanwhile, on quitting the cottage, the May-day revellers had proceeded
slowly towards the green, increasing the number of their followers at
each little tenement they passed, and being welcomed every where with
shouts and cheers. The hobby-horse curveted and capered; the Fool
fleered at the girls, and flouted the men, jesting with every one, and
when failing in a point rapping the knuckles of his auditors; Friar Tuck
chucked the pretty girls under the chin, in defiance of their
sweethearts, and stole a kiss from every buxom dame that stood in his
way, and then snapped his fingers, or made a broad grimace at the
husband; the piper played, and the taborer rattled his tambourine; the
morris-dancers tossed their kerchiefs aloft; and the bells of the
rush-cart jingled merrily; the men on the top being on a level with the
roofs of the cottages, and the summits of the haystacks they passed, but
in spite of their exalted position jesting with the crowd below. But in
spite of these multiplied attractions, and in spite of the gambols of
Fool and Horse, though the latter elicited prodigious laughter, the main
attention was fixed on the May Queen, who tripped lightly along by the
side of her faithful squire, Robin Hood, followed by the three bold
foresters of Sherwood, and her usher.

In this way they reached the green, where already a large crowd was
collected to see them, and where in the midst of it, and above the heads
of the assemblage, rose the lofty May-pole, with all its flowery
garlands glittering in the sunshine, and its ribands fluttering in the
breeze. Pleasant was it to see those cheerful groups, composed of happy
rustics, youths in their holiday attire, and maidens neatly habited too,
and fresh and bright as the day itself. Summer sunshine sparkled in
their eyes, and weather and circumstance as well as genial natures
disposed them to enjoyment. Every lass above eighteen had her
sweetheart, and old couples nodded and smiled at each other when any
tender speech, broadly conveyed but tenderly conceived, reached their
ears, and said it recalled the days of their youth. Pleasant was it to
hear such honest laughter, and such good homely jests.

Laugh on, my merry lads, you are made of good old English stuff, loyal
to church and king, and while you, and such as you, last, our land will
be in no danger from foreign foe! Laugh on, and praise your sweethearts
how you will. Laugh on, and blessings on your honest hearts!

The frolic train had just reached the precincts of the green, when the
usher waving his wand aloft, called a momentary halt, announcing that
Sir Ralph Assheton and the gentry were coming forth from the Abbey gate
to meet them.




CHAPTER III.--THE ASSHETONS.


Between Sir Ralph Assheton of the Abbey and the inhabitants of Whalley,
many of whom were his tenants, he being joint lord of the manor with
John Braddyll of Portfield, the best possible feeling subsisted; for
though somewhat austere in manner, and tinctured with Puritanism, the
worthy knight was sufficiently shrewd, or, more correctly speaking,
sufficiently liberal-minded, to be tolerant of the opinions of others,
and being moreover sincere in his own religious views, no man could call
him in question for them; besides which, he was very hospitable to his
friends, very bountiful to the poor, a good landlord, and a humane man.
His very austerity of manner, tempered by stately courtesy, added to the
respect he inspired, especially as he could now and then relax into
gaiety, and, when he did so, his smile was accounted singularly sweet.
But in general he was grave and formal; stiff in attire, and stiff in
gait; cold and punctilious in manner, precise in speech, and exacting in
due respect from both high and low, which was seldom, if ever, refused
him. Amongst Sir Ralph's other good qualities, for such it was esteemed
by his friends and retainers, and they were, of course, the best judges,
was a strong love of the chase, and perhaps he indulged a little too
freely in the sports of the field, for a gentleman of a character so
staid and decorous; but his popularity was far from being diminished by
the circumstance; neither did he suffer the rude and boisterous
companionship into which he was brought by indulgence in this his
favourite pursuit in any way to affect him. Though still young, Sir
Ralph was prematurely grey, and this, combined with the sad severity of
his aspect, gave him the air of one considerably past the middle term of
life, though this appearance was contradicted again by the youthful fire
of his eagle eye. His features were handsome and strongly marked, and he
wore a pointed beard and mustaches, with a shaved cheek. Sir Ralph
Assheton had married twice, his first wife being a daughter of Sir James
Bellingham of Levens, in Northumberland, by whom he had two children;
while his second choice fell upon Eleanor Shuttleworth, the lovely and
well-endowed heiress of Gawthorpe, to whom he had been recently united.
In his attire, even when habited for the chase or a merry-making, like
the present, the Knight of Whalley affected a sombre colour, and
ordinarily wore a quilted doublet of black silk, immense trunk hose of
the same material, stiffened with whalebone, puffed out well-wadded
sleeves, falling bands, for he eschewed the ruff as savouring of vanity,
boots of black flexible leather, ascending to the hose, and armed with
spurs with gigantic rowels, a round-crowned small-brimmed black hat,
with an ostrich feather placed in the side and hanging over the top, a
long rapier on his hip, and a dagger in his girdle. This buckram attire,
it will be easily conceived, contributed no little to the natural
stiffness of his thin tall figure.

Sir Ralph Assheton was great grandson of Richard Assheton, who
flourished in the time of Abbot Paslew, and who, in conjunction with
John Braddyll, fourteen years after the unfortunate prelate's attainder
and the dissolution of the monastery, had purchased the abbey and
domains of Whalley from the Crown, subsequently to which, a division of
the property so granted took place between them, the abbey and part of
the manor falling to the share of Richard Assheton, whose descendants
had now for three generations made it their residence. Thus the whole of
Whalley belonged to the families of Assheton and Braddyll, which had
intermarried; the latter, as has been stated, dwelling at Portfield, a
fine old seat in the neighbourhood.

A very different person from Sir Ralph was his cousin, Nicholas Assheton
of Downham, who, except as regards his Puritanism, might be considered a
type of the Lancashire squire of the day. A precisian in religious
notions, and constant in attendance at church and lecture, he put no
sort of restraint upon himself, but mixed up fox-hunting, otter-hunting,
shooting at the mark, and perhaps shooting with the long-bow,
foot-racing, horse-racing, and, in fact, every other kind of country
diversion, not forgetting tippling, cards, and dicing, with daily
devotion, discourses, and psalm-singing in the oddest way imaginable. A
thorough sportsman was Squire Nicholas Assheton, well versed in all the
arts and mysteries of hawking and hunting. Not a man in the county could
ride harder, hunt deer, unkennel fox, unearth badger, or spear otter,
better than he. And then, as to tippling, he would sit you a whole
afternoon at the alehouse, and be the merriest man there, and drink a
bout with every farmer present. And if the parson chanced to be out of
hearing, he would never make a mouth at a round oath, nor choose a
second expression when the first would serve his turn. Then, who so
constant at church or lecture as Squire Nicholas--though he did snore
sometimes during the long sermons of his cousin, the Rector of
Middleton? A great man was he at all weddings, christenings, churchings,
and funerals, and never neglected his bottle at these ceremonies, nor
any sport in doors or out of doors, meanwhile. In short, such a
roystering Puritan was never known. A good-looking young man was the
Squire of Downham, possessed of a very athletic frame, and a most
vigorous constitution, which helped him, together with the prodigious
exercise he took, through any excess. He had a sanguine complexion, with
a broad, good-natured visage, which he could lengthen at will in a
surprising manner. His hair was cropped close to his head, and the razor
did daily duty over his cheek and chin, giving him the roundhead look,
some years later, characteristic of the Puritanical party. Nicholas had
taken to wife Dorothy, daughter of Richard Greenacres of Worston, and
was most fortunate in his choice, which is more than can be said for his
lady, for I cannot uphold the squire as a model of conjugal fidelity.
Report affirmed that he loved more than one pretty girl under the rose.
Squire Nicholas was not particular as to the quality or make of his
clothes, provided they wore well and protected him against the weather,
and was generally to be seen in doublet and hose of stout fustian, which
had seen some service, with a broad-leaved hat, originally green, but of
late bleached to a much lighter colour; but he was clad on this
particular occasion in ash-coloured habiliments fresh from the tailor's
hands, with buff boots drawn up to the knee, and a new round hat from
York with a green feather in it. His legs were slightly embowed, and he
bore himself like a man rarely out of the saddle.

Downham, the residence of the squire, was a fine old house, very
charmingly situated to the north of Pendle Hill, of which it commanded a
magnificent view, and a few miles from Clithero. The grounds about it
were well-wooded and beautifully broken and diversified, watered by the
Ribble, and opening upon the lovely and extensive valley deriving its
name from that stream. The house was in good order and well maintained,
and the stables plentifully furnished with horses, while the hall was
adorned with various trophies and implements of the chase; but as I
propose paying its owner a visit, I shall defer any further description
of the place till an opportunity arrives for examining it in detail.

A third cousin of Sir Ralph's, though in the second degree, likewise
present on the May-day in question, was the Reverend Abdias Assheton,
Rector of Middleton, a very worthy man, who, though differing from his
kinsmen upon some religious points, and not altogether approving of the
conduct of one of them, was on good terms with both. The Rector of
Middleton was portly and middle-aged, fond of ease and reading, and by
no means indifferent to the good things of life. He was unmarried, and
passed much of his time at Middleton Hall, the seat of his near relative
Sir Richard Assheton, to whose family he was greatly attached, and whose
residence closely adjoined the rectory.

A fourth cousin, also present, was young Richard Assheton of Middleton,
eldest son and heir of the owner of that estate. Possessed of all the
good qualities largely distributed among his kinsmen, with none of their
drawbacks, this young man was as tolerant and bountiful as Sir Ralph,
without his austerity and sectarianism; as keen a sportsman and as bold
a rider as Nicholas, without his propensities to excess; as studious, at
times, and as well read as Abdias, without his laziness and
self-indulgence; and as courtly and well-bred as his father, Sir
Richard, who was esteemed one of the most perfect gentlemen in the
county, without his haughtiness. Then he was the handsomest of his race,
though the Asshetons were accounted the handsomest family in Lancashire,
and no one minded yielding the palm to young Richard, even if it could
be contested, he was so modest and unassuming. At this time, Richard
Assheton was about two-and-twenty, tall, gracefully and slightly formed,
but possessed of such remarkable vigour, that even his cousin Nicholas
could scarcely compete with him in athletic exercises. His features were
fine and regular, with an almost Phrygian precision of outline; his hair
was of a dark brown, and fell in clustering curls over his brow and
neck; and his complexion was fresh and blooming, and set off by a slight
beard and mustache, carefully trimmed and pointed. His dress consisted
of a dark-green doublet, with wide velvet hose, embroidered and fringed,
descending nearly to the knee, where they were tied with points and
ribands, met by dark stockings, and terminated by red velvet shoes with
roses in them. A white feather adorned his black broad-leaved hat, and
he had a rapier by his side.

Amongst Sir Ralph Assheton's guests were Richard Greenacres, of Worston,
Nicholas Assheton's father-in-law; Richard Sherborne of Dunnow, near
Sladeburne, who had married Dorothy, Nicholas's sister; Mistress
Robinson of Raydale House, aunt to the knight and the squire, and two of
her sons, both stout youths, with John Braddyll and his wife, of
Portfield. Besides these there was Master Roger Nowell, a justice of the
peace in the county, and a very active and busy one too, who had been
invited for an especial purpose, to be explained hereafter. Head of an
ancient Lancashire family, residing at Read, a fine old hall, some
little distance from Whalley, Roger Nowell, though a worthy,
well-meaning man, dealt hard measure from the bench, and seldom tempered
justice with mercy. He was sharp-featured, dry, and sarcastic, and being
adverse to country sports, his presence on the occasion was the only
thing likely to impose restraint on the revellers. Other guests there
were, but none of particular note.

The ladies of the party consisted of Lady Assheton, Mistress Nicholas
Assheton of Downham, Dorothy Assheton of Middleton, sister to Richard, a
lovely girl of eighteen, with light fleecy hair, summer blue eyes, and a
complexion of exquisite purity, Mistress Sherborne of Dunnow, Mistress
Robinson of Raydale, and Mistress Braddyll of Portfield, before
mentioned, together with the wives and daughters of some others of the
neighbouring gentry; most noticeable amongst whom was Mistress Alice
Nutter of Rough Lee, in Pendle Forest, a widow lady and a relative of
the Assheton family.

Mistress Nutter might be a year or two turned of forty, but she still
retained a very fine figure, and much beauty of feature, though of a
cold and disagreeable cast. She was dressed in mourning, though her
husband had been dead several years, and her rich dark habiliments well
became her pale complexion and raven hair. A proud poor gentleman was
Richard Nutter, her late husband, and his scanty means not enabling him
to keep up as large an establishment as he desired, or to be as
hospitable as his nature prompted, his temper became soured, and he
visited his ill humours upon his wife, who, devotedly attached to him,
to all outward appearance at least, never resented his ill treatment.
All at once, and without any previous symptoms of ailment, or apparent
cause, unless it might be over-fatigue in hunting the day before,
Richard Nutter was seized with a strange and violent illness, which,
after three or four days of acute suffering, brought him to the grave.
During his illness he was constantly and zealously tended by his wife,
but he displayed great aversion to her, declaring himself bewitched, and
that an old woman was ever in the corner of his room mumbling wicked
enchantments against him. But as no such old woman could be seen, these
assertions were treated as delirious ravings. They were not, however,
forgotten after his death, and some people said that he had certainly
been bewitched, and that a waxen image made in his likeness, and stuck
full of pins, had been picked up in his chamber by Mistress Alice and
cast into the fire, and as soon as it melted he had expired. Such tales
only obtained credence with the common folk; but as Pendle Forest was a
sort of weird region, many reputed witches dwelling in it, they were the
more readily believed, even by those who acquitted Mistress Nutter of
all share in the dark transaction.

Mistress Nutter gave the best proof that she respected her husband's
memory by not marrying again, and she continued to lead a very secluded
life at Rough Lee, a lonesome house in the heart of the forest. She
lived quite by herself, for she had no children, her only daughter
having perished somewhat strangely when quite an infant. Though a
relative of the Asshetons, she kept up little intimacy with them, and it
was a matter of surprise to all that she had been drawn from her
seclusion to attend the present revel. Her motive, however, in visiting
the Abbey, was to obtain the assistance of Sir Ralph Assheton, in
settling a dispute between her and Roger Nowell, relative to the
boundary line of part of their properties which came together; and this
was the reason why the magistrate had been invited to Whalley. After
hearing both sides of the question, and examining plans of the estates,
which he knew to be accurate, Sir Ralph, who had been appointed umpire,
pronounced a decision in favour of Roger Nowell, but Mistress Nutter
refusing to abide by it, the settlement of the matter was postponed till
the day but one following, between which time the landmarks were to be
investigated by a certain little lawyer named Potts, who attended on
behalf of Roger Nowell; together with Nicholas and Richard Assheton, on
behalf of Mistress Nutter. Upon their evidence it was agreed by both
parties that Sir Ralph should pronounce a final decision, to be accepted
by them, and to that effect they signed an agreement. The three persons
appointed to the investigation settled to start for Rough Lee early on
the following morning.

A word as to Master Thomas Potts. This worthy was an attorney from
London, who had officiated as clerk of the court at the assizes at
Lancaster, where his quickness had so much pleased Roger Nowell, that he
sent for him to Read to manage this particular business. A sharp-witted
fellow was Potts, and versed in all the quirks and tricks of a very
subtle profession--not over-scrupulous, provided a client would pay
well; prepared to resort to any expedient to gain his object, and quite
conversant enough with both practice and precedent to keep himself
straight. A bustling, consequential little personage was he, moreover;
very fond of delivering an opinion, even when unasked, and of a
meddling, make-mischief turn, constantly setting men by the ears. A suit
of rusty black, a parchment-coloured skin, small wizen features, a
turn-up nose, scant eyebrows, and a great yellow forehead, constituted
his external man. He partook of the hospitality at the Abbey, but had
his quarters at the Dragon. He it was who counselled Roger Nowell to
abide by the decision of Sir Ralph, confidently assuring him that he
must carry his point.

This dispute was not, however, the only one the knight had to adjust, or
in which Master Potts was concerned. A claim had recently been made by a
certain Sir Thomas Metcalfe of Nappay, in Wensleydale, near Bainbridge,
to the house and manor of Raydale, belonging to his neighbour, John
Robinson, whose lady, as has been shown, was a relative of the
Asshetons. Robinson himself had gone to London to obtain advice on the
subject, while Sir Thomas Metcalfe, who was a man of violent
disposition, had threatened to take forcible possession of Raydale, if
it were not delivered to him without delay, and to eject the Robinson
family. Having consulted Potts, however, on the subject, whom he had met
at Read, the latter strongly dissuaded him from the course, and
recommended him to call to his aid the strong arm of the law: but this
he rejected, though he ultimately agreed to refer the matter to Sir
Ralph Assheton, and for this purpose he had come over to Whalley, and
was at present a guest at the vicarage. Thus it will be seen that Sir
Ralph Assheton had his hands full, while the little London lawyer,
Master Potts, was tolerably well occupied. Besides Sir Thomas Metcalfe,
Sir Richard Molyneux, and Mr. Parker of Browsholme, were guests of Dr.
Ormerod at the vicarage.

Such was the large company assembled to witness the May-day revels at
Whalley, and if harmonious feelings did not exist amongst all of them,
little outward manifestation was made of enmity. The dresses and
appointments of the pageant having been provided by Sir Ralph Assheton,
who, Puritan as he was, encouraged all harmless country pastimes, it was
deemed necessary to pay him every respect, even if no other feeling
would have prompted the attention, and therefore the troop had stopped
on seeing him and his guests issue from the Abbey gate. At pretty nearly
the same time Doctor Ormerod and his party came from the vicarage
towards the green.

No order of march was observed, but Sir Ralph and his lady, with two of
his children by the former marriage, walked first. Then came some of the
other ladies, with the Rector of Middleton, John Braddyll, and the two
sons of Mistress Robinson. Next came Mistress Nutter, Roger Nowell and
Potts walking after her, eyeing her maliciously, as her proud figure
swept on before them. Even if she saw their looks or overheard their
jeers, she did not deign to notice them. Lastly came young Richard
Assheton, of Middleton, and Squire Nicholas, both in high spirits, and
laughing and chatting together.

"A brave day for the morris-dancers, cousin Dick," observed Nicholas
Assheton, as they approached the green, "and plenty of folk to witness
the sport. Half my lads from Downham are here, and I see a good many of
your Middleton chaps among them. How are you, Farmer Tetlow?" he added
to a stout, hale-looking man, with a blooming country woman by his
side--"brought your pretty young wife to the rush-bearing, I see."

"Yeigh, squoire," rejoined the farmer, "an mightily pleased hoo be wi'
it, too."

"Happy to hear if, Master Tetlow," replied Nicholas, "she'll be better
pleased before the day's over, I'll warrant her. I'll dance a round with
her myself in the hall at night."

"Theere now, Meg, whoy dunna ye may t' squoire a curtsy, wench, an thonk
him," said Tetlow, nudging his pretty wife, who had turned away, rather
embarrassed by the free gaze of the squire. Nicholas, however, did not
wait for the curtsy, but went away, laughing, to overtake Richard
Assheton, who had walked on.

"Ah, here's Frank Garside," he continued, espying another rustic
acquaintance. "Halloa, Frank, I'll come over one day next week, and try
for a fox in Easington Woods. We missed the last, you know. Tom
Brockholes, are you here? Just ridden over from Sladeburne, eh? When is
that shooting match at the bodkin to come off, eh? Mind, it is to be at
twenty-two roods' distance. Ride over to Downham on Thursday next, Tom.
We're to have a foot-race, and I'll show you good sport, and at night
we'll have a lusty drinking bout at the alehouse. On Friday, we'll take
out the great nets, and try for salmon in the Ribble. I took some fine
fish on Monday--one salmon of ten pounds' weight, the largest I've got
the whole season.--I brought it with me to-day to the Abbey. There's an
otter in the river, and I won't hunt him till you come, Tom. I shall see
you on Thursday, eh?"

Receiving an answer in the affirmative, squire Nicholas walked on,
nodding right and left, jesting with the farmers, and ogling their
pretty wives and daughters.

"I tell you what, cousin Dick," he said, calling after Richard Assheton,
who had got in advance of him, "I'll match my dun nag against your grey
gelding for twenty pieces, that I reach the boundary line of the Rough
Lee lands before you to-morrow. What, you won't have it? You know I
shall beat you--ha! ha! Well, we'll try the speed of the two tits the
first day we hunt the stag in Bowland Forest. Odds my life!" he cried,
suddenly altering his deportment and lengthening his visage, "if there
isn't our parson here. Stay with me, cousin Dick, stay with me. Give you
good-day, worthy Mr. Dewhurst," he added, taking off his hat to the
divine, who respectfully returned his salutation, "I did not look to see
your reverence here, taking part in these vanities and idle sports. I
propose to call on you on Saturday, and pass an hour in serious
discourse. I would call to-morrow, but I have to ride over to Pendle on
business. Tarry a moment for me, I pray you, good cousin Richard. I
fear, reverend sir, that you will see much here that will scandalise
you; much lightness and indecorum. Pleasanter far would it be to me to
see a large congregation of the elders flocking together to a godly
meeting, than crowds assembled for such a profane purpose. Another
moment, Richard. My cousin is a young man, Mr. Dewhurst, and wishes to
join the revel. But we must make allowances, worthy and reverend sir,
until the world shall improve. An excellent discourse you gave us, good
sir, on Sunday: viii. Rom. 12 and 13 verses: it is graven upon my
memory, but I have made a note of it in my diary. I come to you, cousin,
I come. I pray you walk on to the Abbey, good Mr. Dewhurst, where you
will be right welcome, and call for any refreshment you may desire--a
glass of good sack, and a slice of venison pasty, on which we have just
dined--and there is some famous old ale, which I would commend to you,
but that I know you care not, any more than myself, for creature
comforts. Farewell, reverend sir. I will join you ere long, for these
scenes have little attraction for me. But I must take care that my young
cousin falleth not into harm."

And as the divine took his way to the Abbey, he added, laughingly, to
Richard,--"A good riddance, Dick. I would not have the old fellow play
the spy upon us.--Ah, Giles Mercer," he added, stopping again,--"and
Jeff Rushton--well met, lads! what, are you come to the wake? I shall be
at John Lawe's in the evening, and we'll have a glass together--John
brews sack rarely, and spareth not the eggs."

"Boh yo'n be at th' dawncing at th' Abbey, squoire," said one of the
farmers.

"Curse the dancing!" cried Nicholas--"I hope the parson didn't hear me,"
he added, turning round quickly. "Well, well, I'll come down when the
dancing's over, and we'll make a night of it." And he ran on to overtake
Richard Assheton.

By this time the respective parties from the Abbey and the Vicarage
having united, they walked on together, Sir Ralph Assheton, after
courteously exchanging salutations with Dr. Ormerod's guests, still
keeping a little in advance of the company. Sir Thomas Metcalfe
comported himself with more than his wonted haughtiness, and bowed so
superciliously to Mistress Robinson, that her two sons glanced angrily
at each other, as if in doubt whether they should not instantly resent
the affront. Observing this, as well as what had previously taken place,
Nicholas Assheton stepped quickly up to them, and said--

"Keep quiet, lads. Leave this dunghill cock to me, and I'll lower his
crest."

With this he pushed forward, and elbowing Sir Thomas rudely out of the
way, turned round, and, instead of apologising, eyed him coolly and
contemptuously from head to foot.

"Are you drunk, sir, that you forget your manners?" asked Sir Thomas,
laying his hand upon his sword.

"Not so drunk but that I know how to conduct myself like a gentleman,
Sir Thomas," rejoined Nicholas, "which is more than can be said for a
certain person of my acquaintance, who, for aught I know, has only taken
his morning pint."

"You wish to pick a quarrel with me, Master Nicholas Assheton, I
perceive," said Sir Thomas, stepping close up to him, "and I will not
disappoint you. You shall render me good reason for this affront before
I leave Whalley."

"When and where you please, Sir Thomas," rejoined Nicholas, laughing.
"At any hour, and at any weapon, I am your man."

At this moment, Master Potts, who had scented a quarrel afar, and who
would have liked it well enough if its prosecution had not run counter
to his own interests, quitted Roger Nowell, and ran back to Metcalfe,
and plucking him by the sleeve, said, in a low voice--

"This is not the way to obtain quiet possession of Raydale House, Sir
Thomas. Master Nicholas Assheton," he added, turning to him, "I must
entreat you, my good sir, to be moderate. Gentlemen, both, I caution you
that I have my eye upon you. You well know there is a magistrate here,
my singular good friend and honoured client, Master Roger Nowell, and if
you pursue this quarrel further, I shall hold it my duty to have you
bound over by that worthy gentleman in sufficient securities to keep the
peace towards our sovereign lord the king and all his lieges, and
particularly towards each other. You understand me, gentlemen?"

"Perfectly," replied Nicholas. "I drink at John Lawe's to-night, Sir
Thomas."

So saying, he walked away. Metcalfe would have followed him, but was
withheld by Potts.

"Let him go, Sir Thomas," said the little man of law; "let him go. Once
master of Raydale, you can do as you please. Leave the settlement of the
matter to me. I'll just whisper a word in Sir Ralph Assheton's ear, and
you'll hear no more of it."

"Fire and fury!" growled Sir Thomas. "I like not this mode of settling a
quarrel; and unless this hot-headed psalm-singing puritan apologises, I
shall assuredly cut his throat."

"Or he yours, good Sir Thomas," rejoined Potts. "Better sit in Raydale
Hall, than lie in the Abbey vaults."

"Well, we'll talk over the matter, Master Potts," replied the knight.

"A nice morning's work I've made of it," mused Nicholas, as he walked
along; "here I have a dance with a farmer's pretty wife, a discourse
with a parson, a drinking-bout with a couple of clowns, and a duello
with a blustering knight on my hands. Quite enough, o' my conscience!
but I must get through it the best way I can. And now, hey for the
May-pole and the morris-dancers!"

Nicholas just got up in time to witness the presentation of the May
Queen to Sir Ralph Assheton and his lady, and like every one else he was
greatly struck by her extreme beauty and natural grace.

The little ceremony was thus conducted. When the company from the Abbey
drew near the troop of revellers, the usher taking Alizon's hand in the
tips of his fingers as before, strutted forward with her to Sir Ralph
and his lady, and falling upon one knee before them, said,--"Most
worshipful and honoured knight, and you his lovely dame, and you the
tender and cherished olive branches growing round about their tables, I
hereby crave your gracious permission to present unto your honours our
chosen Queen of May."

Somewhat fluttered by the presentation, Alizon yet maintained sufficient
composure to bend gracefully before Lady Assheton, and say in a very
sweet voice, "I fear your ladyship will think the choice of the village
hath fallen ill in alighting upon me; and, indeed, I feel myself
altogether unworthy the distinction; nevertheless I will endeavour to
discharge my office fittingly, and therefore pray you, fair lady, and
the worshipful knight, your husband, together with your beauteous
children, and the gentles all by whom you are surrounded, to grace our
little festival with your presence, hoping you may find as much pleasure
in the sight as we shall do in offering it to you."

"A fair maid, and modest as she is fair," observed Sir Ralph, with a
condescending smile.

"In sooth is she," replied Lady Assheton, raising her kindly, and
saying, as she did so--

"Nay, you must not kneel to us, sweet maid. You are queen of May, and it
is for us to show respect to you during your day of sovereignty. Your
wishes are commands; and, in behalf of my husband, my children, and our
guests, I answer, that we will gladly attend your revels on the green."

"Well said, dear Nell," observed Sir Ralph. "We should be churlish,
indeed, were we to refuse the bidding of so lovely a queen."

"Nay, you have called the roses in earnest to her cheek, now, Sir
Ralph," observed Lady Assheton, smiling. "Lead on, fair queen," she
continued, "and tell your companions to begin their sports when they
please.--Only remember this, that we shall hope to see all your gay
troop this evening at the Abbey, to a merry dance."

"Where I will strive to find her majesty a suitable partner," added Sir
Ralph. "Stay, she shall make her choice now, as a royal personage
should; for you know, Nell, a queen ever chooseth her partner, whether
it be for the throne or for the brawl. How gay you, fair one? Shall it
be either of our young cousins, Joe or Will Robinson of Raydale; or our
cousin who still thinketh himself young, Squire Nicholas of Downham."

"Ay, let it be me, I implore of you, fair queen," interposed Nicholas.

"He is engaged already," observed Richard Assheton, coming forward. "I
heard him ask pretty Mistress Tetlow, the farmer's wife, to dance with
him this evening at the Abbey."

A loud laugh from those around followed this piece of information, but
Nicholas was in no wise disconcerted.

"Dick would have her choose him, and that is why he interferes with me,"
he observed. "How say you, fair queen! Shall it be our hopeful cousin? I
will answer for him that he danceth the coranto and lavolta
indifferently well."

On hearing Richard Assheton's voice, all the colour had forsaken
Alizon's cheeks; but at this direct appeal to her by Nicholas, it
returned with additional force, and the change did not escape the quick
eye of Lady Assheton.

"You perplex her, cousin Nicholas," she said.

"Not a whit, Eleanor," answered the squire; "but if she like not Dick
Assheton, there is another Dick, Dick Sherburne of Sladeburn; or our
cousin, Jack Braddyll; or, if she prefer an older and discreeter man,
there is Father Greenacres of Worston, or Master Roger Nowell of
Read--plenty of choice."

"Nay, if I must choose a partner, it shall be a young one," said Alizon.

"Right, fair queen, right," cried Nicholas, laughing. "Ever choose a
young man if you can. Who shall it be?"

"You have named him yourself, sir," replied Alizon, in a voice which she
endeavoured to keep firm, but which, in spite of all her efforts,
sounded tremulously--"Master Richard Assheton."

"Next to choosing me, you could not have chosen better," observed
Nicholas, approvingly. "Dick, lad, I congratulate thee."

"I congratulate myself," replied the young man. "Fair queen," he added,
advancing, "highly flattered am I by your choice, and shall so demean
myself, I trust, as to prove myself worthy of it. Before I go, I would
beg a boon from you--that flower."

"This pink," cried Alizon. "It is yours, fair sir."

Young Assheton took the flower and took the hand that offered it at the
same time, and pressed the latter to his lips; while Lady Assheton, who
had been made a little uneasy by Alizon's apparent emotion, and who with
true feminine tact immediately detected its cause, called out: "Now,
forward--forward to the May-pole! We have interrupted the revel too
long."

Upon this the May Queen stepped blushingly back with the usher, who,
with his white wand in hand, had stood bolt upright behind her,
immensely delighted with the scene in which his pupil--for Alizon had
been tutored by him for the occasion--had taken part. Sir Ralph then
clapped his hands loudly, and at this signal the tabor and pipe struck
up; the Fool and the Hobby-horse, who, though idle all the time, had
indulged in a little quiet fun with the rustics, recommenced their
gambols; the Morris-dancers their lively dance; and the whole train
moved towards the May-pole, followed by the rush-cart, with all its
bells jingling, and all its garlands waving.

As to Alizon, her brain was in a whirl, and her bosom heaved so quickly,
that she thought she should faint. To think that the choice of a partner
in the dance at the Abbey had been offered her, and that she should
venture to choose Master Richard Assheton! She could scarcely credit her
own temerity. And then to think that she should give him a flower, and,
more than all, that he should kiss her hand in return for it! She felt
the tingling pressure of his lips upon her finger still, and her little
heart palpitated strangely.

As she approached the May-pole, and the troop again halted for a few
minutes, she saw her brother James holding little Jennet by the hand,
standing in the front line to look at her.

"Oh, how I'm glad to see you here, Jennet!" she cried.

"An ey'm glad to see yo, Alizon," replied the little girl. "Jem has towd
me whot a grand partner you're to ha' this e'en." And, she added, with
playful malice, "Who was wrong whon she said the queen could choose
Master Richard--"

"Hush, Jennet, not a word more," interrupted Alizon, blushing.

"Oh! ey dunna mean to vex ye, ey'm sure," replied Jennet. "Ey've got a
present for ye."

"A present for me, Jennet," cried Alizon; "what is it?"

"A beautiful white dove," replied the little girl.

"A white dove! Where did you get it? Let me see it," cried Alizon, in a
breath.

"Here it is," replied Jennet, opening her kirtle.

"A beautiful bird, indeed," cried Alizon. "Take care of it for me till I
come home."

"Which winna be till late, ey fancy," rejoined Jennet, roguishly. "Ah!"
she added, uttering a cry.

The latter exclamation was occasioned by the sudden flight of the dove,
which, escaping from her hold, soared aloft. Jennet followed the course
of its silver wings, as they cleaved the blue sky, and then all at once
saw a large hawk, which apparently had been hovering about, swoop down
upon it, and bear it off. Some white feathers fell down near the little
girl, and she picked up one of them and put it in her breast.

"Poor bird!" exclaimed the May Queen.

"Eigh, poor bird!" echoed Jennet, tearfully. "Ah, ye dunna knoa aw,
Alizon."

"Weel, there's neaw use whimpering abowt a duv," observed Jem, gruffly.
"Ey'n bring ye another t' furst time ey go to Cown."

"There's nah another bird like that," sobbed the little girl. "Shoot
that cruel hawk fo' me, Jem, win ye."

"How conney wench, whon its flown away?" he replied. "Boh ey'n rob a
hawk's neest fo ye, if that'll do os weel."

"Yo dunna understand me, Jem," replied the child, sadly.

At this moment, the music, which had ceased while some arrangements were
made, commenced a very lively tune, known as "Round about the May-pole,"
and Robin Hood, taking the May Queen's hand, led her towards the pole,
and placing her near it, the whole of her attendants took hands, while a
second circle was formed by the morris-dancers, and both began to wheel
rapidly round her, the music momently increasing in spirit and
quickness. An irresistible desire to join in the measure seized some of
the lads and lasses around, and they likewise took hands, and presently
a third and still wider circle was formed, wheeling gaily round the
other two. Other dances were formed here and there, and presently the
whole green was in movement.

