CHAPTER I.--FLINT.

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[Illustration: NICHOLAS ASSHETON AND THE THREE DOLL WANGOS LEAVING

HOGHTON HALL.]

THE LANCASHIRE WITCHES.

A Romance of Pendle Forest.

By

William Harrison Ainsworth, Esq.

_Sir Jeffery_.--Is there a justice in Lancashire has so much

skill in witches as I have? Nay, I'll speak a proud word; you

shall turn me loose against any Witch-finder in Europe. I'd

make an ass of Hopkins if he were alive.--SHADWELL.

Third Edition.

Illustrated by John Gilbert.

London:

George Routledge & Co., Farringdon Street.

1854.

To

James Crossley, Esq.,

(of Manchester,)

President of the Chetham Society,

And the Learned Editor Of

"The Discoverie of Witches in the County of Lancaster,"--

The groundwork of the following pages,--

This Romance,

undertaken at his suggestion,

is inscribed

by his old, and sincerely attached friend,

The Author.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION.

The Last Abbot of Whalley.

I. THE BEACON ON PENDLE HILL

II. THE ERUPTION

III. WHALLEY ABBEY

IV. THE MALEDICTION

V. THE MIDNIGHT MASS

VI. TETER ET FORTIS CARCER

VII. THE ABBEY MILL

VIII. THE EXECUTIONER

IX. WISWALL HALL

X. THE HOLEHOUSES

BOOK THE FIRST.

Alizon Device.

I. THE MAY QUEEN

II. THE BLACK CAT AND THE WHITE DOVE

III. THE ASSHETONS

IV. ALICE NUTTER

V. MOTHER CHATTOX

VI. THE ORDEAL BY SWIMMING

VII. THE RUINED CONVENTUAL CHURCH

VIII. THE REVELATION

IX. THE TWO PORTRAITS IN THE BANQUETING-HALL

X. THE NOCTURNAL MEETING

BOOK THE SECOND.

Pendle Forest.

I. FLINT

II. READ HALL

III. THE BOGGART'S GLEN

IV. THE REEVE OF THE FOREST

V. BESS'S O' TH' BOOTH

VI. THE TEMPTATION

VII. THE PERAMBULATION OF THE BOUNDARIES

VIII. ROUGH LEE

IX. HOW ROUGH LEE WAS DEFENDED BY NICHOLAS

X. ROGER NOWELL AND HIS DOUBLE

XI. MOTHER DEMDIKE

XII. THE MYSTERIES OF MALKIN TOWER

XIII. THE TWO FAMILIARS

XIV. HOW ROUGH LEE WAS AGAIN BESIEGED

XV. THE PHANTOM MONK

XVI. ONE O'CLOCK!

XVII. HOW THE BEACON FIRE WAS EXTINGUISHED

BOOK THE THIRD.

Hoghton Tower.

I. DOWNHAM MANOR-HOUSE

II. THE PENITENT'S RETREAT

III. MIDDLETON HALL

IV. THE GORGE OF CLIVIGER

V. THE END OF MALKIN TOWER

VI. HOGHTON TOWER

VII. THE ROYAL DECLARATION CONCERNING LAWFUL SPORTS ON THE SUNDAY

VIII. HOW KING JAMES HUNTED THE HART AND THE WILD-BOAR IN HOGHTON

PARK

IX. THE BANQUET

X. EVENING ENTERTAINMENTS

XI. FATALITY

XII. THE LAST HOUR

XIII. THE MASQUE OF DEATH

XIV. "ONE GRAVE"

XV. LANCASTER CASTLE

INTRODUCTION.

The Last Abbot of Whalley.

CHAPTER I.--THE BEACON ON PENDLE HILL.

There were eight watchers by the beacon on Pendle Hill in Lancashire.

Two were stationed on either side of the north-eastern extremity of the

mountain. One looked over the castled heights of Clithero; the woody

eminences of Bowland; the bleak ridges of Thornley; the broad moors of

Bleasdale; the Trough of Bolland, and Wolf Crag; and even brought within

his ken the black fells overhanging Lancaster. The other tracked the

stream called Pendle Water, almost from its source amid the neighbouring

hills, and followed its windings through the leafless forest, until it

united its waters to those of the Calder, and swept on in swifter and

clearer current, to wash the base of Whalley Abbey. But the watcher's

survey did not stop here. Noting the sharp spire of Burnley Church,

relieved against the rounded masses of timber constituting Townley Park;

as well as the entrance of the gloomy mountain gorge, known as the

Grange of Cliviger; his far-reaching gaze passed over Todmorden, and

settled upon the distant summits of Blackstone Edge.

Dreary was the prospect on all sides. Black moor, bleak fell, straggling

forest, intersected with sullen streams as black as ink, with here and

there a small tarn, or moss-pool, with waters of the same hue--these

constituted the chief features of the scene. The whole district was

barren and thinly-populated. Of towns, only Clithero, Colne, and

Burnley--the latter little more than a village--were in view. In the

valleys there were a few hamlets and scattered cottages, and on the

uplands an occasional "booth," as the hut of the herdsman was termed;

but of more important mansions there were only six, as Merley,

Twistleton, Alcancoats, Saxfeld, Ightenhill, and Gawthorpe. The

"vaccaries" for the cattle, of which the herdsmen had the care, and the

"lawnds," or parks within the forest, appertaining to some of the halls

before mentioned, offered the only evidences of cultivation. All else

was heathy waste, morass, and wood.

Still, in the eye of the sportsman--and the Lancashire gentlemen of the

sixteenth century were keen lovers of sport--the country had a strong

interest. Pendle forest abounded with game. Grouse, plover, and bittern

were found upon its moors; woodcock and snipe on its marshes; mallard,

teal, and widgeon upon its pools. In its chases ranged herds of deer,

protected by the terrible forest-laws, then in full force: and the

hardier huntsman might follow the wolf to his lair in the mountains;

might spear the boar in the oaken glades, or the otter on the river's

brink; might unearth the badger or the fox, or smite the fierce

cat-a-mountain with a quarrel from his bow. A nobler victim sometimes,

also, awaited him in the shape of a wild mountain bull, a denizen of the

forest, and a remnant of the herds that had once browsed upon the hills,

but which had almost all been captured, and removed to stock the park of

the Abbot of Whalley. The streams and pools were full of fish: the

stately heron frequented the meres; and on the craggy heights built the

kite, the falcon, and the kingly eagle.

There were eight watchers by the beacon. Two stood apart from the

others, looking to the right and the left of the hill. Both were armed

with swords and arquebuses, and wore steel caps and coats of buff. Their

sleeves were embroidered with the five wounds of Christ, encircling the

name of Jesus--the badge of the Pilgrimage of Grace. Between them, on

the verge of the mountain, was planted a great banner, displaying a

silver cross, the chalice, and the Host, together with an ecclesiastical

figure, but wearing a helmet instead of a mitre, and holding a sword in

place of a crosier, with the unoccupied hand pointing to the two towers

of a monastic structure, as if to intimate that he was armed for its

defence. This figure, as the device beneath it showed, represented John

Paslew, Abbot of Whalley, or, as he styled himself in his military

capacity, Earl of Poverty.

There were eight watchers by the beacon. Two have been described. Of the

other six, two were stout herdsmen carrying crooks, and holding a couple

of mules, and a richly-caparisoned war-horse by the bridle. Near them

stood a broad-shouldered, athletic young man, with the fresh complexion,

curling brown hair, light eyes, and open Saxon countenance, best seen in

his native county of Lancaster. He wore a Lincoln-green tunic, with a

bugle suspended from the shoulder by a silken cord; and a silver plate

engraved with the three luces, the ensign of the Abbot of Whalley, hung

by a chain from his neck. A hunting knife was in his girdle, and an

eagle's plume in his cap, and he leaned upon the but-end of a crossbow,

regarding three persons who stood together by a peat fire, on the

sheltered side of the beacon. Two of these were elderly men, in the

white gowns and scapularies of Cistertian monks, doubtless from Whalley,

as the abbey belonged to that order. The third and last, and evidently

their superior, was a tall man in a riding dress, wrapped in a long

mantle of black velvet, trimmed with minever, and displaying the same

badges as those upon the sleeves of the sentinels, only wrought in

richer material. His features were strongly marked and stern, and bore

traces of age; but his eye was bright, and his carriage erect and

dignified.

The beacon, near which the watchers stood, consisted of a vast pile of

logs of timber, heaped upon a circular range of stones, with openings to

admit air, and having the centre filled with fagots, and other quickly

combustible materials. Torches were placed near at hand, so that the

pile could be lighted on the instant.

The watch was held one afternoon at the latter end of November, 1536. In

that year had arisen a formidable rebellion in the northern counties of

England, the members of which, while engaging to respect the person of

the king, Henry VIII., and his issue, bound themselves by solemn oath to

accomplish the restoration of Papal supremacy throughout the realm, and

the restitution of religious establishments and lands to their late

ejected possessors. They bound themselves, also, to punish the enemies

of the Romish church, and suppress heresy. From its religious character

the insurrection assumed the name of the Pilgrimage of Grace, and

numbered among its adherents all who had not embraced the new doctrines

in Yorkshire and Lancashire. That such an outbreak should occur on the

suppression of the monasteries, was not marvellous. The desecration and

spoliation of so many sacred structures--the destruction of shrines and

images long regarded with veneration--the ejection of so many

ecclesiastics, renowned for hospitality and revered for piety and

learning--the violence and rapacity of the commissioners appointed by

the Vicar-General Cromwell to carry out these severe measures--all these

outrages were regarded by the people with abhorrence, and disposed them

to aid the sufferers in resistance. As yet the wealthier monasteries in

the north had been spared, and it was to preserve them from the greedy

hands of the visiters, Doctors Lee and Layton, that the insurrection had

been undertaken. A simultaneous rising took place in Lincolnshire,

headed by Makarel, Abbot of Barlings, but it was speedily quelled by the

vigour and skill of the Duke of Suffolk, and its leader executed. But

the northern outbreak was better organized, and of greater force, for it

now numbered thirty thousand men, under the command of a skilful and

resolute leader named Robert Aske.

As may be supposed, the priesthood were main movers in a revolt having

their especial benefit for its aim; and many of them, following the

example of the Abbot of Barlings, clothed themselves in steel instead of

woollen garments, and girded on the sword and the breastplate for the

redress of their grievances and the maintenance of their rights. Amongst

these were the Abbots of Jervaux, Furness, Fountains, Rivaulx, and

Salley, and, lastly, the Abbot of Whalley, before mentioned; a fiery and

energetic prelate, who had ever been constant and determined in his

opposition to the aggressive measures of the king. Such was the

Pilgrimage of Grace, such its design, and such its supporters.

Several large towns had already fallen into the hands of the insurgents.

York, Hull, and Pontefract had yielded; Skipton Castle was besieged, and

defended by the Earl of Cumberland; and battle was offered to the Duke

of Norfolk and the Earl of Shrewsbury, who headed the king's forces at

Doncaster. But the object of the Royalist leaders was to temporise, and

an armistice was offered to the rebels and accepted. Terms were next

proposed and debated.

During the continuance of this armistice all hostilities ceased; but

beacons were reared upon the mountains, and their fires were to be taken

as a new summons to arms. This signal the eight watchers expected.

Though late in November, the day had been unusually fine, and, in

consequence, the whole hilly ranges around were clearly discernible, but

now the shades of evening were fast drawing on.

"Night is approaching," cried the tall man in the velvet mantle,

impatiently; "and still the signal comes not. Wherefore this delay? Can

Norfolk have accepted our conditions? Impossible. The last messenger

from our camp at Scawsby Lees brought word that the duke's sole terms

would be the king's pardon to the whole insurgent army, provided they at

once dispersed--except ten persons, six named and four unnamed."

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

monks.

"John Paslew, Abbot of Whalley, it was said, headed the list," replied

the other, with a bitter smile. "Next came William Trafford, Abbot of

Salley. Next Adam Sudbury, Abbot of Jervaux. Then our leader, Robert

Aske. Then John Eastgate, Monk of Whalley--"

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

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

of Whalley, closed the list."

"The unrelenting tyrant!" muttered the other monk. "But these terms

could not be accepted?"

"Assuredly not," replied Paslew; "they were rejected with scorn. But the

negotiations were continued by Sir Ralph Ellerker and Sir Robert Bowas,

who were to claim on our part a free pardon for all; the establishment

of a Parliament and courts of justice at York; the restoration of the

Princess Mary to the succession; the Pope to his jurisdiction; and our

brethren to their houses. But such conditions will never be granted.

With my consent no armistice should have been agreed to. We are sure to

lose by the delay. But I was overruled by the Archbishop of York and the

Lord Darcy. Their voices prevailed against the Abbot of Whalley--or, if

it please you, the Earl of Poverty."

"It is the assumption of that derisive title which has drawn upon you

the full force of the king's resentment, lord abbot," observed Father

Eastgate.

"It may be," replied the abbot. "I took it in mockery of Cromwell and

the ecclesiastical commissioners, and I rejoice that they have felt the

sting. The Abbot of Barlings called himself Captain Cobbler, because, as

he affirmed, the state wanted mending like old shoon. And is not my

title equally well chosen? Is not the Church smitten with poverty? Have

not ten thousand of our brethren been driven from their homes to beg or

to starve? Have not the houseless poor, whom we fed at our gates, and

lodged within our wards, gone away hungry and without rest? Have not the

sick, whom we would have relieved, died untended by the hedge-side? I am

the head of the poor in Lancashire, the redresser of their grievances,

and therefore I style myself Earl of Poverty. Have I not done well?"

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

"Poverty will not alone be the fate of the Church, but of the whole

realm, if the rapacious designs of the monarch and his heretical

counsellors are carried forth," pursued the abbot. "Cromwell, Audeley,

and Rich, have wisely ordained that no infant shall be baptised without

tribute to the king; that no man who owns not above twenty pounds a year

shall consume wheaten bread, or eat the flesh of fowl or swine without

tribute; and that all ploughed land shall pay tribute likewise. Thus the

Church is to be beggared, the poor plundered, and all men burthened, to

fatten the king, and fill his exchequer."

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

"It is a jest no man laughs at," rejoined the abbot, sternly; "any more

than the king's counsellors will laugh at the Earl of Poverty, whose

title they themselves have created. But wherefore comes not the signal?

Can aught have gone wrong? I will not think it. The whole country, from

the Tweed to the Humber, and from the Lune to the Mersey, is ours; and,

if we but hold together, our cause must prevail."

"Yet we have many and powerful enemies," observed Father Eastgate; "and

the king, it is said, hath sworn never to make terms with us. Tidings

were brought to the abbey this morning, that the Earl of Derby is

assembling forces at Preston, to march upon us."

"We will give him a warm reception if he comes," replied Paslew,

fiercely. "He will find that our walls have not been kernelled and

embattled by licence of good King Edward the Third for nothing; and that

our brethren can fight as well as their predecessors fought in the time

of Abbot Holden, when they took tithe by force from Sir Christopher

Parsons of Slaydburn. The abbey is strong, and right well defended, and

we need not fear a surprise. But it grows dark fast, and yet no signal

comes."

"Perchance the waters of the Don have again risen, so as to prevent the

army from fording the stream," observed Father Haydocke; "or it may be

that some disaster hath befallen our leader."

"Nay, I will not believe the latter," said the abbot; "Robert Aske is

chosen by Heaven to be our deliverer. It has been prophesied that a

'worm with one eye' shall work the redemption of the fallen faith, and

you know that Robert Aske hath been deprived of his left orb by an

arrow."

"Therefore it is," observed Father Eastgate, "that the Pilgrims of Grace

chant the following ditty:--

"'Forth shall come an Aske with one eye,

He shall be chief of the company--

Chief of the northern chivalry.'"

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

hesitate.

"Nay, I know not whether the rest of the rhymes may please you, lord

abbot," replied Father Eastgate.

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

went on:--

"'One shall sit at a solemn feast,

Half warrior, half priest,

The greatest there shall be the least.'"

"The last verse," observed the monk, "has been added to the ditty by

Nicholas Demdike. I heard him sing it the other day at the abbey gate."

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

a witch?"

"The same," replied Eastgate.

"Hoo be so ceawnted, sure eno," remarked the forester, who had been

listening attentively to their discourse, and who now stepped forward;

"boh dunna yo think it. Beleemy, lort abbut, Bess Demdike's too yunk an

too protty for a witch."

"Thou art bewitched by her thyself, Cuthbert," said the abbot, angrily.

"I shall impose a penance upon thee, to free thee from the evil

influence. Thou must recite twenty paternosters daily, fasting, for one

month; and afterwards perform a pilgrimage to the shrine of our Lady of

Gilsland. Bess Demdike is an approved and notorious witch, and hath been

seen by credible witnesses attending a devil's sabbath on this very

hill--Heaven shield us! It is therefore that I have placed her and her

husband under the ban of the Church; pronounced sentence of

excommunication against them; and commanded all my clergy to refuse

baptism to their infant daughter, newly born."

"Wea's me! ey knoas 't reet weel, lort abbut," replied Ashbead, "and

Bess taks t' sentence sore ta 'ert!"

"Then let her amend her ways, or heavier punishment will befall her,"

cried Paslew, severely. "'_Sortilegam non patieris vivere_' saith the

Levitical law. If she be convicted she shall die the death. That she is

comely I admit; but it is the comeliness of a child of sin. Dost thou

know the man with whom she is wedded--or supposed to be wedded--for I

have seen no proof of the marriage? He is a stranger here."

"Ey knoas neawt abowt him, lort abbut, 'cept that he cum to Pendle a

twalmont agoa," replied Ashbead; "boh ey knoas fu' weel that

t'eawtcumbling felly robt me ot prettiest lass i' aw Lonkyshiar--aigh,

or i' aw Englondshiar, fo' t' matter o' that."

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

"Oh, he's a feaw teyke--a varra feaw teyke," replied Ashbead; "wi' a

feace as black as a boggart, sooty shiny hewr loike a mowdywarp, an' een

loike a stanniel. Boh for running, rostling, an' throwing t' stoan, he'n

no match i' this keawntry. Ey'n triet him at aw three gams, so ey con

speak. For't most part he'n a big, black bandyhewit wi' him, and, by th'

Mess, ey canna help thinkin he meys free sumtoimes wi' yor lortship's

bucks."

"Ha! this must be looked to," cried the abbot. "You say you know not

whence he comes? 'Tis strange."

"T' missmannert carl'll boide naw questionin', odd rottle him!" replied

Ashbead. "He awnsurs wi' a gibe, or a thwack o' his staff. Whon ey last

seet him, he threatened t' raddle me booans weel, boh ey sooan lowert

him a peg."

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

"He can speak, and right well if he pleases," remarked Father Eastgate;

"for though ordinarily silent and sullen enough, yet when he doth talk

it is not like one of the hinds with whom he consorts, but in good set

phrase; and his bearing is as bold as that of one who hath seen service

in the field."

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

"Noa sooner said than done," cried Ashbead, "for, be t' Lort Harry, ey

see him stonding be yon moss poo' o' top t' hill, though how he'n getten

theer t' Dule owny knoas."

And he pointed out a tall dark figure standing near a little pool on the

summit of the mountain, about a hundred yards from them.

"Talk of ill, and ill cometh," observed Father Haydocke. "And see, the

wizard hath a black hound with him! It may be his wife, in that

likeness."

"Naw, ey knoas t' hount reet weel, Feyther Haydocke," replied the

forester; "it's a Saint Hubert, an' a rareun fo' fox or badgert. Odds

loife, feyther, whoy that's t' black bandyhewit I war speaking on."

"I like not the appearance of the knave at this juncture," said the

abbot; "yet I wish to confront him, and charge him with his

midemeanours."

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

heard chanting,--

"One shall sit at a solemn feast,

Half warrior, half priest,

The greatest there shall be the least."

"The very ditty I heard," cried Father Eastgate; "but list, he has more

of it." And the voice resumed,--

"He shall be rich, yet poor as me,

Abbot, and Earl of Poverty.

Monk and soldier, rich and poor,

He shall be hang'd at his own door."

Loud derisive laughter followed the song.

"By our Lady of Whalley, the knave is mocking us," cried the abbot;

"send a bolt to silence him, Cuthbert."

The forester instantly bent his bow, and a quarrel whistled off in the

direction of the singer; but whether his aim were not truly taken, or he

meant not to hit the mark, it is certain that Demdike remained

untouched. The reputed wizard laughed aloud, took off his felt cap in

acknowledgment, and marched deliberately down the side of the hill.

"Thou art not wont to miss thy aim, Cuthbert," cried the abbot, with a

look of displeasure. "Take good heed thou producest this scurril knave

before me, when these troublous times are over. But what is this?--he

stops--ha! he is practising his devilries on the mountain's side."

It would seem that the abbot had good warrant for what he said, as

Demdike, having paused at a broad green patch on the hill-side, was now

busied in tracing a circle round it with his staff. He then spoke aloud

some words, which the superstitious beholders construed into an

incantation, and after tracing the circle once again, and casting some

tufts of dry heather, which he plucked from an adjoining hillock, on

three particular spots, he ran quickly downwards, followed by his hound,

and leaping a stone wall, surrounding a little orchard at the foot of

the hill, disappeared from view.

"Go and see what he hath done," cried the abbot to the forester, "for I

like it not."

Ashbead instantly obeyed, and on reaching the green spot in question,

shouted out that he could discern nothing; but presently added, as he

moved about, that the turf heaved like a sway-bed beneath his feet, and

he thought--to use his own phraseology--would "brast." The abbot then

commanded him to go down to the orchard below, and if he could find

Demdike to bring him to him instantly. The forester did as he was

bidden, ran down the hill, and, leaping the orchard wall as the other

had done, was lost to sight.

Ere long, it became quite dark, and as Ashbead did not reappear, the

abbot gave vent to his impatience and uneasiness, and was proposing to

send one of the herdsmen in search of him, when his attention was

suddenly diverted by a loud shout from one of the sentinels, and a fire

was seen on a distant hill on the right.

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

torch!--quick, quick!"

And as he spoke, he seized a brand and plunged it into the peat fire,

while his example was followed by the two monks.

"It is the beacon on Blackstone Edge," cried the abbot; "and look! a

second blazes over the Grange of Cliviger--another on Ightenhill--

another on Boulsworth Hill--and the last on the neighbouring

heights of Padiham. Our own comes next. May it light the enemies of our

holy Church to perdition!"

With this, he applied the burning brand to the combustible matter of the

beacon. The monks did the same; and in an instant a tall, pointed flame,

rose up from a thick cloud of smoke. Ere another minute had elapsed,

similar fires shot up to the right and the left, on the high lands of

Trawden Forest, on the jagged points of Foulridge, on the summit of

Cowling Hill, and so on to Skipton. Other fires again blazed on the

towers of Clithero, on Longridge and Ribchester, on the woody eminences

of Bowland, on Wolf Crag, and on fell and scar all the way to Lancaster.

It seemed the work of enchantment, so suddenly and so strangely did the

fires shoot forth. As the beacon flame increased, it lighted up the

whole of the extensive table-land on the summit of Pendle Hill; and a

long lurid streak fell on the darkling moss-pool near which the wizard

had stood. But when it attained its utmost height, it revealed the

depths of the forest below, and a red reflection, here and there, marked

the course of Pendle Water. The excitement of the abbot and his

companions momently increased, and the sentinels shouted as each new

beacon was lighted. At last, almost every hill had its watch-fire, and

so extraordinary was the spectacle, that it seemed as if weird beings

were abroad, and holding their revels on the heights.

Then it was that the abbot, mounting his steed, called out to the

monks--"Holy fathers, you will follow to the abbey as you may. I shall

ride fleetly on, and despatch two hundred archers to Huddersfield and

Wakefield. The abbots of Salley and Jervaux, with the Prior of

Burlington, will be with me at midnight, and at daybreak we shall march

our forces to join the main army. Heaven be with you!"

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

And, to his surprise, the abbot beheld Nicholas Demdike standing before

him. The aspect of the wizard was dark and forbidding, and, seen by the

beacon light, his savage features, blazing eyes, tall gaunt frame, and

fantastic garb, made him look like something unearthly. Flinging his

staff over his shoulder, he slowly approached, with his black hound

following close by at his heels.

"I have a caution to give you, lord abbot," he said; "hear me speak

before you set out for the abbey, or ill will befall you."

"Ill _will_ befall me if I listen to thee, thou wicked churl," cried the

abbot. "What hast thou done with Cuthbert Ashbead?"

"I have seen nothing of him since he sent a bolt after me at your

bidding, lord abbot," replied Demdike.

"Beware lest any harm come to him, or thou wilt rue it," cried Paslew.

"But I have no time to waste on thee. Farewell, fathers. High mass will

be said in the convent church before we set out on the expedition

to-morrow morning. You will both attend it."

"You will never set out upon the expedition, lord abbot," cried Demdike,

planting his staff so suddenly into the ground before the horse's head

that the animal reared and nearly threw his rider.

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

"To warn you," replied Demdike.

"Stand aside," cried the abbot, spurring his steed, "or I will trample

you beneath my horse's feet."

"I might let you ride to your own doom," rejoined Demdike, with a

scornful laugh, as he seized the abbot's bridle. "But you shall hear me.

I tell you, you will never go forth on this expedition. I tell you that,

ere to-morrow, Whalley Abbey will have passed for ever from your

possession; and that, if you go thither again, your life will be

forfeited. Now will you listen to me?"

"I am wrong in doing so," cried the abbot, who could not, however,

repress some feelings of misgiving at this alarming address. "Speak,

what would you say?"

"Come out of earshot of the others, and I will tell you," replied

Demdike. And he led the abbot's horse to some distance further on the

hill.

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

already."

"Lost!" cried the abbot, out of all patience. "Lost! Look around. Twenty

fires are in sight--ay, thirty, and every fire thou seest will summon a

hundred men, at the least, to arms. Before an hour, five hundred men

will be gathered before the gates of Whalley Abbey."

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

their leader."

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

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

Lord Mounteagle from Preston."

"Ha!" exclaimed Paslew, "let me go meet them, then. But thou triflest

with me, fellow. Thou canst know nothing of this. Whence gott'st thou

thine information?"

"Heed it not," replied the other; "thou wilt find it correct. I tell

thee, proud abbot, that this grand scheme of thine and of thy fellows,

for the restitution of the Catholic Church, has failed--utterly failed."

"I tell thee thou liest, false knave!" cried the abbot, striking him on

the hand with his scourge. "Quit thy hold, and let me go."

"Not till I have done," replied Demdike, maintaining his grasp. "Well

hast thou styled thyself Earl of Poverty, for thou art poor and

miserable enough. Abbot of Whalley thou art no longer. Thy possessions

will be taken from thee, and if thou returnest thy life also will be

taken. If thou fleest, a price will be set upon thy head. I alone can

save thee, and I will do so on one condition."

"Condition! make conditions with thee, bond-slave of Satan!" cried the

abbot, gnashing his teeth. "I reproach myself that I have listened to

thee so long. Stand aside, or I will strike thee dead."

"You are wholly in my power," cried Demdike with a disdainful laugh. And

as he spoke he pressed the large sharp bit against the charger's mouth,

and backed him quickly to the very edge of the hill, the sides of which

here sloped precipitously down. The abbot would have uttered a cry, but

surprise and terror kept him silent.

"Were it my desire to injure you, I could cast you down the

mountain-side to certain death," pursued Demdike. "But I have no such

wish. On the contrary, I will serve you, as I have said, on one

condition."

"Thy condition would imperil my soul," said the abbot, full of wrath and

alarm. "Thou seekest in vain to terrify me into compliance. _Vade retro,

Sathanas_. I defy thee and all thy works."

Demdike laughed scornfully.

"The thunders of the Church do not frighten me," he cried. "But, look,"

he added, "you doubted my word when I told you the rising was at an end.

The beacon fires on Boulsworth Hill and on the Grange of Cliviger are

extinguished; that on Padiham Heights is expiring--nay, it is out; and

ere many minutes all these mountain watch-fires will have disappeared

like lamps at the close of a feast."

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

new jugglery is this?"

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

"The waters of the Don have again arisen; the insurgents have accepted

the king's pardon, have deserted their leaders, and dispersed. There

will be no rising to-night or on the morrow. The abbots of Jervaux and

Salley will strive to capitulate, but in vain. The Pilgrimage of Grace

is ended. The stake for which thou playedst is lost. Thirty years hast

thou governed here, but thy rule is over. Seventeen abbots have there

been of Whalley--the last thou!--but there shall be none more."

"It must be the Demon in person that speaks thus to me," cried the

abbot, his hair bristling on his head, and a cold perspiration bursting

from his pores.

"No matter who I am," replied the other; "I have said I will aid thee on

one condition. It is not much. Remove thy ban from my wife, and baptise

her infant daughter, and I am content. I would not ask thee for this

service, slight though it be, but the poor soul hath set her mind upon

it. Wilt thou do it?"

"No," replied the abbot, shuddering; "I will not baptise a daughter of

Satan. I will not sell my soul to the powers of darkness. I adjure thee

to depart from me, and tempt me no longer."

