 CHAPTER I. A ROMANCE OF PENDLEFORREST 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 eminence of Boland, the bleak ridges of Thornley, the broad mures of Bleesdale, the trough of Boland, and the woodwork of the Beacon on Pendle Hill in Lancashire. The eminence of Boland, the bleak ridges of Thornley, the broad mures of Bleesdale, the trough of Boland, and Wolf Crag, and even brought within his ken the blackfells overlooking 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 Wayley Abbey. But the watchers' 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 Toddmaddon and settled upon the distant summit of Blackstone Edge. Drury was the prospect on all sides, black moor, bleak fell, ragging 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, Cone, 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 upland, an occasional booth, as the hut of the Herdsmen was termed. But of more important mansions there were only six. Merzley, Twisselton, Allen Coats, Saxfield, Eighton Hill, and Gorthorp. The vacarys for the cattle of which the Herdsmen had the care, and the lawns or parks within the forest appertaining to some of the halls before mentioned, offered the only evidence of cultivation. All else was heathy waste, morass, and wood. Still, in the eye of the sportsmen, 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 whigeon 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 catamountain with a quarrel from his bow. A noglavictim 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 Whaley. The streams and pools were full of fish, the stately heron frequented the mears, 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 archbuses, and wall-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 helbert instead of a mitre, and holding a sword in place of a crozier, 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 Passlew, Abbot of Whaley, 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 comparison 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 looses, the ensign of the Abbot of Whaley, hung by a chain from his neck. A hunting-knife was in his girdle, and an eagle's plume in his cap, and he lent upon the butt-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 Cistercian monks, doubtless from Whaley, as the Abbey belonged to that order. The third and last, and evidently their superior, was a tall man in riding-dress, wrapped in a long mantle of black velvet, trimmed with miniver, 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 watcher 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 faggots 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 spoilation 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 visitors, doctors Lee and Layton, that the insurrection had been undertaken. A simultaneous rising took place in Minkinshire, headed by Macarell, Abbott 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 organised, and of greater force, for it now numbered thirty thousand men, under the command of a skillful 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 Abbott of Barlings, clothed themselves in steel instead of woolen garments, and girded on the sword and the breastplate for the redress of their grievances and the maintenance of their rites. Among these were the Abbott's of Gervaux, Furnace, Fountains, Riveaux, and Sallie, and lastly the Abbott of Whaley, 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 Pontifract had yielded. Skipped and 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 temper eyes, 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 Scours-Billy's brought word that the Duke's sole terms would be the King's pardon to the whole insurgent army, providing they had once dispersed, ten persons, six named and four unnamed. And were you among those named, Lord Abbott? demanded one of the monks. John Passlew, Abbott of Whaley, it was said, headed the list, replied the other with a bitter smile. Next came William Trafford, Abbott of Sallie. Next Adam Sudbury, Abbott of Gervaux. Then our leader, Robert Ask. Then John Eastgate, monk of Whaley. How, Lord Abbott, exclaimed the monk, was my name mentioned? It was, rejoined the Abbott. And that of William Haydock, also monk of Whaley, closed the list. The unrelenting tyrant muttered the other monk, but these terms could not be accepted. Assuredly not, replied Passlew, they were rejected with scorn. But the negotiations were continued by Sir Ralph Ellicor and Sir Robert Bowers, 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 Abbott of Whaley. Nor, 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 Abbott. Observed Father Eastgate. It may be, replied the Abbott. I took it in mockery of Cromwell and the ecclesiastical commissioners, and I rejoiced that they had felt the sting. The Abbott of Barlings called himself Captain Cobbler because, as he affirmed, the State wanted mending like old Shewan, 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 homeless 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 unattended 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 Abbott? replied Father Eastgate. Poverty will not alone be the face of the Church, but of the whole realm if the rapacious designs of the monarch and his heretical counsellors are carried forth, pursued the Abbott. Cromwell, orderly 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 wheat and bread, or eat the flesh of fowl or swine without tribute, and that all proud land shall pay tribute likewise. Thus the Church is to be beggared, the poor plundered, and all men burdened to fatten the King and fill his exchequer. This must be a jest, observed Father Haydock. It is a jest no man laughs at, rejoined the Abbott 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 all have gone wrong? I will not think it. The whole country from the Tweed to the Humber and from the Loon to the Mercy 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 Pasnu fiercely. He will find that our walls have not been crenailed and embattled by license of good King Edward III for nothing, and that our brethren can fight as well as their predecessors fought in the time of Ambrut Holden, when they took tithes by force from Sir Christopher Parsons of Slayburn. 