"If you come off heart-whole to-night, Dick, I shall be surprised,"
observed Nicholas, who with his young relative had approached as near
the May-pole as the three rounds of dancers would allow them.

Richard Assheton made no reply, but glanced at the pink which he had
placed in his doublet.

"Who is the May Queen?" inquired Sir Thomas Metcalfe, who had likewise
drawn near, of a tall man holding a little girl by the hand.

"Alizon, dowter of Elizabeth Device, an mey sister," replied James
Device, gruffly.

"Humph!" muttered Sir Thomas, "she is a well-looking lass. And she
dwells here--in Whalley, fellow?" he added.

"Hoo dwells i' Whalley," responded Jem, sullenly.

"I can easily find her abode," muttered the knight, walking away.

"What was it Sir Thomas said to you, Jem?" inquired Nicholas, who had
watched the knight's gestures, coming up.

Jem related what had passed between them.

"What the devil does he want with her?" cried Nicholas. "No good, I'm
sure. But I'll spoil his sport."

"Say boh t' word, squoire, an ey'n break every boan i' his body,"
remarked Jem.

"No, no, Jem," replied Nicholas. "Take care of your pretty sister, and
I'll take care of him."

At this juncture, Sir Thomas, who, in spite of the efforts of the
pacific Master Potts to tranquillise him, had been burning with wrath at
the affront he had received from Nicholas, came up to Richard Assheton,
and, noticing the pink in his bosom, snatched it away suddenly.

"I want a flower," he said, smelling at it.

"Instantly restore it, Sir Thomas!" cried Richard Assheton, pale with
rage, "or--"

"What will you do, young sir?" rejoined the knight tauntingly, and
plucking the flower in pieces. "You can get another from the fair nymph
who gave you this."

Further speech was not allowed the knight, for he received a violent
blow on the chest from the hand of Richard Assheton, which sent him
reeling backwards, and would have felled him to the ground if he had not
been caught by some of the bystanders. The moment he recovered, Sir
Thomas drew his sword, and furiously assaulted young Assheton, who stood
ready for him, and after the exchange of a few passes, for none of the
bystanders dared to interfere, sent his sword whirling over their heads
through the air.

"Bravo, Dick," cried Nicholas, stepping up, and clapping his cousin on
the back, "you have read him a good lesson, and taught him that he
cannot always insult folks with impunity, ha! ha!" And he laughed loudly
at the discomfited knight.

"He is an insolent coward," said Richard Assheton. "Give him his sword
and let him come on again."

"No, no," said Nicholas, "he has had enough this time. And if he has
not, he must settle an account with me. Put up your blade, lad."

"I'll be revenged upon you both," said Sir Thomas, taking his sword,
which had been brought him by a bystander, and stalking away.

"You leave us in mortal dread, doughty knight," cried Nicholas, shouting
after him, derisively--"ha! ha! ha!"

Richard Assheton's attention was, however, turned in a different
direction, for the music suddenly ceasing, and the dancers stopping, he
learnt that the May Queen had fainted, and presently afterwards the
crowd opened to give passage to Robin Hood, who bore her inanimate form
in his arms.




CHAPTER IV.--ALICE NUTTER.


The quarrel between Nicholas Assheton and Sir Thomas Metcalfe had
already been made known to Sir Ralph by the officious Master Potts, and
though it occasioned the knight much displeasure; as interfering with
the amicable arrangement he hoped to effect with Sir Thomas for his
relatives the Robinsons, still he felt sure that he had sufficient
influence with his hot-headed cousin, the squire, to prevent the dispute
from being carried further, and he only waited the conclusion of the
sports on the green, to take him to task. What was the knight's surprise
and annoyance, therefore, to find that a new brawl had sprung up, and,
ignorant of its precise cause, he laid it entirely at the door of the
turbulent Nicholas. Indeed, on the commencement of the fray he imagined
that the squire was personally concerned in it, and full of wroth, flew
to the scene of action; but before he got there, the affair, which, as
has been seen, was of short duration, was fully settled, and he only
heard the jeers addressed to the retreating combatant by Nicholas. It
was not Sir Ralph's way to vent his choler in words, but the squire knew
in an instant, from the expression of his countenance, that he was
greatly incensed, and therefore hastened to explain.

"What means this unseemly disturbance, Nicholas?" cried Sir Ralph, not
allowing the other to speak. "You are ever brawling like an Alsatian
squire. Independently of the ill example set to these good folk, who
have met here for tranquil amusement, you have counteracted all my plans
for the adjustment of the differences between Sir Thomas Metcalfe and
our aunt of Raydale. If you forget what is due to yourself, sir, do not
forget what is due to me, and to the name you bear."

"No one but yourself should say as much to me, Sir Ralph," rejoined
Nicholas somewhat haughtily; "but you are under a misapprehension. It is
not I who have been fighting, though I should have acted in precisely
the same manner as our cousin Dick, if I had received the same affront,
and so I make bold to say would you. Our name shall suffer no discredit
from me; and as a gentleman, I assert, that Sir Thomas Metcalfe has
only received due chastisement, as you yourself will admit, cousin, when
you know all."

"I know him to be overbearing," observed Sir Ralph.

"Overbearing is not the word, cousin," interrupted Nicholas; "he is as
proud as a peacock, and would trample upon us all, and gore us too, like
one of the wild bulls of Bowland, if we would let him have his way. But
I would treat him as I would the bull aforesaid, a wild boar, or any
other savage and intractable beast, hunt him down, and poll his horns,
or pluck out his tusks."

"Come, come, Nicholas, this is no very gentle language," remarked Sir
Ralph.

"Why, to speak truth, cousin, I do not feel in any very gentle frame of
mind," rejoined the squire; "my ire has been roused by this insolent
braggart, my blood is up, and I long to be doing."

"Unchristian feelings, Nicholas," said Sir Ralph, severely, "and should
be overcome. Turn the other cheek to the smiter. I trust you bear no
malice to Sir Thomas."

"I bear him no malice, for I hope malice is not in my nature, cousin,"
replied Nicholas, "but I owe him a grudge, and when a fitting
opportunity occurs--"

"No more of this, unless you would really incur my displeasure,"
rejoined Sir Ralph; "the matter has gone far enough, too far, perhaps
for amendment, and if you know it not, I can tell you that Sir Thomas's
claims to Raydale will be difficult to dispute, and so our uncle
Robinson has found since he hath taken counsel on the case."

"Have a care, Sir Ralph," said Nicholas, noticing that Master Potts was
approaching them, with his ears evidently wide open, "there is that
little London lawyer hovering about. But I'll give the cunning fox a
double. I'm glad to hear you say so, Sir Ralph," he added, in a tone
calculated to reach Potts, "and since our uncle Robinson is so sure of
his cause, it may be better to let this blustering knight be. Perchance,
it is the certainty of failure that makes him so insensate."

"This is meant to blind me, but it shall not serve your turn, cautelous
squire," muttered Potts; "I caught enough of what fell just now from Sir
Ralph to satisfy me that he hath strong misgivings. But it is best not
to appear too secure.--Ah, Sir Ralph," he added, coming forward, "I was
right, you see, in my caution. I am a man of peace, and strive to
prevent quarrels and bloodshed. Quarrel if you please--and unfortunately
men are prone to anger--but always settle your disputes in a court of
law; always in a court of law, Sir Ralph. That is the only arena where a
sensible man should ever fight. Take good advice, fee your counsel well,
and the chances are ten to one in your favour. That is what I say to my
worthy and singular good client, Sir Thomas; but he is somewhat
headstrong and vehement, and will not listen to me. He is for settling
matters by the sword, for making forcible entries and detainers, and
ousting the tenants in possession, whereby he would render himself
liable to arrest, fine, ransom, and forfeiture; instead of proceeding
cautiously and decorously as the law directs, and as I advise, Sir
Ralph, by writ of _ejectione firmę_ or action of trespass, the which
would assuredly establish his title, and restore him the house and
lands. Or he may proceed by writ of right, which perhaps, in his case,
considering the long absence of possession, and the doubts supposed to
perplex the title--though I myself have no doubts about it--would be the
most efficacious. These are your only true weapons, Sir Ralph--your
writs of entry, assise, and right--your pleas of novel disseisin,
post-disseisin, and re-disseisin--your remitters, your pręcipes, your
pones, and your recordari faciases. These are the sword, shield, and
armour of proof of a wise man."

"Zounds! you take away one's breath with this hail-storm of writs and
pleas, master lawyer!" cried Nicholas. "But in one respect I am of your
'worthy and singular good' client's, opinion, and would rather trust to
my own hand for the defence of my property than to the law to keep it
for me."

"Then you would do wrong, good Master Nicholas," rejoined Potts, with a
smile of supreme contempt; "for the law is the better guardian and the
stronger adversary of the two, and so Sir Thomas will find if he takes
my advice, and obtains, as he can and will do, a perfect title _juris et
seisinę conjunctionem_."

"Sir Thomas is still willing to refer the case to my arbitrament, I
believe, sir?" demanded Sir Ralph, uneasily.

"He was so, Sir Ralph," rejoined Potts, "unless the assaults and
batteries, with intent to do him grievous corporeal hurt, which he hath
sustained from your relatives, have induced a change of mind in him. But
as I premised, Sir Ralph, I am a man of peace, and willing to
intermediate."

"Provided you get your fee, master lawyer," observed Nicholas,
sarcastically.

"Certainly, I object not to the _quiddam honorarium_, Master Nicholas,"
rejoined Potts; "and if my client hath the _quid pro quo_, and gaineth
his point, he cannot complain.--But what is this? Some fresh
disturbance!"

"Something hath happened to the May Queen," cried Nicholas.

"I trust not," said Sir Ralph, with real concern. "Ha! she has fainted.
They are bringing her this way. Poor maid! what can have occasioned this
sudden seizure?"

"I think I could give a guess," muttered Nicholas. "Better remove her to
the Abbey," he added aloud to the knight.

"You are right," said Sir Ralph. "Our cousin Dick is near her, I
observe. He shall see her conveyed there at once."

At this moment Lady Assheton and Mrs. Nutter, with some of the other
ladies, came up.

"Just in time, Nell," cried the knight. "Have you your smelling-bottle
about you? The May Queen has fainted."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Lady Assheton, springing towards Alizon, who was now
sustained by young Richard Assheton; the forester having surrendered her
to him. "How has this happened?" she inquired, giving her to breathe at
a small phial.

"That I cannot tell you, cousin," replied Richard Assheton, "unless from
some sudden fright."

"That was it, Master Richard," cried Robin Hood; "she cried out on
hearing the clashing of swords just now, and, I think, pronounced your
name, on finding you engaged with Sir Thomas, and immediately after
turned pale, and would have fallen if I had not caught her."

"Ah, indeed!" exclaimed Lady Assheton, glancing at Richard, whose eyes
fell before her inquiring gaze. "But see, she revives," pursued the
lady. "Let me support her head."

As she spoke Alizon opened her eyes, and perceiving Richard Assheton,
who had relinquished her to his relative, standing beside her, she
exclaimed, "Oh! you are safe! I feared"--And then she stopped, greatly
embarrassed.

"You feared he might be in danger from his fierce adversary," supplied
Lady Assheton; "but no. The conflict is happily over, and he is unhurt."

"I am glad of it," said Alizon, earnestly.

"She had better be taken to the Abbey," remarked Sir Ralph, coming up.

"Nay, she will be more at ease at home," observed Lady Assheton with a
significant look, which, however, failed in reaching her husband.

"Yes, truly shall I, gracious lady," replied Alizon, "far more so. I
have given you trouble enough already."

"No trouble at all," said Sir Ralph, kindly; "her ladyship is too happy
to be of service in a case like this. Are you not, Nell? The faintness
will pass off presently. But let her go to the Abbey at once, and remain
there till the evening's festivities, in which she takes part, commence.
Give her your arm, Dick."

Sir Ralph's word was law, and therefore Lady Assheton made no
remonstrance. But she said quickly, "I will take care of her myself."

"I require no assistance, madam," replied Alizon, "since Sir Ralph will
have me go. Nay, you are too kind, too condescending," she added,
reluctantly taking Lady Assheton's proffered arm.

And in this way they proceeded slowly towards the Abbey, escorted by
Richard Assheton, and attended by Mistress Braddyll and some others of
the ladies.

Amongst those who had watched the progress of the May Queen's
restoration with most interest was Mistress Nutter, though she had not
interfered; and as Alizon departed with Lady Assheton, she observed to
Nicholas, who was standing near,

"Can this be the daughter of Elizabeth Device, and grand-daughter of--"

"Your old Pendle witch, Mother Demdike," supplied Nicholas; "the very
same, I assure you, Mistress Nutter."

"She is wholly unlike the family," observed the lady, "and her features
resemble some I have seen before."

"She does not resemble her mother, undoubtedly," replied Nicholas,
"though what her grand-dame may have been some sixty years ago, when she
was Alizon's age, it would be difficult to say.--She is no beauty now."

"Those finely modelled features, that graceful figure, and those
delicate hands, cannot surely belong to one lowly born and bred?" said
Mistress Nutter.

"They differ from the ordinary peasant mould, truly," replied Nicholas.
"If you ask me for the lineage of a steed, I can give a guess at it on
sight of the animal, but as regards our own race I'm at fault, Mistress
Nutter."

"I must question Elizabeth Device about her," observed Alice. "Strange,
I should never have seen her before, though I know the family so well."

"I wish you did not know Mother Demdike quite so well, Mistress Nutter,"
remarked Nicholas--"a mischievous and malignant old witch, who deserves
the tar barrel. The only marvel is, that she has not been burned long
ago. I am of opinion, with many others, that it was she who bewitched
your poor husband, Richard Nutter."

"I do not think it," replied Mistress Nutter, with a mournful shake of
the head. "Alas, poor man! he died from hard riding, after hard
drinking. That was the only witchcraft in his case. Be warned by his
fate yourself, Nicholas."

"Hard riding after drinking was more likely to sober him than to kill
him," rejoined the squire. "But, as I said just now, I like not this
Mother Demdike, nor her rival in iniquity, old Mother Chattox. The devil
only knows which of the two is worst. But if the former hag did not
bewitch your husband to death, as I shrewdly suspect, it is certain that
the latter mumbling old miscreant killed my elder brother, Richard, by
her sorceries."

"Mother Chattox did you a good turn then, Nicholas," observed Mistress
Nutter, "in making you master of the fair estates of Downham."

"So far, perhaps, she might," rejoined Nicholas, "but I do not like the
manner of it, and would gladly see her burned; nay, I would fire the
fagots myself."

"You are superstitious as the rest, Nicholas," said Mistress Nutter.
"For my part I do not believe in the existence of witches."

"Not believe in witches, with these two living proofs to the contrary!"
cried Nicholas, in amazement. "Why, Pendle Forest swarms with witches.
They burrow in the hill-side like rabbits in a warren. They are the
terror of the whole country. No man's cattle, goods, nor even life, are
safe from them; and the only reason why these two old hags, who hold
sovereign sway over the others, have 'scaped justice so long, is because
every one is afraid to go near them. Their solitary habitations are more
strongly guarded than fortresses. Not believe in witches! Why I should
as soon misdoubt the Holy Scriptures."

"It may be because I reside near them that I have so little
apprehension, or rather no apprehension at all," replied Mistress
Nutter; "but to me Mother Demdike and Mother Chattox appear two harmless
old women."

"They're a couple of dangerous and damnable old hags, and deserve the
stake," cried Nicholas, emphatically.

All this discourse had been swallowed with greedy ears by the
ever-vigilant Master Potts, who had approached the speakers unperceived;
and he now threw in a word.

"So there are suspected witches in Pendle Forest, I find," he said. "I
shall make it my business to institute inquiries concerning them, when I
visit the place to-morrow. Even if merely ill-reputed, they must be
examined, and if found innocent cleared; if not, punished according to
the statute. Our sovereign lord the king holdeth witches in especial
abhorrence, and would gladly see all such noxious vermin extirpated from
the land, and it will rejoice me to promote his laudable designs. I must
pray you to afford me all the assistance you can in the discovery of
these dreadful delinquents, good Master Nicholas, and I will care that
your services are duly represented in the proper quarter. As I have just
said, the king taketh singular interest in witchcraft, as you may judge
if the learned tractate he hath put forth, in form of a dialogue,
intituled "_Dęmonologie_" hath ever met your eye; and he is never so
well pleased as when the truth of his tenets are proved by such secret
offenders being brought to light, and duly punished."

"The king's known superstitious dread of witches makes men seek them out
to win his favour," observed Mistress Nutter. "They have wonderfully
increased since the publication of that baneful book!"

"Not so, madam," replied Potts. "Our sovereign lord the king hath a
wholesome and just hatred of such evil-doers and traitors to himself and
heaven, and it may be dread of them, as indeed all good men must have;
but he would protect his subjects from them, and therefore, in the first
year of his reign, which I trust will be long and prosperous, he hath
passed a statute, whereby it is enacted 'that all persons invoking any
evil spirit, or consulting, covenanting with, entertaining, employing,
feeding, or rewarding any evil spirit; or taking up dead bodies from
their graves to be used in any witchcraft, sorcery, charm, or
enchantment; or killing or otherwise hurting any person by such infernal
arts, shall be guilty of felony without benefit of clergy, and suffer
death.' This statute, madam, was intended to check the crimes of
necromancy, sorcery, and witchcraft, and not to increase them. And I
maintain that it has checked them, and will continue to check them."

"It is a wicked and bloody statute," observed Mrs. Nutter, in a deep
tone, "and many an innocent life will be sacrificed thereby."

"How, madam!" cried Master Potts, staring aghast. "Do you mean to impugn
the sagacity and justice of our high and mighty king, the head of the
law, and defender of the faith?"

"I affirm that this is a sanguinary enactment," replied Mistress Nutter,
"and will put power into hands that will abuse it, and destroy many
guiltless persons. It will make more witches than it will find."

"Some are ready made, methinks," muttered Potts, "and we need not go far
to find them. You are a zealous advocate for witches, I must say,
madam," he added aloud, "and I shall not forget your arguments in their
favour."

"To my prejudice, I doubt not," she rejoined, bitterly.

"No, to the credit of your humanity," he answered, bowing, with
pretended conviction.

"Well, I will aid you in your search for witches, Master Potts,"
observed Nicholas; "for I would gladly see the country rid of these
pests. But I warn you the quest will be attended with risk, and you will
get few to accompany you, for all the folk hereabouts are mortally
afraid of these terrible old hags."

"I fear nothing in the discharge of my duty," replied Master Potts,
courageously, "for as our high and mighty sovereign hath well and
learnedly observed--'if witches be but apprehended and detained by any
private person, upon other private respects, their power, no doubt,
either in escaping, or in doing hurt, is no less than ever it was
before. But if, on the other part, their apprehending and detention be
by the lawful magistrate upon the just respect of their guiltiness in
that craft, their power is then no greater than before that ever they
meddled with their master. For where God begins justly to strike by his
lawful lieutenants, it is not in the devil's power to defraud or bereave
him of the office or effect of his powerful and revenging sceptre.' Thus
I am safe; and I shall take care to go armed with a proper warrant,
which I shall obtain from a magistrate, my honoured friend and singular
good client, Master Roger Newell. This will obtain me such assistance as
I may require, and for due observance of my authority. I shall likewise
take with me a peace-officer, or constable."

"You will do well, Master Potts," said Nicholas; "still you must not
put faith in all the idle tales told you, for the common folk hereabouts
are blindly and foolishly superstitious, and fancy they discern
witchcraft in every mischance, however slight, that befalls them. If ale
turn sour after a thunder-storm, the witch hath done it; and if the
butter cometh not quickly, she hindereth it. If the meat roast ill the
witch hath turned the spit; and if the lumber pie taste ill she hath had
a finger in it. If your sheep have the foot-rot--your horses the
staggers or string-halt--your swine the measles--your hounds a
surfeit--or your cow slippeth her calf--the witch is at the bottom of it
all. If your maid hath a fit of the sullens, or doeth her work amiss, or
your man breaketh a dish, the witch is in fault, and her shoulders can
bear the blame. On this very day of the year--namely, May Day,--the
foolish folk hold any aged crone who fetcheth fire to be a witch, and if
they catch a hedge-hog among their cattle, they will instantly beat it
to death with sticks, concluding it to be an old hag in that form come
to dry up the milk of their kine."

"These are what Master Potts's royal authority would style 'mere old
wives' trattles about the fire,'" observed Mistress Nutter, scornfully.

"Better be over-credulous than over-sceptical," replied Potts. "Even at
my lodging in Chancery Lane I have a horseshoe nailed against the door.
One cannot be too cautious when one has to fight against the devil, or
those in league with him. Your witch should be put to every ordeal. She
should be scratched with pins to draw blood from her; weighed against
the church bible, though this is not always proof; forced to weep, for a
witch can only shed three tears, and those only from the left eye; or,
as our sovereign lord the king truly observeth--no offence to you,
Mistress Nutter--'Not so much as their eyes are able to shed tears,
albeit the womenkind especially be able otherwise to shed tears at every
light occasion when they will, yea, although it were dissemblingly like
the crocodile;' and set on a stool for twenty-four hours, with her legs
tied across, and suffered neither to eat, drink, nor sleep during the
time. This is the surest Way to make her confess her guilt next to
swimming. If it fails, then cast her with her thumbs and toes tied
across into a pond, and if she sink not then is she certainly a witch.
Other trials there are, as that by scalding water--sticking knives
across--heating of the horseshoe--tying of knots--the sieve and the
shears; but the only ordeals safely to be relied on, are the swimming
and the stool before mentioned, and from these your witch shall rarely
escape. Above all, be sure and search carefully for the witch-mark. I
doubt not we shall find it fairly and legibly writ in the devil's
characters on Mother Demdike and Mother Chattox. They shall undergo the
stool and the pool, and other trials, if required. These old hags shall
no longer vex you, good Master Nicholas. Leave them to me, and doubt
not I will bring them to condign punishment."

"You will do us good service then, Master Potts," replied Nicholas. "But
since you are so learned in the matter of witchcraft, resolve me, I pray
you, how it is, that women are so much more addicted to the practice of
the black art than our own sex."

"The answer to the inquiry hath been given by our British Solomon,"
replied Potts, "and I will deliver it to you in his own words. 'The
reason is easy,' he saith; 'for as that sex is frailer than man is, so
it is easier to be entrapped in those gross snares of the devil, as was
overwell proved to be true, by the serpent's deceiving of Eva at the
beginning, which makes him the homelier with that sex sensine.'"

"A good and sufficient reason, Master Potts," said Nicholas, laughing;
"is it not so, Mistress Nutter?"

"Ay, marry, if it satisfies you," she answered, drily. "It is of a piece
with the rest of the reasoning of the royal pedant, whom Master Potts
styles the British Solomon."

"I only give the learned monarch the title by which he is recognised
throughout Christendom," rejoined Potts, sharply.

"Well, there is comfort in the thought, that I shall never be taken for
a wizard," said the squire.

"Be not too sure of that, good Master Nicholas," returned Potts. "Our
present prince seems to have had you in his eye when he penned his
description of a wizard, for, he saith, 'A great number of them that
ever have been convict or confessors of witchcraft, as may be presently
seen by many that have at this time confessed, are some of them rich and
worldly-wise; some of them fat or corpulent in their bodies; and most
part of them altogether given over to the pleasures of the flesh,
continual haunting of company, and all kinds of merriness, lawful and
unlawful.' This hitteth you exactly, Master Nicholas."

"Zounds!" exclaimed the squire, "if this be exact, it toucheth me too
nearly to be altogether agreeable."

"The passage is truly quoted, Nicholas," observed Mistress Nutter, with
a cold smile. "I perfectly remember it. Master Potts seems to have the
'Dęmonologie' at his fingers' ends."

"I have made it my study, madam," replied the lawyer, somewhat mollified
by the remark, "as I have the statute on witchcraft, and indeed most
other statutes."

"We have wasted time enough in this unprofitable talk," said Mistress
Nutter, abruptly quitting them without bestowing the slightest
salutation on Potts.

"I was but jesting in what I said just now, good Master Nicholas,"
observed the little lawyer, nowise disconcerted at the slight "though
they were the king's exact words I quoted. No one would suspect you of
being a wizard--ha!--ha! But I am resolved to prosecute the search, and
I calculate upon your aid, and that of Master Richard Assheton, who goes
with us."

"You shall have mine, at all events, Master Potts," replied Nicholas;
"and I doubt not, my cousin Dick's, too."

"Our May Queen, Alizon Device, is Mother Demdike's grand-daughter, is
she not?" asked Potts, after a moment's reflection.

"Ay, why do you ask?" demanded Nicholas.

"For a good and sufficing reason," replied Potts. "She might be an
important witness; for, as King James saith, 'bairns or wives may, of
our law, serve for sufficient witnesses and proofs.' And he goeth on to
say, 'For who but witches can be proofs, and so witnesses of the doings
of witches?'"

"You do not mean to aver that Alizon Device is a witch, sir?" cried
Nicholas, sharply.

"I aver nothing," replied Potts; "but, as a relative of a suspected
witch, she will be the best witness against her."

"If you design to meddle with Alizon Device, expect no assistance from
me, Master Potts," said Nicholas, sternly, "but rather the contrary."

"Nay, I but threw out the hint, good Master Nicholas," replied Potts.
"Another witness will do equally well. There are other children, no
doubt. I rely on you, sir--I rely on you. I shall now go in search of
Master Nowell, and obtain the warrant and the constable."

"And I shall go keep my appointment with Parson Dewhurst, at the Abbey,"
said Nicholas, bowing slightly to the attorney, and taking his
departure.

"It will not do to alarm him at present," said Potts, looking after him,
"but I'll have that girl as a witness, and I know how to terrify her
into compliance. A singular woman, that Mistress Alice Nutter. I must
inquire into her history. Odd, how obstinately she set her face against
witchcraft. And yet she lives at Rough Lee, in the very heart of a witch
district, for such Master Nicholas Assheton calls this Pendle Forest. I
shouldn't wonder if she has dealings with the old hags she
defends--Mother Demdike and Mother Chattox. Chattox! Lord bless us, what
a name!--There's caldron and broomstick in the very sound! And Demdike
is little better. Both seem of diabolical invention. If I can unearth a
pack of witches, I shall gain much credit from my honourable good lords
the judges of assize in these northern parts, besides pleasing the King
himself, who is sure to hear of it, and reward my praiseworthy zeal.
Look to yourself, Mistress Nutter, and take care you are not caught
tripping. And now, for Master Roger Nowell."

With this, he peered about among the crowd in search of the magistrate,
but though he thrust his little turned-up nose in every direction, he
could not find him, and therefore set out for the Abbey, concluding he
had gone thither.

As Mistress Nutter walked along, she perceived James Device among the
crowd, holding Jennet by the hand, and motioned him to come to her. Jem
instantly understood the sign, and quitting his little sister, drew
near.

"Tell thy mother," said Mistress Nutter, in a tone calculated only for
his hearing, "to come to me, at the Abbey, quickly and secretly. I shall
be in the ruins of the old convent church. I have somewhat to say to
her, that concerns herself as well as me. Thou wilt have to go to Rough
Lee and Malkin Tower to-night."

Jem nodded, to show his perfect apprehension of what was said and his
assent to it, and while Mistress Nutter moved on with a slow and
dignified step, he returned to Jennet, and told her she must go home
directly, a piece of intelligence which was not received very graciously
by the little maiden; but nothing heeding her unwillingness, Jem walked
her off quickly in the direction of the cottage; but while on the way to
it, they accidentally encountered their mother, Elizabeth Device, and
therefore stopped.

"Yo mun go up to th' Abbey directly, mother," said Jem, with a wink,
"Mistress Nutter wishes to see ye. Yo'n find her i' t' ruins o' t' owd
convent church. Tak kere yo're neaw seen. Yo onderstond."

"Yeigh," replied Elizabeth, nodding her head significantly, "ey'n go at
wonst, an see efter Alizon ot t' same time. Fo ey'm towd hoo has
fainted, an been ta'en to th' Abbey by Lady Assheton."

"Never heed Alizon," replied Jem, gruffly. "Hoo's i' good hands. Ye
munna be seen, ey tell ye. Ey'm going to Malkin Tower to-neet, if yo'n
owt to send."

"To-neet, Jem," echoed little Jennet.

"Eigh," rejoined Jem, sharply. "Howd te tongue, wench. Dunna lose time,
mother."

And as he and his little sister pursued their way to the cottage,
Elizabeth hobbled off towards the Abbey, muttering, as she went, "I hope
Alizon an Mistress Nutter winna meet. Nah that it matters, boh still
it's better not. Strange, the wench should ha' fainted. Boh she's always
foolish an timmersome, an ey half fear has lost her heart to young
Richard Assheton. Ey'n watch her narrowly, an if it turn out to be so,
she mun be cured, or be secured--ha! ha!"

And muttering in this way, she passed through the Abbey gateway, the
wicket being left open, and proceeded towards the ruinous convent
church, taking care as much as possible to avoid observation.




CHAPTER V.--MOTHER CHATTOX.


Not far from the green where the May-day revels were held, stood the
ancient parish church of Whalley, its square tower surmounted with a
flag-staff and banner, and shaking with the joyous peals of the ringers.
A picturesque and beautiful structure it was, though full of
architectural incongruities; and its grey walls and hoary buttresses,
with the lancet-shaped windows of the choir, and the ramified tracery of
the fine eastern window, could not fail to please any taste not quite so
critical as to require absolute harmony and perfection in a building.
Parts of the venerable fabric were older than the Abbey itself, dating
back as far as the eleventh century, when a chapel occupied the site;
and though many alterations had been made in the subsequent structure at
various times, and many beauties destroyed, especially during the period
of the Reformation, enough of its pristine character remained to render
it a very good specimen of an old country church. Internally, the
cylindrical columns of the north aisle, the construction of the choir,
and the three stone seats supported on rounded columns near the altar,
proclaimed its high antiquity. Within the choir were preserved the
eighteen richly-carved stalls once occupying a similar position in the
desecrated conventual church: and though exquisite in themselves, they
seemed here sadly out of place, not being proportionate to the
structure. Their elaborately-carved seats projected far into the body of
the church, and their crocketed pinnacles shot up almost to the ceiling.
But it was well they had not shared the destruction in which almost all
the other ornaments of the magnificent fane they once decorated were
involved. Carefully preserved, the black varnished oak well displayed
the quaint and grotesque designs with which many of them--the Prior's
stall in especial--were embellished. Chief among them was the abbot's
stall, festooned with sculptured vine wreaths and clustering grapes, and
bearing the auspicious inscription:

          Semper gaudentes sint ista sede sedentes:

singularly inapplicable, however, to the last prelate who filled it.
Some fine old monuments, and warlike trophies of neighbouring wealthy
families, adorned the walls, and within the nave was a magnificent pew,
with a canopy and pillars of elaborately-carved oak, and lattice-work at
the sides, allotted to the manor of Read, and recently erected by Roger
Nowell; while in the north and south aisles were two small chapels,
converted since the reformed faith had obtained, into pews--the one
called Saint Mary's Cage, belonging to the Assheton family; and the
other appertaining to the Catterals of Little Mitton, and designated
Saint Nicholas's Cage. Under the last-named chapel were interred some
of the Paslews of Wiswall, and here lay the last unfortunate Abbot of
Whalley, between whoso grave, and the Assheton and Braddyll families, a
fatal relation was supposed to subsist. Another large pew, allotted to
the Towneleys, and designated Saint Anthony's Cage, was rendered
remarkable, by a characteristic speech of Sir John Towneley, which gave
much offence to the neighbouring dames. Called upon to decide as to the
position of the sittings in the church, the discourteous knight made
choice of Saint Anthony's Cage, already mentioned, declaring, "My man,
Shuttleworth of Hacking, made this form, and here will I sit when I
come; and my cousin Nowell may make a seat behind me if he please, and
my son Sherburne shall make one on the other side, and Master Catteral
another behind him, and for the residue the use shall be, first come
first speed, and that will make the proud wives of Whalley rise betimes
to come to church." One can fancy the rough knight's chuckle, as he
addressed these words to the old clerk, certain of their being quickly
repeated to the "proud wives" in question.

Within the churchyard grew two fine old yew-trees, now long since
decayed and gone, but then spreading their dark-green arms over the
little turf-covered graves. Reared against the buttresses of the church
was an old stone coffin, together with a fragment of a curious
monumental effigy, likewise of stone; but the most striking objects in
the place, and deservedly ranked amongst the wonders of Whalley, were
three remarkable obelisk-shaped crosses, set in a line upon pedestals,
covered with singular devices in fretwork, and all three differing in
size and design. Evidently of remotest antiquity, these crosses were
traditionally assigned to Paullinus, who, according to the Venerable
Bede, first preached the Gospel in these parts, in the early part of the
seventh century; but other legends were attached to them by the vulgar,
and dim mystery brooded over them.