"Vainly thou seekest to cast me off," rejoined Demdike. "What if I

deliver thine adversaries into thine hands, and revenge thee upon them?

Even now there are a party of armed men waiting at the foot of the hill

to seize thee and thy brethren. Shall I show thee how to destroy them?"

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

"Their leaders are John Braddyll and Richard Assheton, who shall divide

Whalley Abbey between them, if thou stayest them not," replied Demdike.

"Hell consume them!" cried the abbot.

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

And, without awaiting the abbot's reply, he dragged his horse towards

the but-end of the mountain. As they went on, the two monks, who had

been filled with surprise at the interview, though they did not dare to

interrupt it, advanced towards their superior, and looked earnestly and

inquiringly at him, but he remained silent; while to the men-at-arms and

the herdsmen, who demanded whether their own beacon-fire should be

extinguished as the others had been, he answered moodily in the

negative.

"Where are the foes you spoke of?" he asked with some uneasiness, as

Demdike led his horse slowly and carefully down the hill-side.

"You shall see anon," replied the other.

"You are taking me to the spot where you traced the magic circle," cried

Paslew in alarm. "I know it from its unnaturally green hue. I will not

go thither."

"I do not mean you should, lord abbot," replied Demdike, halting.

"Remain on this firm ground. Nay, be not alarmed; you are in no danger.

Now bid your men advance, and prepare their weapons."

The abbot would have demanded wherefore, but at a glance from Demdike he

complied, and the two men-at-arms, and the herdsmen, arranged

themselves beside him, while Fathers Eastgate and Haydocke, who had

gotten upon their mules, took up a position behind.

Scarcely were they thus placed, when a loud shout was raised below, and

a band of armed men, to the number of thirty or forty, leapt the stone

wall, and began to scale the hill with great rapidity. They came up a

deep dry channel, apparently worn in the hill-side by some former

torrent, and which led directly to the spot where Demdike and the abbot

stood. The beacon-fire still blazed brightly, and illuminated the whole

proceeding, showing that these men, from their accoutrements, were

royalist soldiers.

"Stir not, as you value your life," said the wizard to Paslew; "but

observe what shall follow."

CHAPTER II.--THE ERUPTION.

Demdike went a little further down the hill, stopping when he came to

the green patch. He then plunged his staff into the sod at the first

point where he had cast a tuft of heather, and with such force that it

sank more than three feet. The next moment he plucked it forth, as if

with a great effort, and a jet of black water spouted into the air; but,

heedless of this, he went to the next marked spot, and again plunged the

sharp point of the implement into the ground. Again it sank to the same

depth, and, on being drawn out, a second black jet sprung forth.

Meanwhile the hostile party continued to advance up the dry channel

before mentioned, and shouted on beholding these strange preparations,

but they did not relax their speed. Once more the staff sank into the

ground, and a third black fountain followed its extraction. By this

time, the royalist soldiers were close at hand, and the features of

their two leaders, John Braddyll and Richard Assheton, could be plainly

distinguished, and their voices heard.

"'Tis he! 'tis the rebel abbot!" vociferated Braddyll, pressing forward.

"We were not misinformed. He has been watching by the beacon. The devil

has delivered him into our hands."

"Ho! ho!" laughed Demdike.

"Abbot no longer--'tis the Earl of Poverty you mean," responded

Assheton. "The villain shall be gibbeted on the spot where he has fired

the beacon, as a warning to all traitors."

"Ha, heretics!--ha, blasphemers!--I can at least avenge myself upon

you," cried Paslew, striking spurs into his charger. But ere he could

execute his purpose, Demdike had sprung backward, and, catching the

bridle, restrained the animal by a powerful effort.

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

As the words were uttered, a dull, booming, subterranean sound was

heard, and instantly afterwards, with a crash like thunder, the whole of

the green circle beneath slipped off, and from a yawning rent under it

burst forth with irresistible fury, a thick inky-coloured torrent,

which, rising almost breast high, fell upon the devoted royalist

soldiers, who were advancing right in its course. Unable to avoid the

watery eruption, or to resist its fury when it came upon them, they were

instantly swept from their feet, and carried down the channel.

A sight of horror was it to behold the sudden rise of that swarthy

stream, whose waters, tinged by the ruddy glare of the beacon-fire,

looked like waves of blood. Nor less fearful was it to hear the first

wild despairing cry raised by the victims, or the quickly stifled

shrieks and groans that followed, mixed with the deafening roar of the

stream, and the crashing fall of the stones, which accompanied its

course. Down, down went the poor wretches, now utterly overwhelmed by

the torrent, now regaining their feet only to utter a scream, and then

be swept off. Here a miserable struggler, whirled onward, would clutch

at the banks and try to scramble forth, but the soft turf giving way

beneath him, he was hurried off to eternity.

At another point where the stream encountered some trifling opposition,

some two or three managed to gain a footing, but they were unable to

extricate themselves. The vast quantity of boggy soil brought down by

the current, and which rapidly collected here, embedded them and held

them fast, so that the momently deepening water, already up to their

chins, threatened speedy immersion. Others were stricken down by great

masses of turf, or huge rocky fragments, which, bounding from point to

point with the torrent, bruised or crushed all they encountered, or,

lodging in some difficult place, slightly diverted the course of the

torrent, and rendered it yet more dangerous.

On one of these stones, larger than the rest, which had been stopped in

its course, a man contrived to creep, and with difficulty kept his post

amid the raging flood. Vainly did he extend his hand to such of his

fellows as were swept shrieking past him. He could not lend them aid,

while his own position was so desperately hazardous that he did not dare

to quit it. To leap on either bank was impossible, and to breast the

headlong stream certain death.

On goes the current, madly, furiously, as if rejoicing in the work of

destruction, while the white foam of its eddies presents a fearful

contrast to the prevailing blackness of the surface. Over the last

declivity it leaps, hissing, foaming, crashing like an avalanche. The

stone wall for a moment opposes its force, but falls the next, with a

mighty splash, carrying the spray far and wide, while its own fragments

roll onwards with the stream. The trees of the orchard are uprooted in

an instant, and an old elm falls prostrate. The outbuildings of a

cottage are invaded, and the porkers and cattle, divining their danger,

squeal and bellow in affright. But they are quickly silenced. The

resistless foe has broken down wall and door, and buried the poor

creatures in mud and rubbish.

The stream next invades the cottage, breaks in through door and window,

and filling all the lower part of the tenement, in a few minutes

converts it into a heap of ruin. On goes the destroyer, tearing up more

trees, levelling more houses, and filling up a small pool, till the

latter bursts its banks, and, with an accession to its force, pours

itself into a mill-dam. Here its waters are stayed until they find a

vent underneath, and the action of the stream, as it rushes downwards

through this exit, forms a great eddy above, in which swim some living

things, cattle and sheep from the fold not yet drowned, mixed with

furniture from the cottages, and amidst them the bodies of some of the

unfortunate men-at-arms which have been washed hither.

But, ha! another thundering crash. The dam has burst. The torrent roars

and rushes on furiously as before, joins its forces with Pendle Water,

swells up the river, and devastates the country far and wide.[1]

The abbot and his companions beheld this work of destruction with

amazement and dread. Blanched terror sat in their cheeks, and the blood

was frozen in Paslew's veins; for he thought it the work of the powers

of darkness, and that he was leagued with them. He tried to mutter a

prayer, but his lips refused their office. He would have moved, but his

limbs were stiffened and paralysed, and he could only gaze aghast at the

terrible spectacle.

Amidst it all he heard a wild burst of unearthly laughter, proceeding,

he thought, from Demdike, and it filled him with new dread. But he could

not check the sound, neither could he stop his ears, though he would

fain have done so. Like him, his companions were petrified and

speechless with fear.

After this had endured for some time, though still the black torrent

rushed on impetuously as ever, Demdike turned to the abbot and said,--

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

child?"

"Never, never, accursed being!" shrieked the abbot. "Thou mayst

sacrifice her at thine own impious rites. But see, there is one poor

wretch yet struggling with the foaming torrent. I may save him."

"That is John Braddyll, thy worst enemy," replied Demdike. "If he lives

he shall possess half Whalley Abbey. Thou hadst best also save Richard

Assheton, who yet clings to the great stone below, as if he escapes he

shall have the other half. Mark him, and make haste, for in five minutes

both shall be gone."

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

replied the abbot.

And, regardless of the derisive laughter of the other, who yelled in his

ears as he went, "Bess shall see thee hanged at thy own door!" he dashed

down the hill to the spot where a small object, distinguishable above

the stream, showed that some one still kept his head above water, his

tall stature having preserved him.

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

"Ay," replied the head. "Forgive me for the wrong I intended you, and

deliver me from this great peril."

"I am come for that purpose," replied the abbot, dismounting, and

disencumbering himself of his heavy cloak.

By this time the two herdsmen had come up, and the abbot, taking a crook

from one of them, clutched hold of the fellow, and, plunging fearlessly

into the stream, extended it towards the drowning man, who instantly

lifted up his hand to grasp it. In doing so Braddyll lost his balance,

but, as he did not quit his hold, he was plucked forth from the

tenacious mud by the combined efforts of the abbot and his assistant,

and with some difficulty dragged ashore.

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

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

he rushed on.

Presently he reached the rocky fragment on which Ralph Assheton rested.

The latter was in great danger from the surging torrent, and the stone

on which he had taken refuge tottered at its base, and threatened to

roll over.

"In Heaven's name, help me, lord abbot, as thou thyself shall be holpen

at thy need!" shrieked Assheton.

"Be not afraid, Richard Assheton," replied Paslew. "I will deliver thee

as I have delivered John Braddyll."

But the task was not of easy accomplishment. The abbot made his

preparations as before; grasped the hand of the herdsman and held out

the crook to Assheton; but when the latter caught it, the stream swung

him round with such force that the abbot must either abandon him or

advance further into the water. Bent on Assheton's preservation, he

adopted the latter expedient, and instantly lost his feet; while the

herdsman, unable longer to hold him, let go the crook, and the abbot and

Assheton were swept down the stream together.

Down--down they went, destruction apparently awaiting them; but the

abbot, though sometimes quite under the water, and bruised by the rough

stones and gravel with which he came in contact, still retained his

self-possession, and encouraged his companion to hope for succour. In

this way they were borne down to the foot of the hill, the monks, the

herdsmen, and the men-at-arms having given them up as lost. But they yet

lived--yet floated--though greatly injured, and almost senseless, when

they were cast into a pool formed by the eddying waters at the foot of

the hill. Here, wholly unable to assist himself, Assheton was seized by

a black hound belonging to a tall man who stood on the bank, and who

shouted to Paslew, as he helped the animal to bring the drowning man

ashore, "The other half of the abbey is gone from thee. Wilt thou

baptise my child if I send my dog to save thee?"

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

Flashes of fire glanced in the abbot's eyes, and stunning sounds seemed

to burst his ears. A few more struggles, and he became senseless.

But he was not destined to die thus. What happened afterwards he knew

not; but when he recovered full consciousness, he found himself

stretched, with aching limbs and throbbing head, upon a couch in a

monastic room, with a richly-painted and gilded ceiling, with shields at

the corners emblazoned with the three luces of Whalley, and with panels

hung with tapestry from the looms of Flanders, representing divers

Scriptural subjects.

"Have I been dreaming?" he murmured.

"No," replied a tall man standing by his bedside; "thou hast been saved

from one death to suffer another more ignominious."

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

"thou here?"

"Ay, I am appointed to watch thee," replied Demdike. "Thou art a

prisoner in thine own chamber at Whalley. All has befallen as I told

thee. The Earl of Derby is master of the abbey; thy adherents are

dispersed; and thy brethren are driven forth. Thy two partners in

rebellion, the abbots of Jervaux and Salley, have been conveyed to

Lancaster Castle, whither thou wilt go as soon as thou canst be moved."

"I will surrender all--silver and gold, land and possessions--to the

king, if I may die in peace," groaned the abbot.

"It is not needed," rejoined the other. "Attainted of felony, thy lands

and abbey will be forfeited to the crown, and they shall be sold, as I

have told thee, to John Braddyll and Richard Assheton, who will be

rulers here in thy stead."

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

"Well mayst thou wish so," returned his tormentor; "but thou wert not

destined to die by water. As I have said, thou shalt be hanged at thy

own door, and my wife shall witness thy end."

"Who art thou? I have heard thy voice before," cried the abbot. "It is

like the voice of one whom I knew years ago, and thy features are like

his--though changed--greatly changed. Who art thou?"

"Thou shalt know before thou diest," replied the other, with a look of

gratified vengeance. "Farewell, and reflect upon thy fate."

So saying, he strode towards the door, while the miserable abbot arose,

and marching with uncertain steps to a little oratory adjoining, which

he himself had built, knelt down before the altar, and strove to pray.

CHAPTER III.--WHALLEY ABBEY.

A sad, sad change hath come over the fair Abbey of Whalley. It knoweth

its old masters no longer. For upwards of two centuries and a half hath

the "Blessed Place"[2] grown in beauty and riches. Seventeen abbots have

exercised unbounded hospitality within it, but now they are all gone,

save one!--and he is attainted of felony and treason. The grave monk

walketh no more in the cloisters, nor seeketh his pallet in the

dormitory. Vesper or matin-song resound not as of old within the fine

conventual church. Stripped are the altars of their silver crosses, and

the shrines of their votive offerings and saintly relics. Pyx and

chalice, thuribule and vial, golden-headed pastoral staff, and mitre

embossed with pearls, candlestick and Christmas ship of silver; salver,

basin, and ewer--all are gone--the splendid sacristy hath been

despoiled.

A sad, sad change hath come over Whalley Abbey. The libraries, well

stored with reverend tomes, have been pillaged, and their contents cast

to the flames; and thus long laboured manuscript, the fruit of years of

patient industry, with gloriously illuminated missal, are irrecoverably

lost. The large infirmary no longer receiveth the sick; in the locutory

sitteth no more the guest. No longer in the mighty kitchens are prepared

the prodigious supply of meats destined for the support of the poor or

the entertainment of the traveller. No kindly porter stands at the gate,

to bid the stranger enter and partake of the munificent abbot's

hospitality, but a churlish guard bids him hie away, and menaces him if

he tarries with his halbert. Closed are the buttery-hatches and the

pantries; and the daily dole of bread hath ceased. Closed, also, to the

brethren is the refectory. The cellarer's office is ended. The strong

ale which he brewed in October, is tapped in March by roystering

troopers. The rich muscadel and malmsey, and the wines of Gascoigne and

the Rhine, are no longer quaffed by the abbot and his more honoured

guests, but drunk to his destruction by his foes. The great gallery, a

hundred and fifty feet in length, the pride of the abbot's lodging, and

a model of architecture, is filled not with white-robed ecclesiastics,

but with an armed earl and his retainers. Neglected is the little

oratory dedicated to Our Lady of Whalley, where night and morn the abbot

used to pray. All the old religious and hospitable uses of the abbey are

foregone. The reverend stillness of the cloisters, scarce broken by the

quiet tread of the monks, is now disturbed by armed heel and clank of

sword; while in its saintly courts are heard the ribald song, the

profane jest, and the angry brawl. Of the brethren, only those tenanting

the cemetery are left. All else are gone, driven forth, as vagabonds,

with stripes and curses, to seek refuge where they may.

A sad, sad change has come over Whalley Abbey. In the plenitude of its

pride and power has it been cast down, desecrated, despoiled. Its

treasures are carried off, its ornaments sold, its granaries emptied,

its possessions wasted, its storehouses sacked, its cattle slaughtered

and sold. But, though stripped of its wealth and splendour; though

deprived of all the religious graces that, like rich incense, lent an

odour to the fane, its external beauty is yet unimpaired, and its vast

proportions undiminished.

A stately pile was Whalley--one of the loveliest as well as the largest

in the realm. Carefully had it been preserved by its reverend rulers,

and where reparations or additions were needed they were judiciously

made. Thus age had lent it beauty, by mellowing its freshness and toning

its hues, while no decay was perceptible. Without a struggle had it

yielded to the captor, so that no part of its wide belt of walls or

towers, though so strongly constructed as to have offered effectual

resistance, were injured.

Never had Whalley Abbey looked more beautiful than on a bright clear

morning in March, when this sad change had been wrought, and when, from

a peaceful monastic establishment, it had been converted into a menacing

fortress. The sunlight sparkled upon its grey walls, and filled its

three great quadrangular courts with light and life, piercing the

exquisite carving of its cloisters, and revealing all the intricate

beauty and combinations of the arches. Stains of painted glass fell upon

the floor of the magnificent conventual church, and dyed with rainbow

hues the marble tombs of the Lacies, the founders of the establishment,

brought thither when the monastery was removed from Stanlaw in Cheshire,

and upon the brass-covered gravestones of the abbots in the presbytery.

There lay Gregory de Northbury, eighth abbot of Stanlaw and first of

Whalley, and William Rede, the last abbot; but there was never to lie

John Paslew. The slumber of the ancient prelates was soon to be

disturbed, and the sacred structure within which they had so often

worshipped, up-reared by sacrilegious hands. But all was bright and

beauteous now, and if no solemn strains were heard in the holy pile, its

stillness was scarcely less reverential and awe-inspiring. The old abbey

wreathed itself in all its attractions, as if to welcome back its former

ruler, whereas it was only to receive him as a captive doomed to a

felon's death.

But this was outward show. Within all was terrible preparation. Such

was the discontented state of the country, that fearing some new revolt,

the Earl of Derby had taken measures for the defence of the abbey, and

along the wide-circling walls of the close were placed ordnance and men,

and within the grange stores of ammunition. A strong guard was set at

each of the gates, and the courts were filled with troops. The bray of

the trumpet echoed within the close, where rounds were set for the

archers, and martial music resounded within the area of the cloisters.

Over the great north-eastern gateway, which formed the chief entrance to

the abbot's lodging, floated the royal banner. Despite these warlike

proceedings the fair abbey smiled beneath the sun, in all, or more than

all, its pristine beauty, its green hills sloping gently down towards

it, and the clear and sparkling Calder dashing merrily over the stones

at its base.

But upon the bridge, and by the river side, and within the little

village, many persons were assembled, conversing gravely and anxiously

together, and looking out towards the hills, where other groups were

gathered, as if in expectation of some afflicting event. Most of these

were herdsmen and farming men, but some among them were poor monks in

the white habits of the Cistertian brotherhood, but which were now

stained and threadbare, while their countenances bore traces of severest

privation and suffering. All the herdsmen and farmers had been retainers

of the abbot. The poor monks looked wistfully at their former

habitation, but replied not except by a gentle bowing of the head to the

cruel scoffs and taunts with which they were greeted by the passing

soldiers; but the sturdy rustics did not bear these outrages so tamely,

and more than one brawl ensued, in which blood flowed, while a ruffianly

arquebussier would have been drowned in the Calder but for the exertions

to save him of a monk whom he had attacked.

This took place on the eleventh of March, 1537--more than three months

after the date of the watching by the beacon before recorded--and the

event anticipated by the concourse without the abbey, as well as by

those within its walls, was the arrival of Abbot Paslew and Fathers

Eastgate and Haydocke, who were to be brought on that day from

Lancaster, and executed on the following morning before the abbey,

according to sentence passed upon them.

The gloomiest object in the picture remains to be described, but yet it

is necessary to its completion. This was a gallows of unusual form and

height, erected on the summit of a gentle hill, rising immediately in

front of the abbot's lodgings, called the Holehouses, whose rounded,

bosomy beauty it completely destroyed. This terrible apparatus of

condign punishment was regarded with abhorrence by the rustics, and it

required a strong guard to be kept constantly round it to preserve it

from demolition.

Amongst a group of rustics collected on the road leading to the

north-east gateway, was Cuthbert Ashbead, who having been deprived of

his forester's office, was now habited in a frieze doublet and hose with

a short camlet cloak on his shoulder, and a fox-skin cap, embellished

with the grinning jaws of the beast on his head.

"Eigh, Ruchot o' Roaph's," he observed to a bystander, "that's a fearfo

sect that gallas. Yoan been up to t' Holehouses to tey a look at it,

beloike?"

"Naw, naw, ey dunna loike such sects," replied Ruchot o' Roaph's;

"besoide there wor a great rabblement at t' geate, an one o' them lunjus

archer chaps knockt meh o' t' nob wi' his poike, an towd me he'd hong me

wi' t' abbut, if ey didna keep owt ot wey."

"An sarve te reet too, theaw craddinly carl!" cried Ashbead, doubling

his horny fists. "Odds flesh! whey didna yo ha' a tussle wi' him? Mey

honts are itchen for a bowt wi' t' heretic robbers. Walladey! walladey!

that we should live to see t' oly feythers driven loike hummobees owt o'

t' owd neest. Whey they sayn ot King Harry hon decreet ot we're to ha'

naw more monks or friars i' aw Englondshiar. Ony think o' that. An dunna

yo knoa that t' Abbuts o' Jervaux an Salley wor hongt o' Tizeday at

Loncaster Castle?"

"Good lorjus bless us!" exclaimed a sturdy hind, "we'n a protty king.

Furst he chops off his woife's heaod, an then hongs aw t' priests.

Whot'll t' warlt cum 'to?

"Eigh by t' mess, whot _win_ it cum to?" cried Ruchot o' Roaph's. "But

we darrna oppen owr mows fo' fear o' a gog."

"Naw, beleady! boh eyst oppen moine woide enuff," cried Ashbead; "an' if

a dozen o' yo chaps win join me, eyn try to set t' poor abbut free whon

they brinks him here."

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

"Eigh, thou'rt a timmersome teyke, os ey towd te efore," replied

Ashbead. "But whot dust theaw say, Hal o' Nabs?" he added, to the sturdy

hind who had recently spoken.

"Ey'n spill t' last drop o' meh blood i' t' owd abbut's keawse," replied

Hal o' Nabs. "We winna stond by, an see him hongt loike a dog. Abbut

Paslew to t' reskew, lads!"

"Eigh, Abbut Paslew to t' reskew!" responded all the others, except

Ruchot o' Roaph's.

"This must be prevented," muttered a voice near them. And immediately

afterwards a tall man quitted the group.

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

Nick Demdike."

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

owerheert us?"

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

"Naw ey noather," cried Ruchot o' Roaph's, crossing himself, and

spitting on the ground. "Owr Leady o' Whalley shielt us fro' t'

warlock!"

"Tawkin o' Nick Demdike," cried Hal o' Nabs, "yo'd a strawnge odventer

wi' him t' neet o' t' great brast o' Pendle Hill, hadna yo, Cuthbert?"

"Yeigh, t' firrups tak' him, ey hadn," replied Ashbead. "Theawst hear aw

abowt it if t' will. Ey wur sent be t' abbut down t' hill to Owen o'

Gab's, o' Perkin's, o' Dannel's, o' Noll's, o' Oamfrey's orchert i'

Warston lone, to luk efter him. Weel, whon ey gets ower t' stoan wa',

whot dun yo think ey sees! twanty or throtty poikemen stonding behint

it, an they deshes at meh os thick os leet, an efore ey con roor oot,

they blintfowlt meh, an clap an iron gog i' meh mouth. Weel, I con

noather speak nor see, boh ey con use meh feet, soh ey punses at 'em

reet an' laft; an be mah troath, lads, yood'n a leawght t' hear how they

roart, an ey should a roart too, if I couldn, whon they began to thwack

me wi' their raddling pows, and ding'd meh so abowt t' heoad, that ey

fell i' a swownd. Whon ey cum to, ey wur loyin o' meh back i' Rimington

Moor. Every booan i' meh hoide wratcht, an meh hewr war clottert wi'

gore, boh t' eebond an t' gog wur gone, soh ey gets o' meh feet, and

daddles along os weel os ey con, whon aw ot wunce ey spies a leet

glenting efore meh, an dawncing abowt loike an awf or a wull-o'-whisp.

Thinks ey, that's Friar Rush an' his lantern, an he'll lead me into a

quagmire, soh ey stops a bit, to consider where ey'd getten, for ey

didna knoa t' reet road exactly; boh whon ey stood still, t' leet stood

still too, on then ey meyd owt that it cum fro an owd ruint tower, an

whot ey'd fancied wur one lantern proved twanty, fo' whon ey reacht t'

tower an peept in thro' a brok'n winda, ey beheld a seet ey'st neer

forgit--apack o' witches--eigh, witches!--sittin' in a ring, wi' their

broomsticks an lanterns abowt em!"

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

"Whoy," replied Ashbead, "t'owd hags had a little figure i' t' midst on

'em, mowded i' cley, representing t' abbut o' Whalley,--ey knoad it be't

moitre and crosier,--an efter each o' t' varment had stickt a pin i' its

'eart, a tall black mon stepped for'ard, an teed a cord rownd its

throttle, an hongt it up."

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

Nick Demdike?"

"Yoan guest it," replied Ashbead, "'t wur he! Ey wur so glopp'nt, ey

couldna speak, an' meh blud fruz i' meh veins, when ey heerd a fearfo

voice ask Nick wheere his woife an' chilt were. 'The infant is

unbaptised,' roart t' voice, 'at the next meeting it must be sacrificed.

See that thou bring it.' Demdike then bowed to Summat I couldna see; an

axt when t' next meeting wur to be held. 'On the night of Abbot

Paslew's execution,' awnsert t' voice. On hearing this, ey could bear

nah lunger, boh shouted out, 'Witches! devils! Lort deliver us fro' ye!'

An' os ey spoke, ey tried t' barst thro' t' winda. In a trice, aw t'

leets went out; thar wur a great rash to t' dooer; a whirrin sound i'

th' air loike a covey o' partriches fleeing off; and then ey heerd nowt

more; for a great stoan fell o' meh scoance, an' knockt me down

senseless. When I cum' to, I wur i' Nick Demdike's cottage, wi' his

woife watching ower me, and th' unbapteesed chilt i' her arms."

All exclamations of wonder on the part of the rustics, and inquiries as

to the issue of the adventure, were checked by the approach of a monk,

who, joining the assemblage, called their attention to a priestly train

slowly advancing along the road.

"It is headed," he said, "by Fathers Chatburne and Chester, late bursers

of the abbey. Alack! alack! they now need the charity themselves which

they once so lavishly bestowed on others."

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

'em."

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

"Next come Father Burnley, granger, and Father Haworth, cellarer,"

pursued the monk; "and after them Father Dinkley, sacristan, and Father

Moore, porter."

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

"Yeigh, to be sure we done," replied the others; "a good mon, a reet

good mon! He never sent away t' poor--naw he!"

"After Father Moore," said the monk, pleased with their warmth, "comes

Father Forrest, the procurator, with Fathers Rede, Clough, and Bancroft,

and the procession is closed by Father Smith, the late prior."

"Down o' yer whirlybooans, lads, as t' oly feythers pass," cried

Ashbead, "and crave their blessing."

And as the priestly train slowly approached, with heads bowed down, and

looks fixed sadly upon the ground, the rustic assemblage fell upon their

knees, and implored their benediction. The foremost in the procession

passed on in silence, but the prior stopped, and extending his hands

over the kneeling group, cried in a solemn voice,

"Heaven bless ye, my children! Ye are about to witness a sad spectacle.

You will see him who hath clothed you, fed you, and taught you the way

to heaven, brought hither a prisoner, to suffer a shameful death."

"Boh we'st set him free, oly prior," cried Ashbead. "We'n meayed up our

moinds to 't. Yo just wait till he cums."

"Nay, I command you to desist from the attempt, if any such you

meditate," rejoined the prior; "it will avail nothing, and you will

only sacrifice your own lives. Our enemies are too strong. The abbot

himself would give you like counsel."

Scarcely were the words uttered than from the great gate of the abbey

there issued a dozen arquebussiers with an officer at their head, who

marched directly towards the kneeling hinds, evidently with the

intention of dispersing them. Behind them strode Nicholas Demdike. In an

instant the alarmed rustics were on their feet, and Ruchot o' Roaph's,

and some few among them, took to their heels, but Ashbead, Hal o' Nabs,

with half a dozen others, stood their ground manfully. The monks

remained in the hope of preventing any violence. Presently the

halberdiers came up.

"That is the ringleader," cried the officer, who proved to be Richard

Assheton, pointing out Ashbead; "seize him!"

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

And as the guard pushed past the monks to execute their leader's order,

he sprang forward, and, wresting a halbert from the foremost of them,

stood upon his defence.

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

offered.

"Keep off," cried Ashbead; "yo'd best. Loike a stag at bey ey'm

dawngerous. Waar horns! waar horns! ey sey."

The arquebussiers looked irresolute. It was evident Ashbead would only

be taken with life, and they were not sure that it was their leader's

purpose to destroy him.

"Put down thy weapon, Cuthbert," interposed the prior; "it will avail

thee nothing against odds like these."

"Mey be, 'oly prior," rejoined Ashbead, flourishing the pike: "boh ey'st

ony yield wi' loife."

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

"Theaw!" retorted Ashbead, with a scornful laugh, "Cum on, then. Hadsta

aw t' fiends i' hell at te back, ey shouldna fear thee."