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. The chance the waters of the Don have again risen so as to prevent the army from fording the stream, observed Father Haydock, or it may be that some disaster hath befallen our leader. Nay, I will not believe the latter," said the Abbot. Robert Ask is chosen by heaven to be our deliverer. This has been prophesied that a worm with one eye shall work the redemption of the fallen faith, and you know that Robert Ask 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 and ask 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, had 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. O be thou counted, surely know, remarked the forester, who had been listening attentively to their discourse, and who now stepped forward. But don't know you think it, believe me, Lord Abbot, best Demdike's to young and too prodigal a witch. Thou art bewitched by her thyself, Guthbert, said the Abbot, angrily. I shall impose a penance upon thee, to free thee from the evil influence, thou must recite twenty pattern-ostars daily, fasting for one month, and afterwards perform a pilgrimage to the shrine of our Lady of Gilsland. Best 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. Viz me, I not reap well, Lord Abbot, replied Ashbead, a best text sentence, sorry art. Then let her amend her ways, or heavier punishment will befall her, cried past you severely. Sortilega non-patteris vivieri, sayeth 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. Does 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. I know'st now it about him, Lord Abbot, except he come to Pendle at twelve monogon, replied Ashbead, but I know'st for well that that Tweek-Comblin fellow robbed me at prettiest lass in old Lancashire. Ah, all Englands shuff at matter of that. What manner of man is he? Oh, it's a foe-tack, a very foe-tack, replied Ashbead, with face as black as a bogot, sorty shinier like a mouldy warp, an iron like a spaniel, but for running, rustling, and throwing stone is no match in this country. I tried him at it, three gems, so I could speak. But most part, he's a big black bandy who it with him, and that, mess, I can't help thinking he may as free sometimes with your lordship's books. Ha! this must be looked to. You say you know not whence he comes. It is strange. Miss Manard, girl, boyd, no question in it, not throttle him, replied Ashbead. He owns your weird job or a thwackery staff. When I last see him, he threatened to rattle me bones well. But I soon lord him a peg. We will find a way of making him speak, said the Abbot. He can speak and write 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 can sort, but in a 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. No sooner said than done, cried Ashbead, for Abbot Lord Ariasim stunned him by on Mospur top of the hill. No I getting them there dull only knows. 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 Haydoch. And see, the wizard hath a black hound with him. It may be his wife in that likeness. No, I knowestown reap well, father Haydoch, replied the Forester. It's a scent, dobert, and a wearin' for fox or badget. Oh, laugh there, there were that black bandy with I was spakin' on. I like not the appearance of the nave at this juncture, said the Abbot, yet I wish to confront him and charge him with his misdemeanours. Hark, he sings, cried father Haydoch, and as he spoke a voice was heard chanting. One shall sit at the solemn feast, half warrior, half priest. The greatest there shall be released. The very ditty I heard, cried father Eastgate, but lest he has more of it. And the voice resumed. He shall be rich, yet poor as me, Abbot, an earl of quality. Monk and soldier, rich and poor, He shall be hanged at his own door. Loud derisive laughter followed the song. By our Lady of Whaley, the nave is mucking us, cried the Abbot. Send a bolt to silence him, Guthbert. 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 want to miss thy name, Guthbert, cried the Abbot, with a look of displeasure. Take good heed, thou produce'st this scurril nave before me, when these troubleous times are over. But what's this? He stops. Ha! He is practising his devilry's on the mountainside. It was seen that the Abbot had good warrant for what he said. As Demdike, having paused at a broad green patch on the hillside, 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. Ashby 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. Near along it became quite dark, and as Ashhead did not re-appear, 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 Passview joyfully. Kendalotorch, quick, quick! And as he spoke, he seized a brand and plunged it into a peat-fire, while his example was followed by the two monks. It is the beaker non-blackstone age, cried the Abbot, and look! A second blazes over the Grange of Cleavager, another on Eighton Hill, another on Boolsworth Hill, and the last on this neighbouring heights of Paddyham. 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. Here another minute of the elapsed, similar fires shot up to the right and the left, from the high lands of Troughton Forest, on the jagged points of Fowlridge, on the summit of Cowling Hill, and so on to Skipton. Other fires again blazed on the towers of Clethero, on Longridge and Ribchester, on the woody eminences of Boland, on Wolf Craig, 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 momentarily 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 dispatch two hundred archers to Huddersfield and Wakefield. The abbots of Sally and Gervaux, 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 Abbott. 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 Cuspert Ashveed? I have seen nothing of him, since he sent a bolt after me, as your bidding, Lord Abbott, 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 borrow morning. You will both attend it. You will never set out upon the expedition, Lord Abbott, 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 he will never go forth on this expedition. I tell you that ere tomorrow, Whaley 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 ere shot of the others, and I will tell you. And he led the abbot's horse to some distance further on the hill. Your cause will fail, of Lord Abbott. 