Vestiges of another people and another faith were likewise here
discernible, for where the Saxon forefathers of the village prayed and
slumbered in death, the Roman invaders of the isle had trodden, and
perchance performed their religious rites; some traces of an encampment
being found in the churchyard by the historian of the spot, while the
north boundary of the hallowed precincts was formed by a deep foss, once
encompassing the nigh-obliterated fortification. Besides these records
of an elder people, there was another memento of bygone days and creeds,
in a little hermitage and chapel adjoining it, founded in the reign of
Edward III., by Henry, Duke of Lancaster, for the support of two
recluses and a priest to say masses daily for him and his descendants;
but this pious bequest being grievously abused in the subsequent reign
of Henry VI., by Isole de Heton, a fair widow, who in the first
transports of grief, vowing herself to heaven, took up her abode in the
hermitage, and led a very disorderly life therein, to the great scandal
of the Abbey, and the great prejudice of the morals of its brethren, and
at last, tired even of the slight restraint imposed upon her, fled away
"contrary to her oath and profession, not willing, nor intending to be
restored again;" the hermitage was dissolved by the pious monarch, and
masses ordered to be said daily in the parish church for the repose of
the soul of the founder. Such was the legend attached to the little
cell, and tradition went on to say that the anchoress broke her leg in
crossing Whalley Nab, and limped ever afterwards; a just judgment on
such a heinous offender. Both these little structures were picturesque
objects, being overgrown with ivy and woodbine. The chapel was
completely in ruins, while the cell, profaned by the misdoings of the
dissolute votaress Isole, had been converted into a cage for vagrants
and offenders, and made secure by a grated window, and a strong door
studded with broad-headed nails.

The view from the churchyard, embracing the vicarage-house, a
comfortable residence, surrounded by a large walled-in garden, well
stocked with fruit-trees, and sheltered by a fine grove of rook-haunted
timber, extended on the one hand over the village, and on the other over
the Abbey, and was bounded by the towering and well-wooded heights of
Whalley Nab. On the side of the Abbey, the most conspicuous objects were
the great north-eastern gateway, with the ruined conventual church. Ever
beautiful, the view was especially so on the present occasion, from the
animated scene combined with it; and the pleasant prospect was enjoyed
by a large assemblage, who had adjourned thither to witness the
concluding part of the festival.

Within the green and flower-decked bowers which, as has before been
mentioned, were erected in the churchyard, were seated Doctor Ormerod
and Sir Ralph Assheton, with such of their respective guests as had not
already retired, including Richard and Nicholas Assheton, both of whom
had returned from the abbey; the former having been dismissed by Lady
Assheton from further attendance upon Alizon, and the latter having
concluded his discourse with Parson Dewhurst, who, indeed, accompanied
him to the church, and was now placed between the Vicar and the Rector
of Middleton. From this gentle elevation the gay company on the green
could be fully discerned, the tall May-pole, with its garlands and
ribands, forming a pivot, about which the throng ever revolved, while
stationary amidst the moving masses, the rush-cart reared on high its
broad green back, as if to resist the living waves constantly dashed
against it. By-and-by a new kind of movement was perceptible, and it
soon became evident that a procession was being formed. Immediately
afterwards, the rush-cart was put in motion, and winded slowly along the
narrow street leading to the church, preceded by the morris-dancers and
the other May-day revellers, and followed by a great concourse of
people, shouting, dancing, and singing.

On came the crowd. The jingling of bells, and the sound of music grew
louder and louder, and the procession, lost for awhile behind some
intervening habitations, though the men bestriding the rush-cart could
be discerned over their summits, burst suddenly into view; and the
revellers entering the churchyard, drew up on either side of the little
path leading to the porch, while the rush-cart coming up the next
moment, stopped at the gate. Then four young maidens dressed in white,
and having baskets in their hands, advanced and scattered flowers along
the path; after which ladders were reared against the sides of the
rush-cart, and the men, descending from their exalted position, bore the
garlands to the church, preceded by the vicar and the two other divines,
and followed by Robin Hood and his band, the morris-dancers, and a troop
of little children singing a hymn. The next step was to unfasten the
bundles of rushes, of which the cart was composed, and this was very
quickly and skilfully performed, the utmost care being taken of the
trinkets and valuables with which it was ornamented. These were gathered
together in baskets and conveyed to the vestry, and there locked up.
This done, the bundles of rushes were taken up by several old women, who
strewed the aisles with them, and placed such as had been tied up as
mats in the pews. At the same time, two casks of ale set near the gate,
and given for the occasion by the vicar, were broached, and their
foaming contents freely distributed among the dancers and the thirsty
crowd. Very merry were they, as may be supposed, in consequence, but
their mirth was happily kept within due limits of decorum.

When the rush-cart was wellnigh unladen Richard Assheton entered the
church, and greatly pleased with the effect of the flowery garlands with
which the various pews were decorated, said as much to the vicar, who
smilingly replied, that he was glad to find he approved of the practice,
"even though it might savour of superstition;" and as the good doctor
walked away, being called forth, the young man almost unconsciously
turned into the chapel on the north aisle. Here he stood for a few
moments gazing round the church, wrapt in pleasing meditation, in which
many objects, somewhat foreign to the place and time, passed through his
mind, when, chancing to look down, he saw a small funeral wreath, of
mingled yew and cypress, lying at his feet, and a slight tremor passed
over his frame, as he found he was standing on the ill-omened grave of
Abbot Paslew. Before he could ask himself by whom this sad garland had
been so deposited, Nicholas Assheton came up to him, and with a look of
great uneasiness cried, "Come away instantly, Dick. Do you know where
you are standing?"

"On the grave of the last Abbot of Whalley," replied Richard, smiling.

"Have you forgotten the common saying," cried Nicholas--"that the
Assheton who stands on that unlucky grave shall die within the year?
Come away at once."

"It is too late," replied Richard, "I have incurred the fate, if such a
fate be attached to the tomb; and as my moving away will not preserve
me, so my tarrying here cannot injure me further. But I have no fear."

"You have more courage than I possess," rejoined Nicholas. "I would not
set foot on that accursed stone for half the county. Its malign
influence on our house has been approved too often. The first to
experience the fatal destiny were Richard Assheton and John Braddyll,
the purchasers of the Abbey. Both met here together on the anniversary
of the abbot's execution--some forty years after its occurrence, it is
true, and when they were both pretty well stricken in years--and within
that year, namely 1578, both died, and were buried in the vault on the
opposite side of the church, not many paces from their old enemy. The
last instance was my poor brother Richard, who, being incredulous as you
are, was resolved to brave the destiny, and stationed himself upon the
tomb during divine service, but he too died within the appointed time."

"He was bewitched to death--so, at least, it is affirmed," said Richard
Assheton, with a smile. "But I believe in one evil influence just as
much as in the other."

"It matters not how the destiny be accomplished, so it come to pass,"
rejoined the squire, turning away. "Heaven shield you from it!"

"Stay!" said Richard, picking up the wreath. "Who, think you, can have
placed this funeral garland on the abbot's grave?"

"I cannot guess!" cried Nicholas, staring at it in amazement--"an enemy
of ours, most likely. It is neither customary nor lawful in our
Protestant country so to ornament graves. Put it down, Dick."

"I shall not displace it, certainly," replied Richard, laying it down
again; "but I as little think it has been placed here by a hostile hand,
as I do that harm will ensue to me from standing here. To relieve your
anxiety, however, I will come forth," he added, stepping into the aisle.
"Why should an enemy deposit a garland on the abbot's tomb, since it was
by mere chance that it hath met my eyes?"

"Mere chance!" cried Nicholas; "every thing is mere chance with you
philosophers. There is more than chance in it. My mind misgives me
strangely. That terrible old Abbot Paslew is as troublesome to us in
death, as he was during life to our predecessor, Richard Assheton. Not
content with making his tombstone a weapon of destruction to us, he
pays the Abbey itself an occasional visit, and his appearance always
betides some disaster to the family. I have never seen him myself, and
trust I never shall; but other people have, and have been nigh scared
out of their senses by the apparition."

"Idle tales, the invention of overheated brains," rejoined Richard.
"Trust me, the abbot's rest will not be broken till the day when all
shall rise from their tombs; though if ever the dead (supposing such a
thing possible) could be justified in injuring and affrighting the
living, it might be in his case, since he mainly owed his destruction to
our ancestor. On the same principle it has been held that church-lands
are unlucky to their lay possessors; but see how this superstitious
notion has been disproved in our own family, to whom Whalley Abbey and
its domains have brought wealth, power, and worldly happiness."

"There is something in the notion, nevertheless," replied Nicholas; "and
though our case may, I hope, continue an exception to the rule, most
grantees of ecclesiastical houses have found them a curse, and the time
may come when the Abbey may prove so to our descendants. But, without
discussing the point, there is one instance in which the malignant
influence of the vindictive abbot has undoubtedly extended long after
his death. You have heard, I suppose, that he pronounced a dreadful
anathema upon the child of a man who had the reputation of being a
wizard, and who afterwards acted as his executioner. I know not the
whole particulars of the dark story, but I know that Paslew fixed a
curse upon the child, declaring it should become a witch, and the mother
of witches. And the prediction has been verified. Nigh eighty years have
flown by since then, and the infant still lives--a fearful and
mischievous witch--and all her family are similarly fated--all are
witches."

"I never heard the story before," said Richard, somewhat thoughtfully;
"but I guess to whom you allude--Mother Demdike of Pendle Forest, and
her family."

"Precisely," rejoined Nicholas; "they are a brood of witches."

"In that case Alizon Device must be a witch," cried Richard; "and I
think you will hardly venture upon such an assertion after what you have
seen of her to-day. If she be a witch, I would there were many such--as
fair and gentle. And see you not how easily the matter is explained?
'Give a dog an ill name and hang him'--a proverb with which you are
familiar enough. So with Mother Demdike. Whether really uttered or not,
the abbot's curse upon her and her issue has been bruited abroad, and
hence she is made a witch, and her children are supposed to inherit the
infamous taint. So it is with yon tomb. It is said to be dangerous to
our family, and dangerous no doubt it is to those who believe in the
saying, which, luckily, I do not. The prophecy works its own fulfilment.
The absurdity and injustice of yielding to the opinion are manifest. No
wrong can have been done the abbot by Mother Demdike, any more than by
her children, and yet they are to be punished for the misdeeds of their
predecessor."

"Ay, just as you and I, who are of the third and fourth generation, may
be punished for the sins of our fathers," rejoined Nicholas. "You have
Scripture against you, Dick. The only thing I see in favour of your
argument is, the instance you allege of Alizon. She does not look like a
witch, certainly; but there is no saying. She may be only the more
dangerous for her rare beauty, and apparent innocence!"

"I would answer for her truth with my life," cried Richard, quickly. "It
is impossible to look at her countenance, in which candour and purity
shine forth, and doubt her goodness."

"She hath cast her spells over you, Dick, that is certain," rejoined
Nicholas, laughing; "but to be serious. Alizon, I admit, is an exception
to the rest of the family, but that only strengthens the general rule.
Did you ever remark the strange look they all--save the fair maid in
question--have about the eyes?"

Richard answered in the negative.

"It is very singular, and I wonder you have not noticed it," pursued
Nicholas; "but the question of reputed witchcraft in Mother Demdike has
some chance of being speedily settled; for Master Potts, the little
London lawyer, who goes with us to Pendle Forest to-morrow, is about to
have her arrested and examined before a magistrate."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Richard, "this must be prevented."

"Why so?" exclaimed Nicholas, in surprise.

"Because the prejudice existing against her is sure to convict and
destroy her," replied Richard. "Her great age, infirmities, and poverty,
will be proofs against her. How can she, or any old enfeebled creature
like her, whose decrepitude and misery should move compassion rather
than excite fear--how can such a person defend herself against charges
easily made, and impossible to refute? I do not deny the possibility of
witchcraft, even in our own days, though I think it of very unlikely
occurrence; but I would determinately resist giving credit to any tales
told by the superstitious vulgar, who, naturally prone to cruelty, have
so many motives for revenging imaginary wrongs. It is placing a dreadful
weapon in their hands, of which they have cunning enough to know the
use, but neither mercy nor justice enough to restrain them from using
it. Better let one guilty person escape, than many innocent perish. So
many undefined charges have been brought against Mother Demdike, that at
last they have fixed a stigma on her name, and made her an object of
dread and suspicion. She is endowed with mysterious power, which would
have no effect if not believed in; and now must be burned because she is
called a witch, and is doting and vain enough to accept the title."

"There is something in a witch difficult, nay, almost impossible to
describe," said Nicholas, "but you cannot be mistaken about her. By her
general ill course of life, by repeated acts of mischief, and by
threats, followed by the consequences menaced, she becomes known. There
is much mystery in the matter, not permitted human knowledge entirely to
penetrate; but, as we know from the Scriptures that the sin of
witchcraft did exist, and as we have no evidence that it has ceased, so
it is fair to conclude, that there may be practisers of the dark offence
in our own days, and such I hold to be Mother Demdike and Mother
Chattox. Rival potentates in evil, they contend which shall do most
mischief, but it must be admitted the former bears away the bell."

"If all the ill attributed to her were really caused by her
machinations, this might be correct," replied Richard, "but it only
shows her to be more calumniated than the other. In a word, cousin
Nicholas, I look upon them as two poor old creatures, who, persuaded
they really possess the supernatural power accorded to them by the
vulgar, strive to act up to their parts, and are mainly assisted in
doing so by the credulity and fears of their audience."

"Admitting the blind credulity of the multitude," said Nicholas, "and
their proneness to discern the hand of the witch in the most trifling
accidents; admitting also, their readiness to accuse any old crone
unlucky enough to offend them of sorcery; I still believe that there are
actual practisers of the black art, who, for a brief term of power, have
entered into a league with Satan, worship him and attend his sabbaths,
and have a familiar, in the shape of a cat, dog, toad, or mole, to obey
their behests, transform themselves into various shapes--as a hound,
horse, or hare,--raise storms of wind or hail, maim cattle, bewitch and
slay human beings, and ride whither they will on broomsticks. But,
holding the contrary opinion, you will not, I apprehend, aid Master
Potts in his quest of witches."

"I will not," rejoined Richard. "On the contrary, I will oppose him. But
enough of this. Let us go forth."

And they quitted the church together.

As they issued into the churchyard, they found the principal arbours
occupied by the morris-dancers, Robin Hood and his troop, Doctor Ormerod
and Sir Ralph having retired to the vicarage-house.

Many merry groups were scattered about, talking, laughing, and singing;
but two persons, seemingly objects of suspicion and alarm, and shunned
by every one who crossed their path, were advancing slowly towards the
three crosses of Paullinus, which stood in a line, not far from the
church-porch. They were females, one about five-and-twenty, very comely,
and habited in smart holiday attire, put on with considerable rustic
coquetry, so as to display a very neat foot and ankle, and with plenty
of ribands in her fine chestnut hair. The other was a very different
person, far advanced in years, bent almost double, palsy-stricken, her
arms and limbs shaking, her head nodding, her chin wagging, her snowy
locks hanging about her wrinkled visage, her brows and upper lip frore,
and her eyes almost sightless, the pupils being cased with a thin white
film. Her dress, of antiquated make and faded stuff, had been once deep
red in colour, and her old black hat was high-crowned and broad-brimmed.
She partly aided herself in walking with a crutch-handled stick, and
partly leaned upon her younger companion for support.

"Why, there is one of the old women we have just been speaking
of--Mother Chattox," said Richard, pointing them out, "and with her, her
grand-daughter, pretty Nan Redferne."

"So it is," cried Nicholas, "what makes the old hag here, I marvel! I
will go question her."

So saying, he strode quickly towards her.

"How now, Mother Chattox!" he cried. "What mischief is afoot? What makes
the darkness-loving owl abroad in the glare of day? What brings the
grisly she-wolf from her forest lair? Back to thy den, old witch! Ar't
crazed, as well as blind and palsied, that thou knowest not that this is
a merry-making, and not a devil's sabbath? Back to thy hut, I say! These
sacred precincts are no place for thee."

"Who is it speaks to me?" demanded the old hag, halting, and fixing her
glazed eyes upon him.

"One thou hast much injured," replied Nicholas. "One into whose house
thou hast brought quick-wasting sickness and death by thy infernal arts.
One thou hast good reason to fear; for learn, to thy confusion, thou
damned and murtherous witch, it is Nicholas, brother to thy victim,
Richard Assheton of Downham, who speaks to thee."

"I know none I have reason to fear," replied Mother Chattox; "especially
thee, Nicholas Assheton. Thy brother was no victim of mine. Thou wert
the gainer by his death, not I. Why should I slay him?"

"I will tell thee why, old hag," cried Nicholas; "he was inflamed by the
beauty of thy grand-daughter Nancy here, and it was to please Tom
Redferne, her sweetheart then, but her spouse since, that thou
bewitchedst him to death."

"That reason will not avail thee, Nicholas," rejoined Mother Chattox,
with a derisive laugh. "If I had any hand in his death, it was to serve
and pleasure thee, and that all men shall know, if I am questioned on
the subject--ha! ha! Take me to the crosses, Nance."

"Thou shalt not 'scape thus, thou murtherous hag," cried Nicholas,
furiously.

"Nay, let her go her way," said Richard, who had drawn near during the
colloquy. "No good will come of meddling with her."

"Who's that?" asked Mother Chattox, quickly.

[Illustration: NAN REDFERNE AND MOTHER CHATTOX.]

"Master Richard Assheton, o' Middleton," whispered Nan Redferne.

"Another of these accursed Asshetons," cried Mother Chattox. "A plague
seize them!"

"Boh he's weel-favourt an kindly," remarked her grand-daughter.

"Well-favoured or not, kindly or cruel, I hate them all," cried Mother
Chattox. "To the crosses, I say!"

But Nicholas placed himself in their path.

"Is it to pray to Beelzebub, thy master, that thou wouldst go to the
crosses?" he asked.

"Out of my way, pestilent fool!" cried the hag.

"Thou shalt not stir till I have had an answer," rejoined Nicholas.
"They say those are Runic obelisks, and not Christian crosses, and that
the carvings upon them have a magical signification. The first, it is
averred, is written o'er with deadly curses, and the forms in which they
are traced, as serpentine, triangular, or round, indicate and rule their
swift or slow effect. The second bears charms against diseases, storms,
and lightning. And on the third is inscribed a verse which will render
him who can read it rightly, invisible to mortal view. Thou shouldst be
learned in such lore, old Pythoness. Is it so?"

The hag's chin wagged fearfully, and her frame trembled with passion,
but she spoke not.

"Have you been in the church, old woman?" interposed Richard.

"Ay, wherefore?" she rejoined.

"Some one has placed a cypress wreath on Abbot Paslew's grave. Was it
you?" he asked.

"What! hast thou found it?" cried the hag. "It shall bring thee rare
luck, lad--rare luck. Now let me pass."

"Not yet," cried Nicholas, forcibly grasping her withered arm.

The hag uttered a scream of rage.

"Let me go, Nicholas Assheton," she shrieked, "or thou shalt rue it.
Cramps and aches shall wring and rack thy flesh and bones; fever shall
consume thee; ague shake thee--shake thee--ha!"

And Nicholas recoiled, appalled by her fearful gestures.

"You carry your malignity too far, old woman," said Richard severely.

"And thou darest tell me so," cried the hag. "Set me before him, Nance,
that I may curse him," she added, raising her palsied arm.

"Nah, nah--yo'n cursed ower much already, grandmother," cried Nan
Redferne, endeavouring to drag her away. But the old woman resisted.

"I will teach him to cross my path," she vociferated, in accents shrill
and jarring as the cry of the goat-sucker.

"Handsome he is, it may be, now, but he shall not be so long. The bloom
shall fade from his cheek, the fire be extinguished in his eyes, the
strength depart from his limbs. Sorrow shall be her portion who loves
him--sorrow and shame!"

"Horrible!" exclaimed Richard, endeavouring to exclude the voice of the
crone, which pierced his ears like some sharp instrument.

"Ha! ha! you fear me now," she cried. "By this, and this, the spell
shall work," she added, describing a circle in the air with her stick,
then crossing it twice, and finally scattering over him a handful of
grave dust, snatched from an adjoining hillock.

"Now lead me quickly to the smaller cross, Nance," she added, in a low
tone.

Her grand-daughter complied, with a glance of deep commiseration at
Richard, who remained stupefied at the ominous proceeding.

"Ah! this must indeed be a witch!" he cried, recovering from the
momentary shock.

"So you are convinced at last," rejoined Nicholas. "I can take breath
now the old hell-cat is gone. But she shall not escape us. Keep an eye
upon her, while I see if Simon Sparshot, the beadle, be within the
churchyard, and if so he shall take her into custody, and lock her in
the cage."

With this, he ran towards the throng, shouting lustily for the beadle.
Presently a big, burly fellow, in a scarlet doublet, laced with gold, a
black velvet cap trimmed with red ribands, yellow hose, and shoes with
great roses in them, and bearing a long silver-headed staff, answered
the summons, and upon being told why his services were required,
immediately roared out at the top of a stentorian voice, "A witch,
lads!--a witch!"

All was astir in an instant. Robin Hood and his merry men, with the
morris-dancers, rushed out of their bowers, and the whole churchyard was
in agitation. Above the din was heard the loud voice of Simon Sparshot,
still shouting, "A witch!--witch!--Mother Chattox!"

"Where--where?" demanded several voices.

"Yonder," replied Nicholas, pointing to the further cross.

A general movement took place in that direction, the crowd being headed
by the squire and the beadle, but when they came up, they found only Nan
Redferne standing behind the obelisk.

"Where the devil is the old witch gone, Dick?" cried Nicholas, in
dismay.

"I thought I saw her standing there with her grand-daughter," replied
Richard; "but in truth I did not watch very closely."

"Search for her--search for her," cried Nicholas.

But neither behind the crosses, nor behind any monument, nor in any hole
or corner, nor on the other side of the churchyard wall, nor at the
back of the little hermitage or chapel, though all were quickly
examined, could the old hag be found.

On being questioned, Nan Redferne refused to say aught concerning her
grandmother's flight or place of concealment.

"I begin to think there is some truth in that strange legend of the
cross," said Nicholas. "Notwithstanding her blindness, the old hag must
have managed to read the magic verse upon it, and so have rendered
herself invisible. But we have got the young witch safe."

"Yeigh, squoire!" responded Sparshot, who had seized hold of Nance--"hoo
be safe enough."

"Nan Redferne is no witch," said Richard Assheton, authoritatively.

"Neaw witch, Mester Ruchot!" cried the beadle in amazement.

"No more than any of these lasses around us," said Richard. "Release
her, Sparshot."

"I forbid him to do so, till she has been examined," cried a sharp
voice. And the next moment Master Potts was seen pushing his way through
the crowd. "So you have found a witch, my masters. I heard your shouts,
and hurried on as fast as I could. Just in time, Master Nicholas--just
in time," he added, rubbing his hands gleefully.

"Lemme go, Simon," besought Nance.

"Neaw, neaw, lass, that munnot be," rejoined Sparshot.

"Help--save me, Master Richard!" cried the young woman.

By this time the crowd had gathered round her, yelling, hooting, and
shaking their hands at her, as if about to tear her in pieces; but
Richard Assheton planted himself resolutely before her, and pushed back
the foremost of them.

"Remove her instantly to the Abbey, Sparshot," he cried, "and let her be
kept in safe custody till Sir Ralph has time to examine her. Will that
content you, masters?"

"Neaw--neaw," responded several rough voices; "swim her!--swim her!"

"Quite right, my worthy friends, quite right," said Potts. "_Primo_, let
us make sure she is a witch--_secundo_, let us take her to the Abbey."

"There can be no doubt as to her being a witch, Master Potts," rejoined
Nicholas; "her old grand-dame, Mother Chattox, has just vanished from
our sight."

"Has Mother Chattox been here?" cried Potts, opening his round eyes to
their widest extent.

"Not many minutes since," replied Nicholas. "In fact, she may be here
still for aught I know."

"Here!--where?" cried Potts, looking round.

"You won't discover her for all your quickness," replied Nicholas. "She
has rendered herself invisible, by reciting the magical verses inscribed
on that cross."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the attorney, closely examining the mysterious
inscriptions. "What strange, uncouth characters! I can make neither head
nor tail, unless it be the devil's tail, of them."

At this moment a whoop was raised by Jem Device, who, having taken his
little sister home, had returned to the sports on the green, and now
formed part of the assemblage in the churchyard. Between the rival witch
potentates, Mothers Demdike and Chattox, it has already been said a
deadly enmity existed, and the feud was carried on with equal animosity
by their descendants; and though Jem himself came under the same
suspicion as Nan Redferne, that circumstance created no tie of interest
between them, but the contrary, and he was the most active of her
assailants. He had set up the above-mentioned cry from observing a large
rat running along the side of the wall.

"Theere hoo goes," whooped Jem, "t'owd witch, i' th' shape ov a
rotten!--loo-loo-loo!"

Half the crowd started in pursuit of the animal, and twenty sticks were
thrown at it, but a stone cast by Jem stayed its progress, and it was
instantly despatched. It did not change, however, as was expected by the
credulous hinds, into an old woman, and they gave vent to their
disappointment and rage in renewed threats against Nan Redferne. The
dead rat was hurled at her by Jem, but missing its mark, it hit Master
Potts on the head, and nearly knocked him off the cross, upon which he
had mounted to obtain a better view of the proceedings. Irritated by
this circumstance, as well as by the failure of the experiment, the
little attorney jumped down and fell to kicking the unfortunate rat,
after which, his fury being somewhat appeased, he turned to Nance, who
had sunk for support against the pedestal, and said to her--"If you will
tell us what has become of the old witch your grandmother, and undertake
to bear witness against her, you shall be set free."

"Ey'n tell ye nowt, mon," replied Nance, doggedly. "Put me to onny trial
ye like, ye shanna get a word fro me."

"That remains to be seen," retorted Potts, "but I apprehend we shall
make you speak, and pretty plainly too, before we've done with you.--You
hear what this perverse and wrong-headed young witch declares, masters,"
he shouted, again clambering upon the cross. "I have offered her
liberty, on condition of disclosing to us the manner of her diabolical
old relative's evasion, and she rejects it."

An angry roar followed, mixed with cries from Jem Device, of "swim
her!--swim her!"

"You had better tell them what you know, Nance," said Richard, in a low
tone, "or I shall have difficulty in preserving you from their fury."

"Ey darena, Master Richard," she replied, shaking her head; and then she
added firmly, "Ey winna."

Finding it useless to reason with her, and fearing also that the
infuriated crowd might attempt to put their threats into execution,
Richard turned to his cousin Nicholas, and said: "We must get her away,
or violence will be done."

"She does not deserve your compassion, Dick," replied Nicholas; "she is
only a few degrees better than the old hag who has escaped. Sparshot
here tells me she is noted for her skill in modelling clay figures."

"Yeigh, that hoo be," replied the broad-faced beadle; "hoo's
unaccountable cliver ot that sort o' wark. A clay figger os big os a six
months' barn, fashiont i' th' likeness o' Farmer Grimble o' Briercliffe
lawnd, os died last month, war seen i' her cottage, an monny others
besoide. Amongst 'em a moddle o' your lamented brother, Squoire Ruchot
Assheton o' Downham, wi' t' yeod pood off, and th' 'eart pieret thro'
an' thro' wi' pins and needles."

"Ye lien i' your teeth, Simon Sparshot!" cried Nance; regarding him
furiously.

"If the head were off, Simon, I don't see how the likeness to my poor
brother could well be recognised," said Nicholas, with a half smile.
"But let her be put to some mild trial--weighed against the church
Bible."

"Be it so," replied Potts, jumping down; "but if that fail, we must have
recourse to stronger measures. Take notice that, with all her fright,
she has not been able to shed a tear, not a single tear--a clear
witch--a clear witch!"

"Ey'd scorn to weep fo t' like o' yo!" cried Nance, disdainfully, having
now completely recovered her natural audacity.

"We'll soon break your spirit, young woman, I can promise you," rejoined
Potts.

As soon as it was known what was about to occur, the whole crowd moved
towards the church porch, Nan Redferne walking between Richard Assheton
and the beadle, who kept hold of her arm to prevent any attempt at
escape; and by the time they reached the appointed place, Ben Baggiley,
the baker, who had been despatched for the purpose, appeared with an
enormous pair of wooden scales, while Sampson Harrop, the clerk, having
visited the pulpit, came forth with the church Bible, an immense volume,
bound in black, with great silver clasps.

"Come, that's a good big Bible at all events," cried Potts, eyeing it
with satisfaction. "It looks like my honourable and singular good Lord
Chief-Justice Sir Edward Coke's learned 'Institutes of the Laws of
England,' only that that great legal tome is generally bound in
calf--law calf, as we say."

"Large as the book is, it will scarce prove heavy enough to weigh down
the witch, I opine," observed Nicholas, with a smile.

"We shall see, sir," replied Potts. "We shall see."

By this time, the scales having been affixed to a hook in the porch by
Baggiley, the sacred volume was placed on one side, and Nance set down
by the beadle on the other. The result of the experiment was precisely
what might have been anticipated--the moment the young woman took her
place in the balance, it sank down to the ground, while the other kicked
the beam.

"I hope you are satisfied now, Master Potts," cried Richard Assheton.
"By your own trial her innocence is approved."

"Your pardon, Master Richard, this is Squire Nicholas's trial, not
mine," replied Potts. "I am for the ordeal of swimming. How say you,
masters! Shall we be content with this doubtful experiment?"

"Neaw--neaw," responded Jem Device, who acted as spokesman to the crowd,
"swim her--swim her!"

"I knew you would have it so," said Potts, approvingly. "Where is a
fitting place for the trial?"

"Th' Abbey pool is nah fur off," replied Jem, "or ye con tay her to th'
Calder."

"The river, by all means--nothing like a running stream," said Potts.
"Let cords be procured to bind her."

"Run fo 'em quickly, Ben," said Jem to Baggiley, who was very zealous in
the cause.

"Oh!" groaned Nance, again losing courage, and glancing piteously at
Richard.

"No outrage like this shall be perpetrated," cried the young man,
firmly; "I call upon you, cousin Nicholas, to help me. Go into the
church," he added, thrusting Nance backward, and presenting his sword at
the breast of Jem Device, who attempted to follow her, and who retired
muttering threats and curses; "I will run the first man through the body
who attempts to pass."

As Nan Redferne made good her retreat, and shut the church-door after
her, Master Potts, pale with rage, cried out to Richard, "You have aided
the escape of a desperate and notorious offender--actually in custody,
sir, and have rendered yourself liable to indictment for it, sir, with
consequences of fine and imprisonment, sir:--heavy fine and long
imprisonment, sir. Do you mark me, Master Richard?"

"I will answer the consequences of my act to those empowered to question
it, sir," replied Richard, sternly.

"Well, sir, I have given you notice," rejoined Potts, "due notice. We
shall hear what Sir Ralph will say to the matter, and Master Roger
Nowell, and--"

"You forget me, good Master Potts," interrupted Nicholas, laughingly; "I
entirely disapprove of it. It is a most flagrant breach of duty.
Nevertheless, I am glad the poor wench has got off."

"She is safe within the church," said Potts, "and I command Master
Richard, in the king's name, to let us pass. Beadle! Sharpshot,
Sparshot, or whatever be your confounded name do your duty, sirrah.
Enter the church, and bring forth the witch."

"Ey darna, mester," replied Simon; "young mester Ruchot ud slit mey
weasand os soon os look ot meh."

Richard put an end to further altercation, by stepping back quickly,
locking the door, and then taking out the key, and putting it into his
pocket.

"She is quite safe now," he cried, with a smile at the discomfited
lawyer.

"Is there no other door?" inquired Potts of the beadle, in a low tone.

"Yeigh, theere be one ot t'other soide," replied Sparshot, "boh it be
locked, ey reckon, an maybe hoo'n getten out that way."

"Quick, quick, and let's see," cried Potts; "justice must not be
thwarted in this shameful manner."

While the greater part of the crowd set off after Potts and the beadle,
Richard Assheton, anxious to know what had become of the fugitive, and
determined not to abandon her while any danger existed, unlocked the
church-door, and entered the holy structure, followed by Nicholas. On
looking around, Nance was nowhere to be seen, neither did she answer to
his repeated calls, and Richard concluded she must have escaped, when
all at once a loud exulting shout was heard without, leaving no doubt
that the poor young woman had again fallen into the hands of her
captors. The next moment a sharp, piercing scream in a female key
confirmed the supposition. On hearing this cry, Richard instantly flew
to the opposite door, through which Nance must have passed, but on
trying it he found it fastened outside; and filled with sudden
misgiving, for he now recollected leaving the key in the other door, he
called to Nicholas to come with him, and hurried back to it. His
apprehensions were verified; the door was locked. At first Nicholas was
inclined to laugh at the trick played them; but a single look from
Richard checked his tendency to merriment, and he followed his young
relative, who had sprung to a window looking upon that part of the
churchyard whence the shouts came, and flung it open. Richard's egress,
however, was prevented by an iron bar, and he called out loudly and
fiercely to the beadle, whom he saw standing in the midst of the crowd,
to unlock the door.

"Have a little patience, good Master Richard," replied Potts, turning up
his provoking little visage, now charged with triumphant malice. "You
shall come out presently. We are busy just now--engaged in binding the
witch, as you see. Both keys are safely in my pocket, and I will send
you one of them when we start for the river, good Master Richard. We
lawyers are not to be overreached you see--ha! ha!"

"You shall repent this conduct when I do get out," cried Richard,
furiously. "Sparshot, I command you to bring the key instantly."

But, encouraged by the attorney, the beadle affected not to hear
Richard's angry vociferations, and the others were unable to aid the
young man, if they had been so disposed, and all were too much
interested in what was going forward to run off to the vicarage, and
acquaint Sir Ralph with the circumstances in which his relatives were
placed, even though enjoined to do so.

On being set free by Richard, Nance had flown quickly through the
church, and passed out at the side door, and was making good her retreat
at the back of the edifice, when her flying figure was descried by Jem
Device, who, failing in his first attempt, had run round that way,
fancying he should catch her.

He instantly dashed after her with all the fury of a bloodhound, and,
being possessed of remarkable activity, speedily overtook her, and,
heedless of her threats and entreaties, secured her.