"Yield!" cried Demdike in a voice of thunder, and fixing a terrible

glance upon him.

"Cum on, wizard," rejoined Ashbead undauntedly. But, observing that his

opponent was wholly unarmed, he gave the pike to Hal o' Nabs, who was

close beside him, observing, "It shall never be said that Cuthbert

Ashbead feawt t' dule himsel unfairly. Nah, touch me if theaw dar'st."

Demdike required no further provocation. With almost supernatural force

and quickness he sprung upon the forester, and seized him by the throat.

But the active young man freed himself from the gripe, and closed with

his assailant. But though of Herculean build, it soon became evident

that Ashbead would have the worst of it; when Hal o' Nabs, who had

watched the struggle with intense interest, could not help coming to his

friend's assistance, and made a push at Demdike with the halbert.

Could it be that the wrestlers shifted their position, or that the

wizard was indeed aided by the powers of darkness? None could tell, but

so it was that the pike pierced the side of Ashbead, who instantly fell

to the ground, with his adversary upon him. The next instant his hold

relaxed, and the wizard sprang to his feet unharmed, but deluged in

blood. Hal o' Nabs uttered a cry of keenest anguish, and, flinging

himself upon the body of the forester, tried to staunch the wound; but

he was quickly seized by the arquebussiers, and his hands tied behind

his back with a thong, while Ashbead was lifted up and borne towards the

abbey, the monks and rustics following slowly after; but the latter were

not permitted to enter the gate.

As the unfortunate keeper, who by this time had become insensible from

loss of blood, was carried along the walled enclosure leading to the

abbot's lodging, a female with a child in her arms was seen advancing

from the opposite side. She was tall, finely formed, with features of

remarkable beauty, though of a masculine and somewhat savage character,

and with magnificent but fierce black eyes. Her skin was dark, and her

hair raven black, contrasting strongly with the red band wound around

it. Her kirtle was of murrey-coloured serge; simply, but becomingly

fashioned. A glance sufficed to show her how matters stood with poor

Ashbead, and, uttering a sharp angry cry, she rushed towards him.

"What have you done?" she cried, fixing a keen reproachful look on

Demdike, who walked beside the wounded man.

"Nothing," replied Demdike with a bitter laugh; "the fool has been hurt

with a pike. Stand out of the way, Bess, and let the men pass. They are

about to carry him to the cell under the chapter-house."

"You shall not take him there," cried Bess Demdike, fiercely. "He may

recover if his wound be dressed. Let him go to the infirmary--ha, I

forgot--there is no one there now."

"Father Bancroft is at the gate," observed one of the arquebussiers; "he

used to act as chirurgeon in the abbey."

"No monk must enter the gate except the prisoners when they arrive,"

observed Assheton; "such are the positive orders of the Earl of Derby."

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

"But can other aid save him?" said Bess, breathing the words in her

husband's ears.

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

thy lover?"

"Take heed," said Bess, in a deep whisper; "if thou save him not, by the

devil thou servest! thou shalt lose me and thy child."

Demdike did not think proper to contest the point, but, approaching

Assheton, requested that the wounded man might be conveyed to an arched

recess, which he pointed out. Assent being given, Ashbead was taken

there, and placed upon the ground, after which the arquebussiers and

their leader marched off; while Bess, kneeling down, supported the head

of the wounded man upon her knee, and Demdike, taking a small phial from

his doublet, poured some of its contents clown his throat. The wizard

then took a fold of linen, with which he was likewise provided, and,

dipping it in the elixir, applied it to the wound.

In a few moments Ashbead opened his eyes, and looking round wildly,

fixed his gaze upon Bess, who placed her finger upon her lips to enjoin

silence, but he could not, or would not, understand the sign.

"Aw's o'er wi' meh, Bess," he groaned; "but ey'd reyther dee thus, wi'

thee besoide meh, than i' ony other wey."

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

"Oh! ey see," replied the wounded man, looking round; "but whot matters

it? Ey'st be gone soon. Ah, Bess, dear lass, if theawdst promise to

break thy compact wi' Satan--to repent and save thy precious sowl--ey

should dee content."

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

"Listen to me," continued Ashbead, earnestly; "dust na knoa that if thy

babe be na bapteesed efore to-morrow neet, it'll be sacrificed to t'

Prince o' Darkness. Go to some o' t' oly feythers--confess thy sins an'

implore heaven's forgiveness--an' mayhap they'll save thee an' thy

infant."

"And be burned as a witch," rejoined Bess, fiercely. "It is useless,

Cuthbert; I have tried them all. I have knelt to them, implored them,

but their hearts are hard as flints. They will not heed me. They will

not disobey the abbot's cruel injunctions, though he be their superior

no longer. But I shall be avenged upon him--terribly avenged."

"Leave meh, theaw wicked woman." cried Ashbead; "ey dunna wish to ha'

thee near meh. Let meh dee i' peace."

"Thou wilt not die, I tell thee, Cuthbert," cried Bess; "Nicholas hath

staunched thy wound."

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

loife to him."

And before he could be prevented he tore off the bandage, and the blood

burst forth anew.

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

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

"He shanna touch meh," cried Ashbead, struggling and increasing the

effusion. "Keep him off, ey adjure thee. Farewell, Bess," he added,

sinking back utterly exhausted by the effort.

"Cuthbert!" screamed Bess, terrified by his looks, "Cuthbert! art thou

really dying? Look at me, speak to me! Ha!" she cried, as if seized by a

sudden idea, "they say the blessing of a dying man will avail. Bless my

child, Cuthbert, bless it!"

"Give it me!" groaned the forester.

Bess held the infant towards him; but before he could place his hands

upon it all power forsook him, and he fell back and expired.

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

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

trumpeter called out,

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

"To thy feet, wench!" cried Demdike, imperiously, and seizing the

bewildered woman by the arm; "to thy feet, and come with me to meet

him!"

CHAPTER IV.--THE MALEDICTION.

The captive ecclesiastics, together with the strong escort by which they

were attended, under the command of John Braddyll, the high sheriff of

the county, had passed the previous night at Whitewell, in Bowland

Forest; and the abbot, before setting out on his final journey, was

permitted to spend an hour in prayer in a little chapel on an adjoining

hill, overlooking a most picturesque portion of the forest, the beauties

of which were enhanced by the windings of the Hodder, one of the

loveliest streams in Lancashire. His devotions performed, Paslew,

attended by a guard, slowly descended the hill, and gazed his last on

scenes familiar to him almost from infancy. Noble trees, which now

looked like old friends, to whom he was bidding an eternal adieu, stood

around him. Beneath them, at the end of a glade, couched a herd of deer,

which started off at sight of the intruders, and made him envy their

freedom and fleetness as he followed them in thought to their solitudes.

At the foot of a steep rock ran the Hodder, making the pleasant music of

other days as it dashed over its pebbly bed, and recalling times, when,

free from all care, he had strayed by its wood-fringed banks, to listen

to the pleasant sound of running waters, and watch the shining pebbles

beneath them, and the swift trout and dainty umber glancing past.

A bitter pang was it to part with scenes so fair, and the abbot spoke no

word, nor even looked up, until, passing Little Mitton, he came in sight

of Whalley Abbey. Then, collecting all his energies, he prepared for the

shock he was about to endure. But nerved as he was, his firmness was

sorely tried when he beheld the stately pile, once his own, now gone

from him and his for ever. He gave one fond glance towards it, and then

painfully averting his gaze, recited, in a low voice, this

supplication:--

"_Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam. Et

secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum, dele iniquitatem

meam. Amplius lava me ab iniquitate meâ, et à peccato meo

munda me._"

But other thoughts and other emotions crowded upon him, when he beheld

the groups of his old retainers advancing to meet him: men, women, and

children pouring forth loud lamentations, prostrating themselves at his

feet, and deploring his doom. The abbot's fortitude had a severe trial

here, and the tears sprung to his eyes. The devotion of these poor

people touched him more sharply than the severity of his adversaries.

"Bless ye! bless ye! my children," he cried; "repine not for me, for I

bear my cross with resignation. It is for me to bewail your lot, much

fearing that the flock I have so long and so zealously tended will fall

into the hands of other and less heedful pastors, or, still worse, of

devouring wolves. Bless ye, my children, and be comforted. Think of the

end of Abbot Paslew, and for what he suffered."

"Think that he was a traitor to the king, and took up arms in rebellion

against him," cried the sheriff, riding up, and speaking in a loud

voice; "and that for his heinous offences he was justly condemned to

death."

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

escort.

"Think charitably of me, my children," said the abbot; "and the blessed

Virgin keep you steadfast in your faith. Benedicite!"

"Be silent, traitor, I command thee," cried the sheriff, striking him

with his gauntlet in the face.

The abbot's pale check burnt crimson, and his eye flashed fire, but he

controlled himself, and answered meekly,--

"Thou didst not speak in such wise, John Braddyll, when I saved thee

from the flood."

"Which flood thou thyself caused to burst forth by devilish arts,"

rejoined the sheriff. "I owe thee little for the service. If for naught

else, thou deservest death for thy evil doings on that night."

The abbot made no reply, for Braddyll's allusion conjured up a sombre

train of thought within his breast, awakening apprehensions which he

could neither account for, nor shake off. Meanwhile, the cavalcade

slowly approached the north-east gateway of the abbey--passing through

crowds of kneeling and sorrowing bystanders;--but so deeply was the

abbot engrossed by the one dread idea that possessed him, that he saw

them not, and scarce heard their woful lamentations. All at once the

cavalcade stopped, and the sheriff rode on to the gate, in the opening

of which some ceremony was observed. Then it was that Paslew raised his

eyes, and beheld standing before him a tall man, with a woman beside him

bearing an infant in her arms. The eyes of the pair were fixed upon him

with vindictive exultation. He would have averted his gaze, but an

irresistible fascination withheld him.

"Thou seest all is prepared," said Demdike, coming close up the mule on

which Paslew was mounted, and pointing to the gigantic gallows, looming

above the abbey walls; "wilt them now accede to my request?" And then he

added, significantly--"on the same terms as before."

The abbot understood his meaning well. Life and freedom were offered him

by a being, whose power to accomplish his promise he did not doubt. The

struggle was hard; but he resisted the temptation, and answered

firmly,--

"No."

"Then die the felon death thou meritest," cried Bess, fiercely; "and I

will glut mine eyes with the spectacle."

Incensed beyond endurance, the abbot looked sternly at her, and raised

his hand in denunciation. The action and the look were so appalling,

that the affrighted woman would have fled if her husband had not

restrained her.

"By the holy patriarchs and prophets; by the prelates and confessors; by

the doctors of the church; by the holy abbots, monks, and eremites, who

dwelt in solitudes, in mountains, and in caverns; by the holy saints and

martyrs, who suffered torture and death for their faith, I curse thee,

witch!" cried Paslew. "May the malediction of Heaven and all its hosts

alight on the head of thy infant--"

"Oh! holy abbot," shrieked Bess, breaking from her husband, and flinging

herself at Paslew's feet, "curse me, if thou wilt, but spare my innocent

child. Save it, and we will save thee."

"Avoid thee, wretched and impious woman," rejoined the abbot; "I have

pronounced the dread anathema, and it cannot be recalled. Look at the

dripping garments of thy child. In blood has it been baptised, and

through blood-stained paths shall its course be taken."

"Ha!" shrieked Bess, noticing for the first time the ensanguined

condition of the infant's attire. "Cuthbert's blood--oh!"

"Listen to me, wicked woman," pursued the abbot, as if filled with a

prophetic spirit. "Thy child's life shall be long--beyond the ordinary

term of woman--but it shall be a life of woe and ill."

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

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

overmastered him.

"Children shall she have," continued the abbot, "and children's

children, but they shall be a race doomed and accursed--a brood of

adders, that the world shall flee from and crush. A thing accursed, and

shunned by her fellows, shall thy daughter be--evil reputed and evil

doing. No hand to help her--no lip to bless her--life a burden; and

death--long, long in coming--finding her in a dismal dungeon. Now,

depart from me, and trouble me no more."

Bess made a motion as if she would go, and then turning, partly round,

dropped heavily on the ground. Demdike caught the child ere she fell.

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

"A stronger voice than mine hath spoken, if it be so," rejoined Paslew.

"_Fuge miserrime, fuge malefice, quia judex adest iratus_."

At this moment the trumpet again sounded, and the cavalcade being put in

motion, the abbot and his fellow-captives passed through the gate.

Dismounting from their mules within the court, before the chapter-house,

the captive ecclesiastics, preceded by the sheriff were led to the

principal chamber of the structure, where the Earl of Derby awaited

them, seated in the Gothic carved oak chair, formerly occupied by the

Abbots of Whalley on the occasions of conferences or elections. The earl

was surrounded by his officers, and the chamber was filled with armed

men. The abbot slowly advanced towards the earl. His deportment was

dignified and firm, even majestic. The exaltation of spirit, occasioned

by the interview with Demdike and his wife, had passed away, and was

succeeded by a profound calm. The hue of his cheek was livid, but

otherwise he seemed wholly unmoved.

The ceremony of delivering up the bodies of the prisoners to the earl

was gone through by the sheriff, and their sentences were then read

aloud by a clerk. After this the earl, who had hitherto remained

covered, took off his cap, and in a solemn voice spoke:--

"John Paslew, somewhile Abbot of Whalley, but now an attainted and

condemned felon, and John Eastgate and William Haydocke, formerly

brethren of the same monastery, and confederates with him in crime, ye

have heard your doom. To-morrow you shall die the ignominious death of

traitors; but the king in his mercy, having regard not so much to the

heinous nature of your offences towards his sovereign majesty as to the

sacred offices you once held, and of which you have been shamefully

deprived, is graciously pleased to remit that part of your sentence,

whereby ye are condemned to be quartered alive, willing that the hearts

which conceived so much malice and violence against him should cease to

beat within your own bosoms, and that the arms which were raised in

rebellion against him should be interred in one common grave with the

trunks to which they belong."

"God save the high and puissant king, Henry the Eighth, and free him

from all traitors!" cried the clerk.

"We humbly thank his majesty for his clemency," said the abbot, amid the

profound silence that ensued; "and I pray you, my good lord, when you

shall write to the king concerning us, to say to his majesty that we

died penitent of many and grave offences, amongst the which is chiefly

that of having taken up arms unlawfully against him, but that we did so

solely with the view of freeing his highness from evil counsellors, and

of re-establishing our holy church, for the which we would willingly

die, if our death might in anywise profit it."

"Amen!" exclaimed Father Eastgate, who stood with his hands crossed upon

his breast, close behind Paslew. "The abbot hath uttered my sentiments."

"He hath not uttered mine," cried Father Haydocke. "I ask no grace from

the bloody Herodias, and will accept none. What I have done I would do

again, were the past to return--nay, I would do more--I would find a way

to reach the tyrant's heart, and thus free our church from its worst

enemy, and the land from a ruthless oppressor."

"Remove him," said the earl; "the vile traitor shall be dealt with as he

merits. For you," he added, as the order was obeyed, and addressing the

other prisoners, "and especially you, John Paslew, who have shown some

compunction for your crimes, and to prove to you that the king is not

the ruthless tyrant he hath been just represented, I hereby in his name

promise you any boon, which you may ask consistently with your

situation. What favour would you have shown you?"

The abbot reflected for a moment.

"Speak thou, John Eastgate," said the Earl of Derby, seeing that the

abbot was occupied in thought.

"If I may proffer a request, my lord," replied the monk, "it is that our

poor distraught brother, William Haydocke, be spared the quartering

block. He meant not what he said."

"Well, be it as thou wilt," replied the earl, bending his brows, "though

he ill deserves such grace. Now, John Paslew, what wouldst thou?"

Thus addressed, the abbot looked up.

"I would have made the same request as my brother, John Eastgate, if he

had not anticipated me, my lord," said Paslew; "but since his petition

is granted, I would, on my own part, entreat that mass be said for us in

the convent church. Many of the brethren are without the abbey, and, if

permitted, will assist at its performance."

"I know not if I shall not incur the king's displeasure in assenting,"

replied the Earl of Derby, after a little reflection; "but I will hazard

it. Mass for the dead shall be said in the church at midnight, and all

the brethren who choose to come thither shall be permitted to assist at

it. They will attend, I doubt not, for it will be the last time the

rites of the Romish Church will be performed in those Walls. They shall

have all required for the ceremonial."

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

"But first pledge me your sacred word," said the earl, "by the holy

office you once held, and by the saints in whom you trust, that this

concession shall not be made the means of any attempt at flight."

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

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

"Enough," said the earl. "I will give the requisite orders. Notice of

the celebration of mass at midnight shall be proclaimed without the

abbey. Now remove the prisoners."

Upon this the captive ecclesiastics were led forth. Father Eastgate was

taken to a strong room in the lower part of the chapter-house, where all

acts of discipline had been performed by the monks, and where the

knotted lash, the spiked girdle, and the hair shirt had once hung; while

the abbot was conveyed to his old chamber, which had been prepared for

his reception, and there left alone.

CHAPTER V.--THE MIDNIGHT MASS.

Dolefully sounds the All Souls' bell from the tower of the convent

church. The bell is one of five, and has obtained the name because it is

tolled only for those about to pass away from life. Now it rings the

knell of three souls to depart on the morrow. Brightly illumined is the

fane, within which no taper hath gleamed since the old worship ceased,

showing that preparations are made for the last service. The organ, dumb

so long, breathes a low prelude. Sad is it to hear that knell--sad to

view those gloriously-dyed panes--and to think why the one rings and the

other is lighted up.

Word having gone forth of the midnight mass, all the ejected brethren

flock to the abbey. Some have toiled through miry and scarce passable

roads. Others have come down from the hills, and forded deep streams at

the hazard of life, rather than go round by the far-off bridge, and

arrive too late. Others, who conceive themselves in peril from the share

they have taken in the late insurrection, quit their secure retreats,

and expose themselves to capture. It may be a snare laid for them, but

they run the risk. Others, coming from a yet greater distance, beholding

the illuminated church from afar, and catching the sound of the bell

tolling at intervals, hurry on, and reach the gate breathless and

wellnigh exhausted. But no questions are asked. All who present

themselves in ecclesiastical habits are permitted to enter, and take

part in the procession forming in the cloister, or proceed at once to

the church, if they prefer it.

Dolefully sounds the bell. Barefooted brethren meet together,

sorrowfully salute each other, and form in a long line in the great area

of the cloisters. At their head are six monks bearing tall lighted

candles. After them come the quiristers, and then one carrying the Host,

between the incense-bearers. Next comes a youth holding the bell. Next

are placed the dignitaries of the church, the prior ranking first, and

the others standing two and two according to their degrees. Near the

entrance of the refectory, which occupies the whole south side of the

quadrangle, stand a band of halberdiers, whose torches cast a ruddy

glare on the opposite tower and buttresses of the convent church,

revealing the statues not yet plucked from their niches, the crosses on

the pinnacles, and the gilt image of Saint Gregory de Northbury, still

holding its place over the porch. Another band are stationed near the

mouth of the vaulted passage, under the chapter-house and vestry, whose

grey, irregular walls, pierced by numberless richly ornamented windows,

and surmounted by small turrets, form a beautiful boundary on the right;

while a third party are planted on the left, in the open space, beneath

the dormitory, the torchlight flashing ruddily upon the hoary pillars

and groined arches sustaining the vast structure above them.

Dolefully sounds the bell. And the ghostly procession thrice tracks the

four ambulatories of the cloisters, solemnly chanting a requiem for the

dead.

Dolefully sounds the bell. And at its summons all the old retainers of

the abbot press to the gate, and sue for admittance, but in vain. They,

therefore, mount the neighbouring hill commanding the abbey, and as the

solemn sounds float faintly by, and glimpses are caught of the

white-robed brethren gliding along the cloisters, and rendered

phantom-like by the torchlight, the beholders half imagine it must be a

company of sprites, and that the departed monks have been permitted for

an hour to assume their old forms, and revisit their old haunts.

Dolefully sounds the bell. And two biers, covered with palls, are borne

slowly towards the church, followed by a tall monk.

The clock was on the stroke of twelve. The procession having drawn up

within the court in front of the abbot's lodging, the prisoners were

brought forth, and at sight of the abbot the whole of the monks fell on

their knees. A touching sight was it to see those reverend men prostrate

before their ancient superior,--he condemned to die, and they deprived

of their monastic home,--and the officer had not the heart to interfere.

Deeply affected, Paslew advanced to the prior, and raising him,

affectionately embraced him. After this, he addressed some words of

comfort to the others, who arose as he enjoined them, and at a signal

from the officer, the procession set out for the church, singing the

"_Placebo_." The abbot and his fellow captives brought up the rear, with

a guard on either side of them. All Souls' bell tolled dolefully the

while.

Meanwhile an officer entered the great hall, where the Earl of Derby was

feasting with his retainers, and informed him that the hour appointed

for the ceremonial was close at hand. The earl arose and went to the

church attended by Braddyll and Assheton. He entered by the western

porch, and, proceeding to the choir, seated himself in the

magnificently-carved stall formerly used by Paslew, and placed where it

stood, a hundred years before, by John Eccles, ninth abbot.

Midnight struck. The great door of the church swung open, and the organ

pealed forth the "_De profundis_." The aisles were filled with armed

men, but a clear space was left for the procession, which presently

entered in the same order as before, and moved slowly along the

transept. Those who came first thought it a dream, so strange was it to

find themselves once again in the old accustomed church. The good prior

melted into tears.

At length the abbot came. To him the whole scene appeared like a vision.

The lights streaming from the altar--the incense loading the air--the

deep diapasons rolling overhead--the well-known faces of the

brethren--the familiar aspect of the sacred edifice--all these filled

him with emotions too painful almost for endurance. It was the last time

he should visit this holy place--the last time he should hear those

solemn sounds--the last time he should behold those familiar

objects--ay, the last! Death could have no pang like this! And with

heart wellnigh bursting, and limbs scarcely serving their office, he

tottered on.

Another trial awaited him, and one for which he was wholly unprepared.

As he drew near the chancel, he looked down an opening on the right,

which seemed purposely preserved by the guard. Why were those tapers

burning in the side chapel? What was within it? He looked again, and

beheld two uncovered biers. On one lay the body of a woman. He started.

In the beautiful, but fierce features of the dead, he beheld the witch,

Bess Demdike. She was gone to her account before him. The malediction he

had pronounced upon her child had killed her.

Appalled, he turned to the other bier, and recognised Cuthbert Ashbead.

He shuddered, but comforted himself that he was at least guiltless of

his death; though he had a strange feeling that the poor forester had in

some way perished for him.

But his attention was diverted towards a tall monk in the Cistertian

habit, standing between the bodies, with the cowl drawn over his face.

As Paslew gazed at him, the monk slowly raised his hood, and partially

disclosed features that smote the abbot as if he had beheld a spectre.

Could it be? Could fancy cheat him thus? He looked again. The monk was

still standing there, but the cowl had dropped over his face. Striving

to shake off the horror that possessed him, the abbot staggered forward,

and reaching the presbytery, sank upon his knees.

The ceremonial then commenced. The solemn requiem was sung by the choir;

and three yet living heard the hymn for the repose of their souls.

Always deeply impressive, the service was unusually so on this sad

occasion, and the melodious voices of the singers never sounded so

mournfully sweet as then--the demeanour of the prior never seemed so

dignified, nor his accents so touching and solemn. The sternest hearts

were softened.

But the abbot found it impossible to fix his attention on the service.

The lights at the altar burnt dimly in his eyes--the loud antiphon and

the supplicatory prayer fell upon a listless ear. His whole life was

passing in review before him. He saw himself as he was when he first

professed his faith, and felt the zeal and holy aspirations that filled

him then. Years flew by at a glance, and he found himself sub-deacon;

the sub-deacon became deacon; and the deacon, sub-prior, and the end of

his ambition seemed plain before him. But he had a rival; his fears told

him a superior in zeal and learning: one who, though many years younger

than he, had risen so rapidly in favour with the ecclesiastical

authorities, that he threatened to outstrip him, even now, when the goal

was full in view. The darkest passage of his life approached: a crime

which should cast a deep shadow over the whole of his brilliant

after-career. He would have shunned its contemplation, if he could. In

vain. It stood out more palpably than all the rest. His rival was no

longer in his path. How he was removed the abbot did not dare to think.

But he was gone for ever, unless the tall monk were he!

Unable to endure this terrible retrospect, Paslew strove to bend his

thoughts on other things. The choir was singing the "_Dies Iræ_," and

their voices thundered forth:--

Rex tremendæ majestatis,

Qui salvandos salvas gratis,

Salva me, fons pietatis!

Fain would the abbot have closed his ears, and, hoping to stifle the

remorseful pangs that seized upon his very vitals with the sharpness of

serpents' teeth, he strove to dwell upon the frequent and severe acts of

penance he had performed. But he now found that his penitence had never

been sincere and efficacious. This one damning sin obscured all his good

actions; and he felt if he died unconfessed, and with the weight of

guilt upon his soul, he should perish everlastingly. Again he fled from

the torment of retrospection, and again heard the choir thundering

forth--

Lacrymosa dies illa,

Quâ resurget ex favillâ

Judicandus homo reus.

Huic ergo parce, Deus!

Pie Jesu Domine!

Dona eis requiem.

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

earnestly repeated--

"Pie Jesu Domine!

Dona eis requiem."

Then he looked up, and resolved to ask for a confessor, and unburthen

his soul without delay.

The offertory and post-communion were over; the "_requiescant in

pace_"--awful words addressed to living ears--were pronounced; and the

mass was ended.

All prepared to depart. The prior descended from the altar to embrace

and take leave of the abbot; and at the same time the Earl of Derby came

from the stall.

"Has all been done to your satisfaction, John Paslew?" demanded the

earl, as he drew near.

"All, my good lord," replied the abbot, lowly inclining his head; "and I

pray you think me not importunate, if I prefer one other request. I

would fain have a confessor visit me, that I may lay bare my inmost

heart to him, and receive absolution."

"I have already anticipated the request," replied the earl, "and have

provided a priest for you. He shall attend you, within an hour, in your

own chamber. You will have ample time between this and daybreak, to

settle your accounts with Heaven, should they be ever so weighty."

"I trust so, my lord," replied Paslew; "but a whole life is scarcely

long enough for repentance, much less a few short hours. But in regard

to the confessor," he continued, filled with misgiving by the earl's

manner, "I should be glad to be shriven by Father Christopher Smith,

late prior of the abbey."

"It may not be," replied the earl, sternly and decidedly. "You will find

all you can require in him I shall send."

The abbot sighed, seeing that remonstrance was useless.

"One further question I would address to you, my lord," he said, "and

that refers to the place of my interment. Beneath our feet lie buried

all my predecessors--Abbots of Whalley. Here lies John Eccles, for whom

was carved the stall in which your lordship hath sat, and from which I

have been dethroned. Here rests the learned John Lyndelay, fifth abbot;

and beside him his immediate predecessor, Robert de Topcliffe, who, two

hundred and thirty years ago, on the festival of Saint Gregory, our

canonised abbot, commenced the erection of the sacred edifice above us.

At that epoch were here enshrined the remains of the saintly Gregory,

and here were also brought the bodies of Helias de Workesley and John de

Belfield, both prelates of piety and wisdom. You may read the names

where you stand, my lord. You may count the graves of all the abbots.

They are sixteen in number. There is one grave yet unoccupied--one stone

yet unfurnished with an effigy in brass."

"Well!" said the Earl of Derby.

"When I sat in that stall, my lord," pursued Paslew, pointing to the

abbot's chair; "when I was head of this church, it was my thought to

rest here among my brother abbots."

"You have forfeited the right," replied the earl, sternly. "All the

abbots, whose dust is crumbling beneath us, died in the odour of

sanctity; loyal to their sovereigns, and true to their country, whereas

you will die an attainted felon and rebel. You can have no place amongst

them. Concern not yourself further in the matter. I will find a fitting

grave for you,--perchance at the foot of the gallows."

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

Ere the clock in the church tower had tolled one, the lights were

extinguished, and of the priestly train who had recently thronged the

fane, all were gone, like a troop of ghosts evoked at midnight by

necromantic skill, and then suddenly dismissed. Deep silence again

brooded in the aisles; hushed was the organ; mute the melodious choir.

The only light penetrating the convent church proceeded from the moon,

whose rays, shining through the painted windows, fell upon the graves of

the old abbots in the presbytery, and on the two biers within the

adjoining chapel, whose stark burthens they quickened into fearful

semblance of life.

CHAPTER VI.--TETER ET FORTIS CARCER.

Left alone, and unable to pray, the abbot strove to dissipate his

agitation of spirit by walking to and fro within his chamber; and while

thus occupied, he was interrupted by a guard, who told him that the

priest sent by the Earl of Derby was without, and immediately afterwards

the confessor was ushered in. It was the tall monk, who had been

standing between the biers, and his features were still shrouded by his

cowl. At sight of him, Paslew sank upon a seat and buried his face in

his hands. The monk offered him no consolation, but waited in silence

till he should again look up. At last Paslew took courage and spoke.