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 least to arms. Before an hour five hundred men will be gathered before the gates of Whaley 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 Mount Eagle from Preston. Ha! exclaimed Paslew. Let me go meet them then. But thou triflist with me, fellow. Thou canst know nothing of this. When scots thou thine information. He did 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. Tried 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 Whaley, thou art no longer. Thy possessions will be taken from thee, and if thou returnest thy life also will be taken. If thou fliest, 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 holy in my power! cried Demdike, with a disdainful laugh. And as he spoke, he pressed the large sharp bit against the charge'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 mountainside 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. I defy thee on 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 Bulsworth Hill, and on the Grange of Cleavager, are extinguished. That on Padium Heights is expiring. Nay, it is out, and there are many minutes. All these mountain watchfires will have disappeared, like lamps at the close of a feast. Well, 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 dawn have again risen. The insurgents have accepted the king's pardon, have deserted their leaders, and dispersed. There will be no rising tonight, or on the morrow. The abbots of Gervaux and Sallie will strive to capitulate, but in vain. The pilgrimage of Grace is ended. The stake for which thou pledest is lost. Thirty years hast thou governed here, but thy rule is over. Seventeen abbots have there been of Whaley. 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 paws. 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. Will 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. Veinly thou seeks to cast me off. Rejoin, dem dyke. 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 Braddill and Richard Ascherton. Who shall divide Whaley Abbey between them if thou stast them not? replied dem dyke. I'll consume them, cried the abbot. Thy speech shows consent, rejoined dem dyke. Come this way! And without waiting the abbot's reply, he dragged his horse towards the butt 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 interrupt it, advanced towards their superior, and looked earnestly and inquiring 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 moodyly in the negative. Where are the foes you spoke of? He asked, with some uneasiness, as dem dyke led his horse slowly and carefully down the hillside. You shall see and on, 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 that you should, Lord Abbott, replied dem dyke, 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 Abbott would have demanded wherefore, but at a glance from dem dyke he complied, and two men at arms and the herdsmen arranged themselves beside him, while fathers Eastgate and Haydock, 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 hillside by some form of torrent, and which led directly to the spot where dem dyke and the Abbott 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. End of Chapter 1, Chapter 2 of The Lancashire Witches This Librabox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Andy Minter The Lancashire Witches A Romance of Pendle Forest by William Harrison Ainsworth Introduction The Last Abbott of Whaley Chapter 2 The Eruption Dem dyke 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 those strange preparations, but they did not relax their speed. Once more the staff sank into the ground, and the third black fountain followed its extrication. By this time the royalist soldiers were close at hand, and the features of their two leaders, John Braddill and Richard Asherton, could be plainly distinguished, and their voices heard. "'Tis he? Tis the rebel Abbot!' Versypherated Braddill, pressing forward. We were not misinformed. He has been watching by the beacon. The devil has delivered him into our hands.' "'Ho, ho, laugh, Demdike. Abbot no longer. Tis the earl of poverty you mean,' responded Asherton. The villain shall be jibbited on the spot where he has fired the beacon, as a warning to all traitors. "'Ha, heretics, ah, blasphemers! I cannot least avenge myself upon you!' cried Passlew, 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 hole of the green circle beneath slipped off, and from a yawning rind 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 straggler, world onwards, 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, 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 readied 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. Veinly did he extend his hand to such of his fellows as were swept, shrieking past him, he could not lend the maid, 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 onward 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 porcas and cattle dividing their danger squeal and bellow in a fright, 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 parts 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 downward through this exit, forms a great eddy above, in which swim some living things, cattle and sheep from the foal, 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. Footnote one. A similar eruption occurred at Pendle Hill in August 1669, and has been described by Mr. Charles Townley in a letter cited by Dr. Whittaker in his excellent History of Whaley. Other and more formidable eruptions had taken place previously, occasioning much damage to the country. The cause of the phenomenon is thus explained by Mr. Townley. The colour of the water, it's coming down to the place where it breaks forth between the rock and the earth, with that other particular of its bringing nothing along butt-stones and earth, aren't evident signs that it hath not its origin from the very bowels of the mountain, but that it is only rain-water, coloured first in the moss pits, of which the top of the hill, being a great and considerable plain, is full, shrunk down into some receptacle fit to contain it, until at last, by its weight or by some other cause, it finds a passage to the sides of the hill, and then away between the rock and swath, until it breaks the latter and violently rushes out. The Albert 