"Lemme go, Jem," she cried, "an ey win do thee a good turn one o' these
days, when theaw may chonce to be i' th' same strait os me." But seeing
him inexorable, she added, "My granddame shan rack thy boans sorely,
lad, for this."

Jem replied by a coarse laugh of defiance, and, dragging her along,
delivered her to Master Potts and the beadle, who were then hurrying to
the other door of the church. To prevent interruption, the cunning
attorney, having ascertained that the two Asshetons were inside,
instantly gave orders to have both doors locked, and the injunctions
being promptly obeyed, he took possession of the keys himself, chuckling
at the success of the stratagem. "A fair reprisal," he muttered; "this
young milksop shall find he is no match for a skilful lawyer like me.
Now, the cords--the cords!"

It was at the sight of the bonds, which were quickly brought by
Baggiley, that Nance uttered the piercing cry that had roused Richard's
indignation. Feeling secure of his prisoner, and now no longer
apprehensive of interruption, Master Potts was in no hurry to conclude
the arrangements, but rather prolonged them to exasperate Richard.
Little consideration was shown the unfortunate captive. The new shoes
and stockings of which she had been so vain a short time before, were
torn from her feet and limbs by the rude hands of the remorseless Jem
and the beadle, and bent down by the main force of these two strong men,
her thumbs and great toes were tightly bound together, crosswise, by the
cords. The churchyard rang with her shrieks, and, with his blood boiling
with indignation at the sight, Richard redoubled his exertions to burst
through the window and fly to her assistance. But though Nicholas now
lent his powerful aid to the task, their combined efforts to obtain
liberation were unavailing; and with rage almost amounting to frenzy,
Richard beheld the poor young woman borne shrieking away by her captors.
Nor was Nicholas much less incensed, and he swore a deep oath when he
did get at liberty that Master Potts should pay dearly for his rascally
conduct.




CHAPTER VI.--THE ORDEAL BY SWIMMING.


Bound hand and foot in the painful posture before described, roughly and
insolently handled on all sides, in peril of her life from the frightful
ordeal to which she was about to be subjected, the miserable captive was
borne along on the shoulders of Jem Device and Sparshot, her long, fine
chestnut hair trailing upon the ground, her white shoulders exposed to
the insolent gaze of the crowd, and her trim holiday attire torn to rags
by the rough treatment she had experienced. Nance Redferne, it has been
said, was a very comely young woman; but neither her beauty, her youth,
nor her sex, had any effect upon the ferocious crowd, who were too much
accustomed to such brutal and debasing exhibitions, to feel any thing
but savage delight in the spectacle of a fellow-creature so scandalously
treated and tormented, and the only excuse to be offered for their
barbarity, is the firm belief they entertained that they were dealing
with a witch. And when even in our own day so many revolting scenes are
enacted to gratify the brutal passions of the mob, while prize-fights
are tolerated, and wretched animals goaded on to tear each other in
pieces, it is not to be wondered at that, in times of less enlightenment
and refinement, greater cruelties should be practised. Indeed, it may be
well to consider how far we have really advanced in civilisation since
then; for until cruelty, whether to man or beast, be wholly banished
from our sports, we cannot justly reproach our ancestors, or
congratulate ourselves on our improvement.

Nance's cries of distress were only answered by jeers, and renewed
insults, and wearied out at length, the poor creature ceased struggling
and shrieking, the dogged resolution she had before exhibited again
coming to her aid.

But her fortitude was to be yet more severely tested. Revealed by the
disorder of her habiliments, and contrasting strongly with the extreme
whiteness of her skin, a dun-coloured mole was discovered upon her
breast. It was pointed out to Potts by Jem Device, who declared it to be
a witch-mark, and the spot where her familiar drained her blood.

"This is one of the 'good helps' to the discovery of a witch, pointed
out by our sovereign lord the king," said the attorney, narrowly
examining the spot. "'The one,' saith our wise prince, 'is the finding
of their mark, and the trying the insensibleness thereof. The other is
their fleeting on the water.' The water-ordeal will come presently, but
the insensibility of the mark might be at once attested."

"Yeigh, that con soon be tried," cried Jem, with a savage laugh.

And taking a pin from his sleeve, the ruffian plunged it deeply into the
poor creature's flesh. Nance winced, but she set her teeth hardly, and
repressed the cry that must otherwise have been wrung from her.

"A clear witch!" cried Jem, drawing forth the pin; "not a drop o' blood
flows, an hoo feels nowt!"

"Feel nowt?" rejoined Nance, between her ground teeth. "May ye ha a pang
os sharp i' your cancart eart, ye villain."

After this barbarous test, the crowd, confirmed by it in their notions
of Nan's guiltiness, hurried on, their numbers increasing as they
proceeded along the main street of the village leading towards the
river; all the villagers left at home rushing forth on hearing a witch
was about to be swum, and when they came within a bow-shot of the
stream, Sparshot called to Baggiley to lay hold of Nance, while he
himself, accompanied by several of the crowd, ran over the bridge, the
part he had to enact requiring him to be on the other side of the water.

Meantime, the main party turned down a little footpath protected by a
gate on the left, which led between garden hedges to the grassy banks of
the Calder, and in taking this course they passed by the cottage of
Elizabeth Device. Hearing the shouts of the rabble, little Jennet, who
had been in no very happy frame of mind since she had been brought home,
came forth, and seeing her brother, called out to him, in her usual
sharp tones, "What's the matter, Jem? Who han ye gotten there?"

"A witch," replied Jem, gruffly. "Nance Redferne, Mother Chattox's
grand-daughter. Come an see her swum i' th' Calder."

Jennet readily complied, for her curiosity was aroused, and she shared
in the family feelings of dislike to Mother Chattox and her descendants.

"Is this Nance Redferne?" she cried, keeping close to her brother, "Ey'm
glad yo'n caught her at last. How dun ye find yersel, Nance?"

"Ill at ease, Jennet," replied Nance, with a bitter look; "boh it ill
becomes ye to jeer me, lass, seein' yo're a born witch yoursel."

"Aha!" cried Potts, looking at the little girl, "So this is a born
witch--eh, Nance?"

"A born an' bred witch," rejoined Nance; "jist as her brother Jem here
is a wizard. They're the gran-childer o' Mother Demdike o' Pendle, the
greatest witch i' these parts, an childer o' Bess Device, who's nah much
better. Ask me to witness agen 'em, that's aw."

"Howd thy tongue, woman, or ey'n drown thee," muttered Jem, in a tone of
deep menace.

"Ye canna, mon, if ey'm the witch ye ca' me," rejoined Nance. "Jennet's
turn'll come os weel os mine, one o' these days. Mark my words."

"Efore that ey shan see ye burned, ye faggot," cried Jennet, almost
fiercely.

"Ye'n gotten the fiend's mark o' your sleeve," cried Nance. "Ey see it
written i' letters ov blood."

"That's where our cat scratted me," replied Jennet, hiding her arm
quickly.

"Good!--very good!" observed Potts, rubbing his hands. "'Who but witches
can be proof against witches?' saith our sagacious sovereign. I shall
make something of this girl. She seems a remarkably quick
child--remarkably quick--ha, ha!"

By this time, the party having gained the broad flat mead through which
the Calder flowed, took their way quickly towards its banks, the spot
selected for the ordeal lying about fifty yards above the weir, where
the current, ordinarily rapid, was checked by the dam, offering a smooth
surface, with considerable depth of water. If soft natural beauties
could have subdued the hearts of those engaged in this cruel and wicked
experiment, never was scene better calculated for the purpose than that
under contemplation. Through a lovely green valley meandered the Calder,
now winding round some verdant knoll, now washing the base of lofty
heights feathered with timber to their very summits, now lost amid thick
woods, and only discernible at intervals by a glimmer amongst the trees.
Immediately in front of the assemblage rose Whalley Nab, its steep sides
and brow partially covered with timber, with green patches in the
uplands where sheep and cattle fed. Just below the spot where the crowd
were collected, the stream, here of some width, passed over the weir,
and swept in a foaming cascade over the huge stones supporting the dam,
giving the rushing current the semblance and almost the beauty of a
natural waterfall. Below this the stream ran brawling on in a wider, but
shallower channel, making pleasant music as it went, and leaving many
dry beds of sand and gravel in the midst; while a hundred yards lower
down, it was crossed by the arches of the bridge. Further still, a row
of tall cypresses lined the bank of the river, and screened that part of
the Abbey, converted into a residence by the Asshetons; and after this
came the ruins of the refectory, the cloisters, the dormitory, the
conventual church, and other parts of the venerable structure,
overshadowed by noble lime-trees and elms. Lovelier or more peaceful
scene could not be imagined. The green meads, the bright clear stream,
with its white foaming weir, the woody heights reflected in the glassy
waters, the picturesque old bridge, and the dark grey ruins beyond it,
all might have engaged the attention and melted the heart. Then the
hour, when evening was coming on, and when each beautiful object,
deriving new beauty from the medium through which it was viewed,
exercised a softening influence, and awakened kindly emotions. To most
the scene was familiar, and therefore could have no charm of novelty. To
Potts, however, it was altogether new; but he was susceptible of few
gentle impressions, and neither the tender beauty of the evening, nor
the wooing loveliness of the spot, awakened any responsive emotion in
his breast. He was dead to every thing except the ruthless experiment
about to be made.

Almost at the same time that Jem Device and his party reached the near
bank of the stream, the beadle and the others appeared on the opposite
side. Little was said, but instant preparations were made for the
ordeal. Two long coils of rope having been brought by Baggiley, one of
them was made fast to the right arm of the victim, and the other to the
left; and this done, Jem Device, shouting to Sparshot to look out, flung
one coil of rope across the river, where it was caught with much
dexterity by the beadle. The assemblage then spread out on the bank,
while Jem, taking the poor young woman in his arms, who neither spoke
nor struggled, but held her breath tightly, approached the river.

"Dunna drown her, Jem," said Jennet, who had turned very pale.

"Be quiet, wench," rejoined Jem, gruffly.

And without bestowing further attention upon her, he let down his burden
carefully into the water; and this achieved, he called out to the
beadle, who drew her slowly towards him, while Jem guided her with the
other rope.

The crowd watched the experiment for a few moments in profound silence,
but as the poor young woman, who had now reached the centre of the
stream, still floated, being supported either by the tension of the
cords, or by her woollen apparel, a loud shout was raised that she could
not sink, and was, therefore, an undeniable witch.

"Steady, lads--steady a moment," cried Potts, enchanted with the success
of the experiment; "leave her where she is, that her buoyancy may be
fully attested. You know, masters," he cried, with a loud voice, "the
meaning of this water ordeal. Our sovereign lord and master the king, in
his wisdom, hath graciously vouchsafed to explain the matter thus:
'Water,' he saith, 'shall refuse to receive them (meaning witches, of
course) in her bosom, that have shaken off their sacred water of
baptism, and wilfully refused the benefit thereof.' It is manifest, you
see, that this diabolical young woman hath renounced her baptism, for
the water rejecteth her. _Non potest mergi_, as Pliny saith. She floats
like a cork, or as if the clear water of the Calder had suddenly become
like the slab, salt waves of the Dead Sea, in which, nothing can sink.
You behold the marvel with your own eyes, my masters."

"Ay, ay!" rejoined Baggiley and several others.

"Hoo be a witch fo sartin," cried Jem Device. But as he spoke, chancing
slightly to slacken the rope, the tension of which maintained the
equilibrium of the body, the poor woman instantly sank.

A groan, as much of disappointment as sympathy, broke from the
spectators, but none attempted to aid her; and on seeing her sink, Jem
abandoned the rope altogether.

But assistance was at hand. Two persons rushed quickly and furiously to
the spot. They were Richard and Nicholas Assheton. The iron bar had at
length yielded to their efforts, and the first use they made of their
freedom was to hurry to the river. A glance showed them what had
occurred, and the younger Assheton, unhesitatingly plunging into the
water, seized the rope dropped by Jem, and calling to the beadle to let
go his hold, dragged forth the poor half-drowned young woman, and placed
her on the bank, hewing asunder the cords that bound her hands and feet
with his sword. But though still sensible, Nance was so much exhausted
by the shock she had undergone, and her muscles were so severely
strained by the painful and unnatural posture to which she had been
compelled, that she was wholly unable to move. Her thumbs were blackened
and swollen, and the cords had cut into the flesh, while blood trickled
down from the puncture in her breast. Fixing a look of inexpressible
gratitude upon her preserver, she made an effort to speak, but the
exertion was too great; violent hysterical sobbing came on, and her
senses soon after forsook her. Richard called loudly for assistance, and
the sentiments of the most humane part of the crowd having undergone a
change since the failure of the ordeal, some females came forward, and
took steps for her restoration. Sensibility having returned, a cloak was
wrapped around her, and she was conveyed to a neighbouring cottage and
put to bed, where her stiffened limbs were chafed and warm drinks
administered, and it began to be hoped that no serious consequences
would ensue.

Meanwhile, a catastrophe had wellnigh occurred in another quarter. With
eyes flashing with fury, Nicholas Assheton pushed aside the crowd, and
made his way to the bank whereon Master Potts stood. Not liking his
looks, the little attorney would have taken to his heels, but finding
escape impossible, he called upon Baggiley to protect him. But he was
instantly in the forcible gripe of the squire, who shouted, "I'll teach
you, mongrel hound, to play tricks with gentlemen."

"Master Nicholas," cried the terrified and half-strangled attorney, "my
very good sir, I entreat you to let me alone. This is a breach of the
king's peace, sir. Assault and battery, under aggravated circumstances,
and punishable with ignominious corporal penalties, besides fine and
imprisonment, sir. I take you to witness the assault, Master Baggiley. I
shall bring my ac--ac--ah--o--o--oh!"

"Then you shall have something to bring your ac--ac--action for,
rascal," cried Nicholas. And, seizing the attorney by the nape of the
neck with one hand, and the hind wings of his doublet with the other, he
cast him to a considerable distance into the river, where he fell with a
tremendous splash.

"He is no wizard, at all events," laughed Nicholas, as Potts went down
like a lump of lead.

But the attorney was not born to be drowned; at least, at this period of
his career. On rising to the surface, a few seconds after his immersion,
he roared lustily for help, but would infallibly have been carried over
the weir, if Jem Device had not flung him the rope now disengaged from
Nance Redferne, and which he succeeded in catching. In this way he was
dragged out; and as he crept up the bank, with the wet pouring from his
apparel, which now clung tightly to his lathy limbs, he was greeted by
the jeers of Nicholas.

"How like you the water-ordeal--eh, Master Attorney? No occasion for a
second trial, I think. If Jem Device had known his own interest, he
would have left you to fatten the Calder eels; but he will find it out
in time."

"You will find it out too, Master Nicholas," rejoined Potts, clapping on
his wet cap. "Take me to the Dragon quickly, good fellow," he added, to
Jem Device, "and I will recompense thee for thy pains, as well as for
the service thou hast just rendered me. I shall have rheumatism in my
joints, pains in my loins, and rheum in my head, oh dear--oh dear!"

"In which case you will not be able to pay Mother Demdike your purposed
visit to-morrow," jeered Nicholas. "You forgot you were to arrest her,
and bring her before a magistrate."

"Thy arm, good fellow, thy arm!" said Potts, to Jem Device.

"To the fiend wi' thee," cried Jem, shaking him off roughly. "The
squoire is reet. Wouldee had let thee drown."

"What, have you changed your mind already, Jem?" cried Nicholas, in a
taunting tone. "You'll have your grandmother's thanks for the service
you've rendered her, lad--ha! ha!"

"Fo' t' matter o' two pins ey'd pitch him again," growled Jem, eyeing
the attorney askance.

"No, no, Jem," observed Nicholas, "things must take their course. What's
done is done. But if Master Potts be wise, he'll take himself out of
court without delay."

"You'll be glad to get me out of court one of these days, squire,"
muttered Potts, "and so will you too, Master James Device.--A day of
reckoning will come for both--heavy reckoning. Ugh! ugh!" he added,
shivering, "how my teeth chatter!"

"Make what haste you can to the Dragon," cried the good-natured squire;
"get your clothes dried, and bid John Lawe brew you a pottle of strong
sack, swallow it scalding hot, and you'll never look behind you."

"Nor before me either," retorted Potts, "Scalding sack! This
bloodthirsty squire has a new design upon my life!"

"Ey'n go wi' ye to th' Dragon, mester," said Baggiley; "lean o' me."

"Thanke'e friend," replied Potts, taking his arm. "A word at parting,
Master Nicholas. This is not the only discovery of witchcraft I've made.
I've another case, somewhat nearer home. Ha! ha!"

With this, he hobbled off in the direction of the alehouse, his steps
being traceable along the dusty road like the course of a watering-cart.

"Ey'n go efter him," growled Jem.

"No you won't, lad," rejoined Nicholas, "and if you'll take my advice,
you'll get out of Whalley as fast as you can. You will be safer on the
heath of Pendle than here, when Sir Ralph and Master Roger Nowell come
to know what has taken place. And mind this, sirrah--the hounds will be
out in the forest to-morrow. D'ye heed?"

Jem growled something in reply, and, seizing his little sister's hand,
strode off with her towards his mother's dwelling, uttering not a word
by the way.

Having seen Nance Redferne conveyed to the cottage, as before mentioned,
Richard Assheton, regardless of the wet state of his own apparel, now
joined his cousin, the squire, and they walked to the Abbey together,
conversing on what had taken place, while the crowd dispersed, some
returning to the bowers in the churchyard, and others to the green,
their merriment in nowise damped by the recent occurrences, which they
looked upon as part of the day's sport. As some of them passed by,
laughing, singing, and dancing, Richard Assheton remarked, "I can
scarcely believe these to be the same people I so lately saw in the
churchyard. They then seemed totally devoid of humanity."

"Pshaw! they are humane enough," rejoined Nicholas; "but you cannot
expect them to show mercy to a witch, any more than to a wolf, or other
savage and devouring beast."

"But the means taken to prove her guilt were as absurd as iniquitous,"
said Richard, "and savour of the barbarous ages. If she had perished,
all concerned in the trial would have been guilty of murder."

"But no judge would condemn them," returned Nicholas; "and they have the
highest authority in the realm to uphold them. As to leniency to
witches, in a general way, I would show none. Traitors alike to God and
man, and bond slaves of Satan, they are out of the pale of Christian
charity."

"No criminal, however great, is out of the pale of Christian charity,"
replied Richard; "but such scenes as we have just witnessed are a
disgrace to humanity, and a mockery of justice. In seeking to discover
and punish one offence, a greater is committed. Suppose this poor young
woman really guilty--what then? Our laws are made for protection, as
well as punishment of wrong. She should he arraigned, convicted, and
condemned before punishment."

"Our laws admit of torture, Richard," observed Nicholas.

"True," said the young man, with a shudder, "and it is another relic of
a ruthless age. But torture is only allowed under the eye of the law,
and can be inflicted by none but its sworn servants. But, supposing this
poor young woman innocent of the crime imputed to her, which I really
believe her to be, how, then, will you excuse the atrocities to which
she has been subjected?"

"I do not believe her innocent," rejoined Nicholas; "her relationship to
a notorious witch, and her fabrication of clay images, make her justly
suspected."

"Then let her be examined by a magistrate," said Richard; "but, even
then, woe betide her! When I think that Alizon Device is liable to the
same atrocious treatment, in consequence of her relationship to Mother
Demdike, I can scarce contain my indignation."

"It is unlucky for her, indeed," rejoined Nicholas; "but of all Nance's
assailants the most infuriated was Alizon's brother, Jem Device."

"I saw it," cried Richard--an uneasy expression passing over his
countenance. "Would she could be removed from that family!"

"To what purpose?" demanded Nicholas, quickly. "Her family are more
likely to be removed from her if Master Potts stay in the
neighbourhood."

"Poor girl!" exclaimed Richard.

And he fell into a reverie which was not broken till they reached the
Abbey.

To return to Jem Device. On reaching the cottage, the ruffian flung
himself into a chair, and for a time seemed lost in reflection. At last
he looked up, and said gruffly to Jennet, who stood watching him, "See
if mother be come whoam?"

"Eigh, eigh, ey'm here, Jem," said Elizabeth Device, opening the inner
door and coming forth. "So, ye ha been swimmin' Nance Redferne, lad, eh!
Ey'm glad on it--ha! ha!"

Jem gave her a significant look, upon which she motioned Jennet to
withdraw, and the injunction being complied with, though with evident
reluctance, by the little girl, she closed the door upon her.

"Now, Jem, what hast got to say to me, lad, eh?" demanded Elizabeth,
stepping up to him.

"Neaw great deal, mother," he replied; "boh ey keawnsel ye to look weel
efter yersel. We're aw i' dawnger."


"Ey knoas it, lad, ey knoas it," replied Elizabeth; "boh fo my own pert
ey'm nah afeerd. They darna touch me; an' if they dun, ey con defend
mysel reet weel. Here's a letter to thy gran-mother," she added, giving
him a sealed packet. "Take care on it."

"Fro Mistress Nutter, ey suppose?" asked Jem.

"Eigh, who else should it be from?" rejoined Elizabeth. "Your
gran-mother win' ha' enough to do to neet, an so win yo, too, Jem,
lettin alone the walk fro here to Malkin Tower."

"Weel, gi' me mey supper, an ey'n set out," rejoined Jem. "So ye ha'
seen Mistress Nutter?"

"Ey found her i' th' Abbey garden," replied Elizabeth, "an we had some
tawk together, abowt th' boundary line o' th' Rough Lee estates, and
other matters."

And, as she spoke, she set a cold pasty, with oat cakes, cheese, and
butter, before her son, and next proceeded to draw him a jug of ale.

"What other matters dun you mean, mother?" inquired Jem, attacking the
pasty. "War it owt relatin' to that little Lunnon lawyer, Mester Potts?"

"Theawst hit it, Jem," replied Elizabeth, seating herself near him.
"That Potts means to visit thy gran-mother to morrow."

"Weel!" said Jem, grimly.

"An arrest her," pursued Elizabeth.

"Easily said," laughed Jem, scornfully, "boh neaw quite so easily done."

"Nah quite, Jem," responded Elizabeth, joining in the laugh. "'Specially
when th' owd dame's prepared, as she win be now."

"Potts may set out 'o that journey, boh he winna come back again,"
remarked Jem, in a sombre tone.

"Wait till yo'n seen your gran-mother efore ye do owt, lad," said
Elizabeth.

"Ay, wait," added a voice.

"What's that?" demanded Jem, laving down his knife and fork.

Elizabeth did not answer in words, but her significant looks were quite
response enough for her son.

"Os ye win, mother," he said in an altered tone. After a pause, employed
in eating, he added, "Did Mistress Nutter put onny questions to ye about
Alizon?"

"More nor enough, lad," replied Elizabeth; "fo what had ey to tell her?
She praised her beauty, an said how unlike she wur to Jennet an thee,
lad--ha! ha!--An wondert how ey cum to ha such a dowter, an monny other
things besoide. An what could ey say to it aw, except--"

"Except what, mother?" interrupted Jem.

"Except that she wur my child just os much os Jennet an thee!"

"Humph!" exclaimed Jem.

"Humph!" echoed the voice that had previously spoken.

Jem looked at his mother, and took a long pull at the ale-jug.

"Any more messages to Malkin Tower?" he asked, getting up.

"Neaw--mother will onderstond," replied Elizabeth. "Bid her be on her
guard, fo' the enemy is abroad."

"Meanin' Potts?" said Jem.

"Meaning Potts," answered the voice.

"There are strange echoes here," said Jem, looking round suspiciously.

At this moment, Tib came from under a piece of furniture, where he had
apparently been lying, and rubbed himself familiarly against his legs.

"Ey needna be afeerd o' owt happenin to ye, mother," said Jem, patting
the cat's back. "Tib win tay care on yo."

"Eigh, eigh," replied Elizabeth, bending down to pat him, "he's a trusty
cat." But the ill-tempered animal would not be propitiated, but erected
his back, and menaced her with his claws.

"Yo han offended him, mother," said Jem. "One word efore ey start. Are
ye quite sure Potts didna owerhear your conversation wi' Mistress
Nutter?"

"Why d'ye ask, Jem?" she replied.

"Fro' summat the knave threw out to Squoire Nicholas just now," rejoined
Jem. "He said he'd another case o' witchcraft nearer whoam. Whot could
he mean?"

"Whot, indeed?" cried Elizabeth, quickly.

"Look at Tib," exclaimed her son.

As he spoke, the cat sprang towards the inner door, and scratched
violently against it.

Elizabeth immediately raised the latch, and found Jennet behind it, with
a face like scarlet.

"Yo'n been listenin, ye young eavesdropper," cried Elizabeth, boxing her
ears soundly; "take that fo' your pains--an that."

"Touch me again, an Mester Potts shan knoa aw ey'n heer'd," said the
little girl, repressing her tears.

Elizabeth regarded her angrily; but the looks of the child were so
spiteful, that she did not dare to strike her. She glanced too at Tib;
but the uncertain cat was now rubbing himself in the most friendly
manner against Jennet.

"Yo shan pay for this, lass, presently," said Elizabeth.

"Best nah provoke me, mother," rejoined Jennet in a determined tone; "if
ye dun, aw secrets shan out. Ey knoa why Jem's goin' to Malkin-Tower
to-neet--an why yo're afeerd o' Mester Potts."

"Howd thy tongue or ey'n choke thee, little pest," cried her mother,
fiercely.

Jennet replied with a mocking laugh, while Tib rubbed against her more
fondly than ever.

"Let her alone," interposed Jem. "An now ey mun be off. So, fare ye
weel, mother,--an yo, too, Jennet." And with this, he put on his cap,
seized his cudgel, and quitted the cottage.




CHAPTER VII.--THE RUINED CONVENTUAL CHURCH.


Beneath a wild cherry-tree, planted by chance in the Abbey gardens, and
of such remarkable size that it almost rivalled the elms and lime trees
surrounding it, and when in bloom resembled an enormous garland, stood
two young maidens, both of rare beauty, though in totally different
styles;--the one being fair-haired and blue-eyed, with a snowy skin
tinged with delicate bloom, like that of roses seen through milk, to
borrow a simile from old Anacreon; while the other far eclipsed her in
the brilliancy of her complexion, the dark splendour of her eyes, and
the luxuriance of her jetty tresses, which, unbound and knotted with
ribands, flowed down almost to the ground. In age, there was little
disparity between them, though perhaps the dark-haired girl might be a
year nearer twenty than the other, and somewhat more of seriousness,
though not much, sat upon her lovely countenance than on the other's
laughing features. Different were they too, in degree, and here social
position was infinitely in favour of the fairer girl, but no one would
have judged it so if not previously acquainted with their history.
Indeed, it was rather the one having least title to be proud (if any one
has such title) who now seemed to look up to her companion with mingled
admiration and regard; the latter being enthralled at the moment by the
rich notes of a thrush poured from a neighbouring lime-tree.

Pleasant was the garden where the two girls stood, shaded by great
trees, laid out in exquisite parterres, with knots and figures, quaint
flower-beds, shorn trees and hedges, covered alleys and arbours,
terraces and mounds, in the taste of the time, and above all an
admirably kept bowling-green. It was bounded on the one hand by the
ruined chapter-house and vestry of the old monastic structure, and on
the other by the stately pile of buildings formerly making part of the
Abbot's lodging, in which the long gallery was situated, some of its
windows looking upon the bowling-green, and then kept in excellent
condition, but now roofless and desolate. Behind them, on the right,
half hidden by trees, lay the desecrated and despoiled conventual
church. Reared at such cost, and with so much magnificence, by thirteen
abbots--the great work having been commenced, as heretofore stated, by
Robert de Topcliffe, in 1330, and only completed in all its details by
John Paslew; this splendid structure, surpassing, according to Whitaker,
"many cathedrals in extent," was now abandoned to the slow ravages of
decay. Would it had never encountered worse enemy! But some half
century later, the hand of man was called in to accelerate its
destruction, and it was then almost entirely rased to the ground. At the
period in question though partially unroofed, and with some of the walls
destroyed, it was still beautiful and picturesque--more picturesque,
indeed than in the days of its pride and splendour. The tower with its
lofty crocketed spire was still standing, though the latter was cracked
and tottering, and the jackdaws roosted within its windows and belfry.
Two ranges of broken columns told of the bygone glories of the aisles;
and the beautiful side chapels having escaped injury better than other
parts of the fabric, remained in tolerable preservation. But the choir
and high altar were stripped of all their rich carving and ornaments,
and the rain descended through the open rood-loft upon the now
grass-grown graves of the abbots in the presbytery. Here and there the
ramified mullions still retained their wealth of painted glass, and the
grand eastern window shone gorgeously as of yore. All else was neglect
and ruin. Briers and turf usurped the place of the marble pavement; many
of the pillars were festooned with ivy; and, in some places, the
shattered walls were covered with creepers, and trees had taken root in
the crevices of the masonry. Beautiful at all times were these
magnificent ruins; but never so beautiful as when seen by the witching
light of the moon--the hour, according to the best authority, when all
ruins should be viewed--when the long lines of broken pillars, the
mouldering arches, and the still glowing panes over the altar, had a
magical effect.

In front of the maidens stood a square tower, part of the defences of
the religious establishment, erected by Abbot Lyndelay, in the reign of
Edward III., but disused and decaying. It was sustained by high and
richly groined arches, crossing the swift mill-race, and faced the
river. A path led through the ruined chapter-house to the spacious
cloister quadrangle, once used as a cemetery for the monks, but now
converted into a kitchen garden, its broad area being planted out, and
fruit-trees trained against the hoary walls. Little of the old refectory
was left, except the dilapidated stairs once conducting to the gallery
where the brethren were wont to take their meals, but the inner wall
still served to enclose the garden on that side. Of the dormitory,
formerly constituting the eastern angle of the cloisters, the shell was
still left, and it was used partly as a grange, partly as a shed for
cattle, the farm-yard and tenements lying on this side.

Thus it will be seen that the garden and grounds, filling up the ruins
of Whalley Abbey, offered abundant points of picturesque attraction, all
of which--with the exception of the ruined conventual church--had been
visited by the two girls. They had tracked the labyrinths of passages,
scaled the broken staircases, crept into the roofless and neglected
chambers, peered timorously into the black and yawning vaults, and now,
having finished their investigations, had paused for awhile, previous to
extending their ramble to the church, beneath the wild cherry-tree to
listen to the warbling of the birds.

"You should hear the nightingales at Middleton, Alizon," observed
Dorothy Assheton, breaking silence; "they sing even more exquisitely
than yon thrush. You must come and see me. I should like to show you the
old house and gardens, though they are very different from these, and we
have no ancient monastic ruins to ornament them. Still, they are very
beautiful; and, as I find you are fond of flowers, I will show you some
I have reared myself, for I am something of a gardener, Alizon. Promise
you will come."

"I wish I dared promise it," replied Alizon.

"And why not, then?" cried Dorothy. "What should prevent you? Do you
know, Alizon, what I should like better than all? You are so amiable,
and so good, and so--so very pretty; nay, don't blush--there is no one
by to hear me--you are so charming altogether, that I should like you to
come and live with me. You shall be my handmaiden if you will."

"I should desire nothing better, sweet young lady," replied Alizon;
"but--"

"But what?" cried Dorothy. "You have only your own consent to obtain."

"Alas! I have," replied Alizon.

"How can that be!" cried Dorothy, with a disappointed look. "It is not
likely your mother will stand in the way of your advancement, and you
have not, I suppose, any other tie? Nay, forgive me if I appear too
inquisitive. My curiosity only proceeds from the interest I take in
you."

"I know it--I feel it, dear, kind young lady," replied Alizon, with the
colour again mounting her cheeks. "I have no tie in the world except my
family. But I am persuaded my mother will never allow me to quit her,
however great the advantage might be to me."

"Well, though sorry, I am scarcely surprised at it," said Dorothy. "She
must love you too dearly to part with you."

"I wish I could think so," sighed Alizon. "Proud of me in some sort,
though with little reason, she may be, but love me, most assuredly, she
does not. Nay more, I am persuaded she would be glad to be freed from my
presence, which is an evident restraint and annoyance to her, were it
not for some motive stronger than natural affection that binds her to
me."

"Now, in good sooth, you amaze me, Alizon!" cried Dorothy. "What
possible motive can it be, if not of affection?"

"Of interest, I think," replied Alizon. "I speak to you without reserve,
dear young lady, for the sympathy you have shown me deserves and
demands confidence on my part, and there are none with whom I can freely
converse, so that every emotion has been locked up in my own bosom. My
mother fancies I shall one day be of use to her, and therefore keeps me
with her. Hints to this effect she has thrown out, when indulging in the
uncontrollable fits of passion to which she is liable. And yet I have no
just reason to complain; for though she has shown me little maternal
tenderness, and repelled all exhibition of affection on my part, she has
treated me very differently from her other children, and with much
greater consideration. I can make slight boast of education, but the
best the village could afford has been given me; and I have derived much
religious culture from good Doctor Ormerod. The kind ladies of the
vicarage proposed, as you have done, that I should live with them, but
my mother forbade it; enjoining me, on the peril of incurring her
displeasure, not to leave her, and reminding me of all the benefits I
have received from her, and of the necessity of making an adequate
return. And, ungrateful indeed I should be, if I did not comply; for,
though her manner is harsh and cold to me, she has never ill-used me, as
she has done her favourite child, my little sister Jennet, but has
always allowed me a separate chamber, where I can retire when I please,
to read, or meditate, or pray. For, alas! dear young lady, I dare not
pray before my mother. Be not shocked at what I tell you, but I cannot
hide it. My poor mother denies herself the consolation of
religion--never addresses herself to Heaven in prayer--never opens the
book of Life and Truth--never enters church. In her own mistaken way she
has brought up poor little Jennet, who has been taught to make a scoff
at religious truths and ordinances, and has never been suffered to keep
holy the Sabbath-day. Happy and thankful am I, that no such evil lessons
have been taught me, but rather, that I have profited by the sad
example. In my own secret chamber I have prayed, daily and nightly, for
both--prayed that their hearts might be turned. Often have I besought my
mother to let me take Jennet to church, but she never would consent. And
in that poor misguided child, dear young lady, there is a strange
mixture of good and ill. Afflicted with personal deformity, and delicate
in health, the mind perhaps sympathising with the body, she is wayward
and uncertain in temper, but sensitive and keenly alive to kindness, and
with a shrewdness beyond her years. At the risk of offending my mother,
for I felt confident I was acting rightly, I have endeavoured to instil
religious principles into her heart, and to inspire her with a love of
truth. Sometimes she has listened to me; and I have observed strange
struggles in her nature, as if the good were obtaining mastery of the
evil principle, and I have striven the more to convince her, and win her
over, but never with entire success, for my efforts have been overcome
by pernicious counsels, and sceptical sneers. Oh, dear young lady, what
would I not do to be the instrument of her salvation!"