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

"A brother of the same order as yourself," replied the monk, in deep and

thrilling accents, but without raising his hood; "and I am come to hear

your confession by command of the Earl of Derby."

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

"I was," replied the monk, in a stern tone; "but the monastery is

dissolved, and all the brethren ejected."

"Your name?" cried Paslew.

"I am not come here to answer questions, but to hear a confession,"

rejoined the monk. "Bethink you of the awful situation in which you are

placed, and that before many hours you must answer for the sins you have

committed. You have yet time for repentance, if you delay it not."

"You are right, father," replied the abbot. "Be seated, I pray you, and

listen to me, for I have much to tell. Thirty and one years ago I was

prior of this abbey. Up to that period my life had been blameless, or,

if not wholly free from fault, I had little wherewith to reproach

myself--little to fear from a merciful judge--unless it were that I

indulged too strongly the desire of ruling absolutely in the house in

which I was then only second. But Satan had laid a snare for me, into

which I blindly fell. Among the brethren was one named Borlace Alvetham,

a young man of rare attainment, and singular skill in the occult

sciences. He had risen in favour, and at the time I speak of was elected

sub-prior."

"Go on," said the monk.

"It began to be whispered about within the abbey," pursued Paslew, "that

on the death of William Rede, then abbot, Borlace Alvetham would succeed

him, and then it was that bitter feelings of animosity were awakened in

my breast against the sub-prior, and, after many struggles, I resolved

upon his destruction."

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

"I pondered over the means of accomplishing my purpose," resumed Paslew,

"and at last decided upon accusing Alvetham of sorcery and magical

practices. The accusation was easy, for the occult studies in which he

indulged laid him open to the charge. He occupied a chamber overlooking

the Calder, and used to break the monastic rules by wandering forth at

night upon the hills. When he was absent thus one night, accompanied by

others of the brethren, I visited his chamber, and examined his papers,

some of which were covered with mystical figures and cabalistic

characters. These papers I seized, and a watch was set to make prisoner

of Alvetham on his return. Before dawn he appeared, and was instantly

secured, and placed in close confinement. On the next day he was brought

before the assembled conclave in the chapter-house, and examined. His

defence was unavailing. I charged him with the terrible crime of

witchcraft, and he was found guilty."

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

interruption.

"He was condemned to die a fearful and lingering death," pursued the

abbot; "and it devolved upon me to see the sentence carried out."

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

compunction?"

"None," replied the abbot; "I rather rejoiced in the successful

accomplishment of my scheme. The prey was fairly in my toils, and I

would give him no chance of escape. Not to bring scandal upon the

abbey, it was decided that Alvetham's punishment should be secret."

"A wise resolve," observed the monk.

"Within the thickness of the dormitory walls is contrived a small

singularly-formed dungeon," continued the abbot. "It consists of an

arched cell, just large enough to hold the body of a captive, and permit

him to stretch himself upon a straw pallet. A narrow staircase mounts

upwards to a grated aperture in one of the buttresses to admit air and

light. Other opening is there none. '_Teter et fortis carcer_' is this

dungeon styled in our monastic rolls, and it is well described, for it

is black and strong enough. Food is admitted to the miserable inmate of

the cell by means of a revolving stone, but no interchange of speech can

be held with those without. A large stone is removed from the wall to

admit the prisoner, and once immured, the masonry is mortised, and made

solid as before. The wretched captive does not long survive his doom, or

it may be he lives too long, for death must be a release from such

protracted misery. In this dark cell one of the evil-minded brethren,

who essayed to stab the Abbot of Kirkstall in the chapter-house, was

thrust, and ere a year was over, the provisions were untouched--and the

man being known to be dead, they were stayed. His skeleton was found

within the cell when it was opened to admit Borlace Alvetham."

"Poor captive!" groaned the monk.

"Ay, poor captive!" echoed Paslew. "Mine eyes have often striven to

pierce those stone walls, and see him lying there in that narrow

chamber, or forcing his way upwards, to catch a glimpse of the blue sky

above him. When I have seen the swallows settle on the old buttress, or

the thin grass growing between the stones waving there, I have thought

of him."

"Go on," said the monk.

"I scarce can proceed," rejoined Paslew. "Little time was allowed

Alvetham for preparation. That very night the fearful sentence was

carried out. The stone was removed, and a new pallet placed in the cell.

At midnight the prisoner was brought to the dormitory, the brethren

chanting a doleful hymn. There he stood amidst them, his tall form

towering above the rest, and his features pale as death. He protested

his innocence, but he exhibited no fear, even when he saw the terrible

preparations. When all was ready he was led to the breach. At that awful

moment, his eye met mine, and I shall never forget the look. I might

have saved him if I had spoken, but I would not speak. I turned away,

and he was thrust into the breach. A fearful cry then rang in my ears,

but it was instantly drowned by the mallets of the masons employed to

fasten up the stone."

There was a pause for a few moments, broken only by the sobs of the

abbot. At length, the monk spoke.

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

"I thought so till to-night," replied the abbot. "But if he escaped it,

it must have been by miracle; or by aid of those powers with whom he was

charged with holding commerce."

"He did escape!" thundered the monk, throwing back his hood. "Look up,

John Paslew. Look up, false abbot, and recognise thy victim."

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

"You see, and can you doubt?" replied the other. "But you shall now hear

how I avoided the terrible death to which you procured my condemnation.

You shall now learn how I am here to repay the wrong you did me. We have

changed places, John Paslew, since the night when I was thrust into the

cell, never, as you hoped, to come forth. You are now the criminal, and

I the witness of the punishment."

"Forgive me! oh, forgive me! Borlace Alvetham, since you are, indeed,

he!" cried the abbot, falling on his knees.

"Arise, John Paslew!" cried the other, sternly. "Arise, and listen to

me. For the damning offences into which I have been led, I hold you

responsible. But for you I might have died free from sin. It is fit you

should know the amount of my iniquity. Give ear to me, I say. When first

shut within that dungeon, I yielded to the promptings of despair.

Cursing you, I threw myself upon the pallet, resolved to taste no food,

and hoping death would soon release me. But love of life prevailed. On

the second day I took the bread and water allotted me, and ate and

drank; after which I scaled the narrow staircase, and gazed through the

thin barred loophole at the bright blue sky above, sometimes catching

the shadow of a bird as it flew past. Oh, how I yearned for freedom

then! Oh, how I wished to break through the stone walls that held me

fast! Oh, what a weight of despair crushed my heart as I crept back to

my narrow bed! The cell seemed like a grave, and indeed it was little

better. Horrible thoughts possessed me. What if I should be wilfully

forgotten? What if no food should be given me, and I should be left to

perish by the slow pangs of hunger? At this idea I shrieked aloud, but

the walls alone returned a dull echo to my cries. I beat my hands

against the stones, till the blood flowed from them, but no answer was

returned; and at last I desisted from sheer exhaustion. Day after day,

and night after night, passed in this way. My food regularly came. But I

became maddened by solitude; and with terrible imprecations invoked aid

from the powers of darkness to set me free. One night, while thus

employed, I was startled by a mocking voice which said,

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

[Illustration: ALVETHAM AND JOHN PASLEW.]

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

glowing like flaming carbuncles.

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

and follow me.'

"At this I felt myself grasped by an iron arm, against which all

resistance would have been unavailing, even if I had dared to offer it,

and in an instant I was dragged up the narrow steps. The stone wall

opened before my unseen conductor, and in another moment we were upon

the roof of the dormitory. By the bright starbeams shooting down from

above, I discerned a tall shadowy figure standing by my side.

"'Thou art mine,' he cried, in accents graven for ever on my memory;

'but I am a generous master, and will give thee a long term of freedom.

Thou shalt be avenged upon thine enemy--deeply avenged.'

"'Grant this, and I am thine,' I replied, a spirit of infernal vengeance

possessing me. And I knelt before the fiend.

"'But thou must tarry for awhile,' he answered, 'for thine enemy's time

will be long in coming; but it _will_ come. I cannot work him immediate

harm; but I will lead him to a height from which he will assuredly fall

headlong. Thou must depart from this place; for it is perilous to thee,

and if thou stayest here, ill will befall thee. I will send a rat to thy

dungeon, which shall daily devour the provisions, so that the monks

shall not know thou hast fled. In thirty and one years shall the abbot's

doom be accomplished. Two years before that time thou mayst return. Then

come alone to Pendle Hill on a Friday night, and beat the water of the

moss pool on the summit, and I will appear to thee and tell thee more.

Nine and twenty years, remember!'

"With these words the shadowy figure melted away, and I found myself

standing alone on the mossy roof of the dormitory. The cold stars were

shining down upon me, and I heard the howl of the watch-dogs near the

gate. The fair abbey slept in beauty around me, and I gnashed my teeth

with rage to think that you had made me an outcast from it, and robbed

me of a dignity which might have been mine. I was wroth also that my

vengeance should be so long delayed. But I could not remain where I was,

so I clambered down the buttress, and fled away."

"Can this be?" cried the abbot, who had listened in rapt wonderment to

the narration. "Two years after your immurement in the cell, the food

having been for some time untouched, the wall was opened, and upon the

pallet was found a decayed carcase in mouldering, monkish vestments."

"It was a body taken from the charnel, and placed there by the demon,"

replied the monk. "Of my long wanderings in other lands and beneath

brighter skies I need not tell you; but neither absence nor lapse of

years cooled my desire of vengeance, and when the appointed time drew

nigh I returned to my own country, and came hither in a lowly garb,

under the name of Nicholas Demdike."

"Ha!" exclaimed the abbot.

"I went to Pendle Hill, as directed," pursued the monk, "and saw the

Dark Shape there as I beheld it on the dormitory roof. All things were

then told me, and I learnt how the late rebellion should rise, and how

it should be crushed. I learnt also how my vengeance should be

satisfied."

Paslew groaned aloud. A brief pause ensued, and deep emotion marked the

accents of the wizard as he proceeded.

"When I came back, all this part of Lancashire resounded with praises of

the beauty of Bess Blackburn, a rustic lass who dwelt in Barrowford. She

was called the Flower of Pendle, and inflamed all the youths with love,

and all the maidens with jealousy. But she favoured none except Cuthbert

Ashbead, forester to the Abbot of Whalley. Her mother would fain have

given her to the forester in marriage, but Bess would not be disposed of

so easily. I saw her, and became at once enamoured. I thought my heart

was seared; but it was not so. The savage beauty of Bess pleased me more

than the most refined charms could have done, and her fierce character

harmonised with my own. How I won her matters not, but she cast off all

thoughts of Ashbead, and clung to me. My wild life suited her; and she

roamed the wastes with me, scaled the hills in my company, and shrank

not from the weird meetings I attended. Ill repute quickly attended her,

and she became branded as a witch. Her aged mother closed her doors upon

her, and those who would have gone miles to meet her, now avoided her.

Bess heeded this little. She was of a nature to repay the world's

contumely with like scorn, but when her child was born the case became

different. She wished to save it. Then it was," pursued Demdike,

vehemently, and regarding the abbot with flashing eyes--"then it was

that I was again mortally injured by you. Then your ruthless decree to

the clergy went forth. My child was denied baptism, and became subject

to the fiend."

"Alas! alas!" exclaimed Paslew.

"And as if this were not injury enough," thundered Demdike, "you have

called down a withering and lasting curse upon its innocent head, and

through it transfixed its mother's heart. If you had complied with that

poor girl's request, I would have forgiven you your wrong to me, and

have saved you."

There was a long, fearful silence. At last Demdike advanced to the

abbot, and, seizing his arm, fixed his eyes upon him, as if to search

into his soul.

"Answer me, John Paslew!" he cried; "answer me, as you shall speedily

answer your Maker. Can that malediction be recalled? Dare not to trifle

with me, or I will tear forth your black heart, and cast it in your

face. Can that curse be recalled? Speak!"

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

"Away, then!" thundered Demdike, casting him from him. "To the

gallows!--to the gallows!" And he rushed out of the room.

CHAPTER VII.--THE ABBEY MILL.

For a while the abbot remained shattered and stupefied by this terrible

interview. At length he arose, and made his way, he scarce knew how, to

the oratory. But it was long before the tumult of his thoughts could be

at all allayed, and he had only just regained something like composure

when he was disturbed by hearing a slight sound in the adjoining

chamber. A mortal chill came over him, for he thought it might be

Demdike returned. Presently, he distinguished a footstep stealthily

approaching him, and almost hoped that the wizard would consummate his

vengeance by taking his life. But he was quickly undeceived, for a hand

was placed on his shoulder, and a friendly voice whispered in his ears,

"Cum along wi' meh, lort abbut. Get up, quick--quick!"

Thus addressed, the abbot raised his eyes, and beheld a rustic figure

standing beside him, divested of his clouted shoes, and armed with a

long bare wood-knife.

"Dunna yo knoa me, lort abbut?" cried the person. "Ey'm a freent--Hal o'

Nabs, o' Wiswall. Yo'n moind Wiswall, yeawr own birthplace, abbut? Dunna

be feert, ey sey. Ey'n getten a steigh clapt to yon windaw, an' you con

be down it i' a trice--an' along t' covert way be t' river soide to t'

mill."

But the abbot stirred not.

"Quick! quick!" implored Hal o' Nabs, venturing to pluck the abbot's

sleeve. "Every minute's precious. Dunna be feert. Ebil Croft, t' miller,

is below. Poor Cuthbert Ashbead would ha' been here i'stead o' meh if he

couldn; boh that accursed wizard, Nick Demdike, turned my hont agen him,

an' drove t' poike head intended for himself into poor Cuthbert's side.

They clapt meh i' a dungeon, boh Ebil monaged to get me out, an' ey then

swore to do whot poor Cuthbert would ha' done, if he'd been livin'--so

here ey am, lort abbut, cum to set yo free. An' neaw yo knoan aw abowt

it, yo con ha nah more hesitation. Cum, time presses, an ey'm feert o'

t' guard owerhearing us."

"I thank you, my good friend, from the bottom of my heart," replied the

abbot, rising; "but, however strong may be the temptation of life and

liberty which you hold out to me, I cannot yield to it. I have pledged

my word to the Earl of Derby to make no attempt to escape. Were the

doors thrown open, and the guard removed, I should remain where I am."

"Whot!" exclaimed Hal o' Nabs, in a tone of bitter disappointment; "yo

winnaw go, neaw aw's prepared. By th' Mess, boh yo shan. Ey'st nah go

back to Ebil empty-handed. If yo'n sworn to stay here, ey'n sworn to set

yo free, and ey'st keep meh oath. Willy nilly, yo shan go wi' meh, lort

abbut!"

"Forbear to urge me further, my good Hal," rejoined Paslew. "I fully

appreciate your devotion; and I only regret that you and Abel Croft have

exposed yourselves to so much peril on my account. Poor Cuthbert

Ashbead! when I beheld his body on the bier, I had a sad feeling that he

had died in my behalf."

"Cuthbert meant to rescue yo, lort abbut," replied Hal, "and deed

resisting Nick Demdike's attempt to arrest him. Boh, be aw t' devils!"

he added, brandishing his knife fiercely, "t' warlock shall ha' three

inches o' cowd steel betwixt his ribs, t' furst time ey cum across him."

"Peace, my son," rejoined the abbot, "and forego your bloody design.

Leave the wretched man to the chastisement of Heaven. And now, farewell!

All your kindly efforts to induce me to fly are vain."

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

"I cannot," replied the abbot.

"Cum wi' meh to t' windaw, then," pursued Hal, "and tell Ebil so. He'll

think ey'n failed else."

"Willingly," replied the abbot.

And with noiseless footsteps he followed the other across the chamber.

The window was open, and outside it was reared a ladder.

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

yo."

The abbot complied, and partly descended the ladder.

"I see no one," he said.

"T' neet's dark," replied Hal o' Nabs, who was close behind him. "Ebil

canna be far off. Hist! ey hear him--go on."

The abbot was now obliged to comply, though he did so with, reluctance.

Presently he found himself upon the roof of a building, which he knew to

be connected with the mill by a covered passage running along the south

bank of the Calder. Scarcely had he set foot there, than Hal o' Nabs

jumped after him, and, seizing the ladder, cast it into the stream, thus

rendering Paslew's return impossible.

"Neaw, lort abbut," he cried, with a low, exulting laugh, "yo hanna

brok'n yor word, an ey'n kept moine. Yo're free agen your will."

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

reproachfully.

"Nowt o't sort," replied Hal; "ey'n saved yo' fro' destruction. This

way, lort abbut--this way."

And taking Paslew's arm he led him to a low parapet, overlooking the

covered passage before described. Half an hour before it had been bright

moonlight, but, as if to favour the fugitive, the heavens had become

overcast, and a thick mist had arisen from the river.

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

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

"Yeigh," replied Hal.

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

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

Paslew thought it vain to resist further, and with the help of Hal o'

Nabs and the miller, and further aided by some irregularities in the

wall, he was soon safely landed near the entrance of the passage. Abel

fell on his knees, and pressed the abbot's hand to his lips.

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

"Dunna stond tawking here, Ebil," interposed Hal o' Nabs, who by this

time had reached the ground, and who was fearful of some new

remonstrance on the abbot's part. "Ey'm feerd o' pursuit."

"Yo' needna be afeerd o' that, Hal," replied the miller. "T' guard are

safe enough. One o' owr chaps has just tuk em up a big black jack fu' o'

stout ele; an ey warrant me they winnaw stir yet awhoile. Win it please

yo to cum wi' me, lort abbut?"

With this, he marched along the passage, followed by the others, and

presently arrived at a door, against which he tapped. A bolt being

withdrawn, it was instantly opened to admit the party, after which it

was as quickly shut, and secured. In answer to a call from the miller, a

light appeared at the top of a steep, ladder-like flight of wooden

steps, and up these Paslew, at the entreaty of Abel, mounted, and found

himself in a large, low chamber, the roof of which was crossed by great

beams, covered thickly with cobwebs, whitened by flour, while the floor

was strewn with empty sacks and sieves.

The person who held the light proved to be the miller's daughter,

Dorothy, a blooming lass of eighteen, and at the other end of the

chamber, seated on a bench before a turf fire, with an infant on her

knees, was the miller's wife. The latter instantly arose on beholding

the abbot, and, placing the child on a corn bin, advanced towards him,

and dropped on her knees, while her daughter imitated her example. The

abbot extended his hands over them, and pronounced a solemn benediction.

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

concluded.

"It's nah my child, lort abbut," replied the miller's wife, taking up

the infant and bringing it to him; "it wur brought to me this varry neet

by Ebil. Ey wish it wur far enough, ey'm sure, for it's a deformed

little urchon. One o' its een is lower set than t' other; an t' reet

looks up, while t' laft looks down."

And as she spoke she pointed to the infant's face, which was disfigured

as she had stated, by a strange and unnatural disposition of the eyes,

one of which was set much lower in the head than the other. Awakened

from sleep, the child uttered a feeble cry, and stretched out its tiny

arms to Dorothy.

"You ought to pity it for its deformity, poor little creature, rather

than reproach it, mother," observed the young damsel.

"Marry kem eawt!" cried her mother, sharply, "yo'n getten fine feelings

wi' your larning fro t' good feythers, Dolly. Os ey said efore, ey wish

t' brat wur far enough."

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

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

Demdike's neaw great loss."

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

"Yeigh," exclaimed the miller's wife. And mistaking the cause of

Paslew's emotion, she added, triumphantly, to her daughter, "Ey towd te,

wench, ot t' lort abbut would be of my way o' thinking. T' chilt has got

the witch's mark plain upon her. Look, lort abbut, look!"

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

"Ever in my path, go where I will. It is vain to struggle with my fate.

I will go back and surrender myself to the Earl of Derby."

"Nah,--nah!--yo shanna do that," replied Hal o' Nabs, who, with the

miller, was close beside him. "Sit down o' that stoo' be t' fire, and

take a cup o' wine t' cheer yo, and then we'n set out to Pendle Forest,

where ey'st find yo a safe hiding-place. An t' ony reward ey'n ever ask

for t' sarvice shan be, that yo'n perform a marriage sarvice fo' me and

Dolly one of these days." And he nudged the damsel's elbow, who turned

away, covered with blushes.

The abbot moved mechanically to the fire, and sat down, while the

miller's wife, surrendering the child with a shrug of the shoulders and

a grimace to her daughter, went in search of some viands and a flask of

wine, which she set before Paslew. The miller then filled a

drinking-horn, and presented it to his guest, who was about to raise it

to his lips, when a loud knocking was heard at the door below.

The knocking continued with increased violence, and voices were heard

calling upon the miller to open the door, or it would be broken down. On

the first alarm Abel had flown to a small window whence he could

reconnoitre those below, and he now returned with a face white with

terror, to say that a party of arquebussiers, with the sheriff at their

head, were without, and that some of the men were provided with torches.

"They have discovered my evasion, and are come in search of me,"

observed the abbot rising, but without betraying any anxiety. "Do not

concern yourselves further for me, my good friends, but open the door,

and deliver me to them."

"Nah, nah, that we winnaw," cried Hal o' Nabs, "yo're neaw taen yet,

feyther abbut, an' ey knoa a way to baffle 'em. If y'on let him down

into t' river, Ebil, ey'n manage to get him off."

"Weel thowt on, Nab," cried the miller, "theawst nah been mey mon seven

year fo nowt. Theaw knoas t' ways o' t' pleck."

"Os weel os onny rotten abowt it," replied Hal o' Nabs. "Go down to t'

grindin'-room, an ey'n follow i' a troice."

And as Abel snatched up the light, and hastily descended the steps with

Paslew, Hal whispered in Dorothy's ears--

"Tak care neaw one fonds that chilt, Dolly, if they break in. Hide it

safely; an whon they're gone, tak it to't church, and place it near t'

altar, where no ill con cum to it or thee. Mey life may hong upon it."

And as the poor girl, who, as well as her mother, was almost frightened

out of her wits, promised compliance, he hurried down the steps after

the others, muttering, as the clamour without was redoubled--

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

promise ye."

Meantime, the abbot had been led to the chief room of the mill, where

all the corn formerly consumed within the monastery had been prepared,

and which the size of the chamber itself, together with the vastness of

the stones used in the operation of grinding, and connected with the

huge water-wheel outside, proved to be by no means inconsiderable.

Strong shafts of timber supported the flooring above, and were crossed

by other boards placed horizontally, from which various implements in

use at the mill depended, giving the chamber, imperfectly lighted as it

now was by the lamp borne by Abel, a strange and almost mysterious

appearance. Three or four of the miller's men, armed with pikes, had

followed their master, and, though much alarmed, they vowed to die

rather than give up the abbot.

By this time Hal o' Nabs had joined the group, and proceeding towards a

raised part of the chamber where the grinding-stones were set, he knelt

down, and laying hold of a small ring, raised up a trapdoor. The fresh

air which blew up through the aperture, combined with the rushing sound

of water, showed that the Calder flowed immediately beneath; and, having

made some slight preparation, Hal let himself down into the stream.

At this moment a loud crash was heard, and one of the miller's men cried

out that the arquebussiers had burst open the door.

"Be hondy, then, lads, and let him down!" cried Hal o' Nabs, who had

some difficulty in maintaining his footing on the rough, stony bottom of

the swift stream.

Passively yielding, the abbot suffered the miller and one of the

stoutest of his men to assist him through the trapdoor, while a third

held down the lamp, and showed Hal o' Nabs, up to his middle in the

darkling current, and stretching out his arms to receive the burden. The

light fell upon the huge black circle of the watershed now stopped, and

upon the dripping arches supporting the mill. In another moment the

abbot plunged into the water, the trapdoor was replaced, and bolted

underneath by Hal, who, while guiding his companion along, and bidding

him catch hold of the wood-work of the wheel, heard a heavy trampling of

many feet on the boards above, showing that the pursuers had obtained

admittance.

Encumbered by his heavy vestments, the abbot could with difficulty

contend against the strong current, and he momently expected to be swept

away; but he had a stout and active assistant by his side, who soon

placed him under shelter of the wheel. The trampling overhead continued

for a few minutes, after which all was quiet, and Hal judged that,

finding their search within ineffectual, the enemy would speedily come

forth. Nor was he deceived. Shouts were soon heard at the door of the

mill, and the glare of torches was cast on the stream. Then it was that

Hal dragged his companion into a deep hole, formed by some decay in the

masonry, behind the wheel, where the water rose nearly to their chins,

and where they were completely concealed. Scarcely were they thus

ensconced, than two or three armed men, holding torches aloft, were seen

wading under the archway; but after looking carefully around, and even

approaching close to the water-wheel, these persons could detect

nothing, and withdrew, muttering curses of rage and disappointment.

By-and-by the lights almost wholly disappeared, and the shouts becoming

fainter and more distant, it was evident that the men had gone lower

down the river. Upon this, Hal thought they might venture to quit their

retreat, and accordingly, grasping the abbot's arm, he proceeded to wade

up the stream.

Benumbed with cold, and half dead with terror, Paslew needed all his

companion's support, for he could do little to help himself, added to

which, they occasionally encountered some large stone, or stepped into a

deep hole, so that it required Hal's utmost exertion and strength to

force a way on. At last they were out of the arch, and though both banks

seemed unguarded, yet, for fear of surprise, Hal deemed it prudent still

to keep to the river. Their course was completely sheltered from

observation by the mist that enveloped them; and after proceeding in

this way for some distance, Hal stopped to listen, and while debating

with himself whether he should now quit the river, he fancied he beheld

a black object swimming towards him. Taking it for an otter, with which

voracious animal the Calder, a stream swarming with trout, abounded, and

knowing the creature would not meddle with them unless first attacked,

he paid little attention to it; but he was soon made sensible of his

error. His arm was suddenly seized by a large black hound, whose sharp

fangs met in his flesh. Unable to repress a cry of pain, Hal strove to

disengage himself from his assailant, and, finding it impossible, flung

himself into the water in the hope of drowning him, but, as the hound

still maintained his hold, he searched for his knife to slay him. But he

could not find it, and in his distress applied to Paslew.

"Ha yo onny weepun abowt yo, lort abbut," he cried, "wi' which ey con

free mysel fro' this accussed hound?"

"Alas! no, my son," replied Paslew, "and I fear no weapon will prevail

against it, for I recognise in the animal the hound of the wizard,

Demdike."

"Ey thowt t' dule wur in it," rejoined Hal; "boh leave me to fight it

owt, and do you gain t' bonk, an mey t' best o' your way to t' Wiswall.

Ey'n join ye os soon os ey con scrush this varment's heaod agen a stoan.

Ha!" he added, joyfully, "Ey'n found t' thwittle. Go--go. Ey'n soon be

efter ye."

Feeling he should sink if he remained where he was, and wholly unable to

offer any effectual assistance to his companion, the abbot turned to the

left, where a large oak overhung the stream, and he was climbing the

bank, aided by the roots of the tree, when a man suddenly came from

behind it, seized his hand, and dragged him up forcibly. At the same

moment his captor placed a bugle to his lips, and winding a few notes,

he was instantly answered by shouts, and soon afterwards half a dozen

armed men ran up, bearing torches. Not a word passed between the

fugitive and his captor; but when the men came up, and the torchlight

fell upon the features of the latter, the abbot's worst fears were

realised. It was Demdike.

"False to your king!--false to your oath!--false to all men!" cried the

wizard. "You seek to escape in vain!"

"I merit all your reproaches," replied the abbot; "but it may he some

satisfaction, to you to learn, that I have endured far greater suffering

than if I had patiently awaited my doom."

"I am glad of it," rejoined Demdike, with a savage laugh; "but you have

destroyed others beside yourself. Where is the fellow in the water?

What, ho, Uriel!"

But as no sound reached him, he snatched a torch from one of the

arquebussiers and held it to the river's brink. But he could see neither

hound nor man.

"Strange!" he cried. "He cannot have escaped. Uriel is more than a match

for any man. Secure the prisoner while I examine the stream."

With this, he ran along the bank with great quickness, holding his torch

far over the water, so as to reveal any thing floating within it, but

nothing met his view until he came within a short distance of the mill,

when he beheld a black object struggling in the current, and soon found

that it was his dog making feeble efforts to gain the bank.

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

Seeing his master the animal redoubled its efforts, crept ashore, and

fell at his feet, with a last effort to lick his hands.

Demdike held down the torch, and then perceived that the hound was

quite dead. There was a deep gash in its side, and another in the

throat, showing how it had perished.

"Poor Uriel!" he exclaimed; "the only true friend I had. And thou art

gone! The villain has killed thee, but he shall pay for it with his

life."

And hurrying back he dispatched four of the men in quest of the

fugitive, while accompanied by the two others he conveyed Paslew back to

the abbey, where he was placed in a strong cell, from which there was no

possibility of escape, and a guard set over him.

Half an hour after this, two of the arquebussiers returned with Hal o'

Nabs, whom they had succeeded in capturing after a desperate resistance,

about a mile from the abbey, on the road to Wiswall. He was taken to the

guard-room, which had been appointed in one of the lower chambers of the

chapter-house, and Demdike was immediately apprised of his arrival.