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 feign 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 Albert and said, Your vengeance has been fully gratified. You will now baptize my child? Never, never, cursed being, shrieked the Albert, 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 Braddill, thy worst enemy, replied Demdike. If he lives, he shall possess half Waley Abbey. Thou hadst best also save Richard Ascherton, 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 Albert. And regardless of the derisive laughter of the other, who yelled in his ears as he went, Best shall see thee hanged at thine own door. He dashed down the hills to a spot where a small object, distinguishable above the stream, showed that someone still kept his head above water, his tall stature having preserved him. Is it you, John Braddill? cried the Albert as he rode up. I 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 Albert, dismounting and disencombering himself of his heavy cloak. By this time the two herdsmen had come up, and the Albert, 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, Braddill 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 Albert and his assistant, and with some difficulty dragged ashore. Now for the other, cried Paslew, as he placed Braddill in safety. One half of 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 Asherton rested. The latter was in great danger from the surging torrent, and the stone on which he had taken refuge tottered at his base, and threatened to roll over. In heaven's name help me, Lord Albert, as thou thyself shall be hoping at thy need! shrieked Asherton. Be not afraid, Richard Asherton, replied Paslew, I will deliver thee, as I have delivered John Braddill. 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 Asherton. 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 Asherton'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 Asherton 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 succor. In this way they were born 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, Asherton 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. Will thou baptize 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 sound 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 looses of whaley, and with panels hung with tapestry from the looms of Flanders representing diverse scriptural subjects. Ah, 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? I, I am appointed to watch thee, replied Demdike. Thou art a prisoner in thine own chamber at Whaley. 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 Abbot's of Gervaux and Sallie, have been conveyed to Lancaster Castle. Wither 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. A tainted of felony, thy lands and Abbey will be forfeited to the crown, and they shall be sold, as I have told thee, to John Braddell and Richard Ascherton, who will be rulers here in thy stead. Would I had perished in the flood, groaned the Abbot. Well mayest thou wish, though, 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 the features are like his, though changed greatly. Who art thou? Thou shalt know before thou dyest, replied the other, with the 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. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of The Lancashire Witches This LibriBox recording is in the public domain, reading by Andy Minter. The Lancashire Witches A Romance of Pendle Forest by William Harrison Ainsworth Introduction The Last Abbot of Whaley Chapter 3 Whaley Abbey A sad, sad change hath come over the fair Abbey of Whaley. It knoweth its old masters no longer. For upwards of two centuries and a half, hath the blessed place grown in beauty and riches. Seventeen Abbot's have exercised unbounded hospitality within it, but now they are all gone, save one, and he is a tainted of felony and treason. The grave-monk walketh no more in the cloisters, nor seeketh his pallet in the dormitory. Vesper or Matinsong resound not as of old within the fine conventional church. Strict are the altars of their silver crosses, and the shrines of their votive offerings and saintly relics. Picks and chalice, durable and vile, 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 Whaley Abbey. The libraries, well stocked with reverent 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 missile, 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 high 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 roistering troopers. The rich muskadel and mornsey, 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 robe, ecclesiastics, but with an armed earl and his retainers. Neglected is the little oratory dedicated to our Lady of Whaley, where night and morn the abbot used to pray. All the old religious and hospitable uses of the abbot are foregone. The reverent 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 Whaley 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 feign, its external beauty is yet unimpaired, and its vast proportions undiminished. A stately pile was Whaley, one of the loveliest, as well as the largest in the realm, carefully had it been preserved by its reverent 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 Whaley 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 conventional church, and died with rainbow hues the marble tombs of the laces, the founders of the establishment, brought thither when the monastery was removed from stand-law in Cheshire, and upon the brass covered gravestones of the abbots in the presbytery. There lay Gregory de Northbury, eighth abbot of stand-law and first of Whaley, and William Reed, 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 worshiped, upreared by sacrilegious hands. But all was bright and beautyous 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 Abbott'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 cauldron dashing merrily over the stones at its base. But upon the bridge, and by the riverside, 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 Cistercian 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 Abbott. 