"You pain me much by this relation, Alizon," said Dorothy Assheton, who
had listened with profound attention, "and I now wish more ardently than
ever to take you from such a family."

"I cannot leave them, dear young lady," replied Alizon; "for I feel I
may be of infinite service--especially to Jennet--by staying with them.
Where there is a soul to be saved, especially the soul of one dear as a
sister, no sacrifice can be too great to make--no price too heavy to
pay. By the blessing of Heaven I hope to save her! And that is the great
tie that binds me to a home, only so in name."

"I will not oppose your virtuous intentions, dear Alizon," replied
Dorothy; "but I must now mention a circumstance in connexion with your
mother, of which you are perhaps in ignorance, but which it is right you
should know, and therefore no false delicacy on my part shall restrain
me from mentioning it. Your grandmother, Old Demdike, is in very ill
depute in Pendle, and is stigmatised by the common folk, and even by
others, as a witch. Your mother, too, shares in the opprobrium attaching
to her."

"I dreaded this," replied Alizon, turning deadly pale, and trembling
violently, "I feared you had heard the terrible report. But oh, believe
it not! My poor mother is erring enough, but she is not so bad as that.
Oh, believe it not!"

"I will not believe it," said Dorothy, "since she is blessed with such a
daughter as you. But what I fear is that you--you so kind, so good, so
beautiful--may come under the same ban."

"I must run this risk also, in the good work I have appointed myself,"
replied Alizon. "If I am ill thought of by men, I shall have the
approval of my own conscience to uphold me. Whatever betide, and
whatever be said, do not you think ill of me, dear young lady."

"Fear it not," returned Dorothy, earnestly.

While thus conversing, they gradually strayed away from the cherry-tree,
and taking a winding path leading in that direction, entered the
conventual church, about the middle of the south aisle. After gazing
with wonder and delight at the still majestic pillars, that, like ghosts
of the departed brethren, seemed to protest against the desolation
around them, they took their way along the nave, through broken arches,
and over prostrate fragments of stone, to the eastern extremity of the
fane, and having admired the light shafts and clerestory windows of the
choir, as well as the magnificent painted glass over the altar, they
stopped before an arched doorway on the right, with two Gothic niches,
in one of which was a small stone statue of Saint Agnes with her lamb,
and in the other a similar representation of Saint Margaret, crowned,
and piercing the dragon with a cross. Both were sculptures of much
merit, and it was wonderful they had escaped destruction. The door was
closed, but it easily opened when tried by Dorothy, and they found
themselves in a small but beautiful chapel. What struck them chiefly in
it was a magnificent monument of white marble, enriched with numerous
small shields, painted and gilt, supporting two recumbent figures,
representing Henry de Lacy, one of the founders of the Abbey, and his
consort. The knight was cased in plate armour, covered with a surcoat,
emblazoned with his arms, and his feet resting upon a hound. This superb
monument was wholly uninjured, the painting and gilding being still
fresh and bright. Behind it a flag had been removed, discovering a
flight of steep stone steps, leading to a vault, or other subterranean
chamber.

After looking round this chapel, Dorothy remarked, "There is something
else that has just occurred to me. When a child, a strange dark tale was
told me, to the effect that the last ill-fated Abbot of Whalley laid his
dying curse upon your grandmother, then an infant, predicting that she
should be a witch, and the mother of witches."

"I have heard the dread tradition, too," rejoined Alizon; "but I cannot,
will not, believe it. An all-benign Power will never sanction such
terrible imprecations."

"Far be it from me to affirm the contrary," replied Dorothy; "but it is
undoubted that some families have been, and are, under the influence of
an inevitable fatality. In one respect, connected also with the same
unfortunate prelate, I might instance our own family. Abbot Paslew is
said to be unlucky to us even in his grave. If such a curse, as I have
described, hangs over the head of your family, all your efforts to
remove it will be ineffectual."

"I trust not," said Alizon. "Oh! dear young lady, you have now
penetrated the secret of my heart. The mystery of my life is laid open
to you. Disguise it as I may, I cannot but believe my mother to be under
some baneful influence. Her unholy life, her strange actions, all
impress me with the idea. And there is the same tendency in Jennet."

"You have a brother, have you not?" inquired Dorothy.

"I have," returned Alizon, slightly colouring; "but I see little of him,
for he lives near my grandmother, in Pendle Forest, and always avoids me
in his rare visits here. You will think it strange when I tell you I
have never beheld my grandmother Demdike."

"I am glad to hear it," exclaimed Dorothy.

"I have never even been to Pendle," pursued Alizon, "though Jennet and
my mother go there frequently. At one time I much wished to see my aged
relative, and pressed my mother to take me with her; but she refused,
and now I have no desire to go."

"Strange!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Every thing you tell me strengthens the
idea I conceived, the moment I saw you, and which my brother also
entertained, that you are not the daughter of Elizabeth Device."

"Did your brother think this?" cried Alizon, eagerly. But she
immediately cast down her eyes.

"He did," replied Dorothy, not noticing her confusion. "'It is
impossible,' he said, 'that that lovely girl can be sprung from'--but I
will not wound you by adding the rest."

"I cannot disown my kindred," said Alizon. "Still, I must confess that
some notions of the sort have crossed me, arising, probably, from my
mother's extraordinary treatment, and from many other circumstances,
which, though trifling in themselves, were not without weight in leading
me to the conclusion. Hitherto I have treated it only as a passing
fancy, but if you and Master Richard Assheton"--and her voice slightly
faltered as she pronounced the name--"think so, it may warrant me in
more seriously considering the matter."

"Do consider it most seriously, dear Alizon," cried Dorothy. "I have
made up my mind, and Richard has made up his mind, too, that you are not
Mother Demdike's grand-daughter, nor Elizabeth Device's daughter, nor
Jennet's sister--nor any relation of theirs. We are sure of it, and we
will have you of our mind."

The fair and animated speaker could not help noticing the blushes that
mantled Alizon's cheeks as she spoke, but she attributed them to other
than the true cause. Nor did she mend the matter as she proceeded.

"I am sure you are well born, Alizon," she said, "and so it will be
found in the end. And Richard thinks so, too, for he said so to me; and
Richard is my oracle, Alizon."

In spite of herself Alizon's eyes sparkled with pleasure; but she
speedily checked the emotion.

"I must not indulge the dream," she said, with a sigh.

"Why not?" cried Dorothy. "I will have strict inquiries made as to your
history."

"I cannot consent to it," replied Alizon. "I cannot leave one who, if
she be not my parent, has stood to me in that relation. Neither can I
have her brought into trouble on my account. What will she think of me,
if she learns I have indulged such a notion? She will say, and with
truth, that I am the most ungrateful of human beings, as well as the
most unnatural of children. No, dear young lady, it must not be. These
fancies are brilliant, but fallacious, and, like bubbles, burst as soon
as formed."

"I admire your sentiments, though I do not admit the justice of your
reasoning," rejoined Dorothy. "It is not on your own account merely,
though that is much, that the secret of your birth--if there be
one--ought to be cleared up; but, for the sake of those with whom you
may be connected. There may be a mother, like mine, weeping for you as
lost--a brother, like Richard, mourning you as dead. Think of the sad
hearts your restoration will make joyful. As to Elizabeth Device, no
consideration should be shown her. If she has stolen you from your
parents, as I suspect, she deserves no pity."

"All this is mere surmise, dear young lady," replied Alizon.

At this juncture they were startled, by seeing an old woman come from
behind the monument and plant herself before them. Both uttered a cry,
and would have fled, but a gesture from the crone detained them. Very
old was she, and of strange and sinister aspect, almost blind, bent
double, with frosted brows and chin, and shaking with palsy.

"Stay where you are," cried the hag, in an imperious tone. "I want to
speak to you. Come nearer to me, my pretty wheans; nearer--nearer."

And as they complied, drawn towards her by an impulse they could not
resist, the old woman caught hold of Alizon's arm, and said with a
chuckle. "So you are the wench they call Alizon Device, eh!"

"Ay," replied Alizon, trembling like a dove in the talons of a hawk.

"Do you know who I am?" cried the hag, grasping her yet more tightly.
"Do you know who I am, I say? If not, I will tell you. I am Mother
Chattox of Pendle Forest, the rival of Mother Demdike, and the enemy of
all her accursed brood. Now, do you know me, wench? Men call me witch.
Whether I am so or not, I have some power, as they and you shall find.
Mother Demdike has often defied me--often injured me, but I will have my
revenge upon her--ha! ha!"

"Let me go," cried Alizon, greatly terrified.

"I will run and bring assistance," cried Dorothy. And she flew to the
door, but it resisted her attempts to open it.

"Come back," screamed the hag. "You strive in vain. The door is fast
shut--fast shut. Come back, I say. Who are you?" she added, as the maid
drew near, ready to sink with terror. "Your voice is an Assheton's
voice. I know you now. You are Dorothy Assheton--whey-skinned, blue-eyed
Dorothy. Listen to me, Dorothy. I owe your family a grudge, and, if you
provoke me, I will pay it off in part on you. Stir not, as you value
your life."

The poor girl did not dare to move, and Alizon remained as if fascinated
by the terrible old woman.

"I will tell you what has happened, Dorothy," pursued Mother Chattox. "I
came hither to Whalley on business of my own; meddling with no one;
harming no one. Tread upon the adder and it will bite; and, when
molested, I bite like the adder. Your cousin, Nick Assheton, came in my
way, called me 'witch,' and menaced me. I cursed him--ha! ha! And then
your brother, Richard--"

[Illustration: MOTHER CHATTOX, ALIZON, AND DOROTHY.]

"What of him, in Heaven's name?" almost shrieked Alizon.

"How's this?" exclaimed Mother Chattox, placing her hand on the beating
heart of the girl.

"What of Richard Assheton?" repeated Alizon.

"You love him, I feel you do, wench," cried the old crone with fierce
exultation.

"Release me, wicked woman," cried Alizon.

"Wicked, am I? ha! ha!" rejoined Mother Chattox, chuckling maliciously,
"because, forsooth, I read thy heart, and betray its secrets. Wicked,
eh! I tell thee wench again, Richard Assheton is lord and master here.
Every pulse in thy bosom beats for him--for him alone. But beware of his
love. Beware of it, I say. It shall bring thee ruin and despair."

"For pity's sake, release me," implored Alizon.

"Not yet," replied the inexorable old woman, "not yet. My tale is not
half told. My curse fell on Richard's head, as it did on Nicholas's. And
then the hell-hounds thought to catch me; but they were at fault. I
tricked them nicely--ha! ha! However, they took my Nance--my pretty
Nance--they seized her, bound her, bore her to the Calder--and there
swam her. Curses light on them all!--all!--but chief on him who did it!"

"Who was he?" inquired Alizon, tremblingly.

"Jem Device," replied the old woman--"it was he who bound her--he who
plunged her in the river, he who swam her. But I will pinch and plague
him for it, I will strew his couch with nettles, and all wholesome food
shall be poison to him. His blood shall be as water, and his flesh
shrink from his bones. He shall waste away slowly--slowly--slowly--till
he drops like a skeleton into the grave ready digged for him. All
connected with him shall feel my fury. I would kill thee now, if thou
wert aught of his."

"Aught of his! What mean you, old woman?" demanded Alizon.

"Why, this," rejoined Mother Chattox, "and let the knowledge work in
thee, to the confusion of Bess Device. Thou art not her daughter."

"It is as I thought," cried Dorothy Assheton, roused by the intelligence
from her terror.

"I tell thee not this secret to pleasure thee," continued Mother
Chattox, "but to confound Elizabeth Device. I have no other motive. She
hath provoked my vengeance, and she shall feel it. Thou art not her
child, I say. The secret of thy birth is known to me, but the time is
not yet come for its disclosure. It shall out, one day, to the confusion
of those who offend me. When thou goest home tell thy reputed mother
what I have said, and mark how she takes the information. Ha! who comes
here?"

The hag's last exclamation was occasioned by the sudden appearance of
Mistress Nutter, who opened the door of the chapel, and, staring in
astonishment at the group, came quickly forward.

"What makes you here, Mother Chattox?" she cried.

"I came here to avoid pursuit," replied the old hag, with a cowed
manner, and in accents sounding strangely submissive after her late
infuriated tone.

"What have you been saying to these girls?" demanded Mistress Nutter,
authoritatively.

"Ask them," the hag replied.

"She declares that Alizon is not the daughter of Elizabeth Device,"
cried Dorothy Assheton.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mistress Nutter quickly, and as if a spring of
extraordinary interest had been suddenly touched. "What reason hast thou
for this assertion?"

"No good reason," replied the old woman evasively, yet with evident
apprehension of her questioner.

"Good reason or bad, I will have it," cried Mistress Nutter.

"What you, too, take an interest in the wench, like the rest!" returned
Mother Chattox. "Is she so very winning?"

"That is no answer to my question," said the lady. "Whose child is she?"

"Ask Bess Device, or Mother Demdike," replied Mother Chattox; "they know
more about the matter than me."

"I will have thee speak, and to the purpose," cried the lady, angrily.

"Many an one has lost a child who would gladly have it back again," said
the old hag, mysteriously.

"Who has lost one?" asked Mistress Nutter.

"Nay, it passeth me to tell," replied the old woman with affected
ignorance. "Question those who stole her. I have set you on the track.
If you fail in pursuing it, come to me. You know where to find me."

"You shall not go thus," said Mistress Nutter. "I will have a direct
answer now."

And as she spoke she waved her hands twice or thrice over the old woman.
In doing this her figure seemed to dilate, and her countenance underwent
a marked and fearful change. All her beauty vanished, her eyes blazed,
and terror sat on her wrinkled brow. The hag, on the contrary, crouched
lower down, and seemed to dwindle less than her ordinary size. Writhing
as from heavy blows, and with a mixture of malice and fear in her
countenance, she cried, "Were I to speak, you would not thank me. Let me
go."

"Answer," vociferated Mistress Nutter, disregarding the caution, and
speaking in a sharp piercing voice, strangely contrasting with her
ordinary utterance. "Answer, I say, or I will beat thee to the dust."

And she continued her gestures, while the sufferings of the old hag
evidently increased, and she crouched nearer and nearer to the ground,
moaning out the words, "Do not force me to speak. You will repent
it!--you will repent it!"

"Do not torment her thus, madam," cried Alizon, who with Dorothy looked
at the strange scene with mingled apprehension and wonderment. "Much as
I desire to know the secret of my birth, I would not obtain it thus."

As she uttered these words, the old woman contrived to shuffle off, and
disappeared behind the tomb.

"Why did you interpose, Alizon," cried Mistress Nutter, somewhat
angrily, and dropping her hands. "You broke the power I had over her. I
would have compelled her to speak."

"I thank you, gracious lady, for your consideration," replied Alizon,
gratefully; "but the sight was too painful."

"What has become of her--where is she gone?" cried Dorothy, peeping
behind the tomb. "She has crept into this vault, I suppose."

"Do not trouble yourelf about her more, Dorothy," said Mistress Nutter,
resuming her wonted voice and wonted looks. "Let us return to the house.
Thus much is ascertained, Alizon, that you are no child of your supposed
parent. Wait a little, and the rest shall be found out for you. And,
meantime, be assured that I take strong interest in you."

"That we all do," added Dorothy.

"Thank you! thank you!" exclaimed Alizon, almost overpowered.

With this they went forth, and, traversing the shafted aisle, quitted
the conventual church, and took their way along the alley leading to the
garden.

"Say not a word at present to Elizabeth Device of the information you
have obtained, Alizon," observed Mistress Nutter. "I have reasons for
this counsel, which I will afterwards explain to you. And do you keep
silence on the subject, Dorothy."

"May I not tell Richard?" said the young lady.

"Not Richard--not any one," returned Mistress Nutter, "or you may
seriously affect Alizon's prospects."

"You have cautioned me in time," cried Dorothy, "for here comes my
brother with our cousin Nicholas."

And as she spoke a turn in the alley showed Richard and Nicholas
Assheton advancing towards them.

A strange revolution had been produced in Alizon's feelings by the
events of the last half hour. The opinions expressed by Dorothy
Assheton, as to her birth, had been singularly confirmed by Mother
Chattox; but could reliance be placed on the old woman's assertions?
Might they not have been made with mischievous intent? And was it not
possible, nay, probable, that, in her place of concealment behind the
tomb, the vindictive hag had overheard the previous conversation with
Dorothy, and based her own declaration upon it? All these suggestions
occurred to Alizon, but the previous idea having once gained admission
to her breast, soon established itself firmly there, in spite of doubts
and misgivings, and began to mix itself up with new thoughts and
wishes, with which other persons were connected; for she could not help
fancying she might be well-born, and if so the vast distance heretofore
existing between her and Richard Assheton might be greatly diminished,
if not altogether removed. So rapid is the progress of thought, that
only a few minutes were required for this long train of reflections to
pass through her mind, and it was merely put to flight by the approach
of the main object of her thoughts.

On joining the party, Richard Assheton saw plainly that something had
happened; but as both his sister and Alizon laboured under evident
embarrassment, he abstained from making inquiries as to its cause for
the present, hoping a better opportunity of doing so would occur, and
the conversation was kept up by Nicholas Assheton, who described, in his
wonted lively manner, the encounter with Mother Chattox and Nance
Redferne, the swimming of the latter, and the trickery and punishment of
Potts. During the recital Mistress Nutter often glanced uneasily at the
two girls, but neither of them offered any interruption until Nicholas
had finished, when Dorothy, taking her brother's hand, said, with a look
of affectionate admiration, "You acted like yourself, dear Richard."

Alizon did not venture to give utterance to the same sentiment, but her
looks plainly expressed it.

"I only wish you had punished that cruel James Device, as well as saved
poor Nance," added Dorothy.

"Hush!" exclaimed Richard, glancing at Alizon.

"You need not be afraid of hurting her feelings," cried the young lady.
"She does not mind him now."

"What do you mean, Dorothy?" cried Richard, in surprise.

"Oh, nothing--nothing," she replied, hastily.

"Perhaps you will explain," said Richard to Alizon.

"Indeed I cannot," she answered in confusion.

"You would have laughed to see Potts creep out of the river," said
Nicholas, turning to Dorothy; "he looked just like a drowned
rat--ha!--ha!"

"You have made a bitter enemy of him, Nicholas," observed Mistress
Nutter; "so look well to yourself."

"I heed him not," rejoined the squire; "he knows me now too well to
meddle with me again, and I shall take good care how I put myself in his
power. One thing I may mention, to show the impotent malice of the
knave. Just as he was setting off, he said, 'This is not the only
discovery of witchcraft I have made to-day. I have another case nearer
home.' What could he mean?"

"I know not," replied Mistress Nutter, a shade of disquietude passing
over her countenance. "But he is quite capable of bringing the charge
against you or any of us."

"He is so," said Nicholas. "After what has occurred, I wonder whether
he will go over to Rough Lee to-morrow?"

"Very likely not," replied Mistress Nutter, "and in that case Master
Roger Nowell must provide some other person competent to examine the
boundary-line of the properties on his behalf."

"Then you are confident of the adjudication being in your favour?" said
Nicholas.

"Quite so," replied Mistress Nutter, with a self-satisfied smile.

"The result, I hope, may justify your expectation," said Nicholas; "but
it is right to tell you, that Sir Ralph, in consenting to postpone his
decision, has only done so out of consideration to you. If the division
of the properties be as represented by him, Master Nowell will
unquestionably obtain an award in his favour."

"Under such circumstances he may," said Mistress Nutter; "but you will
find the contrary turn out to be the fact. I will show you a plan I have
had lately prepared, and you can then judge for yourself."

While thus conversing, the party passed through a door in the high stone
wall dividing the garden from the court, and proceeded towards the
principal entrance of the mansion. Built out of the ruins of the Abbey,
which had served as a very convenient quarry for the construction of
this edifice, as well as for Portfield, the house was large and
irregular, planned chiefly with the view of embodying part of the old
abbot's lodging, and consisting of a wide front, with two wings, one of
which looked into the court, and the other, comprehending the long
gallery, into the garden. The old north-east gate of the Abbey, with its
lofty archway and embattled walls, served as an entrance to the great
court-yard, and at its wicket ordinarily stood Ned Huddlestone, the
porter, though he was absent on the present occasion, being occupied
with the May-day festivities. Immediately opposite the gateway sprang a
flight of stone steps, with a double landing-place and a broad
balustrade of the same material, on the lowest pillar of which was
placed a large escutcheon sculptured with the arms of the
family--argent, a mullet sable--with a rebus on the name--an ash on a
tun. The great door to which these steps conducted stood wide open, and
before it, on the upper landing-place, were collected Lady Assheton,
Mistress Braddyll, Mistress Nicholas Assheton, and some other dames,
laughing and conversing together. Some long-eared spaniels, favourites
of the lady of the house, were chasing each other up and down the steps,
disturbing the slumbers of a couple of fine blood-hounds in the
court-yard; or persecuting the proud peafowl that strutted about to
display their gorgeous plumage to the spectators.

On seeing the party approach, Lady Assheton came down to meet them.

"You have been long absent," she said to Dorothy; "but I suppose you
have been exploring the ruins?"

"Yes, we have not left a hole or corner unvisited," was the reply.

"That is right," said Lady Assheton. "I knew you would make a good
guide, Dorothy. Of course you have often seen the old conventual church
before, Alizon?"

"I am ashamed to say I have not, your ladyship," she replied.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Lady Assheton; "and yet you have lived all your life
in the village?"

"Quite true, your ladyship," answered Alizon; "but these ruins have been
prohibited to me."

"Not by us," said Lady Assheton; "they are open to every one."

"I was forbidden to visit them by my mother," said Alizon. And for the
first time the word "mother" seemed strange to her.

Lady Assheton looked surprised, but made no remark, and mounting the
steps, led the way to a spacious though not very lofty chamber, with
huge uncovered rafters, and a floor of polished oak. Over a great
fireplace at one side, furnished with immense andirons, hung a noble
pair of antlers, and similar trophies of the chase were affixed to other
parts of the walls. Here and there were likewise hung rusty skull-caps,
breastplates, two-handed and single-handed swords, maces, halberts, and
arquebusses, with chain-shirts, buff-jerkins, matchlocks, and other
warlike implements, amongst which were several shields painted with the
arms of the Asshetons and their alliances. High-backed chairs of gilt
leather were ranged against the walls, and ebony cabinets inlaid with
ivory were set between them at intervals, supporting rare specimens of
glass and earthenware. Opposite the fireplace, stood a large clock,
curiously painted and decorated with emblematical devices, with the
signs of the zodiac, and provided with movable figures to strike the
hours on a bell; while from the centre of the roof hung a great
chandelier of stag's horn.

Lady Assheton did not tarry long within the entrance hall, for such it
was, but conducted her guests through an arched doorway on the right
into the long gallery. One hundred and fifty feet in length, and
proportionately wide and lofty, this vast chamber had undergone little
change since its original construction by the old owners of the Abbey.
Panelled and floored with lustrous oak, and hung in some parts with
antique tapestry, representing scriptural subjects, one side was pierced
with lofty pointed windows, looking out upon the garden, while the
southern extremity boasted a magnificent window, with heavy stone
mullions, though of more recent workmanship than the framework,
commanding Whalley Nab and the river. The furniture of the apartment was
grand but gloomy, and consisted of antique chairs and tables belonging
to the Abbey. Some curious ecclesiastical sculptures, wood carvings, and
saintly images, were placed at intervals near the walls, and on the
upper panels were hung a row of family portraits.

Quitting the rest of the company, and proceeding to the southern
window, Dorothy invited Alizon and her brother to place themselves
beside her on the cushioned seats of the deep embrasure. Little
conversation, however, ensued; Alizon's heart being too full for
utterance, and recent occurrences engrossing Dorothy's thoughts, to the
exclusion of every thing else. Having made one or two unsuccessful
efforts to engage them in talk, Richard likewise lapsed into silence,
and gazed out on the lovely scenery before him. The evening has been
described as beautiful; and the swift Calder, as it hurried by, was
tinged with rays of the declining sun, whilst the woody heights of
Whalley Nab were steeped in the same rosy light. But the view failed to
interest Richard in his present mood, and after a brief survey, he stole
a look at Alizon, and was surprised to find her in tears.

"What saddening thoughts cross you, fair girl?" he inquired, with deep
interest.

"I can hardly account for my sudden despondency," she replied; "but I
have heard that great happiness is the precursor of dejection, and the
saying I suppose must be true, for I have been happier to-day than I
ever was before in my life. But the feeling of sadness is now past," she
added, smiling.

"I am glad of it," said Richard. "May I not know what has occurred to
you?"

"Not at present," interposed Dorothy; "but I am sure you will be pleased
when you are made acquainted with the circumstance. I would tell you now
if I might."

"May I guess?" said Richard.

"I don't know," rejoined Dorothy, who was dying to tell him. "May he?"

"Oh no, no!" cried Alizon.

"You are very perverse," said Richard, with a look of disappointment.
"There can be no harm in guessing; and you can please yourself as to
giving an answer. I fancy, then, that Alizon has made some discovery."

Dorothy nodded.

"Relative to her parentage?" pursued Richard.

Another nod.

"She has found out she is not Elizabeth Device's daughter?" said
Richard.

"Some witch must have told you this," exclaimed Dorothy.

"Have I indeed guessed rightly?" cried Richard, with an eagerness that
startled his sister. "Do not keep me in suspense. Speak plainly."

"How am I to answer him, Alizon?" said Dorothy.

"Nay, do not appeal to me, dear young lady," she answered, blushing.

"I have gone too far to retreat," rejoined Dorothy, "and therefore,
despite Mistress Nutter's interdiction, the truth shall out. You have
guessed shrewdly, Richard. A discovery _has_ been made--a very great
discovery. Alizon is not the daughter of Elizabeth Device."

"The intelligence delights me, though it scarcely surprises me," cried
Richard, gazing with heartfelt pleasure at the blushing girl; "for I was
sure of the fact from the first. Nothing so good and charming as Alizon
could spring from so foul a source. How and by what means you have
derived this information, as well as whose daughter you are, I shall
wait patiently to learn. Enough for me you are not the sister of James
Device--enough you are not the grandchild of Mother Demdike."

"You know all I know, in knowing thus much," replied Alizon, timidly.
"And secrecy has been enjoined by Mistress Nutter, in order that the
rest may be found out. But oh! should the hopes I have--perhaps too
hastily--indulged, prove fallacious--"

"They cannot be fallacious, Alizon," interrupted Richard, eagerly. "On
that score rest easy. Your connexion with that wretched family is for
ever broken. But I can see the necessity of caution, and shall observe
it. And so Mistress Nutter takes an interest in you?"

"The strongest," replied Dorothy; "but see! she comes this way."

But we must now go back for a short space.

While Mistress Nutter and Nicholas were seated at a table examining a
plan of the Rough Lee estates, the latter was greatly astonished to see
the door open and give admittance to Master Potts, who he fancied snugly
lying between a couple of blankets, at the Dragon. The attorney was clad
in a riding-dress, which he had exchanged for his wet habiliments, and
was accompanied by Sir Ralph Assheton and Master Roger Nowell. On seeing
Nicholas, he instantly stepped up to him.

"Aha! squire," he cried, "you did not expect to see me again so soon,
eh! A pottle of hot sack put my blood into circulation, and having,
luckily, a change of raiment in my valise, I am all right again. Not so
easily got rid of, you see!"

"So it appears," replied Nicholas, laughing.

"We have a trifling account to settle together, sir," said the attorney,
putting on a serious look.

"Whenever you please, sir," replied Nicholas, good-humouredly, tapping
the hilt of his sword.

"Not in that way," cried Potts, darting quickly back. "I never fight
with those weapons--never. Our dispute must be settled in a court of
law, sir--in a court of law. You understand, Master Nicholas?"

"There is a shrewd maxim, Master Potts, that he who is his own lawyer
has a fool for his client," observed Nicholas, drily. "Would it not be
better to stick to the defence of others, rather than practise in your
own behalf?"

"You have expressed my opinion, Master Nicholas," observed Roger
Nowell; "and I hope Master Potts will not commence any action on his own
account till he has finished my business."

"Assuredly not, sir, since you desire it," replied the attorney,
obsequiously. "But my motives must not be mistaken. I have a clear case
of assault and battery against Master Nicholas Assheton, or I may
proceed against him criminally for an attempt on my life."

"Have you given him no provocation, sir?" demanded Sir Ralph, sternly.

"No provocation can justify the treatment I have experienced, Sir
Ralph," replied Potts. "However, to show I am a man of peace, and
harbour no resentment, however just grounds I may have for such a
feeling, I am willing to make up the matter with Master Nicholas,
provided--"

"He offers you a handsome consideration, eh?" said the squire.

"Provided he offers me a handsome apology--such as a gentleman may
accept," rejoined Potts, consequentially.

"And which he will not refuse, I am sure," said Sir Ralph, glancing at
his cousin.

"I should certainly be sorry to have drowned you," said the
squire--"very sorry."

"Enough--enough--I am content," cried Potts, holding out his hand, which
Nicholas grasped with an energy that brought tears into the little man's
eyes.

"I am glad the matter is amicably adjusted," observed Roger Nowell, "for
I suspect both parties have been to blame. And I must now request you,
Master Potts, to forego your search, and inquiries after witches, till
such time as you have settled this question of the boundary line for me.
One matter at a time, my good sir."

"But, Master Nowell," cried Potts, "my much esteemed and singular good
client--"

"I will have no nay," interrupted Nowell, peremptorily.

"Hum!" muttered Potts; "I shall lose the best chance of distinction ever
thrown in my way."

"I care not," said Nowell.

"Just as you came up, Master Nowell," observed Nicholas, "I was
examining a plan of the disputed estates in Pendle Forest. It differs
from yours, and, if correct, certainly substantiates Mistress Nutter's
claim."

"I have mine with me," replied Nowell, producing a plan, and opening it.
"We can compare the two, if you please. The line runs thus:--From the
foot of Pendle Hill, beginning with Barley Booth, the boundary is marked
by a stone wall, as far as certain fields in the occupation of John
Ogden. Is it not so?"

"It is," replied Nicholas, comparing the statement with the other plan.

"It then runs on in a northerly direction," pursued Nowell, "towards
Burst Clough, and here the landmarks are certain stones placed in the
moor, one hundred yards apart, and giving me twenty acres of this land,
and Mistress Nutter ten."

"On the contrary," replied Nicholas. "This plan gives Mistress Nutter
twenty acres, and you ten."

"Then the plan is wrong," cried Nowell, sharply.

"It has been carefully prepared," said Mistress Nutter, who had
approached the table.

"No matter; it is wrong, I say," cried Nowell, angrily.

"You see where the landmarks are placed, Master Nowell," said Nicholas,
pointing to the measurement. "I merely go by them."

"The landmarks are improperly placed in that plan," cried Nowell.

"I will examine them myself to-morrow," said Potts, taking out a large
memorandum-hook; "there cannot be an error of ten acres--ten perches--or
ten feet, possibly, but acres--pshaw!"

"Laugh as you please; but go on," said Mrs. Nutter.

"Well, then," pursued Nicholas, "the line approaches the bank of a
rivulet, called Moss Brook--a rare place for woodcocks and snipes that
Moss Brook, I may remark--the land on the left consisting of five acres
of waste land, marked by a sheepfold, and two posts set up in a line
with it, belonging to Mistress Nutter."

"To Mistress Nutter!" exclaimed Nowell, indignantly. "To me, you mean."

"It is here set down to Mistress Nutter," said Nicholas.

"Then it is set down wrongfully," cried Nowell. "That plan is altogether
incorrect."

"On which side of the field does the rivulet flow?" inquired Potts.

"On the right," replied Nicholas.

"On the left," cried Nowell.

"There must be some extraordinary mistake," said Potts. "I shall make a
note of that, and examine it to-morrow.--N.B. Waste land--sheepfold--
rivulet called Moss Brook, flowing on the left."

"On the right," cried Mistress Nutter.

"That remains to be seen," rejoined Potts, "I have made the entry as on
the left."

"Go on, Master Nicholas," said Nowell, "I should like to see how many
other errors that plan contains."

"Passing the rivulet," pursued the squire, "we come to a footpath
leading to the limestone quarry, about which there can be no mistake.
Then by Cat Gallows Wood and Swallow Hole; and then by another path to
Worston Moor, skirting a hut in the occupation of James Device--ha! ha!
Master Jem, are you here? I thought you dwelt with your grandmother at
Malkin Tower--excuse me, Master Nowell, but one must relieve the dulness
of this plan by an exclamation or so--and here being waste land again,
the landmarks are certain stones set at intervals towards Hook Cliff,
and giving Mistress Nutter two-thirds of the whole moor, and Master
Roger Nowell one-third."