Satisfied by an inspection of the prisoner, whose demeanour was sullen

and resolved, Demdike proceeded to the great hall, where the Earl of

Derby, who had returned thither after the midnight mass, was still

sitting with his retainers. An audience was readily obtained by the

wizard, and, apparently well pleased with the result, he returned to the

guard-room. The prisoner was seated by himself in one corner of the

chamber, with his hands tied behind his back with a leathern thong, and

Demdike approaching him, told him that, for having aided the escape of a

condemned rebel and traitor, and violently assaulting the king's lieges

in the execution of their duty, he would be hanged on the morrow, the

Earl of Derby, who had power of life or death in such cases, having so

decreed it. And he exhibited the warrant.

"Soh, yo mean to hong me, eh, wizard?" cried Hal o' Nabs, kicking his

heels with great apparent indifference.

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

"Ey dunna think it," replied Hal. "Yo'n alter your moind. Do, mon. Ey'm

nah prepared to dee just yet."

"Then perish in your sins," cried Demdike, "I will not give you an

hour's respite."

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

"Tush!" cried Demdike, "my only regret will be that Uriel's slaughter is

paid for by such a worthless life as thine."

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

by doing so."

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

"Ey mean this," replied Hal, coolly; "that if ey dee to-morrow mornin'

your chilt dees too. Whon ey ondertook this job ey calkilated mey

chances, an' tuk precautions eforehond. Your chilt's a hostage fo mey

safety."

"Curses on thee and thy cunning," cried Demdike; "but I will not be

outwitted by a hind like thee. I will have the child, and yet not be

baulked of my revenge."

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

rejoined Hal.

"We shall see," cried Demdike, rushing forth, and bidding the guards

look well to the prisoner.

But ere long he returned with a gloomy and disappointed expression of

countenance, and again approaching the prisoner said, "Thou hast spoken

the truth. The infant is in the hands of some innocent being over whom I

have no power."

"Ey towdee so, wizard," replied Hal, laughing. "Hoind os ey be, ey'm a

match fo' thee,--ha! ha! Neaw, mey life agen t' chilt's. Win yo set me

free?"

Demdike deliberated.

"Harkee, wizard," cried Hal, "if yo're hatching treason ey'n dun. T'

sartunty o' revenge win sweeten mey last moments."

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

asked Demdike.

"It's a bargain, wizard," rejoined Hal o' Nabs; "ey swear. Boh yo mun

set me free furst, fo' ey winnaw tak your word."

Demdike turned away disdainfully, and addressing the arquebussiers,

said, "You behold this warrant, guard. The prisoner is committed to my

custody. I will produce him on the morrow, or account for his absence to

the Earl of Derby."

One of the arquebussiers examined the order, and vouching for its

correctness, the others signified their assent to the arrangement, upon

which Demdike motioned the prisoner to follow him, and quitted the

chamber. No interruption was offered to Hal's egress, but he stopped

within the court-yard, where Demdike awaited him, and unfastened the

leathern thong that bound together his hands.

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

"Nah, ey'st neaw bring it ye myself," rejoined Hal. "Ey knoas better nor

that. Be at t' church porch i' half an hour, an t' bantlin shan be

delivered to ye safe an sound."

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

At the appointed time Demdike sought the church, and as he drew near it

there issued from the porch a female, who hastily placing the child,

wrapped in a mantle, in his arms, tarried for no speech from him, but

instantly disappeared. Demdike, however, recognised in her the miller's

daughter, Dorothy Croft.

CHAPTER VIII.--THE EXECUTIONER.

Dawn came at last, after a long and weary night to many within and

without the abbey. Every thing betokened a dismal day. The atmosphere

was damp, and oppressive to the spirits, while the raw cold sensibly

affected the frame. All astir were filled with gloom and despondency,

and secretly breathed a wish that, the tragical business of the day were

ended. The vast range of Pendle was obscured by clouds, and ere long the

vapours descended into the valleys, and rain began to fall; at first

slightly, but afterwards in heavy continuous showers. Melancholy was the

aspect of the abbey, and it required no stretch of imagination to fancy

that the old structure was deploring the fate of its former ruler. To

those impressed with the idea--and many there were who were so--the very

stones of the convent church seemed dissolving into tears. The statues

of the saints appeared to weep, and the great statue of Saint Gregory de

Northbury over the porch seemed bowed down with grief. The grotesquely

carved heads on the spouts grinned horribly at the abbot's destroyers,

and spouted forth cascades of water, as if with the intent of drowning

them. So deluging and incessant were the showers, that it seemed,

indeed, as if the abbey would be flooded. All the inequalities of ground

within the great quadrangle of the cloisters looked like ponds, and the

various water-spouts from the dormitory, the refectory, and the

chapter-house, continuing to jet forth streams into the court below, the

ambulatories were soon filled ankle-deep, and even the lower apartments,

on which they opened, invaded.

Surcharged with moisture, the royal banner on the gate drooped and clung

to the staff, as if it too shared in the general depression, or as if

the sovereign authority it represented had given way. The countenances

and deportment of the men harmonized with the weather; they moved about

gloomily and despondently, their bright accoutrements sullied with the

wet, and their buskins clogged with mire. A forlorn sight it was to

watch the shivering sentinels on the walls; and yet more forlorn to see

the groups of the abbot's old retainers gathering without, wrapped in

their blue woollen cloaks, patiently enduring the drenching showers, and

awaiting the last awful scene. But the saddest sight of all was on the

hill, already described, called the Holehouses. Here two other lesser

gibbets had been erected during the night, one on either hand of the

loftier instrument of justice, and the carpenters were yet employed in

finishing their work, having been delayed by the badness of the weather.

Half drowned by the torrents that fell upon them, the poor fellows were

protected from interference with their disagreeable occupation by half a

dozen well-mounted and well-armed troopers, and by as many halberdiers;

and this company, completely exposed to the weather, suffered severely

from wet and cold. The rain beat against the gallows, ran down its tall

naked posts, and collected in pools at its feet. Attracted by some

strange instinct, which seemed to give them a knowledge of the object of

these terrible preparations, two ravens wheeled screaming round the

fatal tree, and at length one of them settled on the cross-beam, and

could with difficulty be dislodged by the shouts of the men, when it

flew away, croaking hoarsely. Up this gentle hill, ordinarily so soft

and beautiful, but now abhorrent as a Golgotha, in the eyes of the

beholders, groups of rustics and monks had climbed over ground rendered

slippery with moisture, and had gathered round the paling encircling the

terrible apparatus, looking the images of despair and woe.

Even those within the abbey, and sheltered from the storm, shared the

all-pervading despondency. The refectory looked dull and comfortless,

and the logs on the hearth hissed and sputtered, and would not burn.

Green wood had been brought instead of dry fuel by the drowsy henchman.

The viands on the board provoked not the appetite, and the men emptied

their cups of ale, yawned and stretched their arms, as if they would

fain sleep an hour or two longer. The sense of discomfort, was

heightened by the entrance of those whose term of watch had been

relieved, and who cast their dripping cloaks on the floor, while two or

three savage dogs, steaming with moisture, stretched their huge lengths

before the sullen fire, and disputed all approach to it.

Within the great hall were already gathered the retainers of the Earl of

Derby, but the nobleman himself had not appeared. Having passed the

greater part of the night in conference with one person or another, and

the abbot's flight having caused him much disquietude, though he did not

hear of it till the fugitive was recovered; the earl would not seek his

couch until within an hour of daybreak, and his attendants, considering

the state of the weather, and that it yet wanted full two hours to the

time appointed for the execution, did not think it needful to disturb

him. Braddyll and Assheton, however, were up and ready; but, despite

their firmness of nerve, they yielded like the rest to the depressing

influence of the weather, and began to have some misgivings as to their

own share in the tragedy about to be enacted. The various gentlemen in

attendance paced to and fro within the hall, holding but slight converse

together, anxiously counting the minutes, for the time appeared to pass

on with unwonted slowness, and ever and anon glancing through the

diamond panes of the window at the rain pouring down steadily without,

and coming back again hopeless of amendment in the weather.

If such were the disheartening influence of the day on those who had

nothing to apprehend, what must its effect have been on the poor

captives! Woful indeed. The two monks suffered a complete prostration of

spirit. All the resolution which Father Haydocke had displayed in his

interview with the Earl of Derby, failed him now, and he yielded to the

agonies of despair. Father Eastgate was in little better condition, and

gave vent to unavailing lamentations, instead of paying heed to the

consolatory discourse of the monk who had been permitted to visit him.

The abbot was better sustained. Though greatly enfeebled by the

occurrences of the night, yet in proportion as his bodily strength

decreased, his mental energies rallied. Since the confession of his

secret offence, and the conviction he had obtained that his supposed

victim still lived, a weight seemed taken from his breast, and he had no

longer any dread of death. Rather he looked to the speedy termination of

existence with hopeful pleasure. He prepared himself as decently as the

means afforded him permitted for his last appearance before the world,

but refused all refreshment except a cup of water, and being left to

himself was praying fervently, when a man was admitted into his cell.

Thinking it might be the executioner come to summon him, he arose, and

to his surprise beheld Hal o' Nabs. The countenance of the rustic was

pale, but his bearing was determined.

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

"Ey'm i' nah dawnger, feyther abbut," replied Hal. "Ey'n getten leef to

visit ye fo a minute only, so ey mun be brief. Mey yourself easy, ye

shanna dee be't hongmon's honds."

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

"Yo'n onderstond me weel enough by-and-by," replied Hal. "Dunnah be

feart whon ye see me next; an comfort yoursel that whotever cums and

goes, your death shall be avenged o' your warst foe."

Paslew would have sought some further explanation, but Hal stepped

quickly backwards, and striking his foot against the door, it was

instantly opened by the guard, and he went forth.

Not long after this, the Earl of Derby entered the great hall, and his

first inquiry was as to the safety of the prisoners. When satisfied of

this, he looked forth, and shuddered at the dismal state of the weather.

While he was addressing some remarks on this subject, and on its

interference with the tragical exhibition about to take place, an

officer entered the hall, followed by several persons of inferior

condition, amongst whom was Hal o' Nabs, and marched up to the earl,

while the others remained standing at a respectful distance.

"What news do you bring me, sir?" cried the earl, noticing the officer's

evident uneasiness of manner. "Nothing hath happened to the prisoners?

God's death! if it hath, you shall all answer for it with your bodies."

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

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

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

officer.

"Fled!" exclaimed the earl, stamping his foot with rage; "now as I live,

this is a device to delay the execution till some new attempt at rescue

can be made. But it shall fail, if I string up the abbot myself. Death!

can no other hangmen be found? ha!"

"Of a surety, my lord; but all have an aversion to the office, and hold

it opprobrious, especially to put churchmen to death," replied the

officer.

"Opprobrious or not, it must be done," replied the earl. "See that

fitting persons are provided."

At this moment Hal o' Nabs stepped forward.

"Ey'm willing t' ondertake t' job, my lord, an' t' hong t' abbut,

without fee or rewort," he said.

"Thou bears't him a grudge, I suppose, good fellow," replied the earl,

laughing at the rustic's uncouth appearance; "but thou seem'st a stout

fellow, and one not likely to flinch, and may discharge the office as

well as another. If no better man can be found, let him do it," he added

to the officer.

"Ey humbly thonk your lortship," replied Hal, inwardly rejoicing at the

success of his scheme. But his countenance fell when he perceived

Demdike advance from behind the others.

"This man is not to be trusted, my lord," said Demdike, coming forward;

"he has some mischievous design in making the request. So far from

bearing enmity to the abbot, it was he who assisted him in his attempt

to escape last night."

"What!" exclaimed the earl, "is this a new trick? Bring the fellow

forward, that I may examine him."

But Hal was gone. Instantly divining Demdike's purpose, and seeing his

chance lost, he mingled with the lookers-on, who covered his retreat.

Nor could he be found when sought for by the guard.

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

the officer.

"It is needless to take further trouble, my lord," replied Demdike "I am

come to offer myself as executioner."

"Thou!" exclaimed the earl.

"Ay," replied the other. "When I heard that the men from Lancaster were

fled, I instantly knew that some scheme to frustrate the ends of justice

was on foot, and I at once resolved to undertake the office myself

rather than delay or risk should occur. What this man's aim was, who

hath just offered himself, I partly guess, but it hath failed; and if

your lordship will intrust the matter to me, I will answer that no

further impediment shall arise, but that the sentence shall be fully

carried out, and the law satisfied. Your lordship can trust me."

"I know it," replied the earl. "Be it as you will. It is now on the

stroke of nine. At ten, let all be in readiness to set out for Wiswall

Hall. The rain may have ceased by that time, but no weather must stay

you. Go forth with the new executioner, sir," he added to the officer,

"and see all necessary preparations made."

And as Demdike bowed, and departed with the officer, the earl sat down

with his retainers to break his fast.

CHAPTER IX.--WISWALL HALL.

Shortly before ten o'clock a numerous cortège, consisting of a troop of

horse in their full equipments, a band of archers with their bows over

their shoulders, and a long train of barefoot monks, who had been

permitted to attend, set out from the abbey. Behind them came a varlet

with a paper mitre on his head, and a lathen crosier in his hand,

covered with a surcoat, on which was emblazoned, but torn and reversed,

the arms of Paslew; argent, a fess between three mullets, sable, pierced

of the field, a crescent for difference. After him came another varlet

bearing a banner, on which was painted a grotesque figure in a

half-military, half-monastic garb, representing the "Earl of Poverty,"

with this distich beneath it:--

Priest and warrior--rich and poor,

He shall be hanged at his own door.

Next followed a tumbrel, drawn by two horses, in which sat the abbot

alone, the two other prisoners being kept back for the present. Then

came Demdike, in a leathern jerkin and blood-red hose, fitting closely

to his sinewy limbs, and wrapped in a houppeland of the same colour as

the hose, with a coil of rope round his neck. He walked between two

ill-favoured personages habited in black, whom he had chosen as

assistants. A band of halberdiers brought up the rear. The procession

moved slowly along,--the passing-bell tolling each minute, and a muffled

drum sounding hollowly at intervals.

Shortly before the procession started the rain ceased, but the air felt

damp and chill, and the roads were inundated. Passing out at the

north-eastern gateway, the gloomy train skirted the south side of the

convent church, and went on in the direction of the village of Whalley.

When near the east end of the holy edifice, the abbot beheld two coffins

borne along, and, on inquiry, learnt that they contained the bodies of

Bess Demdike and Cuthbert Ashbead, who were about to be interred in the

cemetery. At this moment his eye for the first time encountered that of

his implacable foe, and he then discovered that he was to serve as his

executioner.

At first Paslew felt much trouble at this thought, but the feeling

quickly passed away. On reaching Whalley, every door was found closed,

and every window shut; so that the spectacle was lost upon the

inhabitants; and after a brief halt, the cavalcade get out for Wiswall

Hall.

Sprung from an ancient family residing in the neighbourhood Of Whalley,

Abbot Paslew was the second son of Francis Paslew Of Wiswall Hall, a

great gloomy stone mansion, situated at the foot of the south-western

side of Pendle Hill, where his brother Francis still resided. Of a cold

and cautious character, Francis Paslew, second of the name, held aloof

from the insurrection, and when his brother was arrested he wholly

abandoned him. Still the owner of Wiswall had not altogether escaped

suspicion, and it was probably as much with the view of degrading him as

of adding to the abbot's punishment, that the latter was taken to the

hall on the morning of his execution. Be this as it may, the cortège

toiled thither through roads bad in the best of seasons, but now, since

the heavy rain, scarcely passable; and it arrived there in about half an

hour, and drew up on the broad green lawn. Window and door of the hall

were closed; no smoke issued from the heavy pile of chimneys; and to all

outward seeming the place was utterly deserted. In answer to inquiries,

it appeared that Francis Paslew had departed for Northumberland on the

previous day, taking all his household with him.

In earlier years, a quarrel having occurred between the haughty abbot

and the churlish Francis, the brothers rarely met, whence it chanced

that John Paslew had seldom visited the place of his birth of late,

though lying so near to the abbey, and, indeed, forming part of its

ancient dependencies. It was sad to view it now; and yet the house,

gloomy as it was, recalled seasons with which, though they might awaken

regret, no guilty associations were connected. Dark was the hall, and

desolate, but on the fine old trees around it the rooks were settling,

and their loud cawings pleased him, and excited gentle emotions. For a

few moments he grew young again, and forgot why he was there. Fondly

surveying the house, the terraced garden, in which, as a boy, he had so

often strayed, and the park beyond it, where he had chased the deer; his

gaze rose to the cloudy heights of Pendle, springing immediately behind

the mansion, and up which he had frequently climbed. The flood-gates of

memory were opened at once, and a whole tide of long-buried feelings

rushed upon his heart.

From this half-painful, half-pleasurable retrospect he was aroused by

the loud blast of a trumpet, thrice blown. A recapitulation of his

offences, together with his sentence, was read by a herald, after which

the reversed blazonry was fastened upon the door of the hall, just below

a stone escutcheon on which was carved the arms of the family; while the

paper mitre was torn and trampled under foot, the lathen crosier broken

in twain, and the scurril banner hacked in pieces.

While this degrading act was performed, a man in a miller's white garb,

with the hood drawn over his face, forced his way towards the tumbrel,

and while the attention of the guard was otherwise engaged, whispered in

Paslew's ear,

"Ey han failed i' mey scheme, feyther abbut, boh rest assured ey'n

avenge you. Demdike shan ha' mey Sheffield thwittle i' his heart 'efore

he's a day older."

"The wizard has a charm against steel, my son, and indeed is proof

against all weapons forged by men," replied Paslew, who recognised the

voice of Hal o' Nabs, and hoped by this assertion to divert him from his

purpose.

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

summot sacred." And he disappeared.

At this moment, word was given to return, and in half an hour the

cavalcade arrived at the abbey in the same order it had left it.

Though the rain had ceased, heavy clouds still hung overhead,

threatening another deluge, and the aspect of the abbey remained gloomy

as ever. The bell continued to toll; drums were beaten; and trumpets

sounded from the outer and inner gateway, and from the three

quadrangles. The cavalcade drew up in front of the great northern

entrance; and its return being announced within, the two other captives

were brought forth, each fastened upon a hurdle, harnessed to a stout

horse. They looked dead already, so ghastly was the hue of their cheeks.

The abbot's turn came next. Another hurdle was brought forward, and

Demdike advanced to the tumbrel. But Paslew recoiled from his touch, and

sprang to the ground unaided. He was then laid on his back upon the

hurdle, and his hands and feet were bound fast with ropes to the twisted

timbers. While this painful task was roughly performed by the wizard's

two ill-favoured assistants, the crowd of rustics who looked on,

murmured and exhibited such strong tokens of displeasure, that the guard

thought it prudent to keep them off with their halberts. But when all

was done, Demdike motioned to a man standing behind him to advance, and

the person who was wrapped in a russet cloak complied, drew forth an

infant, and held it in such way that the abbot could see it. Paslew

understood what was meant, but he uttered not a word. Demdike then knelt

down beside him, as if ascertaining the security of the cords, and

whispered in his ear:--

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

indignity."

"Never," replied Paslew; "the curse is irrevocable. But I would not

recall it if I could. As I have said, thy child shall be a witch, and

the mother of witches--but all shall be swept off--all!"

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

"Nay, thou hast done thy worst to me," rejoined Paslew, meekly, "thou

canst not harm me beyond the grave. Look to thyself, for even as thou

speakest, thy child is taken from thee."

And so it was. While Demdike knelt beside Paslew, a hand was put forth,

and, before the man who had custody of the infant could prevent it, his

little charge was snatched from him. Thus the abbot saw, though the

wizard perceived it not. The latter instantly sprang to his feet.

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

"It was taken from me by yon tall man who is disappearing through the

gateway," replied the other, in great trepidation.

"Ha! _he_ here!" exclaimed Demdike, regarding the dark figure with a

look of despair. "It is gone from me for ever!"

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

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

infuriated gesture.

"Then glut thyself with it speedily," replied the abbot; "for thy time

here is short."

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

survive thee."

CHAPTER X.--THE HOLEHOUSES.

At this moment the blast of a trumpet resounded from the gateway, and

the Earl of Derby, with the sheriff on his right hand, and Assheton on

the left, and mounted on a richly caparisoned charger, rode forth. He

was preceded by four javelin-men, and followed by two heralds in their

tabards.

To doleful tolling of bells--to solemn music--to plaintive hymn chanted

by monks--to roll of muffled drum at intervals--the sad cortège set

forth. Loud cries from the bystanders marked its departure, and some of

them followed it, but many turned away, unable to endure the sight of

horror about to ensue. Amongst those who went on was Hal o' Nabs, but he

took care to keep out of the way of the guard, though he was little

likely to be recognised, owing to his disguise.

Despite the miserable state of the weather, a great multitude was

assembled at the place of execution, and they watched the approaching

cavalcade with moody curiosity. To prevent disturbance, arquebussiers

were stationed in parties here and there, and a clear course for the

cortège was preserved by two lines of halberdiers with crossed pikes.

But notwithstanding this, much difficulty was experienced in mounting

the hill. Rendered slippery by the wet, and yet more so by the trampling

of the crowd, the road was so bad in places that the horses could

scarcely drag the hurdles up it, and more than one delay occurred. The

stoppages were always denounced by groans, yells, and hootings from the

mob, and these neither the menaces of the Earl of Derby, nor the active

measures of the guard, could repress.

At length, however, the cavalcade reached its destination. Then the

crowd struggled forward, and settled into a dense compact ring, round

the circular railing enclosing the place of execution, within which were

drawn up the Earl of Derby, the sheriff, Assheton, and the principal

gentlemen, together with Demdike and his assistants; the guard forming a

circle three deep round them.

Paslew was first unloosed, and when he stood up, he found Father Smith,

the late prior, beside him, and tenderly embraced him.

"Be of good courage, Father Abbot," said the prior; "a few moments, and

you will be numbered with the just."

"My hope is in the infinite mercy of Heaven, father," replied Paslew,

sighing deeply. "Pray for me at the last."

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

and ever."

Meanwhile, the bonds of the two other captives were unfastened, but they

were found wholly unable to stand without support. A lofty ladder had

been placed against the central scaffold, and up this Demdike, having

cast off his houppeland, mounted and adjusted the rope. His tall gaunt

figure, fully displayed in his tight-fitting red garb, made him look

like a hideous scarecrow. His appearance was greeted by the mob with a

perfect hurricane of indignant outcries and yells. But he heeded them

not, but calmly pursued his task. Above him wheeled the two ravens, who

had never quitted the place since daybreak, uttering their discordant

cries. When all was done, he descended a few steps, and, taking a black

hood from his girdle to place over the head of his victim, called out in

a voice which had little human in its tone, "I wait for you, John

Paslew."

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

"I am, my lord," replied the abbot. And embracing the prior for the last

time, he added, "_Vale, carissime frater, in æternum vale! et Dominus

tecum sit in ultionem inimicorum nostrorum_!"

"It is the king's pleasure that you say not a word in your justification

to the mob, Paslew," observed the earl.

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

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

it."

"I require none," replied Paslew, resolutely.

With this he mounted the ladder, with as much firmness and dignity as if

ascending the steps of a tribune.

Hitherto nothing but yells and angry outcries had stunned the ears of

the lookers-on, and several missiles had been hurled at Demdike, some of

which took effect, though without occasioning discomfiture; but when

the abbot appeared above the heads of the guard, the tumult instantly

subsided, and profound silence ensued. Not a breath was drawn by the

spectators. The ravens alone continued their ominous croaking.

Hal o' Nabs, who stood on the outskirts of the ring, saw thus far but he

could bear it no longer, and rushed down the hill. Just as he reached

the level ground, a culverin was fired from the gateway, and the next

moment a loud wailing cry bursting from the mob told that the abbot was

launched into eternity.

Hal would not look back, but went slowly on, and presently afterwards

other horrid sounds dinned in his ears, telling that all was over with

the two other sufferers. Sickened and faint, he leaned against a wall

for support. How long he continued thus, he knew not, but he heard the

cavalcade coming down the hill, and saw the Earl of Derby and his

attendants ride past. Glancing toward the place of execution, Hal then

perceived that the abbot had been cut down, and, rousing himself, he

joined the crowd now rushing towards the gate, and ascertained that the

body of Paslew was to be taken to the convent church, and deposited

there till orders were to be given respecting its interment. He learnt,

also, that the removal of the corpse was intrusted to Demdike. Fired by

this intelligence, and suddenly conceiving a wild project of vengeance,

founded upon what he had heard from the abbot of the wizard being proof

against weapons forged by men, he hurried to the church, entered it, the

door being thrown open, and rushing up to the gallery, contrived to get

out through a window upon the top of the porch, where he secreted

himself behind the great stone statue of Saint Gregory.

The information he had obtained proved correct. Ere long a mournful

train approached the church, and a bier was set down before the porch. A

black hood covered the face of the dead, but the vestments showed that

it was the body of Paslew.

At the head of the bearers was Demdike, and when the body was set down

he advanced towards it, and, removing the hood, gazed at the livid and

distorted features.

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

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

Demdike looked up, but the look was his last, for the ponderous statue

of Saint Gregory de Northbury, launched from its pedestal, fell upon his

head, and crushed him to the ground. A mangled and breathless mass was

taken from beneath the image, and the hands and visage of Paslew were

found spotted with blood dashed from the gory carcass. The author of the

wizard's destruction was suspected, but never found, nor was it

positively known who had done the deed till years after, when Hal o'

Nabs, who meanwhile had married pretty Dorothy Croft, and had been

blessed by numerous offspring in the union, made his last confession,

and then he exhibited no remarkable or becoming penitence for the act,

neither was he refused absolution.

Thus it came to pass that the abbot and his enemy perished together. The

mutilated remains of the wizard were placed in a shell, and huddled into

the grave where his wife had that morning been laid. But no prayer was

said over him. And the superstitious believed that the body was carried

off that very night by the Fiend, and taken to a witch's sabbath in the

ruined tower on Rimington Moor. Certain it was, that the unhallowed

grave was disturbed. The body of Paslew was decently interred in the

north aisle of the parish church of Whalley, beneath a stone with a

Gothic cross sculptured upon it, and bearing the piteous

inscription:--"_Miserere mei_."

But in the belief of the vulgar the abbot did not rest tranquilly. For

many years afterwards a white-robed monastic figure was seen to flit

along the cloisters, pass out at the gate, and disappear with a wailing

cry over the Holehouses. And the same ghostly figure was often seen to

glide through the corridor in the abbot's lodging, and vanish at the

door of the chamber leading to the little oratory. Thus Whalley Abbey

was supposed to be haunted, and few liked to wander through its deserted

cloisters, or ruined church, after dark. The abbot's tragical end was

thus recorded:--

Johannes Paslew: Capitali Effectus Supplicio.

12º Mensis Martii, 1537.

As to the infant, upon whom the abbot's malediction fell, it was

reserved for the dark destinies shadowed forth in the dread anathema he

had uttered: to the development of which the tragic drama about to

follow is devoted, and to which the fate of Abbot Paslew forms a

necessary and fitting prologue. Thus far the veil of the Future may be

drawn aside. That infant and her progeny became the LANCASHIRE WITCHES.

END OF THE INTRODUCTION.

THE LANCASHIRE WITCHES.

BOOK THE FIRST.

Alizon Device.

CHAPTER I.--THE MAY QUEEN.

On a May-day in the early part of the seventeenth century, and a most

lovely May-day, too, admirably adapted to usher in the merriest month of

the year, and seemingly made expressly for the occasion, a wake was held

at Whalley, to which all the neighbouring country folk resorted, and

indeed many of the gentry as well, for in the good old times, when

England was still merry England, a wake had attractions for all classes

alike, and especially in Lancashire; for, with pride I speak it, there

were no lads who, in running, vaulting, wrestling, dancing, or in any

other manly exercise, could compare with the Lancashire lads. In

archery, above all, none could match them; for were not their ancestors

the stout bowmen and billmen whose cloth-yard shafts, and trenchant

weapons, won the day at Flodden? And were they not true sons of their

fathers? And then, I speak it with yet greater pride, there were few, if

any, lasses who could compare in comeliness with the rosy-cheeked,

dark-haired, bright-eyed lasses of Lancashire.

Assemblages of this kind, therefore, where the best specimens of either

sex were to be met with, were sure to be well attended, and in spite of

an enactment passed in the preceding reign of Elizabeth, prohibiting

"piping, playing, bear-baiting, and bull-baiting on the Sabbath-days, or

on any other days, and also superstitious ringing of bells, wakes, and

common feasts," they were not only not interfered with, but rather

encouraged by the higher orders. Indeed, it was well known that the

reigning monarch, James the First, inclined the other way, and, desirous

of checking the growing spirit of Puritanism throughout the kingdom, had

openly expressed himself in favour of honest recreation after evening

prayers and upon holidays; and, furthermore, had declared that he liked

well the spirit of his good subjects in Lancashire, and would not see

them punished for indulging in lawful exercises, but that ere long he

would pay them a visit in one of his progresses, and judge for himself,

and if he found all things as they had been represented to him, he would

grant them still further licence. Meanwhile, this expression of the

royal opinion removed every restriction, and old sports and pastimes,

May-games, Whitsun-ales, and morris-dances, with rush-bearings,

bell-ringings, wakes, and feasts, were as much practised as before the

passing of the obnoxious enactment of Elizabeth. The Puritans and

Precisians discountenanced them, it is true, as much as ever, and would

have put them down, if they could, as savouring of papistry and

idolatry, and some rigid divines thundered against them from the pulpit;

but with the king and the authorities in their favour, the people little

heeded these denunciations against them, and abstained not from any

"honest recreation" whenever a holiday occurred.