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 roughingly archibusia would have been drowned in the colder, but for the exertions to save him of a monk whom he had attacked. This took place on the 11th 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 Abbott, Pasnu, and Fathers Eastgate and Haydock, 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 Abbott's lodgings, called the whole houses, whose rounded, bosomy beauty it completely destroyed. This terrible apparatus of condyne 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 freeze doublet and hose with a short camelock cloak on his shoulder, and a fox-skin cap embellished with the grinning jaws of the beast on his head. There, Rutter to Roaves, he observed to a bystander, that's a fear for sight that gallows, who hadn't been up to all houses to take a look at it be like. No, no, I don't like such sights, replied Rutter to Roaves. Beside, there were a great rabble-mant again, one of them lunger's archerchaps knocked the up-nobwee back, and told me he'd only with doublet if I didn't keep out at way, and served her out to the cruddenly girl, cried Ashbead, doubling his horny fists. Odds flesh, why didn't you have a dussle with him? My aunts are itching for a bout with derritic robbers. Well, a day, well, a day, that we should live to see toly fathers driven like umbobwees out at your nests. Why, they're saying that King Ariad declared the way to her no more, monk, surprised he all Englandshire. Only think of that, and don't you know that Tabots of Gervaux and Sallie were hunged on Thysdale at Lancaster Castle? Good Lord, just bless us, exclaimed a sturdy hind. We in the Brutty King, firstly chops off his right head, and then hungs our priests. What a quirk come to! Eh, bad mess, what, when it come to? cried Ruchiter Rhoafs. But we den her up and now her mouse, for fear of a gog. No, belovedie, but I stop and mine wide enough, cried Ashbead, and if a dozen of your chops would join me, I won't try to set poor Albert Frey when they bring him here. I'd asleaf bad till to-morrow, said Ruchiter Rhoafs uneasily. Eh, thou art a timbersome tyke as I told to before, replied Ashbead. But what dost thou say, Alan Abbs? He added to the sturdy hind, who had recently spoken. I, and spilt, last drop of my blood, ain't told Albert Scores, replied Alan Abbs. We winners stand by and see him honk like a dog. Albert Paslute at rescue, lads! Ah, Albert Paslute at rescue! responded all the others, except Ruchiter Rhoafs. This must be prevented, muttered a voice near them, and immediately afterwards a tall man quitted the group. What word it spelt? cried Alan Abbs. Oh, I seen that he which, Nick Demdak! Nick Demdak here! cried Ashbead, looking round in alarm, as he o'eared us. Like a now! replied Alan Abbs. Well, I didn't mind him before. No, I neither! cried Ruchiter Rhoafs, crossing himself and spitting on the ground. Oh, Lady O'Waley, shield us from forelock! Talking a Nick Demdak! cried Alan Abbs. The older strange adventure we omit, neath a great brass-dependal ill and your goth, but… Yeah, to Phillips tack him if I hadn't, replied Ashbead. Dastier all about if, if well. I was sent by Tabard down till though in a gab's of Perkins and Annals and Noll's own Frise Orchard, the Worcester Lane, to look after him. Well, when I get so at Stonewall, what, don't you think I see? Twenty or thirty pikemen, standing me at it, and their dashes at me as thick as a sleeter, and I thought I could roar out, they blindfolded me and clapped an iron gog in me mouth. Well, I couldn't neither speak nor see, but I can use me feet, so I pounced his atom-reason left by my dross lads. You'd have liked to hear how they wrought, but I should wrought, too, if I couldn't, when they began to thwack me with their rattling pearls, and dinged me so out about the head that I felt back here swooned. When I come to, I will line on my back in Remington Moor. Every bone in me I'd wracked, and me ere were clotted we'd go, but deep on the gag were gone, so I'll get to my feet, and dandles along as well as I can, but all at once I spied a leaf glinting for me, and I'd dance in about like an awful will of the wisp. Thinks I that's for our rush and his lantern, and he'll lead me into a quagmire, so I stops a bit to consider where I had gotten, though I didn't know it re-rolled exactly, but when I stood still, its leaf stood still, too, and then I made out if it come from an old ruined tower, and while I'd fancy were one lantern for over twenty, for when I reached out and peeped in through a broken window, I beheld a seat I'd never get a pack of witches, ah, witches, sitting in the ring with their broomsticks, and lanterns about them. God, gorgeous days, cried Helen Abbs, and what else did Susseam on? Why, replied Ashbeed, toad-hacks had a little figure at midst of them, moulded the clay, representing Tabata Whaley, and knold it by it mighter and crossier, and after each environment had stuck a pin in its heart, a tall black morn stepped forward, and teed a cord round its throttle and oaked it up, and black man, cried Helen Abbs breathlessly, and the black morn were Nick Dendak. Yorn guessed it, replied Ashbeed, toad-hacks, our so gloppant I couldn't speak, and my blood froze in my veins, when I heard a fearful voice ask Nick where his wife and tilt were. The infant is unbaptised, brought voice, at the next meeting it must be sacrificed, see that thou bring it. Dendak, then bound to summit I couldn't see, and acts went next meeting were to be held. On the night of Abbott-Passlew's execution, answered Royce, on hearing this I could bear no longer, but shouted out, which is devils, Lord, deliver us from you, and as I spoke I tried to burst through the window. In the trice, old leaps went out, there were a great rush that thou were, a whir in and round the air like a cove of partridges fleeing off, and then I heard no more, for a great stone fell on me sconce and knocked me down senseless. When I come to, I were in Nick Dendak's cottage, with his wife waiting o'er me, and the unbaptised chilled in their 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 Chatburn and Chester, late verses of the abbey. Alack, alack, they now need the charity themselves, which they once so lavishly bestowed on others. Where's May, ejaculated Ashbeed? Money abroad may, cos I had gotten from them. They've been kind to us all, added the others. Next come Father Burnley, Ranger, and Father