"False again," cried Nowell, furiously. "The two-thirds are mine, the
one-third Mistress Nutter's."

"Somebody must be very wrong," cried Nicholas.

"Very wrong indeed," added Potts; "and I suspect that that somebody
is--"

"Master Nowell," said Mistress Nutter.

"Mistress Nutter," cried Master Nowell.

"Both are wrong and both right, according to your own showing," said
Nicholas, laughing.

"To-morrow will decide the question," said Potts.

"Better wait till then," interposed Sir Ralph. "Take both plans with
you, and you will then ascertain which is correct."

"Agreed," cried Nowell. "Here is mine."

"And here is mine," said Mistress Nutter. "I will abide by the
investigation."

"And Master Potts and I will verify the statements," said Nicholas.

"We will, sir," replied the attorney, putting his memorandum book in his
pocket. "We will."

The plans were then delivered to the custody of Sir Ralph, who promised
to hand them over to Potts and Nicholas on the morrow.

The party then separated; Mistress Nutter shaping her course towards the
window where Alizon and the two other young people were seated, while
Potts, plucking the squire's sleeve, said, with a very mysterious look,
that he desired a word with him in private. Wondering what could be the
nature of the communication the attorney desired to make, Nicholas
withdrew with him into a corner, and Nowell, who saw them retire, and
could not help watching them with some curiosity, remarked that the
squire's hilarious countenance fell as he listened to the attorney,
while, on the contrary, the features of the latter gleamed with
malicious satisfaction.

Meanwhile, Mistress Nutter approached Alizon, and beckoning her towards
her, they quitted the room together. As the young girl went forth, she
cast a wistful look at Dorothy and her brother.

"You think with me, that that lovely girl is well born?" said Dorothy,
as Alizon disappeared.

"It were heresy to doubt it," answered Richard.

"Shall I tell you another secret?" she continued, regarding him
fixedly--"if, indeed, it be a secret, for you must be sadly wanting in
discernment if you have not found it out ere this. She loves you."

"Dorothy!" exclaimed Richard.

"I am sure of it," she rejoined. "But I would not tell you this, if I
were not quite equally sure that you love her in return."

"On my faith, Dorothy, you give yourself credit for wonderful
penetration," cried Richard.

"Not a whit more than I am entitled to," she answered. "Nay, it will not
do to attempt concealment with me. If I had not been certain of the
matter before, your manner now would convince me. I am very glad of it.
She will make a charming sister, and I shall he very fond of her."

"How you do run on, madcap!" cried her brother, trying to look
displeased, but totally failing in assuming the expression.

"Stranger things have come to pass," said Dorothy; "and one reads in
story-hooks of young nobles marrying village maidens in spite of
parental opposition. I dare say you will get nobody's consent to the
marriage but mine, Richard."

"I dare say not," he replied, rather blankly.

"That is, if she should not turn out to be somebody's daughter," pursued
Dorothy; "somebody, I mean, quite as great as the heir of Middleton,
which I make no doubt she will."

"I hope she may," replied Richard.

"Why, you don't mean to say you wouldn't marry her if she didn't!" cried
Dorothy. "I'm ashamed of you, Richard."

"It would remove all opposition, at all events," said her brother.

"So it would," said Dorothy; "and now I'll tell you another notion of
mine, Richard. Somehow or other, it has come into my head that Alizon is
the daughter of--whom do you think?"

"Whom!" he cried.

"Guess," she rejoined.

"I can't," he exclaimed, impatiently.

"Well, then, I'll tell you without more ado," she answered. "Mind, it's
only my notion, and I've no precise grounds for it. But, in my opinion,
she's the daughter of the lady who has just left the room."

"Of Mistress Nutter!" ejaculated Richard, starting. "What makes you
think so?"

"The extraordinary and otherwise unaccountable interest she takes in
her," replied Dorothy. "And, if you recollect, Mistress Nutter had an
infant daughter who was lost in a strange manner."

"I thought the child died," replied Richard; "but it may be as you say.
I hope it is so."

"Time will show," said Dorothy; "but I have made up my mind about the
matter."

At this moment Nicholas Assheton came up to them, looking grave and
uneasy.

"What has happened?" asked Richard, anxiously.

"I have just received some very unpleasant intelligence," replied
Nicholas. "I told you of a menace uttered by that confounded Potts, on
quitting me after his ducking. He has now spoken out plainly, and
declares he overheard part of a conversation between Mistress Nutter and
Elizabeth Device, which took place in the ruins of the convent church
this morning, and he is satisfied that--"

"Well!" cried Richard, breathlessly.

"That Mistress Nutter is a witch, and in league with witches," continued
Nicholas.

"Ha!" exclaimed Richard, turning deathly pale.

"I suspect the rascal has invented the charge," said Nicholas; "but he
is quite unscrupulous enough to make it; and, if made, it will be fatal
to our relative's reputation, if not to her life."

"It is false, I am sure of it," cried Richard, torn by conflicting
emotions.

"Would I could think so!" cried Dorothy, suddenly recollecting Mistress
Nutter's strange demeanour in the little chapel, and the unaccountable
influence she seemed to exercise over the old crone. "But something has
occurred to-day that leads me to a contrary conviction."

"What is it? Speak!" cried Richard.

"Not now--not now," replied Dorothy.

"Whatever suspicions you may entertain, keep silence, or you will
destroy Mistress Nutter," said Nicholas.

"Fear me not," rejoined Dorothy. "Oh, Alizon!" she murmured, "that this
unhappy question should arise at such a moment."

"Do you indeed believe the charge, Dorothy?" asked Richard, in a low
voice.

"I do," she answered in the same tone. "If Alizon be her daughter, she
can never be your wife."

"How?" cried Richard.

"Never--never!" repeated Dorothy, emphatically. "The daughter of a
witch, be that witch named Elizabeth Device or Alice Nutter, is no mate
for you."

"You prejudge Mistress Nutter, Dorothy," he cried.

"Alas! Richard. I have too good reason for what I say," she answered,
sadly.

Richard uttered an exclamation of despair. And on the instant the lively
sounds of tabor and pipe, mixed with the jingling of bells, arose from
the court-yard, and presently afterwards an attendant entered to
announce that the May-day revellers were without, and directions were
given by Sir Ralph that they should be shown into the great
banqueting-hall below the gallery, which had been prepared for their
reception.




CHAPTER VIII.--THE REVELATION.


On quitting the long gallery, Mistress Nutter and Alizon ascended a wide
staircase, and, traversing a corridor, came to an antique, tapestried
chamber, richly but cumbrously furnished, having a carved oak bedstead
with sombre hangings, a few high-backed chairs of the same material, and
a massive wardrobe, with shrine-work atop, and two finely sculptured
figures, of the size of life, in the habits of Cistertian monks, placed
as supporters at either extremity. At one side of the bed the tapestry
was drawn aside, showing the entrance to a closet or inner room, and
opposite it there was a great yawning fireplace, with a lofty
mantelpiece and chimney projecting beyond the walls. The windows were
narrow, and darkened by heavy transom bars and small diamond panes while
the view without, looking upon Whalley Nab, was obstructed by the
contiguity of a tall cypress, whose funereal branches added to the
general gloom. The room was one of those formerly allotted to their
guests by the hospitable abbots, and had undergone little change since
their time, except in regard to furniture; and even that appeared old
and faded now. What with the gloomy arras, the shrouded bedstead, and
the Gothic wardrobe with its mysterious figures, the chamber had a grim,
ghostly air, and so the young girl thought on entering it.

"I have brought you hither, Alizon," said Mistress Nutter, motioning her
to a seat, "that we may converse without chance of interruption, for I
have much to say. On first seeing you to-day, your appearance, so
superior to the rest of the May-day mummers, struck me forcibly, and I
resolved to question Elizabeth Device about you. Accordingly I bade her
join me in the Abbey gardens. She did so, and had not long left me when
I accidentally met you and the others in the Lacy Chapel. When
questioned, Elizabeth affected great surprise, and denied positively
that there was any foundation for the idea that you were other than her
child; but, notwithstanding her asseverations, I could see from her
confused manner that there was more in the notion than she chose to
admit, and I determined to have recourse to other means of arriving at
the truth, little expecting my suspicions would be so soon confirmed by
Mother Chattox. To my interrogation of that old woman, you were yourself
a party, and I am now rejoiced that you interfered to prevent me from
prosecuting my inquiries to the utmost. There was one present from whom
the secret of your birth must be strictly kept--at least, for
awhile--and my impatience carried me too far."

"I only obeyed a natural impulse, madam," said Alizon; "but I am at a
loss to conceive what claim I can possibly have to the consideration you
show me."

"Listen to me, and you shall learn," replied Mistress Nutter. "It is a
sad tale, and its recital will tear open old wounds, but it must not be
withheld on that account. I do not ask you to bury the secrets I am
about to impart in the recesses of your bosom. You will do so when you
learn them, without my telling you. When little more than your age I was
wedded; but not to him I would have chosen if choice had been permitted
me. The union I need scarcely say was unhappy--most unhappy--though my
discomforts were scrupulously concealed, and I was looked upon as a
devoted wife, and my husband as a model of conjugal affection. But this
was merely the surface--internally all was strife and misery. Erelong my
dislike of my husband increased to absolute hate, while on his part,
though he still regarded me with as much passion as heretofore, he
became frantically jealous--and above all of Edward Braddyll of
Portfield, who, as his bosom friend, and my distant relative, was a
frequent visiter at the house. To relate the numerous exhibitions of
jealousy that occurred would answer little purpose, and it will be
enough to say that not a word or look passed between Edward and myself
but was misconstrued. I took care never to be alone with our guest--nor
to give any just ground for suspicion--but my caution availed nothing.
An easy remedy would have been to forbid Edward the house, but this my
husband's pride rejected. He preferred to endure the jealous torment
occasioned by the presence of his wife's fancied lover, and inflict
needless anguish on her, rather than brook the jeers of a few
indifferent acquaintances. The same feeling made him desire to keep up
an apparent good understanding with me; and so far I seconded his views,
for I shared in his pride, if in nothing else. Our quarrels were all in
private, when no eye could see us--no ear listen."

"Yours is a melancholy history, madam," remarked Alizon, in a tone of
profound interest.

"You will think so ere I have done," returned the lady, sadly. "The only
person in my confidence, and aware of my secret sorrows, was Elizabeth
Device, who with her husband, John Device, then lived at Rough Lee.
Serving me in the quality of tire-woman and personal attendant, she
could not be kept in ignorance of what took place, and the poor soul
offered me all the sympathy in her power. Much was it needed, for I had
no other sympathy. After awhile, I know not from what cause, unless from
some imprudence on the part of Edward Braddyll, who was wild and
reckless, my husband conceived worse suspicions than ever of me, and
began to treat me with such harshness and cruelty, that, unable longer
to endure his violence, I appealed to my father. But he was of a stern
and arbitrary nature, and, having forced me into the match, would not
listen to my complaints, but bade me submit. 'It was my duty to do so,'
he said, and he added some cutting expressions to the effect that I
deserved the treatment I experienced, and dismissed me. Driven to
desperation, I sought counsel and assistance from one I should most have
avoided--from Edward Braddyll--and he proposed flight from my husband's
roof--flight with him."

"But you were saved, madam?" cried Alizon, greatly shocked by the
narration. "You were saved?"

"Hear me out," rejoined Mistress Nutter. "Outraged as my feelings were,
and loathsome as my husband was to me, I spurned the base proposal, and
instantly quitted my false friend. Nor would I have seen him more, if
permitted; but that secret interview with him was my first and
last;--for it had been witnessed by my husband."

"Ha!" exclaimed Alizon.

"Concealed behind the arras, Richard Nutter heard enough to confirm his
worst suspicions," pursued the lady; "but he did not hear my
justification. He saw Edward Braddyll at my feet--he heard him urge me
to fly--but he did not wait to learn if I consented, and, looking upon
me as guilty, left his hiding-place to take measures for frustrating the
plan, he supposed concerted between us. That night I was made prisoner
in my room, and endured treatment the most inhuman. But a proposal was
made by my husband, that promised some alleviation of my suffering.
Henceforth we were to meet only in public, when a semblance of affection
was to be maintained on both sides. This was done, he said, to save my
character, and preserve his own name unspotted in the eyes of others,
however tarnished it might be in his own. I willingly consented to the
arrangement; and thus for a brief space I became tranquil, if not happy.
But another and severer trial awaited me."

"Alas, madam!" exclaimed Alizon, sympathisingly.

"My cup of sorrow, I thought, was full," pursued Mistress Nutter; "but
the drop was wanting to make it overflow. It came soon enough. Amidst my
griefs I expected to be a mother, and with that thought how many fond
and cheering anticipations mingled! In my child I hoped to find a balm
for my woes: in its smiles and innocent endearments a compensation for
the harshness and injustice I had experienced. How little did I foresee
that it was to be a new instrument of torture to me; and that I should
be cruelly robbed of the only blessing ever vouchsafed me!"

"Did the child die, madam?" asked Alizon.

"You shall hear," replied Mistress Nutter. "A daughter was born to me. I
was made happy by its birth. A new existence, bright and unclouded,
seemed dawning upon me; but it was like a sunburst on a stormy day. Some
two months before this event Elizabeth Device had given birth to a
daughter, and she now took my child under her fostering care; for
weakness prevented me from affording it the support it is a mother's
blessed privilege to bestow. She seemed as fond of it as myself; and
never was babe more calculated to win love than my little Millicent. Oh!
how shall I go on? The retrospect I am compelled to take is frightful,
but I cannot shun it. The foul and false suspicions entertained by my
husband began to settle on the child. He would not believe it to be his
own. With violent oaths and threats he first announced his odious
suspicions to Elizabeth Device, and she, full of terror, communicated
them to me. The tidings filled me with inexpressible alarm; for I knew,
if the dread idea had once taken possession of him, it would never be
removed, while what he threatened would be executed. I would have fled
at once with my poor babe if I had known where to go; but I had no place
of shelter. It would be in vain to seek refuge with my father; and I had
no other relative or friend whom I could trust. Where then should I fly?
At last I bethought me of a retreat, and arranged a plan of escape with
Elizabeth Device. Vain were my precautions. On that very night, I was
startled from slumber by a sudden cry from the nurse, who was seated by
the fire, with the child on her knees. It was long past midnight, and
all the household were at rest. Two persons had entered the room. One
was my ruthless husband, Richard Nutter; the other was John Device, a
powerful ruffianly fellow, who planted himself near the door.

"Marching quickly towards Elizabeth, who had arisen on seeing him, my
husband snatched the child from her before I could seize it, and with a
violent blow on the chest felled me to the ground, where I lay helpless,
speechless. With reeling senses I heard Elizabeth cry out that it was
her own child, and call upon her husband to save it. Richard Nutter
paused, but re-assured by a laugh of disbelief from his ruffianly
follower, he told Elizabeth the pitiful excuse would not avail to save
the brat. And then I saw a weapon gleam--there was a feeble piteous
cry--a cry that might have moved a demon--but it did not move _him_.
With wicked words and blood-imbrued hands he cast the body on the fire.
The horrid sight was too much for me, and I became senseless."

"A dreadful tale, indeed, madam!" cried Alizon, frozen with horror.

"The crime was hidden--hidden from the eyes of men, but mark the
retribution that followed," said Mistress Nutter; her eyes sparkling
with vindictive joy. "Of the two murderers both perished miserably. John
Device was drowned in a moss-pool. Richard Nutter's end was terrible,
sharpened by the pangs of remorse, and marked by frightful suffering.
But another dark event preceded his death, which may have laid a crime
the more on his already heavily-burdened soul. Edward Braddyll, the
object of his jealousy and hate, suddenly sickened of a malady so
strange and fearful, that all who saw him affirmed it the result of
witchcraft. None thought of my husband's agency in the dark affair
except myself; but knowing he had held many secret conferences about the
time with Mother Chattox, I more than suspected him. The sick man died;
and from that hour Richard Nutter knew no rest. Ever on horseback, or
fiercely carousing, he sought in vain to stifle remorse. Visions scared
him by night, and vague fears pursued him by day. He would start at
shadows, and talk wildly. To me his whole demeanour was altered; and he
strove by every means in his power to win my love. But he could not give
me back the treasure he had taken. He could not bring to life my
murdered babe. Like his victim, he fell ill on a sudden, and of a
strange and terrible sickness. I saw he could not recover, and therefore
tended him carefully. He died; and I shed no tear."

"Alas!" exclaimed Alizon, "though guilty, I cannot but compassionate
him."

"You are right to do so, Alizon," said Mistress Nutter, rising, while
the young girl rose too; "for he was your father."

"My father!" she exclaimed, in amazement. "Then you are my mother?"

"I am--I am," replied Mistress Nutter, straining her to her bosom. "Oh,
my child!--my dear child!" she cried. "The voice of nature from the
first pleaded eloquently in your behalf, and I should have been deaf to
all impulses of affection if I had not listened to the call. I now trace
in every feature the lineaments of the babe I thought lost for ever. All
is clear to me. The exclamation of Elizabeth Device, which, like my
ruthless husband, I looked upon as an artifice to save the infant's
life, I now find to be the truth. Her child perished instead of mine.
How or why she exchanged the infants on that night remains to be
explained, but that she did so is certain; while that she should
afterwards conceal the circumstance is easily comprehended, from a
natural dread of her own husband as well as of mine. It is possible that
from some cause she may still deny the truth, but I can make it her
interest to speak plainly. The main difficulty will lie in my public
acknowledgment of you. But, at whatever cost, it shall be made."

"Oh! consider it well;" said Alizon, "I will be your daughter in
love--in duty--in all but name. But sully not my poor father's honour,
which even at the peril of his soul he sought to maintain! How can I be
owned as your daughter without involving the discovery of this tragic
history?"

"You are right, Alizon," rejoined Mistress Nutter, thoughtfully. "It
will bring the dark deed to light. But you shall never return to
Elizabeth Device. You shall go with me to Rough Lee, and take up your
abode in the house where I was once so wretched--but where I shall now
be full of happiness with you. You shall see the dark spots on the
hearth, which I took to be your blood."

"If not mine, it was blood spilt by my father," said Alizon, with a
shudder.

Was it fancy, or did a low groan break upon her ear? It must be
imaginary, for Mistress Nutter seemed unconscious of the dismal sound.
It was now growing rapidly dark, and the more distant objects in the
room were wrapped in obscurity; but Alizon's gaze rested on the two
monkish figures supporting the wardrobe.

"Look there, mother," she said to Mistress Nutter.

"Where?" cried the lady, turning round quickly, "Ah! I see. You alarm
yourself needlessly, my child. Those are only carved figures of two
brethren of the Abbey. They are said, I know not with what truth--to be
statues of John Paslew and Borlace Alvetham."

"I thought they stirred," said Alizon.

"It was mere fancy," replied Mistress Nutter. "Calm yourself, sweet
child. Let us think of other things--of our newly discovered
relationship. Henceforth, to me you are Millicent Nutter; though to
others you must still be Alizon Device. My sweet Millicent," she cried,
embracing her again and again. "Ah, little--little did I think to see
you more!"

Alizon's fears were speedily chased away.

"Forgive me, dear mother," she cried, "if I have failed to express the
full delight I experience in my restitution to you. The shock of your
sad tale at first deadened my joy, while the suddenness of the
information respecting myself so overwhelmed me, that like one chancing
upon a hidden treasure, and gazing at it confounded, I was unable to
credit my own good fortune. Even now I am quite bewildered; and no
wonder, for many thoughts, each of different import, throng upon me.
Independently of the pleasure and natural pride I must feel in being
acknowledged by you as a daughter, it is a source of the deepest
satisfaction to me to know that I am not, in any way, connected with
Elizabeth Device--not from her humble station--for poverty weighs little
with me in comparison with virtue and goodness--but from her sinfulness.
You know the dark offence laid to her charge?"

"I do," replied Mistress Nutter, in a low deep tone, "but I do not
believe it."

"Nor I," returned Alizon. "Still, she acts as if she were the wicked
thing she is called; avoids all religious offices; shuns all places of
worship; and derides the Holy Scriptures. Oh, mother! you will
comprehend the frequent conflict of feelings I must have endured. You
will understand my horror when I have sometimes thought myself the
daughter of a witch."

"Why did you not leave her if you thought so?" said Mistress Nutter,
frowning.

"I could not leave her," replied Alizon, "for I then thought her my
mother."

Mistress Nutter fell upon her daughter's neck, and wept aloud. "You have
an excellent heart, my child," she said at length, checking her emotion.

"I have nothing to complain of in Elizabeth Device, dear mother," she
replied. "What she denied herself, she did not refuse me; and though I
have necessarily many and great deficiencies, you will find in me, I
trust, no evil principles. And, oh! shall we not strive to rescue that
poor benighted creature from the pit? We may yet save her."

"It is too late," replied Mistress Nutter in a sombre tone.

"It cannot be too late," said Alizon, confidently. "She cannot be beyond
redemption. But even if she should prove intractable, poor little Jennet
may be preserved. She is yet a child, with some good--though, alas! much
evil, also--in her nature. Let our united efforts be exerted in this
good work, and we must succeed. The weeds extirpated, the flowers will
spring up freely, and bloom in beauty."

"I can have nothing to do with her," said Mistress Nutter, in a freezing
tone--"nor must you."

"Oh! say not so, mother," cried Alizon. "You rob me of half the
happiness I feel in being restored to you. When I was Jennets sister, I
devoted myself to the task of reclaiming her. I hoped to be her guardian
angel--to step between her and the assaults of evil--and I cannot, will
not, now abandon her. If no longer my sister, she is still dear to me.
And recollect that I owe a deep debt of gratitude to her mother--a debt
I can never pay."

"How so?" cried Mistress Nutter. "You owe her nothing--but the
contrary."

"I owe her a life," said Alizon. "Was not her infant's blood poured out
for mine! And shall I not save the child left her, if I can?"

"I shall not oppose your inclinations," replied Mistress Nutter, with
reluctant assent; "but Elizabeth, I suspect, will thank you little for
your interference."

"Not now, perhaps," returned Alizon; "but a time will come when she will
do so."

While this conversation took place, it had been rapidly growing dark,
and the gloom at length increased so much, that the speakers could
scarcely see each other's faces. The sudden and portentous darkness was
accounted for by a vivid flash of lightning, followed by a low growl of
thunder rumbling over Whalley Nab. The mother and daughter drew close
together, and Mistress Nutter passed her arm round Alizon's neck.

The storm came quickly on, with forked and dangerous lightning, and
loud claps of thunder threatening mischief. Presently, all its fury
seemed collected over the Abbey. The red flashes hissed, and the peals
of thunder rolled overhead. But other terrors were added to Alizon's
natural dread of the elemental warfare. Again she fancied the two
monkish figures, which had before excited her alarm, moved, and even
shook their arms menacingly at her. At first she attributed this wild
idea to her overwrought imagination, and strove to convince herself of
its fallacy by keeping her eyes steadily fixed upon them. But each
succeeding flash only served to confirm her superstitious apprehensions.

Another circumstance contributed to heighten her alarm. Scared most
probably by the storm, a large white owl fluttered down the chimney, and
after wheeling twice or thrice round the chamber, settled upon the bed,
hooting, puffing, ruffling its feathers, and glaring at her with eyes
that glowed like fiery coals.

Mistress Nutter seemed little moved by the storm, though she kept a
profound silence, but when Alizon gazed in her face, she was frightened
by its expression, which reminded her of the terrible aspect she had
worn at the interview with Mother Chattox.

All at once Mistress Nutter arose, and, rapid as the lightning playing
around her and revealing her movements, made several passes, with
extended hands, over her daughter; and on this the latter instantly fell
back, as if fainting, though still retaining her consciousness; and,
what was stranger still, though her eyes were closed, her power of sight
remained.

In this condition she fancied invisible forms were moving about her.
Strange sounds seemed to salute her ears, like the gibbering of ghosts,
and she thought she felt the flapping of unseen wings around her.

All at once her attention was drawn--she knew not why--towards the
closet, and from out it she fancied she saw issue the tall dark figure
of a man. She was sure she saw him; for her imagination could not body
forth features charged with such a fiendish expression, or eyes of such
unearthly lustre. He was clothed in black, but the fashion of his
raiments was unlike aught she had ever seen. His stature was gigantic,
and a pale phosphoric light enshrouded him. As he advanced, forked
lightnings shot into the room, and the thunder split overhead. The owl
hooted fearfully, quitted its perch, and flew off by the way it had
entered the chamber.

The Dark Shape came on. It stood beside Mistress Nutter, and she
prostrated herself before it. The gestures of the figure were angry and
imperious--those of Mistress Nutter supplicating. Their converse was
drowned by the rattling of the storm. At last the figure pointed to
Alizon, and the word "midnight" broke in tones louder than the thunder
from its lips. All consciousness then forsook her.

How long she continued in this state she knew not, but the touch of a
finger applied to her brow seemed to recall her suddenly to animation.
She heaved a deep sigh, and looked around. A wondrous change had
occurred. The storm had passed off, and the moon was shining brightly
over the top of the cypress-tree, flooding the chamber with its gentle
radiance, while her mother was bending over her with looks of tenderest
affection.

"You are better now, sweet child," said Mistress Nutter. "You were
overcome by the storm. It was sudden and terrible."

"Terrible, indeed!" replied Alizon, imperfectly recalling what had
passed. "But it was not alone the storm that frightened me. This chamber
has been invaded by evil beings. Methought I beheld a dark figure come
from out yon closet, and stand before you."

"You have been thrown into a state of stupor by the influence of the
electric fluid," replied Mistress Nutter, "and while in that condition
visions have passed through your brain. That is all, my child."

"Oh! I hope so," said Alizon.

"Such ecstasies are of frequent occurrence," replied Mistress Nutter.
"But, since you are quite recovered, we will descend to Lady Assheton,
who may wonder at our absence. You will share this room with me
to-night, my child; for, as I have already said, you cannot return to
Elizabeth Device. I will make all needful explanations to Lady Assheton,
and will see Elizabeth in the morning--perhaps to-night. Reassure
yourself, sweet child. There is nothing to fear."

"I trust not, mother," replied Alizon. "But it would ease my mind to
look into that closet."

"Do so, then, by all means," replied Mistress Nutter with a forced
smile.

Alizon peeped timorously into the little room, which was lighted up by
the moon's rays. There was a faded white habit, like the robe of a
Cistertian monk, hanging in one corner, and beneath it an old chest.
Alizon would fain have opened the chest, but Mistress Nutter called out
to her impatiently, "You will discover nothing, I am sure. Come, let us
go down-stairs."

And they quitted the room together.




CHAPTER IX.--THE TWO PORTRAITS IN THE BANQUETING-HALL.


The banqueting-hall lay immediately under the long gallery,
corresponding with it in all but height; and though in this respect it
fell somewhat short of the magnificent upper room, it was quite lofty
enough to admit of a gallery of its own for spectators and minstrels.
Great pains had been taken in decorating the hall for the occasion.
Between the forest of stags' horns that branched from the gallery rails
were hung rich carpets, intermixed with garlands of flowers, and banners
painted with the arms of the Assheton family, were suspended from the
corners. Over the fireplace, where, despite the advanced season, a pile
of turf and wood was burning, were hung two panoplies of arms, and above
them, on a bracket, was set a complete suit of mail, once belonging to
Richard Assheton, the first possessor of the mansion. On the opposite
wall hung two remarkable portraits--the one representing a religious
votaress in a loose robe of black, with wide sleeves, holding a rosary
and missal in her hand, and having her brow and neck entirely concealed
by the wimple, in which her head and shoulders were enveloped. Such of
her features as could be seen were of extraordinary loveliness, though
of a voluptuous character, the eyes being dark and languishing, and
shaded by long lashes, and the lips carnation-hued and full. This was
the fair votaress, Isole de Heton, who brought such scandal on the Abbey
in the reign of Henry VI. The other portrait was that of an abbot, in
the white gown and scapulary of the Cistertian order. The countenance
was proud and stern, but tinctured with melancholy. In a small shield at
one corner the arms were blazoned--argent, a fess between three mullets,
sable, pierced of the field, a crescent for difference--proving it to be
the portrait of John Paslew. Both pictures had been found in the abbot's
lodgings, when taken possession of by Richard Assheton, but they owed
their present position to his descendant, Sir Ralph, who discovering
them in an out-of-the-way closet, where they had been cast aside, and
struck with their extraordinary merit, hung them up as above stated.

The long oaken table, usually standing in the middle of the hall, had
been removed to one side, to allow free scope for dancing and other
pastimes, but it was still devoted to hospitable uses, being covered
with trenchers and drinking-cups, and spread for a substantial repast.
Near it stood two carvers, with aprons round their waists, brandishing
long knives, while other yeomen of the kitchen and cellar were at hand
to keep the trenchers well supplied, and the cups filled with strong
ale, or bragget, as might suit the taste of the guests. Nor were these
the only festive preparations. The upper part of the hall was reserved
for Sir Ralph's immediate friends, and here, on a slightly raised
elevation, stood a cross table, spread for a goodly supper, the snowy
napery being ornamented with wreaths and ropes of flowers, and shining
with costly vessels. At the lower end of the room, beneath the gallery,
which it served to support, was a Gothic screen, embellishing an open
armoury, which made a grand display of silver plates and flagons.
Through one of the doorways contrived in this screen, the May-day
revellers were ushered into the hall by old Adam Whitworth, the
white-headed steward.

"I pray you be seated, good masters, and you, too, comely dames," said
Adam, leading them to the table, and assigning each a place with his
wand. "Fall to, and spare not, for it is my honoured master's desire you
should sup well. You will find that venison pasty worth a trial, and the
baked red deer in the centre of the table is a noble dish. The fellow to
it was served at Sir Ralph's own table at dinner, and was pronounced
excellent. I pray you try it, masters.--Here, Ned Scargill, mind your
office, good fellow, and break me that deer. And you, Paul Pimlot,
exercise your craft on the venison pasty."

And as trencher after trencher was rapidly filled by the two carvers,
who demeaned themselves in their task like men acquainted with the
powers of rustic appetite, the old steward addressed himself to the
dames.

"What can I do for you, fair mistresses?" he said. "Here be sack
possets, junkets and cream, for such as like them--French puffs and
Italian puddings, right good, I warrant you, and especially admired by
my honourable good lady. Indeed, I am not sure she hath not lent a hand
herself in their preparation. Then here be fritters in the court
fashion, made with curds of sack posset, eggs and ale, and seasoned with
nutmeg and pepper. You will taste them, I am sure, for they are
favourites with our sovereign lady, the queen. Here, Gregory,
Dickon--bestir yourselves, knaves, and pour forth a cup of sack for each
of these dames. As you drink, mistresses, neglect not the health of our
honourable good master Sir Ralph, and his lady. It is well--it is well.
I will convey to them both your dutiful good wishes. But I must see all
your wants supplied. Good Dame Openshaw, you have nought before you. Be
prevailed upon to taste these dropt raisins or a fond pudding. And you,
too, sweet Dame Tetlow. Squire Nicholas gave me special caution to take
care of you, but the injunction was unneeded, as I should have done so
without it.--Another cup of canary to Dame Tetlow, Gregory. Fill to the
brim, knave--to the very brim. To the health of Squire Nicholas," he
added in a low tone, as he handed the brimming goblet to the blushing
dame; "and be sure and tell him, if he questions you, that I obeyed his
behests to the best of my ability. I pray you taste this pippin jelly,
dame. It is as red as rubies, but not so red as your lips, or some leach
of almonds, which, lily-white though it be, is not to be compared with
the teeth that shall touch it."

"Odd's heart! mester steward, yo mun ha' larnt that protty speech fro'
th' squoire himself," replied Dame Tetlow, laughing.

"It may be the recollection of something said to me by him, brought to
mind by your presence," replied Adam Whitworth, gallantly. "If I can
serve you in aught else, sign to me, dame.--Now, knaves, fill the
cups--ale or bragget, at your pleasure, masters. Drink and stint not,
and you will the better please your liberal entertainer and my honoured
master."