If Lancashire was famous for wakes, the wakes of Whalley were famous

even in Lancashire. The men of the district were in general a hardy,

handsome race, of the genuine Saxon breed, and passionately fond of all

kinds of pastime, and the women had their full share of the beauty

indigenous to the soil. Besides, it was a secluded spot, in the heart of

a wild mountainous region, and though occasionally visited by travellers

journeying northward, or by others coming from the opposite direction,

retained a primitive simplicity of manners, and a great partiality for

old customs and habits.

The natural beauties of the place, contrasted with the dreary region

around it, and heightened by the picturesque ruins of the ancient abbey,

part of which, namely, the old abbot's lodgings, had been converted into

a residence by the Asshetons, and was now occupied by Sir Ralph

Assheton, while the other was left to the ravages of time, made it

always an object of attraction to those residing near it; but when on

the May-day in question, there was not only to be a wake, but a May-pole

set on the green, and a rush-bearing with morris-dancers besides,

together with Whitsun-ale at the abbey, crowds flocked to Whalley from

Wiswall, Cold Coates, and Clithero, from Ribchester and Blackburn, from

Padiham and Pendle, and even from places more remote. Not only was John

Lawe's of the Dragon full, but the Chequers, and the Swan also, and the

roadside alehouse to boot. Sir Ralph Assheton had several guests at the

abbey, and others were expected in the course of the day, while Doctor

Ormerod had friends staying with him at the vicarage.

Soon after midnight, on the morning of the festival, many young persons

of the village, of both sexes, had arisen, and, to the sound of horn,

had repaired to the neighbouring woods, and there gathered a vast stock

of green boughs and flowering branches of the sweetly-perfumed hawthorn,

wild roses, and honeysuckle, with baskets of violets, cowslips,

primroses, blue-bells, and other wild flowers, and returning in the same

order they went forth, fashioned the branches into green bowers within

the churchyard, or round about the May-pole set up on the green, and

decorated them afterwards with garlands and crowns of flowers. This

morning ceremonial ought to have been performed without wetting the

feet: but though some pains were taken in the matter, few could achieve

the difficult task, except those carried over the dewy grass by their

lusty swains. On the day before the rushes had been gathered, and the

rush cart piled, shaped, trimmed, and adorned by those experienced in

the task, (and it was one requiring both taste and skill, as will be

seen when the cart itself shall come forth,) while others had borrowed

for its adornment, from the abbey and elsewhere, silver tankards,

drinking-cups, spoons, ladles, brooches, watches, chains, and bracelets,

so as to make an imposing show.

Day was ushered in by a merry peal of bells from the tower of the old

parish church, and the ringers practised all kinds of joyous changes

during the morning, and fired many a clanging volley. The whole village

was early astir; and as these were times when good hours were kept; and

as early rising is a famous sharpener of the appetite, especially when

attended with exercise, so an hour before noon the rustics one and all

sat down to dinner, the strangers being entertained by their friends,

and if they had no friends, throwing themselves upon the general

hospitality. The alehouses were reserved for tippling at a later hour,

for it was then customary for both gentleman and commoner, male as well

as female, as will be more fully shown hereafter, to take their meals at

home, and repair afterwards to houses of public entertainment for wine

or other liquors. Private chambers were, of course, reserved for the

gentry; but not unfrequently the squire and his friends would take their

bottle with the other guests. Such was the invariable practice in the

northern counties in the reign of James the First.

Soon after mid-day, and when the bells began to peal merrily again (for

even ringers must recruit themselves), at a small cottage in the

outskirts of the village, and close to the Calder, whose waters swept

past the trimly kept garden attached to it, two young girls were

employed in attiring a third, who was to represent Maid Marian, or Queen

of May, in the pageant then about to ensue. And, certainly, by sovereign

and prescriptive right of beauty, no one better deserved the high title

and distinction conferred upon her than this fair girl. Lovelier maiden

in the whole county, and however high her degree, than this rustic

damsel, it was impossible to find; and though the becoming and fanciful

costume in which she was decked could not heighten her natural charms,

it certainly displayed them to advantage. Upon her smooth and beautiful

brow sat a gilt crown, while her dark and luxuriant hair, covered behind

with a scarlet coif, embroidered with gold; and tied with yellow, white,

and crimson ribands, but otherwise wholly unconfirmed, swept down

almost to the ground. Slight and fragile, her figure was of such just

proportion that every movement and gesture had an indescribable charm.

The most courtly dame might have envied her fine and taper fingers, and

fancied she could improve them by protecting them against the sun, or by

rendering them snowy white with paste or cosmetic, but this was

questionable; nothing certainly could improve the small foot and

finely-turned ankle, so well displayed in the red hose and smart little

yellow buskin, fringed with gold. A stomacher of scarlet cloth, braided

with yellow lace in cross bars, confined her slender waist. Her robe was

of carnation-coloured silk, with wide sleeves, and the gold-fringed

skirt descended only a little below the knee, like the dress of a modern

Swiss peasant, so as to reveal the exquisite symmetry of her limbs. Over

all she wore a surcoat of azure silk, lined with white, and edged with

gold. In her left hand she held a red pink as an emblem of the season.

So enchanting was her appearance altogether, so fresh the character of

her beauty, so bright the bloom that dyed her lovely checks, that she

might have been taken for a personification of May herself. She was

indeed in the very May of life--the mingling of spring and summer in

womanhood; and the tender blue eyes, bright and clear as diamonds of

purest water, the soft regular features, and the merry mouth, whose

ruddy parted lips ever and anon displayed two rows of pearls, completed

the similitude to the attributes of the jocund month.

Her handmaidens, both of whom were simple girls, and though not

destitute of some pretensions to beauty themselves, in nowise to be

compared with her, were at the moment employed in knotting the ribands

in her hair, and adjusting the azure surcoat.

Attentively watching these proceedings sat on a stool, placed in a

corner, a little girl, some nine or ten years old, with a basket of

flowers on her knee. The child was very diminutive, even for her age,

and her smallness was increased by personal deformity, occasioned by

contraction of the chest, and spinal curvature, which raised her back

above her shoulders; but her features were sharp and cunning, indeed

almost malignant, and there was a singular and unpleasant look about the

eyes, which were not placed evenly in the head. Altogether she had a

strange old-fashioned look, and from her habitual bitterness of speech,

as well as from her vindictive character, which, young as she was, had

been displayed, with some effect, on more than one occasion, she was no

great favourite with any one. It was curious now to watch the eager and

envious interest she took in the progress of her sister's adornment--for

such was the degree of relationship in which she stood to the May

Queen--and when the surcoat was finally adjusted, and the last riband

tied, she broke forth, having hitherto preserved a sullen silence.

[Illustration: THE MAY QUEEN.]

"Weel, sister Alizon, ye may a farrently May Queen, ey mun say" she

observed, spitefully, "but to my mind other Suky Worseley, or Nancy

Holt, here, would ha' looked prottier."

"Nah, nah, that we shouldna," rejoined one of the damsels referred to;

"there is na a lass i' Lonkyshiar to hold a condle near Alizon Device."

"Fie upon ye, for an ill-favort minx, Jennet," cried Nancy Holt; "yo're

jealous o' your protty sister."

"Ey jealous," cried Jennet, reddening, "an whoy the firrups should ey be

jealous, ey, thou saucy jade! Whon ey grow older ey'st may a prottier

May Queen than onny on you, an so the lads aw tell me."

"And so you will, Jennet," said Alizon Device, checking, by a gentle

look, the jeering laugh in which Nancy seemed disposed to indulge--"so

you will, my pretty little sister," she added, kissing her; "and I will

'tire you as well and as carefully as Susan and Nancy have just 'tired

me."

"Mayhap ey shanna live till then," rejoined Jennet, peevishly, "and when

ey'm dead an' gone, an' laid i' t' cowld churchyard, yo an they win be

sorry fo having werreted me so."

"I have never intentionally vexed you, Jennet, love," said Alizon, "and

I am sure these two girls love you dearly."

"Eigh, we may allowance fo her feaw tempers," observed Susan Worseley;

"fo we knoa that ailments an deformities are sure to may folk fretful."

"Eigh, there it is," cried Jennet, sharply. "My high shoulthers an sma

size are always thrown i' my feace. Boh ey'st grow tall i' time, an get

straight--eigh straighter than yo, Suky, wi' your broad back an short

neck--boh if ey dunna, whot matters it? Ey shall be feared at onny

rate--ay, feared, wenches, by ye both."

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

muttered Susan.

"Whot's that yo sayn, Suky?" cried Jennet, whose quick ears had caught

the words, "Tak care whot ye do to offend me, lass," she added, shaking

her thin fingers, armed with talon-like claws, threateningly at her, "or

ey'll ask my granddame, Mother Demdike, to quieten ye."

At the mention of this name a sudden shade came over Susan's

countenance. Changing colour, and slightly trembling, she turned away

from the child, who, noticing the effect of her threat, could not

repress her triumph. But again Alizon interposed.

"Do not be alarmed, Susan," she said, "my grandmother will never harm

you, I am sure; indeed, she will never harm any one; and do not heed

what little Jennet says, for she is not aware of the effect of her own

words, or of the injury they might do our grandmother, if repeated."

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

"That's good, that's kind of you, Susan," replied Alizon, taking her

hand. "Do not be cross any more, Jennet. You see you have made her

weep."

"Ey'm glad on it," rejoined the little girl, laughing; "let her cry on.

It'll do her good, an teach her to mend her manners, and nah offend me

again."

"Ey didna mean to offend ye, Jennet," sobbed Susan, "boh yo're so

wrythen an marr'd, a body canna speak to please ye."

"Weel, if ye confess your fault, ey'm satisfied," replied the little

girl; "boh let it be a lesson to ye, Suky, to keep guard o' your tongue

i' future."

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

At this moment a door opened, and a woman entered from an inner room,

having a high-crowned, conical-shaped hat on her head, and broad white

pinners over her cheeks. Her dress was of dark red camlet, with

high-heeled shoes. She stooped slightly, and being rather lame,

supported herself on a crutch-handled stick. In age she might be between

forty and fifty, but she looked much older, and her features were not at

all prepossessing from a hooked nose and chin, while their sinister

effect was increased by a formation of the eyes similar to that in

Jennet, only more strongly noticeable in her case. This woman was

Elizabeth Device, widow of John Device, about whose death there was a

mystery to be inquired into hereafter, and mother of Alizon and Jennet,

though how she came to have a daughter so unlike herself in all respects

as the former, no one could conceive; but so it was.

"Soh, ye ha donned your finery at last, Alizon," said Elizabeth. "Your

brother Jem has just run up to say that t' rush-cart has set out, and

that Robin Hood and his merry men are comin' for their Queen."

"And their Queen is quite ready for them," replied Alizon, moving

towards the door.

"Neigh, let's ha' a look at ye fust, wench," cried Elizabeth, staying

her; "fine fitthers may fine brids--ey warrant me now yo'n getten these

May gewgaws on, yo fancy yourself a queen in arnest."

"A queen of a day, mother; a queen of a little village festival; nothing

more," replied Alizon. "Oh, if I were a queen in right earnest, or even

a great lady--"

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

"I'd make you rich, mother, and build you a grand house to live in,"

replied Alizon; "much grander than Browsholme, or Downham, or

Middleton."

"Pity yo're nah a queen then, Alizon," replied Elizabeth, relaxing her

harsh features into a wintry smile.

"Whot would ye do fo me, Alizon, if ye were a queen?" asked little

Jennet, looking up at her.

"Why, let me see," was the reply; "I'd indulge every one of your whims

and wishes. You should only need ask to have."

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

"It's nah your way to try an content me, mother, even whon ye might,"

rejoined Jennet, who, if she loved few people, loved her mother least of

all, and never lost an opportunity of testifying her dislike to her.

"Awt o'pontee, little wasp," cried her mother; "theaw desarves nowt boh

whot theaw dustna get often enough--a good whipping."

"Yo hanna towd us whot yo'd do fo yurself if yo war a great lady,

Alizon?" interposed Susan.

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

"Ey con tell ye what she'd do, Suky," replied little Jennet, knowingly;

"she'd marry Master Richard Assheton, o' Middleton."

"Jennet!" exclaimed Alizon, blushing crimson.

"It's true," replied the little girl; "ye knoa ye would, Alizon, Look at

her feace," she added, with a screaming laugh.

"Howd te tongue, little plague," cried Elizabeth, rapping her knuckles

with her stick, "and behave thyself, or theaw shanna go out to t' wake."

Jennet dealt her mother a bitterly vindictive look, but she neither

uttered cry, nor made remark.

In the momentary silence that ensued the blithe jingling of bells was

heard, accompanied by the merry sound of tabor and pipe.

"Ah! here come the rush-cart and the morris-dancers," cried Alizon,

rushing joyously to the window, which, being left partly open, admitted

the scent of the woodbine and eglantine by which it was overgrown, as

well as the humming sound of the bees by which the flowers were invaded.

Almost immediately afterwards a frolic troop, like a band of masquers,

approached the cottage, and drew up before it, while the jingling of

bells ceasing at the same moment, told that the rush-cart had stopped

likewise. Chief amongst the party was Robin Hood clad in a suit of

Lincoln green, with a sheaf of arrows at his back, a bugle dangling from

his baldric, a bow in his hand, and a broad-leaved green hat on his

head, looped up on one side, and decorated with a heron's feather. The

hero of Sherwood was personated by a tall, well-limbed fellow, to whom,

being really a forester of Bowland, the character was natural. Beside

him stood a very different figure, a jovial friar, with shaven crown,

rubicund cheeks, bull throat, and mighty paunch, covered by a russet

habit, and girded in by a red cord, decorated with golden twist and

tassel. He wore red hose and sandal shoon, and carried in his girdle a

Wallet, to contain a roast capon, a neat's tongue, or any other dainty

given him. Friar Tuck, for such he was, found his representative in Ned

Huddlestone, porter at the abbey, who, as the largest and stoutest man

in the village, was chosen on that account to the part. Next to him came

a character of no little importance, and upon whom much of the mirth of

the pageant depended, and this devolved upon the village cobbler, Jack

Roby, a dapper little fellow, who fitted the part of the Fool to a

nicety. With bauble in hand, and blue coxcomb hood adorned with long

white asses' ears on head, with jerkin of green, striped with yellow;

hose of different colours, the left leg being yellow, with a red

pantoufle, and the right blue, terminated with a yellow shoe; with bells

hung upon various parts of his motley attire, so that he could not move

without producing a jingling sound, Jack Roby looked wonderful indeed;

and was constantly dancing about, and dealing a blow with his bauble.

Next came Will Scarlet, Stukely, and Little John, all proper men and

tall, attired in Lincoln green, like Robin Hood, and similarly equipped.

Like him, too, they were all foresters of Bowland, owning service to the

bow-bearer, Mr. Parker of Browsholme hall; and the representative of

Little John, who was six feet and a half high, and stout in proportion,

was Lawrence Blackrod, Mr. Parker's head keeper. After the foresters

came Tom the Piper, a wandering minstrel, habited for the occasion in a

blue doublet, with sleeves of the same colour, turned up with yellow,

red hose, and brown buskins, red bonnet, and green surcoat lined with

yellow. Beside the piper was another minstrel, similarly attired, and

provided with a tabor. Lastly came one of the main features of the

pageant, and which, together with the Fool, contributed most materially

to the amusement of the spectators. This was the Hobby-horse. The hue of

this, spirited charger was a pinkish white, and his housings were of

crimson cloth hanging to the ground, so as to conceal the rider's real

legs, though a pair of sham ones dangled at the side. His bit was of

gold, and his bridle red morocco leather, while his rider was very

sumptuously arrayed in a purple mantle, bordered with gold, with a rich

cap of the same regal hue on his head, encircled with gold, and having a

red feather stuck in it. The hobby-horse had a plume of nodding feathers

on his head, and careered from side to side, now rearing in front, now

kicking behind, now prancing, now gently ambling, and in short indulging

in playful fancies and vagaries, such as horse never indulged in before,

to the imminent danger, it seemed, of his rider, and to the huge delight

of the beholders. Nor must it be omitted, as it was matter of great

wonderment to the lookers-on, that by some legerdemain contrivance the

rider of the hobby-horse had a couple of daggers stuck in his cheeks,

while from his steed's bridle hung a silver ladle, which he held now and

then to the crowd, and in which, when he did so, a few coins were sure

to rattle. After the hobby-horse came the May-pole, not the tall pole so

called and which was already planted in the green, but a stout staff

elevated some six feet above the head of the bearer, with a coronal of

flowers atop, and four long garlands hanging down, each held by a

morris-dancer. Then came the May Queen's gentleman usher, a fantastic

personage in habiliments of blue guarded with white, and holding a long

willow wand in his hand. After the usher came the main troop of

morris-dancers--the men attired in a graceful costume, which set off

their light active figures to advantage, consisting of a slashed-jerkin

of black and white velvet, with cut sleeves left open so as to reveal

the snowy shirt beneath, white hose, and shoes of black Spanish leather

with large roses. Ribands were every where in their dresses--ribands and

tinsel adorned their caps, ribands crossed their hose, and ribands were

tied round their arms. In either hand they held a long white

handkerchief knotted with ribands. The female morris-dancers were

habited in white, decorated like the dresses of the men; they had

ribands and wreaths of flowers round their heads, bows in their hair,

and in their hands long white knotted kerchiefs.

In the rear of the performers in the pageant came the rush-cart drawn by

a team of eight stout horses, with their manes and tails tied with

ribands, their collars fringed with red and yellow worsted, and hung

with bells, which jingled blithely at every movement, and their heads

decked with flowers. The cart itself consisted of an enormous pile of

rushes, banded and twisted together, rising to a considerable height,

and terminated in a sharp ridge, like the point of a Gothic window. The

sides and top were decorated with flowers and ribands, and there were

eaves in front and at the back, and on the space within them, which was

covered with white paper, were strings of gaudy flowers, embedded in

moss, amongst which were suspended all the ornaments and finery that

could be collected for the occasion: to wit, flagons of silver, spoons,

ladles, chains, watches, and bracelets, so as to make a brave and

resplendent show. The wonder was how articles of so much value would be

trusted forth on such an occasion; but nothing was ever lost. On the top

of the rush-cart, and bestriding its sharp ridges, sat half a dozen men,

habited somewhat like the morris-dancers, in garments bedecked with

tinsel and ribands, holding garlands formed by hoops, decorated with

flowers, and attached to poles ornamented with silver paper, cut into

various figures and devices, and diminishing gradually in size as they

rose to a point, where they were crowned with wreaths of daffodils.

A large crowd of rustics, of all ages, accompanied the morris-dancers

and rush-cart.

This gay troop having come to a halt, as described, before the cottage,

the gentleman-usher entered it, and, tapping against the inner door with

his wand, took off his cap as soon as it was opened, and bowing

deferentially to the ground, said he was come to invite the Queen of May

to join the pageant, and that it only awaited her presence to proceed to

the green. Having delivered this speech in as good set phrase as he

could command, and being the parish clerk and schoolmaster to boot,

Sampson Harrop by name, he was somewhat more polished than the rest of

the hinds; and having, moreover, received a gracious response from the

May Queen, who condescendingly replied that she was quite ready to

accompany him, he took her hand, and led her ceremoniously to the door,

whither they were followed by the others.

Loud was the shout that greeted Alizon's appearance, and tremendous was

the pushing to obtain a sight of her; and so much was she abashed by the

enthusiastic greeting, which was wholly unexpected on her part, that she

would have drawn back again, if it had been possible; but the usher led

her forward, and Robin Hood and the foresters having bent the knee

before her, the hobby-horse began to curvet anew among the spectators,

and tread on their toes, the fool to rap their knuckles with his bauble,

the piper to play, the taborer to beat his tambourine, and the

morris-dancers to toss their kerchiefs over their heads. Thus the

pageant being put in motion, the rush-cart began to roll on, its horses'

bells jingling merrily, and the spectators cheering lustily.

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

Little Jennet watched her sister's triumphant departure with a look in

which there was far more of envy than sympathy, and, when her mother

took her hand to lead her forth, she would not go, but saying she did

not care for any such idle sights, went back sullenly to the inner room.

When there, however, she could not help peeping through the window, and

saw Susan and Nancy join the revel rout, with feelings of increased

bitterness.

"Ey wish it would rain an spile their finery," she said, sitting down on

her stool, and plucking the flowers from her basket in pieces. "An yet,

why canna ey enjoy such seets like other folk? Truth is, ey've nah heart

for it."

"Folks say," she continued, after a pause, "that grandmother Demdike is

a witch, an con do os she pleases. Ey wonder if she made Alizon so

protty. Nah, that canna be, fo' Alizon's na favourite o' hern. If she

loves onny one it's me. Why dunna she make me good-looking, then? They

say it's sinfu' to be a witch--if so, how comes grandmother Demdike to

be one? Boh ey'n observed that those folks os caws her witch are afeard

on her, so it may be pure spite o' their pert."

As she thus mused, a great black cat belonging to her mother, which had

followed her into the room, rubbed himself against her, putting up his

back, and purring loudly.

"Ah, Tib," said the little girl, "how are ye, Tib? Ey didna knoa ye were

here. Lemme ask ye some questions, Tib?"

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

"One 'ud think ye onderstud whot wos said to ye, Tib," pursued little

Jennet. "We'n see whot ye say to this! Shan ey ever be Queen o' May,

like sister Alizon?"

The cat mewed in a manner that the little girl found no difficulty in

interpreting the reply into "No."

"How's that, Tib?" cried Jennet, sharply. "If ey thought ye meant it,

ey'd beat ye, sirrah. Answer me another question, ye saucy knave. Who

will be luckiest, Alizon or me?"

This time the cat darted away from her, and made two or three skirmishes

round the room, as if gone suddenly mad.

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

All at once the cat bounded upon the chimney board, over which was

placed a sampler, worked with the name "ALIZON."

"Why Tib really seems to onderstond me, ey declare," observed Jennet,

uneasily. "Ey should like to ask him a few more questions, if ey durst,"

she added, regarding with some distrust the animal, who now returned,

and began rubbing against her as before. "Tib--Tib!"

The cat looked up, and mewed.

"Protty Tib--sweet Tib," continued the little girl, coaxingly. "Whot mun

one do to be a witch like grandmother Demdike?"

The cat again dashed twice or thrice madly round the room, and then

stopping suddenly at the hearth, sprang up the chimney.

"Ey'n frightened ye away ot onny rate," observed Jennet, laughing. "And

yet it may mean summot," she added, reflecting a little, "fo ey'n heerd

say os how witches fly up chimleys o' broomsticks to attend their

sabbaths. Ey should like to fly i' that manner, an change myself into

another shape--onny shape boh my own. Oh that ey could be os protty os

Alizon! Ey dunna knoa whot ey'd nah do to be like her!"

Again the great black cat was beside her, rubbing against her, and

purring. The child was a good deal startled, for she had not seen him

return, and the door was shut, though he might have come in through the

open window, only she had been looking that way all the time, and had

never noticed him. Strange!

"Tib," said the child, patting him, "thou hasna answered my last

question--how is one to become a witch?"

As she made this inquiry the cat suddenly scratched her in the arm, so

that the blood came. The little girl was a good deal frightened, as well

as hurt, and, withdrawing her arm quickly, made a motion of striking the

animal. But starting backwards, erecting his tail, and spitting, the cat

assumed such a formidable appearance, that she did not dare to touch

him, and she then perceived that some drops of blood stained her white

sleeve, giving the spots a certain resemblance to the letters J. and D.,

her own initials.

At this moment, when she was about to scream for help, though she knew

no one was in the house, all having gone away with the May-day

revellers, a small white dove flew in at the open window, and skimming

round the room, alighted near her. No sooner had the cat caught sight of

this beautiful bird, than instead of preparing to pounce upon it, as

might have been expected, he instantly abandoned his fierce attitude,

and, uttering a sort of howl, sprang up the chimney as before. But the

child scarcely observed this, her attention being directed towards the

bird, whose extreme beauty delighted her. It seemed quite tame too, and

allowed itself to be touched, and even drawn towards her, without an

effort to escape. Never, surely, was seen so beautiful a bird--with such

milkwhite feathers, such red legs, and such pretty yellow eyes, with

crimson circles round them! So thought the little girl, as she gazed at

it, and pressed it to her bosom. In doing this, gentle and good thoughts

came upon her, and she reflected what a nice present this pretty bird

would make to her sister Alizon on her return from the merry-making, and

how pleased she should feel to give it to her. And then she thought of

Alizon's constant kindness to her, and half reproached herself with the

poor return she made for it, wondering she could entertain any feelings

of envy towards one so good and amiable. All this while the dove nestled

in her bosom.

While thus pondering, the little girl felt an unaccountable drowsiness

steal over her, and presently afterwards dropped asleep, when she had a

very strange dream. It seemed to her that there was a contest going on

between two spirits, a good one and a bad,--the bad one being

represented by the great black cat, and the good spirit by the white

dove. What they were striving about she could not exactly tell, but she

felt that the conflict had some relation to herself. The dove at first

appeared to have but a poor chance against the claws of its sable

adversary, but the sharp talons of the latter made no impression upon

the white plumage of the bird, which now shone like silver armour, and

in the end the cat fled, yelling as it darted off--"Thou art victorious

now, but her soul shall yet be mine."

Something awakened the little sleeper at the same moment, and she felt

very much terrified at her dream, as she could not help thinking her own

soul might be the one in jeopardy, and her first impulse was to see

whether the white dove was safe. Yes, there it was still nestling in her

bosom, with its head under its wing.

Just then she was startled at hearing her own name pronounced by a

hoarse voice, and, looking up, she beheld a tall young man standing at

the window. He had a somewhat gipsy look, having a dark olive

complexion, and fine black eyes, though set strangely in his head, like

those of Jennet and her mother, coal black hair, and very prominent

features, of a sullen and almost savage cast. His figure was gaunt but

very muscular, his arms being extremely long and his hands unusually

large and bony--personal advantages which made him a formidable

antagonist in any rustic encounter, and in such he was frequently

engaged, being of a very irascible temper, and turbulent disposition. He

was clad in a holiday suit of dark-green serge, which fitted him well,

and carried a nosegay in one hand, and a stout blackthorn cudgel in the

other. This young man was James Device, son of Elizabeth, and some four

or five years older than Alizon. He did not live with his mother in

Whalley, but in Pendle Forest, near his old relative, Mother Demdike,

and had come over that morning to attend the wake.

"Whot are ye abowt, Jennet?" inquired James Device, in tones naturally

hoarse and deep, and which he took as little pains to soften, as he did

to polish his manners, which were more than ordinarily rude and

churlish.

"Whot are ye abowt, ey sey, wench?" he repeated, "Why dunna ye go to t'

green to see the morris-dancers foot it round t' May-pow? Cum along wi'

me."

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

"Boh yo shan go, ey tell ey," rejoined her brother; "ye shan see your

sister dawnce. Ye con sit a whoam onny day; boh May-day cums ony wonst a

year, an Alizon winna be Queen twice i' her life. Soh cum along wi' me,

dereckly, or ey'n may ye."

"Ey should like to see Alizon dance, an so ey win go wi' ye, Jem,"

replied Jennet, getting up, "otherwise your orders shouldna may me stir,

ey con tell ye."

As she came out, she found her brother whistling the blithe air of

"Green Sleeves," cutting strange capers, in imitation of the

morris-dancers, and whirling his cudgel over his head instead of a

kerchief. The gaiety of the day seemed infectious, and to have seized

even him. People stared to see Black Jem, or Surly Jem, as he was

indifferently called, so joyous, and wondered what it could mean. He

then fell to singing a snatch of a local ballad at that time in vogue in

the neighbourhood:--

"If thou wi' nah my secret tell,

Ne bruit abroad i' Whalley parish,

And swear to keep my counsel well,

Ey win declare my day of marriage."

"Cum along, lass," he cried stopping suddenly in his song, and snatching

his sister's hand. "What han ye getten there, lapped up i' your kirtle,

eh?"

"A white dove," replied Jennet, determined not to tell him any thing

about her strange dream.

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

it roasted for supper."

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

Alizon."

"Weel, weel, that's reet," rejoined Jem, blandly, "it'll may a protty

offering. Let's look at it."

"Nah, nah," said Jennet, pressing the bird gently to her bosom, "neaw

one shan see it efore Alizon."

"Cum along then," cried Jem, rather testily, and mending his pace, "or

we'st be too late fo' t' round. Whoy yo'n scratted yourself," he added,

noticing the red spots on her sleeve.