Howarth, Cellarer, pursued the monk, and after them Father Dinkley, Satchriston, and Father Moor, Porter. Y'all remember Father Moor, lads? cried Ashbeed. Yey, to be sure we done, replied the others. A good man, a great good man, he never sent away poor, no way. After Father Moor, said the monk, pleased with their warmth, comes Father Forrest, the procurator, with fathers Reed, Clough, and Bancroft, and the procession is closed by Father Smith, the late prior. Down are ye Whirliborn's lad as Dollyfader's bus, cried Ashbeed, and craved 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 hand over the kneeling group, cried in a solemn voice, Heaven bless ye, my children, you 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. But we set him free only prior, cried Ashbeed. We made up our minds to it, you just wait till he comes. Nay, my command you to desist from the attempt. If any such, you meditate, rejoin 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 is shewed a dozen archibosiers, with an officer at their head, who marched directly towards the kneeling hines, evidently with the intention of dispersing them. Behind them strode Nicholas Demdike. In an instant the alarmed rustics were on their feet, and Roger de Roefs, and some few among them, took to their heels. But Ashbeed, Hal and Abbs, with half a dozen others, stood their ground manfully. The monks remained in the hope of preventing any violence. Presently the halberdeers came up. That is the ringleader, cried the officer, who proved to be Richard Asherton, pointing out Ashbeed, sees him. No, mon chaleons on me! cried Cuthbert, and as the guard pushed past the monks to execute their leader's order, he sprang forward, and resting a halberd from the foremost of them stood upon his defense. Sees him, I say! shouted Asherton, irritated at the resistance offered. Cape off! cried Ashbeed. Your best! Like a staggered bear, I'm dangerous! Where on's I say? The archibusiers looked irresolute. It was evident Ashbeed 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. Maybe I will be prior. Rejoined Ashbeed, flourishing the pike. But I shall only yield with my life. I will disarm him, cried Demdike, stepping forward. There retorted Ashbeed with a scornful laugh. Come on, then! I'd store the fainzy elder back. I shouldn't have fear thee. Yield! cried Demdike in a voice of thunder, and fixing a terrible glance upon him. Come on, wizard! rejoined Ashbeed, undauntedly. But observing that his opponent was wholly unarmed, he gave the pike to Helen Abbs, who was close beside him, observing, it shall never be said that Cuthbert Ashbeed fought to duel himself unfairly. Now, touch me if thou dost. Demdike required no further provocation, with almost supernatural force and quickness. He sprang upon the forester and seized him by the throat. But the active young man freed himself from the grip and closed with his assailant. But though of herculean build, it soon became evident that Ashbeed would have the worst of it, when Helen Abbs, 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 halberd. 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 Ashbeed, who instantly fell to the ground with his adversary upon him. The next instant his hold relaxed, and the wizard sprang to his feet unarmed, but deluged in blood. Helen Abbs 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 archivacias, and his hands tied behind his back with a thong, while Ashbeed was lifted up and born 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 lodgings, a female with a child in her arms was seen approaching 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 curtain was a murry-coloured surge, simply but becomingly fashioned. A glance sufficed to show her how matters stood with poor Ashbeed. An uttering a sharp, angry cry she rushed forward. 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. I forgot there is no one there now. Father Mankroft is at the gate. Observed one of the archibosiers. He used to act as surgeon at the Abbey. Now Mank must enter the gate, equip the prisoners when they arrive. Observed Ashton. 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 service, thou shalt lose me and thy child. Demdike did not think it proper to contest the point, but approaching Ashton requested that the wounded man might be conveyed to an arch recess which he pointed out. Ascent being given, Ashbeed was taken there, and placed upon the ground, after which the archibosiers and their leader marched off. While Bess, kneeling down, supported the head of the wounded man upon her knee. And Demdike, taking a small file from his doublet, poured some of its contents down his throat. The wizard then took a fold of linen, with which he was likewise provided, and dipping it in the elixir, a prided to the wound. In a few moments Ashbeed 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. Oh, so will be me, Bess, he groaned. But I had rather deed thus with thee beside me than any other way. Hush! exclaimed Bess, Nicholas is here. Oh, I see! replied the wounded man, looking round. Though what matters it, Ashbeed gone soon. Oh, Bess, dear lass, if thou'dst promise to break thy compact wisset, and to repent and save thy precious soul, I should take and send. Oh, do not talk thus! cried Bess. You will soon be well again. Listen to me, continued Ashbeed, earnestly. Doesn't I know that if thy babe veneer baptised the foot of Manonite, it'll be sacrificed at Prince of Darkness. Go to so much dollyfathers, confess thy sins, and implore Evans' forgiveness. May I help thou, saith thee, and thy infant. And be warned as a witch! rejoined Bess fiercely. It is useless, Kath, but I have tried them all. I have knelt to them, implored them, but their hearts are as hard as flints. They will not heed me. They will not disobey the abbot's cruel injunction, though he be their superior no longer. But I shall be avenged on him, terribly avenged. Save me, thou wicked woman! cried Ashbeed. I don't wish to hear thee no more. Let me day peace. Thou wilt not die, I tell thee, Kath, but cried Bess. Nicholas hath staunched thy wound. Is staunched, it says, thou? cried Ashbeed, rising. I never owe my life 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 shall not touch me! cried Ashbeed, struggling and increasing the effusion. Gave him off! I had joy at thee! Farewell, Bess! he added, sinking back utterly exhausted by the effort. Guthbert! screamed Bess, terrified by his looks. Guthbert, art thou really dying? Look at me! speak to me! She cried, as if seized by a sudden idea. They say the blessing of a dying man will avail. Bless my child, Guthbert! bless it! Give it to 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 forever 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 Abbott and 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. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of The Lancashire Witches This Librabox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Andy Minter The Lancashire Witches A Romance of Pendle Forest by William Harrison Ainsworth Introduction The Last Abbott of Whaley Chapter 4 The Malediction The captive Ecclesiastics, together with the strong escort by which they were attended, under the command of John Braddill, the high sheriff of the county, had passed the previous night at Whitwell, in Bowland Forest. And the Abbott, 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 the 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 the pebbly bed, and recalling times when, free from all care, he had strayed by the wood-fringed banks, to listen to the pleasant sound of running waters, and to 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 mitten, he came in sight of Whaley Abbey. Then, collecting all his energies, he prepared for the shock he was about to endure. But, nervous 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. 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 devour wolves. Bless ye, my children, and be comforted. Think of the end of Abbott past you, and for what he suffered. Think that he was authority to the king, and took up arms in a 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. Merma's arose at this speech, but they were instantly checked by the escort. Think, charitably, of me, my children, said the Abbott, and the blessed virgin keep you steadfast in your faith. Benedicte. Be silent, traitor! I command thee! cried the sheriff, striking him with his gauntlet in the face. The Abbott's pale cheek burnt crimson, and his eye flashed fire, but he controlled himself, and answered meekly. Thou didst not speak in such wise, John Braddill, 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 or nor else thou deservest death for thy evil doings on that night. The Abbott made no reply, for Braddill's illusion 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 northeast gateway of the Abbey, passing through crowds of kneeling and sorrowing bystanders, but so deeply was the Abbott engrossed by the one dread idea that possessed him, that he saw them not, and scarce heard their woeful 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 Pasley 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 up close to the mule on which Pasley was mounted, and pointing to the gigantic gallows looming above the Abbey walls. Wilt thou now exceed to my request? And then he added, significantly, on the same terms as before. The Abbott 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 dither fell and death thou meritest, cried Bess fiercely, and I will glut mine eyes with a spectacle. It sensed beyond endurance. The Abbott 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 eromites, who dwelt in solitudes, in mountains and in caverns, by the holy martyrs, who suffered torture and death for their faith, I curse thee, which, cried Pasley, may the malediction of heaven and all its hosts, a light on the head of thy infant. O holy Abbott! shriek Bess, breaking from her husband, and flinging herself at Pasley'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 Abbott. I have pronounced the dread anathema, and it cannot be recalled. Look at the dripping garments of thy child! In blood it has been baptised, and through bloodstained paths shall its course be taken. Ah! shriek Bess! Noticing for the first time the ensanguine condition of the infant's attire. Cuthbert's blood! Oh! Lesson to me, wicked woman! pursued the Abbott, 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 Abbott, and children's children. But they shall be a race doomed and accursed, a brood of adors that the world shall flee from and crush. A thing accursed and shunned by her fellows shall thy daughters be, evil reputed and evil doing. No hand to help her, no lip to bless her, life of 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. Dendite caught the child ere she fell. Thou hast killed her! he cried to the Abbott. A stronger voice than mine hath spoken, if it be so. Rejoined Paslew. Fou je mis edime, fou je malifite, qui adjudiate, sirates. At this moment the trumpet again sounded, and the cavalcade being put in motion the Abbott 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 Whaley on the occasion of conferences or elections. The Earl was surrounded by his officers, and the chamber was filled with armed men. The Abbott slowly advanced towards the Earl. His deportment was dignified and firm, ever majestic. The exaltation of spirit, occasioned by the interview with Dendite 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 Passlew, some time Abbott of Whaley, but now an attainted and condemned felon, and John Eastgate and William Haydock, formerly brethren of the same monastery, and confederates with him in crime, ye have heard your doom. Tomorrow 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 Poecent King, Henry VIII, and free him from all traitors! cried the clock. We humbly thank his majesty for his clemency, said the Abbott, amid the profound silence that ensued, and 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, among which is chiefly that of having taken 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 any ways profit it. Amen! exclaimed Father Eastgate, who stood with his hands crossed upon his breast, close behind past you, the Abbott had said my sentiments. He hath not uttered mine, cried Father Haydock. 