Thus exhorted, the guests set seriously to work to fulfil the
hospitable intentions of the provider of the feast. Cups flowed fast and
freely, and erelong little was left of the venison pasty but the outer
crust, and nothing more than a few fragments of the baked red deer. The
lighter articles then came in for a share of attention, and salmon from
the Ribble, jack, trout, and eels from the Hodder and Calder, boiled,
broiled, stewed, and pickled, and of delicious flavour, were discussed
with infinite relish. Puddings and pastry were left to more delicate
stomachs--the solids only being in request with the men. Hitherto, the
demolition of the viands had given sufficient employment, but now the
edge of appetite beginning to be dulled, tongues were unloosed, and much
merriment prevailed. More than eighty in number, the guests were
dispersed without any regard to order, and thus the chief actors in the
revel were scattered promiscuously about the table, diversifying it with
their gay costumes. Robin Hood sat between two pretty female
morris-dancers, whose partners had got to the other end of the table;
while Ned Huddlestone, the representative of Friar Tuck, was equally
fortunate, having a buxom dame on either side of him, towards whom he
distributed his favours with singular impartiality. As porter to the
Abbey, Ned made himself at home; and, next to Adam Whitworth, was
perhaps the most important personage present, continually roaring for
ale, and pledging the damsels around him. From the way he went on, it
seemed highly probable he would be under the table before supper was
over; but Ned Huddlestone, like the burly priest whose gown he wore, had
a stout bullet head, proof against all assaults of liquor; and the
copious draughts he swallowed, instead of subduing him, only tended to
make him more uproarious. Blessed also with lusty lungs, his shouts of
laughter made the roof ring again. But if the strong liquor failed to
make due impression upon him, the like cannot be said of Jack Roby, who,
it will be remembered, took the part of the Fool, and who, having drunk
overmuch, mistook the hobby-horse for a real steed, and in an effort to
bestride it, fell head-foremost on the floor, and, being found incapable
of rising, was carried out to an adjoining room, and laid on a bench.
This, however, was the only case of excess; for though the Sherwood
foresters emptied their cups often enough to heighten their mirth, none
of them seemed the worse for what they drank. Lawrence Blackrod, Mr.
Parker's keeper, had fortunately got next to his old flame, Sukey
Worseley; while Phil Rawson, the forester, who enacted Will Scarlet, and
Nancy Holt, between whom an equally tender feeling subsisted, had
likewise got together. A little beyond them sat the gentleman usher and
parish clerk, Sampson Harrop, who, piquing himself on his good manners,
drank very sparingly, and was content to sup on sweetmeats and a bowl of
fleetings, as curds separated from whey are termed in this district. Tom
the piper, and his companion the taborer, ate for the next week, but
were somewhat more sparing in the matter of drink, their services as
minstrels being required later on. Thus the various guests enjoyed
themselves according to their bent, and universal hilarity prevailed. It
would be strange indeed if it had been otherwise; for what with the good
cheer, and the bright eyes around them, the rustics had attained a point
of felicity not likely to be surpassed. Of the numerous assemblage more
than half were of the fairer sex; and of these the greater portion were
young and good-looking, while in the case of the morris-dancers, their
natural charms were heightened by their fanciful attire.

Before supper was half over, it became so dark that it was found
necessary to illuminate the great lamp suspended from the centre of the
roof, while other lights were set on the board, and two flaming torches
placed in sockets on either side of the chimney-piece. Scarcely was this
accomplished when the storm came on, much to the surprise of the
weatherwise, who had not calculated upon such an occurrence, not having
seen any indications whatever of it in the heavens. But all were too
comfortably sheltered, and too well employed, to pay much attention to
what was going on without; and, unless when a flash of lightning more
than usually vivid dazzled the gaze, or a peal of thunder more appalling
than the rest broke overhead, no alarm was expressed, even by the women.
To be sure, a little pretty trepidation was now and then evinced by the
younger damsels; but even this was only done with the view of exacting
attention on the part of their swains, and never failed in effect. The
thunder-storm, therefore, instead of putting a stop to the general
enjoyment, only tended to increase it. However the last peal was loud
enough to silence the most uproarious. The women turned pale, and the
men looked at each other anxiously, listening to hear if any damage had
been done. But, as nothing transpired, their spirits revived. A few
minutes afterwards word was brought that the Conventual Church had been
struck by a thunderbolt, but this was not regarded as a very serious
disaster. The bearer of the intelligence was little Jennet, who said she
had been caught in the ruins by the storm, and after being dreadfully
frightened by the lightning, had seen a bolt strike the steeple, and
heard some stones rattle down, after which she ran away. No one thought
of inquiring what she had been doing there at the time, but room was
made for her at the supper-table next to Sampson Harrop, while the good
steward, patting her on the head, filled her a cup of canary with his
own hand, and gave her some cates to eat.

"Ey dunna see Alizon" observed the little girl, looking round the table,
after she had drunk the wine.

"Your sister is not here, Jennet," replied Adam Whitworth, with a smile.
"She is too great a lady for us now. Since she came up with her ladyship
from the green she has been treated quite like one of the guests, and
has been walking about the garden and ruins all the afternoon with young
Mistress Dorothy, who has taken quite a fancy to her. Indeed, for the
matter of that, all the ladies seem to have taken a fancy to her, and
she is now closeted with Mistress Nutter in her own room."

This was gall and wormwood to Jennet.

"She'll be hard to please when she goes home again, after playing the
fine dame here," pursued the steward.

"Then ey hope she'll never come home again," rejoined Jennet;
spitefully, "fo' we dunna want fine dames i' our poor cottage."

"For my part I do not wonder Alizon pleases the gentle folks," observed
Sampson Harrop, "since such pains have been taken with her manners and
education; and I must say she does great credit to her instructor, who,
for reasons unnecessary to mention, shall be nameless. I wish I could
say the same for you, Jennet; but though you're not deficient in
ability, you've no perseverance or pleasure in study."

"Ey knoa os much os ey care to knoa," replied Jennet, "an more than yo
con teach me, Mester Harrop. Why is Alizon always to be thrown i' my
teeth?"

"Because she's the best model you can have," rejoined Sampson. "Ah! if
I'd my own way wi' ye, lass, I'd mend your temper and manners. But you
come of an ill stock, ye saucy hussy."

"Ey come fro' th' same stock as Alizon, onny how," said Jennet.

"Unluckily that cannot be denied," replied Sampson; "but you're as
different from her as light from darkness."

Jennet eyed him bitterly, and then rose from the table.

"Ey'n go," she said.

"No--no; sit down," interposed the good-natured steward. "The dancing
and pastimes will begin presently, and you will see your sister. She
will come down with the ladies."

"That's the very reason she wishes to go," said Sampson Harrop. "The
spiteful little creature cannot bear to see her sister better treated
than herself. Go your ways, then. It is the best thing you can do.
Alizon would blush to see you here."

"Then ey'n een stay an vex her," replied Jennet, sharply; "boh ey winna
sit near yo onny longer, Mester Sampson Harrop, who ca' yersel gentleman
usher, boh who are nah gentleman at aw, nor owt like it, boh merely
parish clerk an schoolmester, an a poor schoolmester to boot. Eyn go an
sit by Sukey Worseley an Nancy Holt, whom ey see yonder."

"You've found your match, Master Harrop," said the steward, laughing, as
the little girl walked away.

"I should account it a disgrace to bandy words with the like of her,
Adam," rejoined the clerk, angrily; "but I'm greatly out in my
reckoning, if she does not make a second Mother Demdike, and worse could
not well befall her."

Jennet's society could have been very well dispensed with by her two
friends, but she would not be shaken off. On the contrary, finding
herself in the way, she only determined the more pertinaciously to
remain, and began to exercise all her powers of teasing, which have been
described as considerable, and which on this occasion proved eminently
successful. And the worst of it was, there was no crushing the plaguy
little insect; any effort made to catch her only resulting in an escape
on her part, and a new charge on some undefended quarter, with sharper
stinging and more intolerable buzzing than ever.

Out of all patience, Sukey Worseley at length exclaimed, "Ey should
loike to see ye swum, crosswise, i' th' Calder, Jennet, as Nance
Redferne war this efternoon."

"May be ye would, Sukey," replied the little girl, "boh eym nah so
likely to be tried that way as yourself, lass; an if ey war swum ey
should sink, while yo, wi' your broad back and shouthers, would be sure
to float, an then yo'd be counted a witch."

"Heed her not, Sukey," said Blackrod, unable to resist a laugh, though
the poor girl was greatly discomfited by this personal allusion; "ye may
ha' a broad back o' our own, an the broader the better to my mind, boh
mey word on't ye'll never be ta'en fo a witch. Yo're far too comely."

This assurance was a balm to poor Sukey's wounded spirit, and she
replied with a well-pleased smile, "Ey hope ey dunna look like one,
Lorry."

"Not a bit, lass," said Blackrod, lifting a huge ale-cup to his lips.
"Your health, sweetheart."

"What think ye then o' Nance Redferne?" observed Jennet. "Is she neaw
comely?--ay, comelier far than fat, fubsy Sukey here--or than Nancy
Holt, wi' her yallo hure an frecklet feace--an yet ye ca' her a witch."

"Ey ca' thee one, theaw feaw little whean--an the dowter--an grandowter
o' one--an that's more," cried Nancy. "Freckles i' your own feace, ye
mismannert minx."

"Ne'er heed her, Nance," said Phil Rawson, putting his arm round the
angry damsel's waist, and drawing her gently down. "Every one to his
taste, an freckles an yellow hure are so to mine. So dunna fret about
it, an spoil your protty lips wi' pouting. Better ha' freckles o' your
feace than spots o' your heart, loike that ill-favort little hussy."

"Dunna offend her, Phil," said Nancy Holt, noticing with alarm the
malignant look fixed upon her lover by Jennet. "She's dawngerous."

"Firrups tak her!" replied Phil Eawson. "Boh who the dole's that? Ey
didna notice him efore, an he's neaw one o' our party."

The latter observation was occasioned by the entrance of a tall
personage, in the garb of a Cistertian monk, who issued from one of the
doorways in the screen, and glided towards the upper table, attracting
general attention and misgiving as he proceeded. His countenance was
cadaverous, his lips livid, and his eyes black and deep sunken in their
sockets, with a bistre-coloured circle around them. His frame was meagre
and bony. What remained of hair on his head was raven black, but either
he was bald on the crown, or carried his attention to costume so far as
to adopt the priestly tonsure. His forehead was lofty and sallow, and
seemed stamped, like his features, with profound gloom. His garments
were faded and mouldering, and materially contributed to his ghostly
appearance.

"Who is it?" cried Sukey and Nance together.

But no one could answer the question.

"He dusna look loike a bein' o' this warld," observed Blackrod, gaping
with alarm, for the stout keeper was easily assailable on the side of
superstition; "an there is a mowdy air about him, that gies one the
shivers to see. Ey've often heer'd say the Abbey is haanted; an that
pale-feaced chap looks like one o' th' owd monks risen fro' his grave to
join our revel."

"An see, he looks this way," cried Phil Rawson.

"What flaming een! they mey the very flesh crawl o' one's booans."

"Is it a ghost, Lorry?" said Sukey, drawing nearer to the stalwart
keeper.

"By th' maskins, lass, ey conna tell," replied Blackrod; "boh whotever
it be, ey'll protect ye."

"Tak care o' me, Phil," ejaculated Nancy Holt, pressing close to her
lover's side.

"Eigh, that I win," rejoined the forester.

"Ey dunna care for ghosts so long as yo are near me, Phil," said Nancy,
tenderly.

"Then ey'n never leave ye, Nance," replied Phil.

"Ghost or not," said Jennet, who had been occupied in regarding the
new-comer attentively, "ey'n go an speak to it. Ey'm nah afeerd, if yo
are."

"Eigh do, Jennet, that's a brave little lass," said Blackrod, glad to be
rid of her in any way.

"Stay!" cried Adam Whitworth, coming up at the moment, and overhearing
what was said--"you must not go near the gentleman. I will not have him
molested, or even spoken with, till Sir Ralph appears."

Meanwhile, the stranger, without returning the glances fixed upon him,
or deigning to notice any of the company, pursued his way, and sat down
in a chair at the upper table.

But his entrance had been witnessed by others besides the rustic guests
and servitors. Nicholas and Richard Assheton chanced to be in the
gallery at the time, and, greatly struck by the singularity of his
appearance, immediately descended to make inquiries respecting him. As
they appeared below, the old steward advanced to meet them.

"Who the devil have you got there, Adam?" asked the squire.

"It passeth me almost to tell you, Master Nicholas," replied the
steward; "and, not knowing whether the gentleman be invited or not, I am
fain to wait Sir Ralph's pleasure in regard to him."

"Have you no notion who he is?" inquired Richard.

"All I know about him may be soon told, Master Richard," replied Adam.
"He is a stranger in these parts, and hath very recently taken up his
abode in Wiswall Hall, which has been abandoned of late years, as you
know, and suffered to go to decay. Some few months ago an aged couple
from Colne, named Hewit, took possession of part of the hall, and were
suffered to remain there, though old Katty Hewit, or Mould-heels, as she
is familiarly termed by the common folk, is in no very good repute
hereabouts, and was driven, it is said from Colne, owing to her
practices as a witch. Be that as it may, soon after these Hewits were
settled at Wiswall, comes this stranger, and fixes himself in another
part of the hall. How he lives no one can tell, but it is said he
rambles all night long, like a troubled spirit, about the deserted
rooms, attended by Mother Mould-heels; while in the daytime he is never
seen."

"Can he be of sound mind?" asked Richard.

"Hardly so, I should think, Master Richard," replied the steward. "As to
who he may be there are many opinions; and some aver he is Francis
Paslew, grandson of Francis, brother to the abbot, and being a Jesuit
priest, for you know the Paslews have all strictly adhered to the old
faith--and that is why they have fled the country and abandoned their
residence--he is obliged to keep himself concealed."

"If such be the case, he must be crazed indeed to venture here,"
observed Nicholas; "and yet I am half inclined to credit the report.
Look at him, Dick. He is the very image of the old abbot."

"Yon portrait might have been painted for him," said Richard, gazing at
the picture on the wall, and from it to the monk as he spoke; "the very
same garb, too."

"There is an old monastic robe up-stairs, in the closet adjoining the
room occupied by Mistress Nutter," observed the steward, "said to be the
garment in which Abbot Paslew suffered death. Some stains are upon it,
supposed to be the blood of the wizard Demdike, who perished in an
extraordinary manner on the same day."

"I have seen it," cried Nicholas, "and the monk's habit looks precisely
like it, and, if my eyes deceive me not, is stained in the same manner."

"I see the spots plainly on the breast," cried Richard. "How can he have
procured the robe?"

"Heaven only knows," replied the old steward. "It is a very strange
occurrence."

"I will go question him," said Richard.

So saying, he proceeded to the upper table, accompanied by Nicholas. As
they drew near, the stranger arose, and fixed a grim look upon Richard,
who was a little in advance.

"It is the abbot's ghost!" cried Nicholas, stopping, and detaining his
cousin. "You shall not address it."

During the contention that ensued, the monk glided towards a side-door
at the upper end of the hall, and passed through it. So general was the
consternation, that no one attempted to stay him, nor would any one
follow to see whither he went. Released, at length, from the strong
grasp of the squire, Richard rushed forth, and not returning, Nicholas,
after the lapse of a few minutes, went in search of him, but came back
presently, and told the old steward he could neither find him nor the
monk.

"Master Richard will be back anon, I dare say, Adam," he remarked; "if
not, I will make further search for him; but you had better not mention
this mysterious occurrence to Sir Ralph, at all events not until the
festivities are over, and the ladies have retired. It might disturb
them. I fear the appearance of this monk bodes no good to our family;
and what makes it worse is, it is not the first ill omen that has
befallen us to-day, Master Richard was unlucky enough to stand on Abbot
Paslew's grave!"

"Mercy on us! that was unlucky indeed!" cried Adam, in great
trepidation. "Poor dear young gentleman! Bid him take especial care of
himself, good Master Nicholas. I noticed just now, that yon fearsome
monk regarded him more attentively than you. Bid him be careful, I
conjure you, sir. But here comes my honoured master and his guests.
Here, Gregory, Dickon, bestir yourselves, knaves; and serve supper at
the upper table in a trice."

Any apprehensions Nicholas might entertain for Richard were at this
moment relieved, for as Sir Ralph and his guests came in at one door,
the young man entered by another. He looked deathly pale. Nicholas put
his finger to his lips in token of silence--a gesture which the other
signified that he understood.

Sir Ralph and his guests having taken their places at the table, an
excellent and plentiful repast was speedily set before them, and if they
did not do quite such ample justice to it as the hungry rustics at the
lower board had done to the good things provided for them, the cook
could not reasonably complain. No allusion whatever being made to the
recent strange occurrence, the cheerfulness of the company was
uninterrupted; but the noise in the lower part of the hall had in a
great measure subsided, partly out of respect to the host, and partly in
consequence of the alarm occasioned by the supposed supernatural
visitation. Richard continued silent and preoccupied, and neither ate
nor drank; but Nicholas appearing to think his courage would be best
sustained by an extra allowance of clary and sack, applied himself
frequently to the goblet with that view, and erelong his spirits
improved so wonderfully, and his natural boldness was so much increased,
that he was ready to confront Abbot Paslew, or any other abbot of them
all, wherever they might chance to cross him. In this enterprising frame
of mind he drew Richard aside, and questioned him as to what had taken
place in his pursuit of the mysterious monk.

"You overtook him, Dick, of course?" he said, "and put it to him roundly
why he came hither, where neither ghosts nor Jesuit priests, whichever
he may be, are wanted. What answered he, eh? Would I had been there to
interrogate him! He should have declared how he became possessed of that
old moth-eaten, blood-stained, monkish gown, or I would have unfrocked
him, even if he had proved to be a skeleton. But I interrupt you. You
have not told me what occurred at the interview?"

"There was no interview," replied Richard, gravely.

"No interview!" echoed Nicholas. "S'blood, man!--but I must be careful,
for Doctor Ormerod and Parson Dewhurst are within hearing, and may
lecture me on the wantonness and profanity of swearing. By Saint Gregory
de Northbury!--no, that's an oath too, and, what is worse, a Popish
oath. By--I have several tremendous imprecations at my tongue's end, but
they shall not out. It is a sinful propensity, and must be controlled.
In a word, then, you let him escape, Dick?"

"If you were so anxious to stay him, I wonder you came not with me,"
replied Richard; "but you now hold very different language from what you
used when I quitted the hall."

"Ah, true--right--Dick," replied Nicholas; "my sentiments have undergone
a wonderful change since then. I now regret having stopped you. By my
troth! if I meet that confounded monk again, he shall give a good
account of himself, I promise him. But what said he to you, Dick? Make
an end of your story."

"I have not begun it yet," replied Richard. "But pay attention, and you
shall hear what occurred. When I rushed forth, the monk had already
gained the entrance-hall. No one was within it at the time, all the
serving-men being busied here with the feasting. I summoned him to stay,
but he answered not, and, still grimly regarding me, glided towards the
outer door, which (I know not by what chance) stood open, and passing
through it, closed it upon me. This delayed me a moment; and when I got
out, he had already descended the steps, and was moving towards the
garden. It was bright moonlight, so I could see him distinctly. And mark
this, Nicholas--the two great blood-hounds were running about at large
in the court-yard, but they slunk off, as if alarmed at his appearance.
The monk had now gained the garden, and was shaping his course swiftly
towards the ruined Conventual Church. Determined to overtake him, I
quickened my pace; but he gained the old fane before me, and threaded
the broken aisles with noiseless celerity. In the choir he paused and
confronted me. When within a few yards of him, I paused, arrested by his
fixed and terrible gaze. Nicholas, his look froze my blood. I would have
spoken, but I could not. My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth for
very fear. Before I could shake off this apprehension the figure raised
its hand menacingly thrice, and passed into the Lacy Chapel. As soon as
he was gone my courage returned, and I followed. The little chapel was
brilliantly illuminated by the moon; but it was empty. I could only see
the white monument of Sir Henry de Lacy glistening in the pale
radiance."

"I must take a cup of wine after this horrific relation," said Nicholas,
replenishing his goblet. "It has chilled my blood, as the monk's icy
gaze froze yours. Body o' me! but this is strange indeed. Another oath.
Lord help me!--I shall never get rid of the infernal--I mean, the evil
habit. Will you not pledge me, Dick?"

The young man shook his head.

"You are wrong," pursued Nicholas,--"decidedly wrong. Wine gladdeneth
the heart of man, and restoreth courage. A short while ago I was
downcast as you, melancholy as an owl, and timorous as a kid, but now I
am resolute as an eagle, stout of heart, and cheerful of spirit; and all
owing to a cup of wine. Try the remedy, Dick, and get rid of your gloom.
You look like a death's-head at a festival. What if you have stumbled on
an ill-omened grave! What if you have been banned by a witch! What if
you have stood face to face with the devil--or a ghost! Heed them not!
Drink, and set care at defiance. And, not to gainsay my own counsel, I
shall fill my cup again. For, in good sooth, this is rare clary, Dick;
and, talking of wine, you should taste some of the wonderful Rhenish
found in the abbot's cellar by our ancestor, Richard Assheton--a century
old if it be a day, and yet cordial and corroborative as ever. Those
monks were lusty tipplers, Dick. I sometimes wish I had been an abbot
myself. I should have made a rare father confessor--especially to a
pretty penitent. Here, Gregory, hie thee to the master cellarer, and bid
him fill me a goblet of the old Rhenish--the wine from the abbot's
cellar. Thou understandest--or, stay, better bring the flask. I have a
profound respect for the venerable bottle, and would pay my devoirs to
it. Hie away, good fellow!"

"You will drink too much if you go on thus," remarked Richard.

"Not a drop," rejoined Nicholas. "I am blithe as a lark, and would keep
so. That is why I drink. But to return to our ghosts. Since this place
must be haunted, I would it were visited by spirits of a livelier kind
than old Paslew. There is Isole de Heton, for instance. The fair
votaress would be the sort of ghost for me. I would not turn my back on
her, but face her manfully. Look at her picture, Dick. Was ever
countenance sweeter than hers--lips more tempting, or eyes more melting!
Is she not adorable? Zounds!" he exclaimed, suddenly pausing, and
staring at the portrait--"Would you believe it, Dick? The fair Isole
winked at me--I'll swear she did. I mean--I will venture to affirm upon
oath, if required, that she winked."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Richard. "The fumes of the wine have mounted to your
brain, and disordered it."

"No such thing," cried Nicholas, regarding the picture as steadily as he
could--"she's leering at me now. By the Queen of Paphos! another wink.
Nay, if you doubt me, watch her well yourself. A pleasant adventure
this--ha!--ha!"

"A truce to this drunken foolery," cried Richard, moving away.

"Drunken! s'death! recall that epithet, Dick," cried Nicholas, angrily.
"I am no more drunk than yourself, you dog. I can walk as steadily, and
see as plainly, as you; and I will maintain it at the point of the
sword, that the eyes of that picture have lovingly regarded me; nay,
that they follow me now."

"A common delusion with a portrait," said Richard; "they appear to
follow _me_."

"But they do not wink at you as they do at me," said Nicholas, "neither
do the lips break into smiles, and display the pearly teeth beneath
them, as occurs in my case. Grim old abbots frown on you, but fair,
though frail, votaresses smile on me. I am the favoured mortal, Dick."

"Were it as you represent, Nicholas," replied Richard, gravely, "I
should say, indeed, that some evil principle was at work to lure you
through your passions to perdition. But I know they are all fancies
engendered by your heated brain, which in your calmer moments you will
discard, as I discard them now. If I have any weight with you, I counsel
you to drink no more, or you will commit some mad foolery, of which you
will be ashamed hereafter. The discreeter course would be to retire
altogether; and for this you have ample excuse, as you will have to
arise betimes to-morrow, to set out for Pendle Forest with Master
Potts."

"Retire!" exclaimed Nicholas, bursting into a loud, contemptuous laugh.
"I like thy counsel, lad. Yes, I will retire when I have finished the
old monastic Rhenish which Gregory is bringing me. I will retire when I
have danced the Morisco with the May Queen--the Cushion Dance with Dame
Tetlow--and the Brawl with the lovely Isole de Heton. Another wink,
Dick. By our Lady! she assents to my proposition. When I have done all
this, and somewhat more, it will be time to think of retiring. But I
have the night before me, Dick--not to be spent in drowsy
unconsciousness, as thou recommendest, but in active, pleasurable
enjoyment. No man requires less sleep than I do. Ordinarily, I 'retire,'
as thou termest it, at ten, and rise with the sun. In summer I am abroad
soon after three, and mend that if thou canst, Dick. To-night I shall
seek my couch about midnight, and yet I'll warrant me I shall be the
first stirring in the Abbey; and, in any case, I shall be in the saddle
before thee."

"It may be," replied Richard; "but it was to preserve you from
extravagance to-night that I volunteered advice, which, from my
knowledge of your character, I might as well have withheld. But let me
caution you on another point. Dance with Dame Tetlow, or any other dame
you please--dance with the fair Isole de Heton, if you can prevail upon
her to descend from her frame and give you her hand; but I object--most
decidedly object--to your dancing with Alizon Device."

"Why so?" cried Nicholas; "why should I not dance with whom I please?
And what right hast thou to forbid me Alizon? Troth, lad, art thou so
ignorant of human nature as not to know that forbidden fruit is the
sweetest. It hath ever been so since the fall. I am now only the more
bent upon dancing with the prohibited damsel. But I would fain know the
principle on which thou erectest thyself into her guardian. Is it
because she fainted when thy sword was crossed with that hot-headed
fool, Sir Thomas Metcalfe, that thou flatterest thyself she is in love
with thee? Be not too sure of it, Dick. Many a timid wench has swooned
at the sight of a naked weapon, without being enamoured of the
swordsman. The fainting proves nothing. But grant she loves thee--what
then! An end must speedily come of it; so better finish at once, before
she be entangled in a mesh from which she cannot be extricated without
danger. For hark thee, Dick, whatever thou mayst think, I am not so far
gone that I know not what I say, neither is my vision so much obscured
that I see not some matters plainly enough, and I understand thee and
Alizon well, and see through you both. This matter must go no further.
It has gone too far already. After to-night you must see her no more. I
am serious in this--serious _inter pocula_, if such a thing can be. It
is necessary to observe caution, for reasons that will at once occur to
thee. Thou canst not wed this girl--then why trifle with her till her
heart be broken."

"Broken it shall never be by me!" cried Richard.

"But I tell you it will be broken, if you do not desist at once,"
rejoined Nicholas. "I was but jesting when I said I would rob you of her
in the Morisco, though it would be charity to both, and spare you many a
pang hereafter, were I to put my threat into execution. However, I have
a soft heart where aught of love is concerned, and, having pointed out
the risk you will incur, I shall leave you to follow your own devices.
But, for Alizon's sake, stop in time."

"You now speak soberly and sensibly enough, Nicholas," replied Richard,
"and I thank you heartily for your counsel; and if I do not follow it by
withdrawing at once from a pursuit which may appear to you hopeless, if
not dangerous, you will, I hope, give me credit for being actuated by
worthy motives. I will at once, and frankly admit, that I love Alizon;
and loving her, you may rest assured I would sacrifice my life a
thousand times rather than endanger her happiness. But there is a point
in her history, with which if you were acquainted, it might alter your
view of the case; but this is not the season for its disclosure,
neither, I am bound to say, does the circumstance so materially alter
the apparent posture of affairs as to remove all difficulty. On the
contrary, it leaves an insurmountable obstacle behind it."

"Are you wise, then, in going on?" asked Nicholas.

"I know not," answered Richard, "but I feel as if I were the sport of
fate. Uncertain whither to turn for the best, I leave the disposition of
my course to chance. But, alas!" he added, sadly, "all seems to point
out that this meeting with Alizon will be my last."

"Well, cheer up, lad," said Nicholas. "These afflictions are hard to
bear, it is true; but somehow they are got over. Just as if your horse
should fling you in the midst of a hedge when you are making a flying
leap, you get scratched and bruised, but you scramble out, and in a day
or two are on your legs again. Love breaks no bones, that's one comfort.
When at your age, I was desperately in love, not with Mistress Nicholas
Assheton--Heaven help the fond soul! but with--never mind with whom; but
it was not a very prudent match, and so, in my worldly wisdom, I was
obliged to cry off. A sad business it was. I thought I should have died
of it, and I made quite sure that the devoted girl would die first, in
which case we were to occupy the same grave. But I was not driven to
such a dire extremity, for before I had kept house a week, Jack Walker,
the keeper of Downham, made his appearance in my room, and after telling
me of the mischief done by a pair of otters in the Ribble, finding me in
a very desponding state, ventured to inquire if I had heard the news.
Expecting to hear of the death of the girl, I prepared myself for an
outburst of grief, and resolved to give immediate directions for a
double funeral, when he informed me--what do you think, Dick?--that she
was going to be married to himself. I recovered at once, and immediately
went out to hunt the otters, and rare sport we had. But here comes
Gregory with the famous old Rhenish. Better take a cup, Dick; this is
the best cure for the heartache, and for all other aches and grievances.
Ah! glorious stuff--miraculous wine!" he added, smacking his lips with
extraordinary satisfaction after a deep draught; "those worthy fathers
were excellent judges. I have a great reverence for them. But where can
Alizon be all this while? Supper is wellnigh over, and the dancing and
pastimes will commence anon, and yet she comes not."

"She is here," cried Richard.

And as he spoke Mistress Nutter and Alizon entered the hall.

Richard endeavoured to read in the young girl's countenance some
intimation of what had passed between her and Mistress Nutter, but he
only remarked that she was paler than before, and had traces of anxiety
about her. Mistress Nutter also looked gloomy and thoughtful, and there
was nothing in the manner or deportment of either to lead to the
conclusion, that a discovery of relationship between them had taken
place. As Alizon moved on, her eyes met those of Richard--but the look
was intercepted by Mistress Nutter, who instantly called off her
daughter's attention to herself; and, while the young man hesitated to
join them, his sister came quickly up to him, and drew him away in
another direction. Left to himself, Nicholas tossed off another cup of
the miraculous Rhenish, which improved in flavour as he discussed it,
and then, placing a chair opposite the portrait of Isole de Heton,
filled a bumper, and, uttering the name of the fair votaress, drained it
to her. This time he was quite certain he received a significant glance
in return, and no one being near to contradict him, he went on indulging
the idea of an amorous understanding between himself and the picture,
till he had finished the bottle, and obtained as many ogles as he
swallowed draughts of wine, upon which he arose and staggered off in
search of Dame Tetlow.

Meanwhile, Mistress Nutter having made her excuses to Lady Assheton for
not attending the supper, walked down the hall with her daughter, until
such time as the dancing and pastimes should commence. As will be
readily supposed under the circumstances, this part of the entertainment
was distasteful to both of them; but it could not be avoided without
entering into explanations, which Mistress Nutter was unwilling to make,
and she, therefore, counselled her daughter to act in all respects as if
she were still Alizon Device, and in no way connected with her.

"I shall take an early opportunity of announcing my intention to adopt
you," she said, "and then you can act differently. Meantime, keep near
me as much as you can. Say little to Dorothy or Richard Assheton, and
prepare to retire early; for this noisy and riotous assemblage is not
much to my taste, and I care not how soon I quit it."

Alizon assented to what was said, and stole a timid glance towards
Richard and Dorothy; but the latter, who alone perceived it, instantly
averted her head, in such way as to make it evident she wished to shun
her regards. Slight as it was, this circumstance occasioned Alizon much
pain, for she could not conceive how she had offended her new-made
friend, and it was some relief to encounter a party of acquaintances who
had risen from the lower table at her approach, though they did not
presume to address her while she was with Mistress Nutter, but waited
respectfully at a little distance. Alizon, however, flew towards them.

"Ah, Susan!--ah, Nancy!" she cried taking the hand of each--"how glad I
am to see you here; and you too, Lawrence Blackrod--and you, Phil
Rawson--and you, also, good Master Harrop. How happy you all look!"

"An wi' good reason, sweet Alizon," replied Blackrod. "Boh we began to
be afeerd we'd lost ye, an that wad ha' bin a sore mishap--to lose our
May Queen--an th' prettiest May Queen os ever dawnced i' this ha', or i'
onny other ha' i' Lonkyshiar."

"We ha drunk your health, sweet Alizon," added Phil--"an wishin' ye may
be os happy os ye desarve, wi' the mon o' your heart, if onny sich lucky
chap there be."

"Thank you--thank you both," replied Alizon, blushing; "and in return I
cannot wish you better fortune, Philip, than to be united to the good
girl near you, for I know her kindly disposition so well, that I am sure
she will make you happy."

"Ey'm satisfied on't myself," replied Rawson; "an ey hope ere long
she'll be missus o' a little cot i' Bowland Forest, an that yo'll pay us
a visit, Alizon, an see an judge fo' yourself how happy we be. Nance win
make a rare forester's wife."

"Not a bit better than my Sukey," cried Lawrence Blackrod. "Ye shanna
get th' start o' me, Phil, fo' by th' mess! the very same day os sees yo
wedded to Nancy Holt shan find me united to Sukey Worseley. An so Alizon
win ha' two cottages i' Bowland Forest to visit i'stead o' one."

"And well pleased I shall be to visit them both," she rejoined. At this
moment Mistress Nutter came up.

"My good friends," she said, "as you appear to take so much interest in
Alizon, you may be glad to learn that it is my intention to adopt her as
a daughter, having no child of my own; and, though her position
henceforth will be very different from what it has been, I am sure she
will never forget her old friends."

"Never, indeed, never!" cried Alizon, earnestly.

"This is good news, indeed," cried Sampson Harrop, joyfully, while the
others joined in his exclamation. "We all rejoice in Alizon's good
fortune, and think she richly deserves it. For my own part, I was always
sure she would have rare luck, but I did not expect such luck as this."

"What's to become o' me?" cried Jennet, coming from behind a chair,
where she had hitherto concealed herself.

"I will always take care of you," replied Alizon, stooping, and kissing
her.

"Do not promise more than you may be able to perform, Alizon," observed
Mistress Nutter, coldly, and regarding the little girl with a look of
disgust; "an ill-favour'd little creature, with the Demdike eyes."

"And as ill-tempered as she is ill-favoured," rejoined Sampson Harrop;
"and, though she cannot help being ugly, she might help being
malicious."

Jennet gave him a bitter look.

"You do her injustice, Master Harrop," said Alizon. "Poor little Jennet
is quick-tempered, but not malevolent."

"Ey con hate weel if ey conna love," replied Jennet, "an con recollect
injuries if ey forget kindnesses.--Boh dunna trouble yourself about me,
sister. Ey dunna envy ye your luck. Ey dunna want to be adopted by a
grand-dame. Ey'm content os ey am. Boh are na ye gettin' on rayther too
fast, lass? Mother's consent has to be axed, ey suppose, efore ye leave
her."

"There is little fear of her refusal," observed Mistress Nutter.

"Ey dunna knoa that," rejoined Jennet. "If she were to refuse, it wadna
surprise me."