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

it."

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

Meanwhile, on quitting the cottage, the May-day revellers had proceeded

slowly towards the green, increasing the number of their followers at

each little tenement they passed, and being welcomed every where with

shouts and cheers. The hobby-horse curveted and capered; the Fool

fleered at the girls, and flouted the men, jesting with every one, and

when failing in a point rapping the knuckles of his auditors; Friar Tuck

chucked the pretty girls under the chin, in defiance of their

sweethearts, and stole a kiss from every buxom dame that stood in his

way, and then snapped his fingers, or made a broad grimace at the

husband; the piper played, and the taborer rattled his tambourine; the

morris-dancers tossed their kerchiefs aloft; and the bells of the

rush-cart jingled merrily; the men on the top being on a level with the

roofs of the cottages, and the summits of the haystacks they passed, but

in spite of their exalted position jesting with the crowd below. But in

spite of these multiplied attractions, and in spite of the gambols of

Fool and Horse, though the latter elicited prodigious laughter, the main

attention was fixed on the May Queen, who tripped lightly along by the

side of her faithful squire, Robin Hood, followed by the three bold

foresters of Sherwood, and her usher.

In this way they reached the green, where already a large crowd was

collected to see them, and where in the midst of it, and above the heads

of the assemblage, rose the lofty May-pole, with all its flowery

garlands glittering in the sunshine, and its ribands fluttering in the

breeze. Pleasant was it to see those cheerful groups, composed of happy

rustics, youths in their holiday attire, and maidens neatly habited too,

and fresh and bright as the day itself. Summer sunshine sparkled in

their eyes, and weather and circumstance as well as genial natures

disposed them to enjoyment. Every lass above eighteen had her

sweetheart, and old couples nodded and smiled at each other when any

tender speech, broadly conveyed but tenderly conceived, reached their

ears, and said it recalled the days of their youth. Pleasant was it to

hear such honest laughter, and such good homely jests.

Laugh on, my merry lads, you are made of good old English stuff, loyal

to church and king, and while you, and such as you, last, our land will

be in no danger from foreign foe! Laugh on, and praise your sweethearts

how you will. Laugh on, and blessings on your honest hearts!

The frolic train had just reached the precincts of the green, when the

usher waving his wand aloft, called a momentary halt, announcing that

Sir Ralph Assheton and the gentry were coming forth from the Abbey gate

to meet them.

CHAPTER III.--THE ASSHETONS.

Between Sir Ralph Assheton of the Abbey and the inhabitants of Whalley,

many of whom were his tenants, he being joint lord of the manor with

John Braddyll of Portfield, the best possible feeling subsisted; for

though somewhat austere in manner, and tinctured with Puritanism, the

worthy knight was sufficiently shrewd, or, more correctly speaking,

sufficiently liberal-minded, to be tolerant of the opinions of others,

and being moreover sincere in his own religious views, no man could call

him in question for them; besides which, he was very hospitable to his

friends, very bountiful to the poor, a good landlord, and a humane man.

His very austerity of manner, tempered by stately courtesy, added to the

respect he inspired, especially as he could now and then relax into

gaiety, and, when he did so, his smile was accounted singularly sweet.

But in general he was grave and formal; stiff in attire, and stiff in

gait; cold and punctilious in manner, precise in speech, and exacting in

due respect from both high and low, which was seldom, if ever, refused

him. Amongst Sir Ralph's other good qualities, for such it was esteemed

by his friends and retainers, and they were, of course, the best judges,

was a strong love of the chase, and perhaps he indulged a little too

freely in the sports of the field, for a gentleman of a character so

staid and decorous; but his popularity was far from being diminished by

the circumstance; neither did he suffer the rude and boisterous

companionship into which he was brought by indulgence in this his

favourite pursuit in any way to affect him. Though still young, Sir

Ralph was prematurely grey, and this, combined with the sad severity of

his aspect, gave him the air of one considerably past the middle term of

life, though this appearance was contradicted again by the youthful fire

of his eagle eye. His features were handsome and strongly marked, and he

wore a pointed beard and mustaches, with a shaved cheek. Sir Ralph

Assheton had married twice, his first wife being a daughter of Sir James

Bellingham of Levens, in Northumberland, by whom he had two children;

while his second choice fell upon Eleanor Shuttleworth, the lovely and

well-endowed heiress of Gawthorpe, to whom he had been recently united.

In his attire, even when habited for the chase or a merry-making, like

the present, the Knight of Whalley affected a sombre colour, and

ordinarily wore a quilted doublet of black silk, immense trunk hose of

the same material, stiffened with whalebone, puffed out well-wadded

sleeves, falling bands, for he eschewed the ruff as savouring of vanity,

boots of black flexible leather, ascending to the hose, and armed with

spurs with gigantic rowels, a round-crowned small-brimmed black hat,

with an ostrich feather placed in the side and hanging over the top, a

long rapier on his hip, and a dagger in his girdle. This buckram attire,

it will be easily conceived, contributed no little to the natural

stiffness of his thin tall figure.

Sir Ralph Assheton was great grandson of Richard Assheton, who

flourished in the time of Abbot Paslew, and who, in conjunction with

John Braddyll, fourteen years after the unfortunate prelate's attainder

and the dissolution of the monastery, had purchased the abbey and

domains of Whalley from the Crown, subsequently to which, a division of

the property so granted took place between them, the abbey and part of

the manor falling to the share of Richard Assheton, whose descendants

had now for three generations made it their residence. Thus the whole of

Whalley belonged to the families of Assheton and Braddyll, which had

intermarried; the latter, as has been stated, dwelling at Portfield, a

fine old seat in the neighbourhood.

A very different person from Sir Ralph was his cousin, Nicholas Assheton

of Downham, who, except as regards his Puritanism, might be considered a

type of the Lancashire squire of the day. A precisian in religious

notions, and constant in attendance at church and lecture, he put no

sort of restraint upon himself, but mixed up fox-hunting, otter-hunting,

shooting at the mark, and perhaps shooting with the long-bow,

foot-racing, horse-racing, and, in fact, every other kind of country

diversion, not forgetting tippling, cards, and dicing, with daily

devotion, discourses, and psalm-singing in the oddest way imaginable. A

thorough sportsman was Squire Nicholas Assheton, well versed in all the

arts and mysteries of hawking and hunting. Not a man in the county could

ride harder, hunt deer, unkennel fox, unearth badger, or spear otter,

better than he. And then, as to tippling, he would sit you a whole

afternoon at the alehouse, and be the merriest man there, and drink a

bout with every farmer present. And if the parson chanced to be out of

hearing, he would never make a mouth at a round oath, nor choose a

second expression when the first would serve his turn. Then, who so

constant at church or lecture as Squire Nicholas--though he did snore

sometimes during the long sermons of his cousin, the Rector of

Middleton? A great man was he at all weddings, christenings, churchings,

and funerals, and never neglected his bottle at these ceremonies, nor

any sport in doors or out of doors, meanwhile. In short, such a

roystering Puritan was never known. A good-looking young man was the

Squire of Downham, possessed of a very athletic frame, and a most

vigorous constitution, which helped him, together with the prodigious

exercise he took, through any excess. He had a sanguine complexion, with

a broad, good-natured visage, which he could lengthen at will in a

surprising manner. His hair was cropped close to his head, and the razor

did daily duty over his cheek and chin, giving him the roundhead look,

some years later, characteristic of the Puritanical party. Nicholas had

taken to wife Dorothy, daughter of Richard Greenacres of Worston, and

was most fortunate in his choice, which is more than can be said for his

lady, for I cannot uphold the squire as a model of conjugal fidelity.

Report affirmed that he loved more than one pretty girl under the rose.

Squire Nicholas was not particular as to the quality or make of his

clothes, provided they wore well and protected him against the weather,

and was generally to be seen in doublet and hose of stout fustian, which

had seen some service, with a broad-leaved hat, originally green, but of

late bleached to a much lighter colour; but he was clad on this

particular occasion in ash-coloured habiliments fresh from the tailor's

hands, with buff boots drawn up to the knee, and a new round hat from

York with a green feather in it. His legs were slightly embowed, and he

bore himself like a man rarely out of the saddle.

Downham, the residence of the squire, was a fine old house, very

charmingly situated to the north of Pendle Hill, of which it commanded a

magnificent view, and a few miles from Clithero. The grounds about it

were well-wooded and beautifully broken and diversified, watered by the

Ribble, and opening upon the lovely and extensive valley deriving its

name from that stream. The house was in good order and well maintained,

and the stables plentifully furnished with horses, while the hall was

adorned with various trophies and implements of the chase; but as I

propose paying its owner a visit, I shall defer any further description

of the place till an opportunity arrives for examining it in detail.

A third cousin of Sir Ralph's, though in the second degree, likewise

present on the May-day in question, was the Reverend Abdias Assheton,

Rector of Middleton, a very worthy man, who, though differing from his

kinsmen upon some religious points, and not altogether approving of the

conduct of one of them, was on good terms with both. The Rector of

Middleton was portly and middle-aged, fond of ease and reading, and by

no means indifferent to the good things of life. He was unmarried, and

passed much of his time at Middleton Hall, the seat of his near relative

Sir Richard Assheton, to whose family he was greatly attached, and whose

residence closely adjoined the rectory.

A fourth cousin, also present, was young Richard Assheton of Middleton,

eldest son and heir of the owner of that estate. Possessed of all the

good qualities largely distributed among his kinsmen, with none of their

drawbacks, this young man was as tolerant and bountiful as Sir Ralph,

without his austerity and sectarianism; as keen a sportsman and as bold

a rider as Nicholas, without his propensities to excess; as studious, at

times, and as well read as Abdias, without his laziness and

self-indulgence; and as courtly and well-bred as his father, Sir

Richard, who was esteemed one of the most perfect gentlemen in the

county, without his haughtiness. Then he was the handsomest of his race,

though the Asshetons were accounted the handsomest family in Lancashire,

and no one minded yielding the palm to young Richard, even if it could

be contested, he was so modest and unassuming. At this time, Richard

Assheton was about two-and-twenty, tall, gracefully and slightly formed,

but possessed of such remarkable vigour, that even his cousin Nicholas

could scarcely compete with him in athletic exercises. His features were

fine and regular, with an almost Phrygian precision of outline; his hair

was of a dark brown, and fell in clustering curls over his brow and

neck; and his complexion was fresh and blooming, and set off by a slight

beard and mustache, carefully trimmed and pointed. His dress consisted

of a dark-green doublet, with wide velvet hose, embroidered and fringed,

descending nearly to the knee, where they were tied with points and

ribands, met by dark stockings, and terminated by red velvet shoes with

roses in them. A white feather adorned his black broad-leaved hat, and

he had a rapier by his side.

Amongst Sir Ralph Assheton's guests were Richard Greenacres, of Worston,

Nicholas Assheton's father-in-law; Richard Sherborne of Dunnow, near

Sladeburne, who had married Dorothy, Nicholas's sister; Mistress

Robinson of Raydale House, aunt to the knight and the squire, and two of

her sons, both stout youths, with John Braddyll and his wife, of

Portfield. Besides these there was Master Roger Nowell, a justice of the

peace in the county, and a very active and busy one too, who had been

invited for an especial purpose, to be explained hereafter. Head of an

ancient Lancashire family, residing at Read, a fine old hall, some

little distance from Whalley, Roger Nowell, though a worthy,

well-meaning man, dealt hard measure from the bench, and seldom tempered

justice with mercy. He was sharp-featured, dry, and sarcastic, and being

adverse to country sports, his presence on the occasion was the only

thing likely to impose restraint on the revellers. Other guests there

were, but none of particular note.

The ladies of the party consisted of Lady Assheton, Mistress Nicholas

Assheton of Downham, Dorothy Assheton of Middleton, sister to Richard, a

lovely girl of eighteen, with light fleecy hair, summer blue eyes, and a

complexion of exquisite purity, Mistress Sherborne of Dunnow, Mistress

Robinson of Raydale, and Mistress Braddyll of Portfield, before

mentioned, together with the wives and daughters of some others of the

neighbouring gentry; most noticeable amongst whom was Mistress Alice

Nutter of Rough Lee, in Pendle Forest, a widow lady and a relative of

the Assheton family.

Mistress Nutter might be a year or two turned of forty, but she still

retained a very fine figure, and much beauty of feature, though of a

cold and disagreeable cast. She was dressed in mourning, though her

husband had been dead several years, and her rich dark habiliments well

became her pale complexion and raven hair. A proud poor gentleman was

Richard Nutter, her late husband, and his scanty means not enabling him

to keep up as large an establishment as he desired, or to be as

hospitable as his nature prompted, his temper became soured, and he

visited his ill humours upon his wife, who, devotedly attached to him,

to all outward appearance at least, never resented his ill treatment.

All at once, and without any previous symptoms of ailment, or apparent

cause, unless it might be over-fatigue in hunting the day before,

Richard Nutter was seized with a strange and violent illness, which,

after three or four days of acute suffering, brought him to the grave.

During his illness he was constantly and zealously tended by his wife,

but he displayed great aversion to her, declaring himself bewitched, and

that an old woman was ever in the corner of his room mumbling wicked

enchantments against him. But as no such old woman could be seen, these

assertions were treated as delirious ravings. They were not, however,

forgotten after his death, and some people said that he had certainly

been bewitched, and that a waxen image made in his likeness, and stuck

full of pins, had been picked up in his chamber by Mistress Alice and

cast into the fire, and as soon as it melted he had expired. Such tales

only obtained credence with the common folk; but as Pendle Forest was a

sort of weird region, many reputed witches dwelling in it, they were the

more readily believed, even by those who acquitted Mistress Nutter of

all share in the dark transaction.

Mistress Nutter gave the best proof that she respected her husband's

memory by not marrying again, and she continued to lead a very secluded

life at Rough Lee, a lonesome house in the heart of the forest. She

lived quite by herself, for she had no children, her only daughter

having perished somewhat strangely when quite an infant. Though a

relative of the Asshetons, she kept up little intimacy with them, and it

was a matter of surprise to all that she had been drawn from her

seclusion to attend the present revel. Her motive, however, in visiting

the Abbey, was to obtain the assistance of Sir Ralph Assheton, in

settling a dispute between her and Roger Nowell, relative to the

boundary line of part of their properties which came together; and this

was the reason why the magistrate had been invited to Whalley. After

hearing both sides of the question, and examining plans of the estates,

which he knew to be accurate, Sir Ralph, who had been appointed umpire,

pronounced a decision in favour of Roger Nowell, but Mistress Nutter

refusing to abide by it, the settlement of the matter was postponed till

the day but one following, between which time the landmarks were to be

investigated by a certain little lawyer named Potts, who attended on

behalf of Roger Nowell; together with Nicholas and Richard Assheton, on

behalf of Mistress Nutter. Upon their evidence it was agreed by both

parties that Sir Ralph should pronounce a final decision, to be accepted

by them, and to that effect they signed an agreement. The three persons

appointed to the investigation settled to start for Rough Lee early on

the following morning.

A word as to Master Thomas Potts. This worthy was an attorney from

London, who had officiated as clerk of the court at the assizes at

Lancaster, where his quickness had so much pleased Roger Nowell, that he

sent for him to Read to manage this particular business. A sharp-witted

fellow was Potts, and versed in all the quirks and tricks of a very

subtle profession--not over-scrupulous, provided a client would pay

well; prepared to resort to any expedient to gain his object, and quite

conversant enough with both practice and precedent to keep himself

straight. A bustling, consequential little personage was he, moreover;

very fond of delivering an opinion, even when unasked, and of a

meddling, make-mischief turn, constantly setting men by the ears. A suit

of rusty black, a parchment-coloured skin, small wizen features, a

turn-up nose, scant eyebrows, and a great yellow forehead, constituted

his external man. He partook of the hospitality at the Abbey, but had

his quarters at the Dragon. He it was who counselled Roger Nowell to

abide by the decision of Sir Ralph, confidently assuring him that he

must carry his point.

This dispute was not, however, the only one the knight had to adjust, or

in which Master Potts was concerned. A claim had recently been made by a

certain Sir Thomas Metcalfe of Nappay, in Wensleydale, near Bainbridge,

to the house and manor of Raydale, belonging to his neighbour, John

Robinson, whose lady, as has been shown, was a relative of the

Asshetons. Robinson himself had gone to London to obtain advice on the

subject, while Sir Thomas Metcalfe, who was a man of violent

disposition, had threatened to take forcible possession of Raydale, if

it were not delivered to him without delay, and to eject the Robinson

family. Having consulted Potts, however, on the subject, whom he had met

at Read, the latter strongly dissuaded him from the course, and

recommended him to call to his aid the strong arm of the law: but this

he rejected, though he ultimately agreed to refer the matter to Sir

Ralph Assheton, and for this purpose he had come over to Whalley, and

was at present a guest at the vicarage. Thus it will be seen that Sir

Ralph Assheton had his hands full, while the little London lawyer,

Master Potts, was tolerably well occupied. Besides Sir Thomas Metcalfe,

Sir Richard Molyneux, and Mr. Parker of Browsholme, were guests of Dr.

Ormerod at the vicarage.

Such was the large company assembled to witness the May-day revels at

Whalley, and if harmonious feelings did not exist amongst all of them,

little outward manifestation was made of enmity. The dresses and

appointments of the pageant having been provided by Sir Ralph Assheton,

who, Puritan as he was, encouraged all harmless country pastimes, it was

deemed necessary to pay him every respect, even if no other feeling

would have prompted the attention, and therefore the troop had stopped

on seeing him and his guests issue from the Abbey gate. At pretty nearly

the same time Doctor Ormerod and his party came from the vicarage

towards the green.

No order of march was observed, but Sir Ralph and his lady, with two of

his children by the former marriage, walked first. Then came some of the

other ladies, with the Rector of Middleton, John Braddyll, and the two

sons of Mistress Robinson. Next came Mistress Nutter, Roger Nowell and

Potts walking after her, eyeing her maliciously, as her proud figure

swept on before them. Even if she saw their looks or overheard their

jeers, she did not deign to notice them. Lastly came young Richard

Assheton, of Middleton, and Squire Nicholas, both in high spirits, and

laughing and chatting together.

"A brave day for the morris-dancers, cousin Dick," observed Nicholas

Assheton, as they approached the green, "and plenty of folk to witness

the sport. Half my lads from Downham are here, and I see a good many of

your Middleton chaps among them. How are you, Farmer Tetlow?" he added

to a stout, hale-looking man, with a blooming country woman by his

side--"brought your pretty young wife to the rush-bearing, I see."

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

it, too."

"Happy to hear if, Master Tetlow," replied Nicholas, "she'll be better

pleased before the day's over, I'll warrant her. I'll dance a round with

her myself in the hall at night."

"Theere now, Meg, whoy dunna ye may t' squoire a curtsy, wench, an thonk

him," said Tetlow, nudging his pretty wife, who had turned away, rather

embarrassed by the free gaze of the squire. Nicholas, however, did not

wait for the curtsy, but went away, laughing, to overtake Richard

Assheton, who had walked on.

"Ah, here's Frank Garside," he continued, espying another rustic

acquaintance. "Halloa, Frank, I'll come over one day next week, and try

for a fox in Easington Woods. We missed the last, you know. Tom

Brockholes, are you here? Just ridden over from Sladeburne, eh? When is

that shooting match at the bodkin to come off, eh? Mind, it is to be at

twenty-two roods' distance. Ride over to Downham on Thursday next, Tom.

We're to have a foot-race, and I'll show you good sport, and at night

we'll have a lusty drinking bout at the alehouse. On Friday, we'll take

out the great nets, and try for salmon in the Ribble. I took some fine

fish on Monday--one salmon of ten pounds' weight, the largest I've got

the whole season.--I brought it with me to-day to the Abbey. There's an

otter in the river, and I won't hunt him till you come, Tom. I shall see

you on Thursday, eh?"

Receiving an answer in the affirmative, squire Nicholas walked on,

nodding right and left, jesting with the farmers, and ogling their

pretty wives and daughters.

"I tell you what, cousin Dick," he said, calling after Richard Assheton,

who had got in advance of him, "I'll match my dun nag against your grey

gelding for twenty pieces, that I reach the boundary line of the Rough

Lee lands before you to-morrow. What, you won't have it? You know I

shall beat you--ha! ha! Well, we'll try the speed of the two tits the

first day we hunt the stag in Bowland Forest. Odds my life!" he cried,

suddenly altering his deportment and lengthening his visage, "if there

isn't our parson here. Stay with me, cousin Dick, stay with me. Give you

good-day, worthy Mr. Dewhurst," he added, taking off his hat to the

divine, who respectfully returned his salutation, "I did not look to see

your reverence here, taking part in these vanities and idle sports. I

propose to call on you on Saturday, and pass an hour in serious

discourse. I would call to-morrow, but I have to ride over to Pendle on

business. Tarry a moment for me, I pray you, good cousin Richard. I

fear, reverend sir, that you will see much here that will scandalise

you; much lightness and indecorum. Pleasanter far would it be to me to

see a large congregation of the elders flocking together to a godly

meeting, than crowds assembled for such a profane purpose. Another

moment, Richard. My cousin is a young man, Mr. Dewhurst, and wishes to

join the revel. But we must make allowances, worthy and reverend sir,

until the world shall improve. An excellent discourse you gave us, good

sir, on Sunday: viii. Rom. 12 and 13 verses: it is graven upon my

memory, but I have made a note of it in my diary. I come to you, cousin,

I come. I pray you walk on to the Abbey, good Mr. Dewhurst, where you

will be right welcome, and call for any refreshment you may desire--a

glass of good sack, and a slice of venison pasty, on which we have just

dined--and there is some famous old ale, which I would commend to you,

but that I know you care not, any more than myself, for creature

comforts. Farewell, reverend sir. I will join you ere long, for these

scenes have little attraction for me. But I must take care that my young

cousin falleth not into harm."

And as the divine took his way to the Abbey, he added, laughingly, to

Richard,--"A good riddance, Dick. I would not have the old fellow play

the spy upon us.--Ah, Giles Mercer," he added, stopping again,--"and

Jeff Rushton--well met, lads! what, are you come to the wake? I shall be

at John Lawe's in the evening, and we'll have a glass together--John

brews sack rarely, and spareth not the eggs."

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

farmers.

"Curse the dancing!" cried Nicholas--"I hope the parson didn't hear me,"

he added, turning round quickly. "Well, well, I'll come down when the

dancing's over, and we'll make a night of it." And he ran on to overtake

Richard Assheton.

By this time the respective parties from the Abbey and the Vicarage

having united, they walked on together, Sir Ralph Assheton, after

courteously exchanging salutations with Dr. Ormerod's guests, still

keeping a little in advance of the company. Sir Thomas Metcalfe

comported himself with more than his wonted haughtiness, and bowed so

superciliously to Mistress Robinson, that her two sons glanced angrily

at each other, as if in doubt whether they should not instantly resent

the affront. Observing this, as well as what had previously taken place,

Nicholas Assheton stepped quickly up to them, and said--

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

crest."

With this he pushed forward, and elbowing Sir Thomas rudely out of the

way, turned round, and, instead of apologising, eyed him coolly and

contemptuously from head to foot.

"Are you drunk, sir, that you forget your manners?" asked Sir Thomas,

laying his hand upon his sword.

"Not so drunk but that I know how to conduct myself like a gentleman,

Sir Thomas," rejoined Nicholas, "which is more than can be said for a

certain person of my acquaintance, who, for aught I know, has only taken

his morning pint."

"You wish to pick a quarrel with me, Master Nicholas Assheton, I

perceive," said Sir Thomas, stepping close up to him, "and I will not

disappoint you. You shall render me good reason for this affront before

I leave Whalley."

"When and where you please, Sir Thomas," rejoined Nicholas, laughing.

"At any hour, and at any weapon, I am your man."

At this moment, Master Potts, who had scented a quarrel afar, and who

would have liked it well enough if its prosecution had not run counter

to his own interests, quitted Roger Nowell, and ran back to Metcalfe,

and plucking him by the sleeve, said, in a low voice--

"This is not the way to obtain quiet possession of Raydale House, Sir

Thomas. Master Nicholas Assheton," he added, turning to him, "I must

entreat you, my good sir, to be moderate. Gentlemen, both, I caution you

that I have my eye upon you. You well know there is a magistrate here,

my singular good friend and honoured client, Master Roger Nowell, and if

you pursue this quarrel further, I shall hold it my duty to have you

bound over by that worthy gentleman in sufficient securities to keep the

peace towards our sovereign lord the king and all his lieges, and

particularly towards each other. You understand me, gentlemen?"

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

Thomas."

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

withheld by Potts.

"Let him go, Sir Thomas," said the little man of law; "let him go. Once

master of Raydale, you can do as you please. Leave the settlement of the

matter to me. I'll just whisper a word in Sir Ralph Assheton's ear, and

you'll hear no more of it."

"Fire and fury!" growled Sir Thomas. "I like not this mode of settling a

quarrel; and unless this hot-headed psalm-singing puritan apologises, I

shall assuredly cut his throat."

"Or he yours, good Sir Thomas," rejoined Potts. "Better sit in Raydale

Hall, than lie in the Abbey vaults."

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

"A nice morning's work I've made of it," mused Nicholas, as he walked

along; "here I have a dance with a farmer's pretty wife, a discourse

with a parson, a drinking-bout with a couple of clowns, and a duello

with a blustering knight on my hands. Quite enough, o' my conscience!

but I must get through it the best way I can. And now, hey for the

May-pole and the morris-dancers!"

Nicholas just got up in time to witness the presentation of the May

Queen to Sir Ralph Assheton and his lady, and like every one else he was

greatly struck by her extreme beauty and natural grace.

The little ceremony was thus conducted. When the company from the Abbey

drew near the troop of revellers, the usher taking Alizon's hand in the

tips of his fingers as before, strutted forward with her to Sir Ralph

and his lady, and falling upon one knee before them, said,--"Most

worshipful and honoured knight, and you his lovely dame, and you the

tender and cherished olive branches growing round about their tables, I

hereby crave your gracious permission to present unto your honours our

chosen Queen of May."

Somewhat fluttered by the presentation, Alizon yet maintained sufficient

composure to bend gracefully before Lady Assheton, and say in a very

sweet voice, "I fear your ladyship will think the choice of the village

hath fallen ill in alighting upon me; and, indeed, I feel myself

altogether unworthy the distinction; nevertheless I will endeavour to

discharge my office fittingly, and therefore pray you, fair lady, and

the worshipful knight, your husband, together with your beauteous

children, and the gentles all by whom you are surrounded, to grace our

little festival with your presence, hoping you may find as much pleasure

in the sight as we shall do in offering it to you."

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

condescending smile.

"In sooth is she," replied Lady Assheton, raising her kindly, and

saying, as she did so--

"Nay, you must not kneel to us, sweet maid. You are queen of May, and it

is for us to show respect to you during your day of sovereignty. Your

wishes are commands; and, in behalf of my husband, my children, and our

guests, I answer, that we will gladly attend your revels on the green."

"Well said, dear Nell," observed Sir Ralph. "We should be churlish,

indeed, were we to refuse the bidding of so lovely a queen."

"Nay, you have called the roses in earnest to her cheek, now, Sir

Ralph," observed Lady Assheton, smiling. "Lead on, fair queen," she

continued, "and tell your companions to begin their sports when they

please.--Only remember this, that we shall hope to see all your gay

troop this evening at the Abbey, to a merry dance."

"Where I will strive to find her majesty a suitable partner," added Sir

Ralph. "Stay, she shall make her choice now, as a royal personage

should; for you know, Nell, a queen ever chooseth her partner, whether

it be for the throne or for the brawl. How gay you, fair one? Shall it

be either of our young cousins, Joe or Will Robinson of Raydale; or our

cousin who still thinketh himself young, Squire Nicholas of Downham."

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

"He is engaged already," observed Richard Assheton, coming forward. "I

heard him ask pretty Mistress Tetlow, the farmer's wife, to dance with

him this evening at the Abbey."

A loud laugh from those around followed this piece of information, but

Nicholas was in no wise disconcerted.

"Dick would have her choose him, and that is why he interferes with me,"

he observed. "How say you, fair queen! Shall it be our hopeful cousin? I

will answer for him that he danceth the coranto and lavolta

indifferently well."

On hearing Richard Assheton's voice, all the colour had forsaken

Alizon's cheeks; but at this direct appeal to her by Nicholas, it

returned with additional force, and the change did not escape the quick

eye of Lady Assheton.

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

"Not a whit, Eleanor," answered the squire; "but if she like not Dick

Assheton, there is another Dick, Dick Sherburne of Sladeburn; or our

cousin, Jack Braddyll; or, if she prefer an older and discreeter man,

there is Father Greenacres of Worston, or Master Roger Nowell of

Read--plenty of choice."

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

"Right, fair queen, right," cried Nicholas, laughing. "Ever choose a

young man if you can. Who shall it be?"

"You have named him yourself, sir," replied Alizon, in a voice which she

endeavoured to keep firm, but which, in spite of all her efforts,

sounded tremulously--"Master Richard Assheton."