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, though I'll traitor shall be dealt with as he merits. For you, he added, as the order was obeyed, and dressing the other prisoners, and especially you, John Pasture, 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 Abbott reflected for a moment. Speak thou, John Eastgate, said the Earl of Derby, seeing that the Abbott was occupied in thought. If I may proffer a request, my lord, replied the monk, it is that our poor distraught brother, William Haydock, respaired 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 Pasture, what wouldst thou? Thus addressed, the Abbott looked up. I would have made the same request as my brother, John Eastgate, if he had not anticipated me, my lord, said Pasture. 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 dither 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 these walls. They shall have all required for the ceremonial. Heaven's blessings on you, my lord, said the Abbott. 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 Abbott earnestly, and also I swear it, added Father Eastgate. Enough, said the Earl, I will give the necessary 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 Abbott was conveyed to his old chamber, which had been prepared for his reception, and there left alone. End of Chapter 4, Chapter 5 of The Lancashire Witches This Librabox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Andy Mentor The Lancashire Witches A Romance of Pendle Forest by William Harrison Ainsworth Introduction The Last Abbott of Whaley Chapter 5 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 told 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 it is to hear that knell. Sad to view those gloriously dyed pains, 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 myry and scarce passable roads. Others have come down from the hills and forwarded 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 well now 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 choiristers, 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 halberdeers, 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 St. 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 gray 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 gross sleep 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 neighboring 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 beers, covered with pours, are borne slowly toward 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 reverent 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 Pasibo. The abbot and his fellow captives brought up the rear, with a guard on either side of them. All souls bell, told 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 Braddell and Asherton. 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 peeled forth the depera fundis. 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 last 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 diapacens 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. Aye, the last! Death could have no pang like this. And with heart well night 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 chancell, 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 beers. 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 has gone to her account before him. The malediction he had pronounced upon her child had killed her. Appalled he turned to the other beer, and recognized 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 Cistercian habit, standing between the bodies, with the cow drawn over his face. As Paslew gazed at him, the monk slowly raised his hood, and partially disclosed features that smoked the habit as if he had beheld a scepter. 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 habit 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 burned 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. This 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 D'Aziere, and their voices thundered forth. The rector in thy manor start his quees of un nostril as gratis. Halame font it ha-tis. Fane 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 on 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 that 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. La cremoso diaz illa, quare so je nexfavila, giudicandos homoreos, fui che go pareteos, fie ce giudominei donnarei trequiem. Amen, exclaimed the abbot. Unbowing his head to the ground, he earnestly repeated, fie giudominei donnarei trequiem. Then he looked up, and resolved to ask for a confessor, and unburdened his soul without delay. The offertory and post-communion were over. The requiescat in parquet, awful words addressed to living ears, were pronounced, and the mass was ended. All prepared to depart. The prier 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 to your satisfaction, John Fastlew?' demanded the Earl, as he drew near. "'Or, my good Lord,' replied the abbot, slowly 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 Fastlew. "'But a whole life is scarcely long enough for repentance, much less a few short hours. "'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 so,' 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 Whaley. 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 Lindley, fifth abbot, and beside him his immediate predecessor, Robert de Topcliff, who two hundred and thirty years ago, on the festival St. Gregory, our canonised abbot, commenced the erection of the sacred edifice above us. And at epoch were here enshrined the remains of the St. Gregory, and here were also brought the bodies of Haley Astor Workersley 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 and brass.' "'Well,' said the Earl of Derby. "'When I sat in that stall, my Lord,' pursued past you, 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, where you will die an attented felon and rebel. You can have no place among them. Concern not yourself further in the matter. I will find a fitting grave for you.' But chance 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 told one. The lights were extinguished, and of the priestly train who had recently thronged the fain, all were gone. Like a troupe of ghosts, he voked at midnight by necromanic skill, and then suddenly dismissed. Deep silence again brooded in the aisles. Hushed was the organ, and 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 beers within the adjoining chapel, whose stark burdens they quickened into fearful semblance of life.