"Nothing spiteful she could do would surprise me," remarked Harrop. "But
how are you likely to know what your mother will think and do, you
forward little hussy?"

"Ey judge fro circumstances," replied the little girl. "Mother has often
said she conna weel spare Alizon. An mayhap Mistress Nutter may knoa,
that she con be very obstinate when she tays a whim into her head."

"I _do_ know it," replied Mistress Nutter; "and, from my experience of
her temper in former days, I should be loath to have you near me, who
seem to inherit her obstinacy."

"Wi' sich misgivings ey wonder ye wish to tak Alizon, madam," said
Jennet; "fo she's os much o' her mother about her os me, onny she dunna
choose to show it."

"Peace, thou mischievous urchin," cried Mistress Nutter, losing all
patience.

"Shall I take her away?" said Harrop--seizing her hand.

"Ay, do," said Mistress Nutter.

"No, no, let her stay!" cried Alizon, quickly; "I shall be miserable if
she goes."

"Oh, ey'm quite ready to go," said Jennet, "fo ey care little fo sich
seets os this--boh efore ey leave ey wad fain say a few words to Mester
Potts, whom ey see yonder."

"What can you want with him, Jennet," cried Alizon, in surprise.

"Onny to tell him what brother Jem is gone to Pendle fo to-neet,"
replied the little girl, with a significant and malicious look at
Mistress Nutter.

"Ha!" muttered the lady. "There is more malice in this little wasp than
I thought. But I must rob it of its sting."

And while thus communing with herself, she fixed a searching look on
Jennet, and then raising her hand quickly, waved it in her face.

"Oh!" cried the little girl, falling suddenly backwards.

"What's the matter?" demanded Alizon, flying to her.

"Ey dunna reetly knoa," replied Jennet.

"She's seized with a sudden faintness," said Harrop. "Better she should
go home then at once. I'll find somebody to take her."

"Neaw, neaw, ey'n sit down here," said Jennet; "ey shan be better soon."

"Come along, Alizon," said Mistress Nutter, apparently unconcerned at
the circumstance.

Having confided the little girl, who was now recovered from the shock,
to the care of Nancy Holt, Alizon followed her mother.

At this moment Sir Ralph, who had quitted the supper-table, clapped his
hands loudly, thus giving the signal to the minstrels, who, having
repaired to the gallery, now struck up a merry tune, and instantly the
whole hall was in motion. Snatching up his wand Sampson Harrop hurried
after Alizon, beseeching her to return with him, and join a procession
about to be formed by the revellers, and of course, as May Queen, and
the most important personage in it, she could not refuse. Very short
space sufficed the morris-dancers to find their partners; Robin Hood and
the foresters got into their places; the hobby-horse curveted and
capered; Friar Tuck resumed his drolleries; and even Jack Roby was so
far recovered as to be able to get on his legs, though he could not walk
very steadily. Marshalled by the gentleman-usher, and headed by Robin
Hood and the May Queen, the procession marched round the hall, the
minstrels playing merrily the while, and then drew up before the upper
table, where a brief oration was pronounced by Sir Ralph. A shout that
made the rafters ring again followed the address, after which a couranto
was called for by the host, who, taking Mistress Nicholas Assheton by
the hand, led her into the body of the hall, whither he was speedily
followed by the other guests, who had found partners in like manner.

Before relating how the ball was opened a word must be bestowed upon
Mistress Nicholas Assheton, whom I have neglected nearly as much as she
was neglected by her unworthy spouse, and I therefore hasten to repair
the injustice by declaring that she was a very amiable and very charming
woman, and danced delightfully. And recollect, ladies, these were
dancing days--I mean days when knowledge of figures as well as skill was
required, more than twenty forgotten dances being in vogue, the very
names of which may surprise you as I recapitulate them. There was the
Passamezzo, a great favourite with Queen Elizabeth, who used to foot it
merrily, when, as you are told by Gray--

          "The great Lord-keeper led the brawls,
          And seals and maces danced before him!"

the grave Pavane, likewise a favourite with the Virgin Queen, and which
I should like to see supersede the eternal polka at Almack's and
elsewhere, and in which--

          "Five was the number of the music's feet
          Which still the dance did with live paces meet;"

the Couranto, with its "current traverses," "sliding passages," and
solemn tune, wherein, according to Sir John Davies--

          --"that dancer greatest praise hath won
          Who with best order can all order shun;"

the Lavolta, also delineated by the same knowing hand--

          "Where arm in arm two dancers are entwined,
          And whirl themselves with strict embracements bound,
          their feet an anapest do sound."

Is not this very much like a waltz? Yes, ladies, you have been dancing
the lavolta of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries without being
aware of it. But there was another waltz still older, called the
Sauteuse, which I suspect answered to your favourite polka. Then there
were brawls, galliards, paspys, sarabands, country-dances of various
figures, cushion dances (another dance I long to see revived), kissing
dances, and rounds, any of which are better than the objectionable
polka. Thus you will see that there was infinite variety at least at the
period under consideration, and that you have rather retrograded than
advanced in the saltatory art. But to return to the ball.

Mistress Nicholas Assheton, I have said, excelled in the graceful
accomplishment of dancing, and that was probably the reason why she had
been selected for the couranto by Sir Ralph, who knew the value of a
good partner. By many persons she was accounted the handsomest woman in
the room, and in dignity of carriage she was certainly unrivalled. This
was precisely what Sir Ralph required, and having executed a few
"current traverses and sliding passages" with her, with a gravity and
stateliness worthy of Sir Christopher Hatton himself, when graced by the
hand of his sovereign mistress, he conducted her, amid the hushed
admiration of the beholders, to a seat. Still the dance continued with
unabated spirit; all those engaged in it running up and down, or
"turning and winding with unlooked-for change." Alizon's hand had been
claimed by Richard Assheton, and next to the stately host and his
dignified partner, they came in for the largest share of admiration and
attention; and if the untutored girl fell short of the accomplished dame
in precision and skill, she made up for the want of them in natural
grace and freedom of movement, for the display of which the couranto,
with its frequent and impromptu changes, afforded ample opportunity.
Even Sir Ralph was struck with her extreme gracefulness, and pointed her
out to Mistress Nicholas, who, unenvying and amiable, joined heartily in
his praises. Overhearing what was said, Mrs. Nutter thought it a fitting
opportunity to announce her intention of adopting the young girl; and
though Sir Ralph seemed a good deal surprised at the suddenness of the
declaration, he raised no objection to the plan; but, on the contrary,
applauded it. But another person, by no means disposed to regard it in
an equally favourable light became acquainted with the intelligence at
the same time. This was Master Potts, who instantly set his wits at work
to discover its import. Ever on the alert, his little eyes, sharp as
needles, had detected Jennet amongst the rustic company, and he now made
his way towards her, resolved, by dint of cross-questioning and
otherwise, to extract all the information he possibly could from her.

The dance over, Richard and his partner wandered towards a more retired
part of the hall.

"Why does your sister shun me?" inquired Alizon, with a look of great
distress. "What can I have done to offend her? Whenever I regard her she
averts her head, and as I approached her just now, she moved away,
making it evident she designed to avoid me. If I could think myself in
any way different from what I was this morning, when she treated me with
such unbounded confidence and kindness, or accuse myself of any offence
towards her, even in thought, I could understand it; but as it is, her
present coldness appears inexplicable and unreasonable, and gives me
great pain. I would not forfeit her regard for worlds, and therefore
beseech you to tell me what I have done amiss, that I may endeavour to
repair it."

"You have done nothing--nothing whatever, sweet girl," replied Richard.
"It is only caprice on Dorothy's part, and except that it distresses
you, her conduct, which you justly call 'unreasonable,' does not deserve
a moment's serious consideration."

"Oh no! you cannot deceive me thus," cried Alizon. "She is too kind--too
well-judging, to be capricious. Something must have occurred to make her
change her opinion of me, though what it is I cannot conjecture. I have
gained much to-day--more than I had any right to expect; but if I have
forfeited the good opinion of your sister, the loss of her friendship
will counterbalance all the rest."

"But you have not lost it, Alizon," replied Richard, earnestly. "Dorothy
has got some strange notions into her head, which only require to be
combated. She does not like Mistress Nutter, and is piqued and
displeased by the extraordinary interest which that lady displays
towards you. That is all."

"But why should she not like Mistress Nutter?" inquired Alizon.

"Nay, there is no accounting for fancies," returned Richard, with a
faint smile. "I do not attempt to defend her, but simply offer the only
excuse in my power for her conduct."

"I am concerned to hear it," said Alizon, sadly, "because henceforth I
shall be so intimately connected with Mistress Nutter, that this
estrangement, which I hoped arose only from some trivial cause, and
merely required a little explanation to be set aside, may become widened
and lasting. Owing every thing to Mistress Nutter, I must espouse her
cause; and if your sister likes her not, she likes me not in
consequence, and therefore we must continue divided. But surely her
dislike is of very recent date, and cannot have any strong hold upon
her; for when she and Mistress Nutter met this morning, a very different
feeling seemed to animate her."

"So, indeed, it did," replied Richard, visibly embarrassed and
distressed. "And since you have made me acquainted with the new tie and
interests you have formed, I can only regret alluding to the
circumstance."

"That you may not misunderstand me," said Alizon, "I will explain the
extent of my obligations to Mistress Nutter, and then you will perceive
how much I am bounden to her. Childless herself, greatly interested in
me, and feeling for my unfortunate situation, with infinite goodness of
heart she has declared her intention of removing me from all chance of
baneful influence, from the family with whom I have been heretofore
connected, by adopting me as her daughter."

"I should indeed rejoice at this," said Richard, "were it not that--"

And he stopped, gazing anxiously at her.

"Were not what?" cried Alizon, alarmed by his looks. "What do you mean?"

"Do not press me further," he rejoined; "I cannot answer you. Indeed I
have said too much already."

"You have said too much or too little," cried Alizon. "Speak, I implore
you. What mean these dark hints which you throw out, and which like
shadows elude all attempts to grasp them! Do not keep me in this state
of suspense and agitation. Your looks speak more than your words. Oh,
give your thoughts utterance!"

"I cannot," replied Richard. "I do not believe what I have heard, and
therefore will not repeat it. It would only increase the mischief. But
oh! tell me this! Was it, indeed, to remove you from the baneful
influence of Elizabeth Device that Mistress Nutter adopted you?"

"Other motives may have swayed her, and I have said they did so,"
replied Alizon; "but that wish, no doubt, had great weight with her.
Nay, notwithstanding her abhorrence of the family, she has kindly
consented to use her best endeavours to preserve little Jennet from
further ill, as well as to reclaim poor misguided Elizabeth herself."

"Oh! what a weight you have taken from my heart," cried Richard,
joyfully. "I will tell Dorothy what you say, and it will at once remove
all her doubts and suspicions. She will now be the same to you as ever,
and to Mistress Nutter."

"I will not ask you what those doubts and suspicions were, since you so
confidently promise me this, which is all I desire," replied Alizon,
smiling; "but any unfavourable opinions entertained of Mistress Nutter
are wholly undeserved. Poor lady! she has endured many severe trials and
sufferings, and whenever you learn the whole of her history, she will, I
am sure, have your sincere sympathy."

"You have certainly produced a complete revolution in my feelings
towards her," said Richard, "and I shall not be easy till I have made a
like convert of Dorothy."

At this moment a loud clapping of hands was heard, and Nicholas was seen
marching towards the centre of the hall, preceded by the minstrels, who
had descended for the purpose from the gallery, and bearing in his arms
a large red velvet cushion. As soon as the dancers had formed a wide
circle round him, a very lively tune called "Joan Sanderson," from which
the dance about to be executed sometimes received its name, was struck
up, and the squire, after a few preliminary flourishes, set down the
cushion, and gave chase to Dame Tetlow, who, threading her way rapidly
through the ring, contrived to elude him. This chase, accompanied by
music, excited shouts of laughter on all hands, and no one knew which
most to admire, the eagerness of the squire, or the dexterity of the
lissom dame in avoiding him.

Exhausted at length, and baffled in his quest, Nicholas came to a halt
before Tom the Piper, and, taking up the cushion, thus preferred his
complaint:--"This dance it can no further go--no further go."

Whereupon the piper chanted in reply,--"I pray you, good sir, why say
you so--why say you so?"

Amidst general laughter, the squire tenderly and touchingly
responded--"Because Dame Tetlow will not come to--will not come to."

Whereupon Tom the Piper, waxing furious, blew a shrill whistle,
accompanied by an encouraging rattle of the tambarine, and enforcing the
mandate by two or three energetic stamps on the floor, delivered himself
in this fashion:--"She _must_ come to, and she SHALL come to. And she
must come, whether she will or no."

Upon this two of the prettiest female morris-dancers, taking each a hand
of the blushing and overheated Dame Tetlow, for she had found the chase
rather warm work, led her forward; while the squire advancing very
gallantly placed the cushion upon the ground before her, and as she
knelt down upon it, bestowed a smacking kiss upon her lips. This
ceremony being performed amidst much tittering and flustering,
accompanied by many knowing looks and some expressed wishes among the
swains, who hoped that their turn might come next, Dame Tetlow arose,
and the squire seizing her hand, they began to whisk round in a sort of
jig, singing merrily as they danced--

          "Prinkum prankum is a fine dance,
          And we shall go dance it once again!
                                   Once again,
          And we shall go dance it once again!"

And they made good the words too; for on coming to a stop, Dame Tetlow
snatched up the cushion, and ran in search of the squire, who retreating
among the surrounding damsels, made sad havoc among them, scarcely
leaving a pretty pair of lips unvisited. Oh Nicholas! Nicholas! I am
thoroughly ashamed of you, and regret becoming your historian. You get
me into an infinitude of scrapes. But there is a rod in pickle for you,
sir, which shall be used with good effect presently. Tired of such an
unprofitable quest, Dame Tetlow came to a sudden halt, addressed the
piper as Nicholas had addressed him, and receiving a like answer,
summoned the delinquent to come forward; but as he knelt down on the
cushion, instead of receiving the anticipated salute, he got a sound box
on the ears, the dame, actuated probably by some feeling of jealousy,
taking advantage of the favourable opportunity afforded her of avenging
herself. No one could refrain from laughing at this unexpected turn in
affairs, and Nicholas, to do him justice, took it in excellent part, and
laughed louder than the rest. Springing to his feet, he snatched the
kiss denied him by the spirited dame, and led her to obtain some
refreshment at the lower table, of which they both stood in need, while
the cushion being appropriated by other couples, other boxes on the ear
and kisses were interchanged, leading to an infinitude of merriment.

Long before this Master Potts had found his way to Jennet, and as he
drew near, affecting to notice her for the first time, he made some
remarks upon her not looking very well.

"'Deed, an ey'm nah varry weel," replied the little girl, "boh ey knoa
who ey han to thonk fo' my ailment."

"Your sister, most probably," suggested the attorney. "It must be very
vexatious to see her so much noticed, and be yourself so much
neglected--very vexatious, indeed--I quite feel for you."

"By dunna want your feelin'," replied Jennet, nettled by the remark;
"boh it wasna my sister os made me ill."

"Who was it then, my little dear," said Potts.

"Dunna 'dear' me," retorted Jennet; "yo're too ceevil by half, os the
lamb said to the wolf. Boh sin ye mun knoa, it wur Mistress Nutter."

"Aha! very good--I mean--very bad," cried Potts. "What did Mistress
Nutter do to you, my little dear? Don't be afraid of telling me. If I
can do any thing for you I shall be very happy. Speak out--and don't be
afraid."

"Nay fo' shure, ey'm nah afeerd," returned Jennet. "Boh whot mays ye so
inqueesitive? Ye want to get summat out'n me, ey con see that plain
enough, an os ye stand there glenting at me wi' your sly little een, ye
look loike an owd fox ready to snap up a chicken o' th' furst
opportunity."

"Your comparison is not very flattering, Jennet," replied Potts; "but I
pass it by for the sake of its cleverness. You are a sharp child,
Jennet--a very sharp child. I remarked that from the first moment I saw
you. But in regard to Mistress Nutter, she seems a very nice lady--and
must be a very kind lady, since she has made up her mind to adopt your
sister. Not that I am surprised at her determination, for really Alizon
is so superior--so unlike--"

"Me, ye wad say," interrupted Jennet. "Dunna be efeerd to speak out,
sir."

"No, no," replied Potts, "on the contrary, there's a very great likeness
between you. I saw you were sisters at once. I don't know which is the
cleverest or prettiest--but perhaps you are the sharpest. Yes, you are
the sharpest, undoubtedly, Jennet. If I wished to adopt any one, which
unfortunately I'm not in a condition to do, having only bachelor's
chambers in Chancery Lane, it should be you. But I can put you in a way
of making your fortune, Jennet, and that's the next best thing to
adopting you. Indeed, it's much better in my case."

"May my fortune!" cried the little girl, pricking up her ears, "ey
should loike to knoa how ye wad contrive that."

"I'll show you how directly, Jennet," returned Potts. "Pay particular
attention to what I say, and think it over carefully, when you are by
yourself. You are quite aware that there is a great talk about witches
in these parts; and, I may speak it without offence to you, your own
family come under the charge. There is your grandmother Demdike, for
instance, a notorious witch--your mother, Dame Device, suspected--your
brother James suspected."

"Weel, sir," cried Jennet, eyeing him sharply, "what does all this
suspicion tend to?"

"You shall hear, my little dear," returned Potts. "It would not surprise
me, if every one of your family, including yourself, should be arrested,
shut up in Lancaster Castle, and burnt for witches!"

"Alack a day! an this ye ca' makin my fortin," cried Jennet, derisively.
"Much obleeged to ye, sir, boh ey'd leefer be without the luck."

"Listen to me," pursued Potts, chuckling, "and I will point out to you a
way of escaping the general fate of your family--not merely of escaping
it--but of acquiring a large reward. And that is by giving evidence
against them--by telling all you know--you understand--eh!"

"Yeigh, ey think ey _do_ onderstond," replied Jennet, sullenly. "An so
this is your grand scheme, eh, sir?"

"This is my scheme, Jennet," said Potts, "and a notable scheme it is,
my little lass. Think it over. You're an admissible and indeed a
desirable witness; for our sagacious sovereign has expressly observed
that 'bairns,' (I believe you call children 'bairns' in Lancashire,
Jennet; your uncouth dialect very much resembles the Scottish language,
in which our learned monarch writes as well as speaks)--'bairns,' says
he, 'or wives, or never so defamed persons, may of our law serve for
sufficient witnesses and proofs; for who but witches can be proofs, and
so witnesses of the doings of witches.'"

"Boh, ey am neaw witch, ey tell ye, mon," cried Jennet, angrily.

"But you're a witch's bairn, my little lassy," replied Potts, "and
that's just as bad, and you'll grow up to be a witch in due time--that
is, if your career be not cut short. I'm sure you must have witnessed
some strange things when you visited your grandmother at Malkin
Tower--that, if I mistake not, is the name of her abode?--and a fearful
and witch-like name it is;--you must have heard frequent mutterings and
curses, spells, charms, and diabolical incantations--beheld strange and
monstrous visions--listened to threats uttered against people who have
afterwards perished unaccountably."

"Ey've heerd an seen nowt o't sort," replied Jennet; "boh ey' han heerd
my mother threaten yo."

"Ah, indeed," cried Potts, forcing a laugh, but looking rather blank
afterwards; "and how did she threaten me, Jennet, eh?--But no matter.
Let that pass for the moment. As I was saying, you must have seen
mysterious proceedings both at Malkin Tower and your own house. A black
gentleman with a club foot must visit you occasionally, and your mother
must, now and then--say once a week--take a fancy to riding on a
broomstick. Are you quite sure you have never ridden on one yourself,
Jennet, and got whisked up the chimney without being aware of it? It's
the common witch conveyance, and said to be very expeditious and
agreeable--but I can't vouch for it myself--ha! ha! Possibly--though you
are rather young--but possibly, I say, you may have attended a witch's
Sabbath, and seen a huge He-Goat, with four horns on his head, and a
large tail, seated in the midst of a large circle of devoted admirers.
If you have seen this, and can recollect the names and faces of the
assembly, it would be highly important."

"When ey see it, ey shanna forget it," replied Jennet. "Boh ey am nah
quite so familiar wi' Owd Scrat os yo seem to suppose."

"Has it ever occurred to you that Alizon might be addicted to these
practices?" pursued Potts, "and that she obtained her extraordinary and
otherwise unaccountable beauty by some magical process--some charm--some
diabolical unguent prepared, as the Lord Keeper of the Privy Seals, the
singularly learned Lord Bacon, declares, from fat of unbaptised babes,
compounded with henbane, hemlock, mandrake, moonshade, and other
terrible ingredients. She could not be so beautiful without some such
aid."

"That shows how little yo knoaw about it," replied Jennet. "Alizon is os
good as she's protty, and dunna yo think to wheedle me into sayin' out
agen her, fo' yo winna do it. Ey'd dee rayther than harm a hure o' her
heaod."

"Very praiseworthy, indeed, my little dear," replied Potts, ironically.
"I honour you for your sisterly affection; but, notwithstanding all
this, I cannot help thinking she has bewitched Mistress Nutter."

"Licker, Mistress Nutter has bewitched her," replied Jennet.

"Then you think Mistress Nutter is a witch, eh?" cried Potts, eagerly.

"Ey'st neaw tell ye what ey think, mon," rejoined Jennet, doggedly.

"But hear me," cried Potts, "I have my own suspicions, also, nay, more
than suspicions."

"If ye're shure, yo dunna want me," said Jennet.

"But I want a witness," pursued Potts, "and if you'll serve as one--"

"Whot'll ye gi' me?" said Jennet.

"Whatever you like," rejoined Potts. "Only name the sum. So you can
prove the practice of witchcraft against Mistress Nutter--eh?"

Jennet nodded. "Wad ye loike to knoa why brother Jem is gone to Pendle
to-neet?" she said.

"Very much, indeed," replied Potts, drawing still nearer to her. "Very
much, indeed."

The little girl was about to speak, but on a sudden a sharp convulsion
agitated her frame; her utterance totally failed her; and she fell back
in the seat insensible.

Very much startled, Potts flew in search of some restorative, and on
doing so, he perceived Mistress Nutter moving away from this part of the
hall.

"She has done it," he cried. "A piece of witchcraft before my very eyes.
Has she killed the child? No; she breathes, and her pulse beats, though
faintly. She is only in a swoon, but a deep and deathlike one. It would
be useless to attempt to revive her; she must come to in her own way, or
at the pleasure of the wicked woman who has thrown her into this
condition. I have now an assured witness in this girl. But I must keep
watch upon Mistress Nutter's further movements."

And he walked cautiously after her.

As Richard had anticipated, his explanation was perfectly satisfactory
to Dorothy; and the young lady, who had suffered greatly from the
restraint she had imposed upon herself, flew to Alizon, and poured
forth excuses, which were as readily accepted as they were freely made.
They were instantly as great friends as before, and their brief
estrangement only seemed to make them dearer to each other. Dorothy
could not forgive herself, and Alizon assured her there was nothing to
be forgiven, and so they took hands upon it, and promised to forget all
that had passed. Richard stood by, delighted with the change, and
wrapped in the contemplation of the object of his love, who, thus
engaged, seemed to him more beautiful than he had ever beheld her.

Towards the close of the evening, while all three were still together.
Nicholas came up and took Richard aside. The squire looked flushed; and
there was an undefined expression of alarm in his countenance.

"What is the matter?" inquired Richard, dreading to hear of some new
calamity.

"Have you not noticed it, Dick?" said Nicholas, in a hollow tone. "The
portrait is gone."

"What portrait?" exclaimed Richard, forgetting the previous
circumstances.

"The portrait of Isole de Heton," returned Nicholas, becoming more
sepulchral in his accents as he proceeded; "it has vanished from the
wall. See and believe."

"Who has taken it down?" cried Richard, remarking that the picture had
certainly disappeared.

"No mortal hand," replied Nicholas. "It has come down of itself. I knew
what would happen, Dick. I told you the fair votaress gave me the _clin
d'oeil_--the wink. You would not believe me then--and now you see your
mistake."

"I see nothing but the bare wall," said Richard.

"But you will see something anon, Dick," rejoined Nicholas, with a
hollow laugh, and in a dismally deep tone. "You will see Isole herself.
I was foolhardy enough to invite her to dance the brawl with me. She
smiled her assent, and winked at me thus--very significantly, I protest
to you--and she will be as good as her word."

"Absurd!" exclaimed Richard.

"Absurd, sayest thou--thou art an infidel, and believest nothing, Dick,"
cried Nicholas. "Dost thou not see that the picture is gone? She will be
here presently. Ha! the brawl is called for--the very dance I invited
her to. She must be in the room now. I will go in search of her. Look
out, Dick. Thou wilt behold a sight presently shall make thine hair
stand on end."

And he moved away with a rapid but uncertain step.

"The potent wine has confused his brain," said Richard. "I must see that
no mischance befalls him."

And, waving his hand to his sister, he followed the squire, who moved
on, staring inquisitively into the countenance of every pretty damsel he
encountered.

Time had flown fleetly with Dorothy and Alizon, who, occupied with each
other, had taken little note of its progress, and were surprised to find
how quickly the hours had gone by. Meanwhile several dances had been
performed; a Morisco, in which all the May-day revellers took part, with
the exception of the queen herself, who, notwithstanding the united
entreaties of Robin Hood and her gentleman-usher, could not be prevailed
upon to join it: a trenchmore, a sort of long country-dance, extending
from top to bottom of the hall, and in which the whole of the rustics
stood up: a galliard, confined to the more important guests, and in
which both Alizon and Dorothy were included, the former dancing, of
course, with Richard, and the latter with one of her cousins, young
Joseph Robinson: and a jig, quite promiscuous and unexclusive, and not
the less merry on that account. In this way, what with the dances, which
were of some duration--the trenchmore alone occupying more than an
hour--and the necessary breathing-time between them, it was on the
stroke of ten without any body being aware of it. Now this, though a
very early hour for a modern party, being about the time when the first
guest would arrive, was a very late one even in fashionable assemblages
at the period in question, and the guests began to think of retiring,
when the brawl, intended to wind up the entertainment, was called. The
highest animation still prevailed throughout the company, for the
generous host had taken care that the intervals between the dances
should be well filled up with refreshments, and large bowls of spiced
wines, with burnt oranges and crabs floating in them, were placed on the
side-table, and liberally dispensed to all applicants. Thus all seemed
destined to be brought to a happy conclusion.

Throughout the evening Alizon had been closely watched by Mistress
Nutter, who remarked, with feelings akin to jealousy and distrust, the
marked predilection exhibited by her for Richard and Dorothy Assheton,
as well as her inattention to her own expressed injunctions in remaining
constantly near them. Though secretly displeased by this, she put a calm
face upon it, and neither remonstrated by word or look. Thus Alizon,
feeling encouraged in the course she had adopted, and prompted by her
inclinations, soon forgot the interdiction she had received. Mistress
Nutter even went so far in her duplicity as to promise Dorothy, that
Alizon should pay her an early visit at Middleton--though inwardly
resolving no such visit should ever take place. However, she now
received the proposal very graciously, and made Alizon quite happy in
acceding to it.

"I would fain have her go back with me to Middleton when I return," said
Dorothy, "but I fear you would not like to part with your newly-adopted
daughter so soon; neither would it be quite fair to rob you of her. But
I shall hold you to your promise of an early visit."

Mistress Nutter replied by a bland smile, and then observed to Alizon
that it was time for them to retire, and that she had stayed on her
account far later than she intended--a mark of consideration duly
appreciated by Alizon. Farewells for the night were then exchanged
between the two girls, and Alizon looked round to bid adieu to Richard,
but unfortunately, at this very juncture, he was engaged in pursuit of
Nicholas. Before quitting the hall she made inquiries after Jennet, and
receiving for answer that she was still in the hall, but had fallen
asleep in a chair at one corner of the side-table, and could not be
wakened, she instantly flew thither and tried to rouse her, but in vain;
when Mistress Nutter, coming up the next moment, merely touched her
brow, and the little girl opened her eyes and gazed about her with a
bewildered look.

"She is unused to these late hours, poor child," said Alizon. "Some one
must be found to take her home."

"You need not go far in search of a convoy," said Potts, who had been
hovering about, and now stepped up; "I am going to the Dragon myself,
and shall be happy to take charge of her."

"You are over-officious, sir," rejoined Mistress Nutter, coldly; "when
we need your assistance we will ask it. My own servant, Simon
Blackadder, will see her safely home."

And at a sign from her, a tall fellow with a dark, scowling countenance,
came from among the other serving-men, and, receiving his instructions
from his mistress, seized Jennet's hand, and strode off with her. During
all this time, Mistress Nutter kept her eyes steadily fixed on the
little girl, who spoke not a word, nor replied even by a gesture to
Alizon's affectionate good-night, retaining her dazed look to the moment
of quitting the hall.

"I never saw her thus before," said Alizon. "What can be the matter with
her?"

"I think I could tell you," rejoined Potts, glancing maliciously and
significantly at Mistress Nutter.

The lady darted an ireful and piercing look at him, which seemed to
produce much the same consequences as those experienced by Jennet, for
his visage instantly elongated, and he sank back in a chair.

"Oh dear!" he cried, putting his hand to his head; "I'm struck all of a
heap. I feel a sudden qualm--a giddiness--a sort of don't-know-
howishness. Ho, there! some aquavitę--or imperial water--or
cinnamon water--or whatever reviving cordial may be at hand. I feel very
ill--very ill, indeed--oh dear!"

While his requirements were attended to, Mistress Nutter moved away with
her daughter; but they had not proceeded far when they encountered
Richard, who, having fortunately descried them, came up to say
good-night.

The brawl, meanwhile, had commenced, and the dancers were whirling
round giddily in every direction, somewhat like the couples in a grand
polka, danced after a very boisterous, romping, and extravagant fashion.

"Who is Nicholas dancing with?" asked Mistress Nutter suddenly.

"Is he dancing with any one?" rejoined Richard, looking amidst the
crowd.

"Do you not see her?" said Mistress Nutter; "a very beautiful woman with
flashing eyes: they move so quickly, that I can scarce discern her
features; but she is habited like a nun."

"Like a nun!" cried Richard, his blood growing chill in his veins. "'Tis
she indeed, then! Where is he?"

"Yonder, yonder, whirling madly round," replied Mistress Nutter.

"I see him now," said Richard, "but he is alone. He has lost his wits to
dance in that strange manner by himself. How wild, too, is his gaze!"

"I tell you he is dancing with a very beautiful woman in the habit of a
nun," said Mistress Nutter. "Strange I should never have remarked her
before. No one in the room is to be compared with her in loveliness--not
even Alizon. Her eyes seem to flash fire, and she bounds like the wild
roe."

"Does she resemble the portrait of Isole de Heton?" asked Richard,
shuddering.

"She does--she does," replied Mistress Nutter. "See! she whirls past us
now."

"I can see no one but Nicholas," cried Richard.

"Nor I," added Alizon, who shared in the young man's alarm.

"Are you sure you behold that figure?" said Richard, drawing Mistress
Nutter aside, and breathing the words in her ear. "If so, it is a
phantom--or he is in the power of the fiend. He was rash enough to
invite that wicked votaress, Isole de Heton, condemned, it is said, to
penal fires for her earthly enormities, to dance with him, and she has
come."

"Ha!" exclaimed Mistress Nutter.

"She will whirl him round till he expires," cried Richard; "I must free
him at all hazards."

"Stay," said Mistress Nutter; "it is I who have been deceived. Now I
look again, I see that Nicholas is alone."

"But the nun's dress--the wondrous beauty--the flashing eyes!" cried
Richard. "You described Isole exactly."

"It was mere fancy," said Mistress Nutter. "I had just been looking at
her portrait, and it dwelt on my mind, and created the image."

"The portrait is gone," cried Richard, pointing to the empty wall.

Mistress Nutter looked confounded.

And without a word more, she took Alizon, who was full of alarm and
astonishment, by the arm, and hurried her out of the hall.

As they disappeared, the young man flew towards Nicholas, whose
extraordinary proceedings had excited general amazement. The other
dancers had moved out of the way, so that free space was left for his
mad gyrations. Greatly scandalised by the exhibition, which he looked
upon as the effect of intoxication, Sir Ralph called loudly to him to
stop, but he paid no attention to the summons, but whirled on with
momently-increasing velocity, oversetting old Adam Whitworth, Gregory,
and Dickon, who severally ventured to place themselves in his path, to
enforce their master's injunctions, until at last, just as Richard
reached him, he uttered a loud cry, and fell to the ground insensible.
By Sir Ralph's command he was instantly lifted up and transported to his
own chamber.

This unexpected and extraordinary incident put an end to the ball, and
the whole of the guests, after taking a respectful and grateful leave of
the host, departed--not in "most admired" disorder, but full of wonder.
By most persons the squire's "fantastical vagaries," as they were
termed, were traced to the vast quantity of wine he had drunk, but a few
others shook their heads, and said he was evidently bewitched, and that
Mother Chattox and Nance Redferne were at the bottom of it. As to the
portrait of Isole de Heton, it was found under the table, and it was
said that Nicholas himself had pulled it down; but this he obstinately
denied, when afterwards taken to task for his indecorous behaviour; and
to his dying day he asserted, and believed, that he had danced the brawl
with Isole de Heton. "And never," he would say, "had mortal man such a
partner."

From that night the two portraits in the banqueting-hall were regarded
with great awe by the inmates of the Abbey.




CHAPTER X.--THE NOCTURNAL MEETING.


On gaining the head of the staircase leading to the corridor, Mistress
Nutter, whose movements had hit