"Next to choosing me, you could not have chosen better," observed

Nicholas, approvingly. "Dick, lad, I congratulate thee."

"I congratulate myself," replied the young man. "Fair queen," he added,

advancing, "highly flattered am I by your choice, and shall so demean

myself, I trust, as to prove myself worthy of it. Before I go, I would

beg a boon from you--that flower."

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

Young Assheton took the flower and took the hand that offered it at the

same time, and pressed the latter to his lips; while Lady Assheton, who

had been made a little uneasy by Alizon's apparent emotion, and who with

true feminine tact immediately detected its cause, called out: "Now,

forward--forward to the May-pole! We have interrupted the revel too

long."

Upon this the May Queen stepped blushingly back with the usher, who,

with his white wand in hand, had stood bolt upright behind her,

immensely delighted with the scene in which his pupil--for Alizon had

been tutored by him for the occasion--had taken part. Sir Ralph then

clapped his hands loudly, and at this signal the tabor and pipe struck

up; the Fool and the Hobby-horse, who, though idle all the time, had

indulged in a little quiet fun with the rustics, recommenced their

gambols; the Morris-dancers their lively dance; and the whole train

moved towards the May-pole, followed by the rush-cart, with all its

bells jingling, and all its garlands waving.

As to Alizon, her brain was in a whirl, and her bosom heaved so quickly,

that she thought she should faint. To think that the choice of a partner

in the dance at the Abbey had been offered her, and that she should

venture to choose Master Richard Assheton! She could scarcely credit her

own temerity. And then to think that she should give him a flower, and,

more than all, that he should kiss her hand in return for it! She felt

the tingling pressure of his lips upon her finger still, and her little

heart palpitated strangely.

As she approached the May-pole, and the troop again halted for a few

minutes, she saw her brother James holding little Jennet by the hand,

standing in the front line to look at her.

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

"An ey'm glad to see yo, Alizon," replied the little girl. "Jem has towd

me whot a grand partner you're to ha' this e'en." And, she added, with

playful malice, "Who was wrong whon she said the queen could choose

Master Richard--"

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

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

present for ye."

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

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

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

breath.

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

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

come home."

"Which winna be till late, ey fancy," rejoined Jennet, roguishly. "Ah!"

she added, uttering a cry.

The latter exclamation was occasioned by the sudden flight of the dove,

which, escaping from her hold, soared aloft. Jennet followed the course

of its silver wings, as they cleaved the blue sky, and then all at once

saw a large hawk, which apparently had been hovering about, swoop down

upon it, and bear it off. Some white feathers fell down near the little

girl, and she picked up one of them and put it in her breast.

"Poor bird!" exclaimed the May Queen.

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

Alizon."

"Weel, there's neaw use whimpering abowt a duv," observed Jem, gruffly.

"Ey'n bring ye another t' furst time ey go to Cown."

"There's nah another bird like that," sobbed the little girl. "Shoot

that cruel hawk fo' me, Jem, win ye."

"How conney wench, whon its flown away?" he replied. "Boh ey'n rob a

hawk's neest fo ye, if that'll do os weel."

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

At this moment, the music, which had ceased while some arrangements were

made, commenced a very lively tune, known as "Round about the May-pole,"

and Robin Hood, taking the May Queen's hand, led her towards the pole,

and placing her near it, the whole of her attendants took hands, while a

second circle was formed by the morris-dancers, and both began to wheel

rapidly round her, the music momently increasing in spirit and

quickness. An irresistible desire to join in the measure seized some of

the lads and lasses around, and they likewise took hands, and presently

a third and still wider circle was formed, wheeling gaily round the

other two. Other dances were formed here and there, and presently the

whole green was in movement.

"If you come off heart-whole to-night, Dick, I shall be surprised,"

observed Nicholas, who with his young relative had approached as near

the May-pole as the three rounds of dancers would allow them.

Richard Assheton made no reply, but glanced at the pink which he had

placed in his doublet.

"Who is the May Queen?" inquired Sir Thomas Metcalfe, who had likewise

drawn near, of a tall man holding a little girl by the hand.

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

Device, gruffly.

"Humph!" muttered Sir Thomas, "she is a well-looking lass. And she

dwells here--in Whalley, fellow?" he added.

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

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

"What was it Sir Thomas said to you, Jem?" inquired Nicholas, who had

watched the knight's gestures, coming up.

Jem related what had passed between them.

"What the devil does he want with her?" cried Nicholas. "No good, I'm

sure. But I'll spoil his sport."

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

remarked Jem.

"No, no, Jem," replied Nicholas. "Take care of your pretty sister, and

I'll take care of him."

At this juncture, Sir Thomas, who, in spite of the efforts of the

pacific Master Potts to tranquillise him, had been burning with wrath at

the affront he had received from Nicholas, came up to Richard Assheton,

and, noticing the pink in his bosom, snatched it away suddenly.

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

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

rage, "or--"

"What will you do, young sir?" rejoined the knight tauntingly, and

plucking the flower in pieces. "You can get another from the fair nymph

who gave you this."

Further speech was not allowed the knight, for he received a violent

blow on the chest from the hand of Richard Assheton, which sent him

reeling backwards, and would have felled him to the ground if he had not

been caught by some of the bystanders. The moment he recovered, Sir

Thomas drew his sword, and furiously assaulted young Assheton, who stood

ready for him, and after the exchange of a few passes, for none of the

bystanders dared to interfere, sent his sword whirling over their heads

through the air.

"Bravo, Dick," cried Nicholas, stepping up, and clapping his cousin on

the back, "you have read him a good lesson, and taught him that he

cannot always insult folks with impunity, ha! ha!" And he laughed loudly

at the discomfited knight.

"He is an insolent coward," said Richard Assheton. "Give him his sword

and let him come on again."

"No, no," said Nicholas, "he has had enough this time. And if he has

not, he must settle an account with me. Put up your blade, lad."

"I'll be revenged upon you both," said Sir Thomas, taking his sword,

which had been brought him by a bystander, and stalking away.

"You leave us in mortal dread, doughty knight," cried Nicholas, shouting

after him, derisively--"ha! ha! ha!"

Richard Assheton's attention was, however, turned in a different

direction, for the music suddenly ceasing, and the dancers stopping, he

learnt that the May Queen had fainted, and presently afterwards the

crowd opened to give passage to Robin Hood, who bore her inanimate form

in his arms.

CHAPTER IV.--ALICE NUTTER.

The quarrel between Nicholas Assheton and Sir Thomas Metcalfe had

already been made known to Sir Ralph by the officious Master Potts, and

though it occasioned the knight much displeasure; as interfering with

the amicable arrangement he hoped to effect with Sir Thomas for his

relatives the Robinsons, still he felt sure that he had sufficient

influence with his hot-headed cousin, the squire, to prevent the dispute

from being carried further, and he only waited the conclusion of the

sports on the green, to take him to task. What was the knight's surprise

and annoyance, therefore, to find that a new brawl had sprung up, and,

ignorant of its precise cause, he laid it entirely at the door of the

turbulent Nicholas. Indeed, on the commencement of the fray he imagined

that the squire was personally concerned in it, and full of wroth, flew

to the scene of action; but before he got there, the affair, which, as

has been seen, was of short duration, was fully settled, and he only

heard the jeers addressed to the retreating combatant by Nicholas. It

was not Sir Ralph's way to vent his choler in words, but the squire knew

in an instant, from the expression of his countenance, that he was

greatly incensed, and therefore hastened to explain.

"What means this unseemly disturbance, Nicholas?" cried Sir Ralph, not

allowing the other to speak. "You are ever brawling like an Alsatian

squire. Independently of the ill example set to these good folk, who

have met here for tranquil amusement, you have counteracted all my plans

for the adjustment of the differences between Sir Thomas Metcalfe and

our aunt of Raydale. If you forget what is due to yourself, sir, do not

forget what is due to me, and to the name you bear."

"No one but yourself should say as much to me, Sir Ralph," rejoined

Nicholas somewhat haughtily; "but you are under a misapprehension. It is

not I who have been fighting, though I should have acted in precisely

the same manner as our cousin Dick, if I had received the same affront,

and so I make bold to say would you. Our name shall suffer no discredit

from me; and as a gentleman, I assert, that Sir Thomas Metcalfe has

only received due chastisement, as you yourself will admit, cousin, when

you know all."

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

"Overbearing is not the word, cousin," interrupted Nicholas; "he is as

proud as a peacock, and would trample upon us all, and gore us too, like

one of the wild bulls of Bowland, if we would let him have his way. But

I would treat him as I would the bull aforesaid, a wild boar, or any

other savage and intractable beast, hunt him down, and poll his horns,

or pluck out his tusks."

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

Ralph.

"Why, to speak truth, cousin, I do not feel in any very gentle frame of

mind," rejoined the squire; "my ire has been roused by this insolent

braggart, my blood is up, and I long to be doing."

"Unchristian feelings, Nicholas," said Sir Ralph, severely, "and should

be overcome. Turn the other cheek to the smiter. I trust you bear no

malice to Sir Thomas."

"I bear him no malice, for I hope malice is not in my nature, cousin,"

replied Nicholas, "but I owe him a grudge, and when a fitting

opportunity occurs--"

"No more of this, unless you would really incur my displeasure,"

rejoined Sir Ralph; "the matter has gone far enough, too far, perhaps

for amendment, and if you know it not, I can tell you that Sir Thomas's

claims to Raydale will be difficult to dispute, and so our uncle

Robinson has found since he hath taken counsel on the case."

"Have a care, Sir Ralph," said Nicholas, noticing that Master Potts was

approaching them, with his ears evidently wide open, "there is that

little London lawyer hovering about. But I'll give the cunning fox a

double. I'm glad to hear you say so, Sir Ralph," he added, in a tone

calculated to reach Potts, "and since our uncle Robinson is so sure of

his cause, it may be better to let this blustering knight be. Perchance,

it is the certainty of failure that makes him so insensate."

"This is meant to blind me, but it shall not serve your turn, cautelous

squire," muttered Potts; "I caught enough of what fell just now from Sir

Ralph to satisfy me that he hath strong misgivings. But it is best not

to appear too secure.--Ah, Sir Ralph," he added, coming forward, "I was

right, you see, in my caution. I am a man of peace, and strive to

prevent quarrels and bloodshed. Quarrel if you please--and unfortunately

men are prone to anger--but always settle your disputes in a court of

law; always in a court of law, Sir Ralph. That is the only arena where a

sensible man should ever fight. Take good advice, fee your counsel well,

and the chances are ten to one in your favour. That is what I say to my

worthy and singular good client, Sir Thomas; but he is somewhat

headstrong and vehement, and will not listen to me. He is for settling

matters by the sword, for making forcible entries and detainers, and

ousting the tenants in possession, whereby he would render himself

liable to arrest, fine, ransom, and forfeiture; instead of proceeding

cautiously and decorously as the law directs, and as I advise, Sir

Ralph, by writ of _ejectione firmæ_ or action of trespass, the which

would assuredly establish his title, and restore him the house and

lands. Or he may proceed by writ of right, which perhaps, in his case,

considering the long absence of possession, and the doubts supposed to

perplex the title--though I myself have no doubts about it--would be the

most efficacious. These are your only true weapons, Sir Ralph--your

writs of entry, assise, and right--your pleas of novel disseisin,

post-disseisin, and re-disseisin--your remitters, your præcipes, your

pones, and your recordari faciases. These are the sword, shield, and

armour of proof of a wise man."

"Zounds! you take away one's breath with this hail-storm of writs and

pleas, master lawyer!" cried Nicholas. "But in one respect I am of your

'worthy and singular good' client's, opinion, and would rather trust to

my own hand for the defence of my property than to the law to keep it

for me."

"Then you would do wrong, good Master Nicholas," rejoined Potts, with a

smile of supreme contempt; "for the law is the better guardian and the

stronger adversary of the two, and so Sir Thomas will find if he takes

my advice, and obtains, as he can and will do, a perfect title _juris et

seisinæ conjunctionem_."

"Sir Thomas is still willing to refer the case to my arbitrament, I

believe, sir?" demanded Sir Ralph, uneasily.

"He was so, Sir Ralph," rejoined Potts, "unless the assaults and

batteries, with intent to do him grievous corporeal hurt, which he hath

sustained from your relatives, have induced a change of mind in him. But

as I premised, Sir Ralph, I am a man of peace, and willing to

intermediate."

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

sarcastically.

"Certainly, I object not to the _quiddam honorarium_, Master Nicholas,"

rejoined Potts; "and if my client hath the _quid pro quo_, and gaineth

his point, he cannot complain.--But what is this? Some fresh

disturbance!"

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

"I trust not," said Sir Ralph, with real concern. "Ha! she has fainted.

They are bringing her this way. Poor maid! what can have occasioned this

sudden seizure?"

"I think I could give a guess," muttered Nicholas. "Better remove her to

the Abbey," he added aloud to the knight.

"You are right," said Sir Ralph. "Our cousin Dick is near her, I

observe. He shall see her conveyed there at once."

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

ladies, came up.

"Just in time, Nell," cried the knight. "Have you your smelling-bottle

about you? The May Queen has fainted."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Lady Assheton, springing towards Alizon, who was now

sustained by young Richard Assheton; the forester having surrendered her

to him. "How has this happened?" she inquired, giving her to breathe at

a small phial.

"That I cannot tell you, cousin," replied Richard Assheton, "unless from

some sudden fright."

"That was it, Master Richard," cried Robin Hood; "she cried out on

hearing the clashing of swords just now, and, I think, pronounced your

name, on finding you engaged with Sir Thomas, and immediately after

turned pale, and would have fallen if I had not caught her."

"Ah, indeed!" exclaimed Lady Assheton, glancing at Richard, whose eyes

fell before her inquiring gaze. "But see, she revives," pursued the

lady. "Let me support her head."

As she spoke Alizon opened her eyes, and perceiving Richard Assheton,

who had relinquished her to his relative, standing beside her, she

exclaimed, "Oh! you are safe! I feared"--And then she stopped, greatly

embarrassed.

"You feared he might be in danger from his fierce adversary," supplied

Lady Assheton; "but no. The conflict is happily over, and he is unhurt."

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

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

"Nay, she will be more at ease at home," observed Lady Assheton with a

significant look, which, however, failed in reaching her husband.

"Yes, truly shall I, gracious lady," replied Alizon, "far more so. I

have given you trouble enough already."

"No trouble at all," said Sir Ralph, kindly; "her ladyship is too happy

to be of service in a case like this. Are you not, Nell? The faintness

will pass off presently. But let her go to the Abbey at once, and remain

there till the evening's festivities, in which she takes part, commence.

Give her your arm, Dick."

Sir Ralph's word was law, and therefore Lady Assheton made no

remonstrance. But she said quickly, "I will take care of her myself."

"I require no assistance, madam," replied Alizon, "since Sir Ralph will

have me go. Nay, you are too kind, too condescending," she added,

reluctantly taking Lady Assheton's proffered arm.

And in this way they proceeded slowly towards the Abbey, escorted by

Richard Assheton, and attended by Mistress Braddyll and some others of

the ladies.

Amongst those who had watched the progress of the May Queen's

restoration with most interest was Mistress Nutter, though she had not

interfered; and as Alizon departed with Lady Assheton, she observed to

Nicholas, who was standing near,

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

"Your old Pendle witch, Mother Demdike," supplied Nicholas; "the very

same, I assure you, Mistress Nutter."

"She is wholly unlike the family," observed the lady, "and her features

resemble some I have seen before."

"She does not resemble her mother, undoubtedly," replied Nicholas,

"though what her grand-dame may have been some sixty years ago, when she

was Alizon's age, it would be difficult to say.--She is no beauty now."

"Those finely modelled features, that graceful figure, and those

delicate hands, cannot surely belong to one lowly born and bred?" said

Mistress Nutter.

"They differ from the ordinary peasant mould, truly," replied Nicholas.

"If you ask me for the lineage of a steed, I can give a guess at it on

sight of the animal, but as regards our own race I'm at fault, Mistress

Nutter."

"I must question Elizabeth Device about her," observed Alice. "Strange,

I should never have seen her before, though I know the family so well."

"I wish you did not know Mother Demdike quite so well, Mistress Nutter,"

remarked Nicholas--"a mischievous and malignant old witch, who deserves

the tar barrel. The only marvel is, that she has not been burned long

ago. I am of opinion, with many others, that it was she who bewitched

your poor husband, Richard Nutter."

"I do not think it," replied Mistress Nutter, with a mournful shake of

the head. "Alas, poor man! he died from hard riding, after hard

drinking. That was the only witchcraft in his case. Be warned by his

fate yourself, Nicholas."

"Hard riding after drinking was more likely to sober him than to kill

him," rejoined the squire. "But, as I said just now, I like not this

Mother Demdike, nor her rival in iniquity, old Mother Chattox. The devil

only knows which of the two is worst. But if the former hag did not

bewitch your husband to death, as I shrewdly suspect, it is certain that

the latter mumbling old miscreant killed my elder brother, Richard, by

her sorceries."

"Mother Chattox did you a good turn then, Nicholas," observed Mistress

Nutter, "in making you master of the fair estates of Downham."

"So far, perhaps, she might," rejoined Nicholas, "but I do not like the

manner of it, and would gladly see her burned; nay, I would fire the

fagots myself."

"You are superstitious as the rest, Nicholas," said Mistress Nutter.

"For my part I do not believe in the existence of witches."

"Not believe in witches, with these two living proofs to the contrary!"

cried Nicholas, in amazement. "Why, Pendle Forest swarms with witches.

They burrow in the hill-side like rabbits in a warren. They are the

terror of the whole country. No man's cattle, goods, nor even life, are

safe from them; and the only reason why these two old hags, who hold

sovereign sway over the others, have 'scaped justice so long, is because

every one is afraid to go near them. Their solitary habitations are more

strongly guarded than fortresses. Not believe in witches! Why I should

as soon misdoubt the Holy Scriptures."

"It may be because I reside near them that I have so little

apprehension, or rather no apprehension at all," replied Mistress

Nutter; "but to me Mother Demdike and Mother Chattox appear two harmless

old women."

"They're a couple of dangerous and damnable old hags, and deserve the

stake," cried Nicholas, emphatically.

All this discourse had been swallowed with greedy ears by the

ever-vigilant Master Potts, who had approached the speakers unperceived;

and he now threw in a word.

"So there are suspected witches in Pendle Forest, I find," he said. "I

shall make it my business to institute inquiries concerning them, when I

visit the place to-morrow. Even if merely ill-reputed, they must be

examined, and if found innocent cleared; if not, punished according to

the statute. Our sovereign lord the king holdeth witches in especial

abhorrence, and would gladly see all such noxious vermin extirpated from

the land, and it will rejoice me to promote his laudable designs. I must

pray you to afford me all the assistance you can in the discovery of

these dreadful delinquents, good Master Nicholas, and I will care that

your services are duly represented in the proper quarter. As I have just

said, the king taketh singular interest in witchcraft, as you may judge

if the learned tractate he hath put forth, in form of a dialogue,

intituled "_Dæmonologie_" hath ever met your eye; and he is never so

well pleased as when the truth of his tenets are proved by such secret

offenders being brought to light, and duly punished."

"The king's known superstitious dread of witches makes men seek them out

to win his favour," observed Mistress Nutter. "They have wonderfully

increased since the publication of that baneful book!"

"Not so, madam," replied Potts. "Our sovereign lord the king hath a

wholesome and just hatred of such evil-doers and traitors to himself and

heaven, and it may be dread of them, as indeed all good men must have;

but he would protect his subjects from them, and therefore, in the first

year of his reign, which I trust will be long and prosperous, he hath

passed a statute, whereby it is enacted 'that all persons invoking any

evil spirit, or consulting, covenanting with, entertaining, employing,

feeding, or rewarding any evil spirit; or taking up dead bodies from

their graves to be used in any witchcraft, sorcery, charm, or

enchantment; or killing or otherwise hurting any person by such infernal

arts, shall be guilty of felony without benefit of clergy, and suffer

death.' This statute, madam, was intended to check the crimes of

necromancy, sorcery, and witchcraft, and not to increase them. And I

maintain that it has checked them, and will continue to check them."

"It is a wicked and bloody statute," observed Mrs. Nutter, in a deep

tone, "and many an innocent life will be sacrificed thereby."

"How, madam!" cried Master Potts, staring aghast. "Do you mean to impugn

the sagacity and justice of our high and mighty king, the head of the

law, and defender of the faith?"

"I affirm that this is a sanguinary enactment," replied Mistress Nutter,

"and will put power into hands that will abuse it, and destroy many

guiltless persons. It will make more witches than it will find."

"Some are ready made, methinks," muttered Potts, "and we need not go far

to find them. You are a zealous advocate for witches, I must say,

madam," he added aloud, "and I shall not forget your arguments in their

favour."

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

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

pretended conviction.

"Well, I will aid you in your search for witches, Master Potts,"

observed Nicholas; "for I would gladly see the country rid of these

pests. But I warn you the quest will be attended with risk, and you will

get few to accompany you, for all the folk hereabouts are mortally

afraid of these terrible old hags."

"I fear nothing in the discharge of my duty," replied Master Potts,

courageously, "for as our high and mighty sovereign hath well and

learnedly observed--'if witches be but apprehended and detained by any

private person, upon other private respects, their power, no doubt,

either in escaping, or in doing hurt, is no less than ever it was

before. But if, on the other part, their apprehending and detention be

by the lawful magistrate upon the just respect of their guiltiness in

that craft, their power is then no greater than before that ever they

meddled with their master. For where God begins justly to strike by his

lawful lieutenants, it is not in the devil's power to defraud or bereave

him of the office or effect of his powerful and revenging sceptre.' Thus

I am safe; and I shall take care to go armed with a proper warrant,

which I shall obtain from a magistrate, my honoured friend and singular

good client, Master Roger Newell. This will obtain me such assistance as

I may require, and for due observance of my authority. I shall likewise

take with me a peace-officer, or constable."

"You will do well, Master Potts," said Nicholas; "still you must not

put faith in all the idle tales told you, for the common folk hereabouts

are blindly and foolishly superstitious, and fancy they discern

witchcraft in every mischance, however slight, that befalls them. If ale

turn sour after a thunder-storm, the witch hath done it; and if the

butter cometh not quickly, she hindereth it. If the meat roast ill the

witch hath turned the spit; and if the lumber pie taste ill she hath had

a finger in it. If your sheep have the foot-rot--your horses the

staggers or string-halt--your swine the measles--your hounds a

surfeit--or your cow slippeth her calf--the witch is at the bottom of it

all. If your maid hath a fit of the sullens, or doeth her work amiss, or

your man breaketh a dish, the witch is in fault, and her shoulders can

bear the blame. On this very day of the year--namely, May Day,--the

foolish folk hold any aged crone who fetcheth fire to be a witch, and if

they catch a hedge-hog among their cattle, they will instantly beat it

to death with sticks, concluding it to be an old hag in that form come

to dry up the milk of their kine."

"These are what Master Potts's royal authority would style 'mere old

wives' trattles about the fire,'" observed Mistress Nutter, scornfully.

"Better be over-credulous than over-sceptical," replied Potts. "Even at

my lodging in Chancery Lane I have a horseshoe nailed against the door.

One cannot be too cautious when one has to fight against the devil, or

those in league with him. Your witch should be put to every ordeal. She

should be scratched with pins to draw blood from her; weighed against

the church bible, though this is not always proof; forced to weep, for a

witch can only shed three tears, and those only from the left eye; or,

as our sovereign lord the king truly observeth--no offence to you,

Mistress Nutter--'Not so much as their eyes are able to shed tears,

albeit the womenkind especially be able otherwise to shed tears at every

light occasion when they will, yea, although it were dissemblingly like

the crocodile;' and set on a stool for twenty-four hours, with her legs

tied across, and suffered neither to eat, drink, nor sleep during the

time. This is the surest Way to make her confess her guilt next to

swimming. If it fails, then cast her with her thumbs and toes tied

across into a pond, and if she sink not then is she certainly a witch.

Other trials there are, as that by scalding water--sticking knives

across--heating of the horseshoe--tying of knots--the sieve and the

shears; but the only ordeals safely to be relied on, are the swimming

and the stool before mentioned, and from these your witch shall rarely

escape. Above all, be sure and search carefully for the witch-mark. I

doubt not we shall find it fairly and legibly writ in the devil's

characters on Mother Demdike and Mother Chattox. They shall undergo the

stool and the pool, and other trials, if required. These old hags shall

no longer vex you, good Master Nicholas. Leave them to me, and doubt

not I will bring them to condign punishment."

"You will do us good service then, Master Potts," replied Nicholas. "But

since you are so learned in the matter of witchcraft, resolve me, I pray

you, how it is, that women are so much more addicted to the practice of

the black art than our own sex."

"The answer to the inquiry hath been given by our British Solomon,"

replied Potts, "and I will deliver it to you in his own words. 'The

reason is easy,' he saith; 'for as that sex is frailer than man is, so

it is easier to be entrapped in those gross snares of the devil, as was

overwell proved to be true, by the serpent's deceiving of Eva at the

beginning, which makes him the homelier with that sex sensine.'"

"A good and sufficient reason, Master Potts," said Nicholas, laughing;

"is it not so, Mistress Nutter?"

"Ay, marry, if it satisfies you," she answered, drily. "It is of a piece

with the rest of the reasoning of the royal pedant, whom Master Potts

styles the British Solomon."

"I only give the learned monarch the title by which he is recognised

throughout Christendom," rejoined Potts, sharply.

"Well, there is comfort in the thought, that I shall never be taken for

a wizard," said the squire.

"Be not too sure of that, good Master Nicholas," returned Potts. "Our

present prince seems to have had you in his eye when he penned his

description of a wizard, for, he saith, 'A great number of them that

ever have been convict or confessors of witchcraft, as may be presently

seen by many that have at this time confessed, are some of them rich and

worldly-wise; some of them fat or corpulent in their bodies; and most

part of them altogether given over to the pleasures of the flesh,

continual haunting of company, and all kinds of merriness, lawful and

unlawful.' This hitteth you exactly, Master Nicholas."

"Zounds!" exclaimed the squire, "if this be exact, it toucheth me too

nearly to be altogether agreeable."

"The passage is truly quoted, Nicholas," observed Mistress Nutter, with

a cold smile. "I perfectly remember it. Master Potts seems to have the

'Dæmonologie' at his fingers' ends."

"I have made it my study, madam," replied the lawyer, somewhat mollified

by the remark, "as I have the statute on witchcraft, and indeed most

other statutes."

"We have wasted time enough in this unprofitable talk," said Mistress

Nutter, abruptly quitting them without bestowing the slightest

salutation on Potts.

"I was but jesting in what I said just now, good Master Nicholas,"

observed the little lawyer, nowise disconcerted at the slight "though

they were the king's exact words I quoted. No one would suspect you of

being a wizard--ha!--ha! But I am resolved to prosecute the search, and

I calculate upon your aid, and that of Master Richard Assheton, who goes

with us."

"You shall have mine, at all events, Master Potts," replied Nicholas;

"and I doubt not, my cousin Dick's, too."

"Our May Queen, Alizon Device, is Mother Demdike's grand-daughter, is

she not?" asked Potts, after a moment's reflection.

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

"For a good and sufficing reason," replied Potts. "She might be an

important witness; for, as King James saith, 'bairns or wives may, of

our law, serve for sufficient witnesses and proofs.' And he goeth on to

say, 'For who but witches can be proofs, and so witnesses of the doings

of witches?'"

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

Nicholas, sharply.

"I aver nothing," replied Potts; "but, as a relative of a suspected

witch, she will be the best witness against her."

"If you design to meddle with Alizon Device, expect no assistance from

me, Master Potts," said Nicholas, sternly, "but rather the contrary."

"Nay, I but threw out the hint, good Master Nicholas," replied Potts.

"Another witness will do equally well. There are other children, no

doubt. I rely on you, sir--I rely on you. I shall now go in search of

Master Nowell, and obtain the warrant and the constable."

"And I shall go keep my appointment with Parson Dewhurst, at the Abbey,"

said Nicholas, bowing slightly to the attorney, and taking his

departure.

"It will not do to alarm him at present," said Potts, looking after him,

"but I'll have that girl as a witness, and I know how to terrify her

into compliance. A singular woman, that Mistress Alice Nutter. I must

inquire into her history. Odd, how obstinately she set her face against

witchcraft. And yet she lives at Rough Lee, in the very heart of a witch

district, for such Master Nicholas Assheton calls this Pendle Forest. I

shouldn't wonder if she has dealings with the old hags she

defends--Mother Demdike and Mother Chattox. Chattox! Lord bless us, what

a name!--There's caldron and broomstick in the very sound! And Demdike

is little better. Both seem of diabolical invention. If I can unearth a

pack of witches, I shall gain much credit from my honourable good lords

the judges of assize in these northern parts, besides pleasing the King

himself, who is sure to hear of it, and reward my praiseworthy zeal.

Look to yourself, Mistress Nutter, and take care you are not caught

tripping. And now, for Master Roger Nowell."

With this, he peered about among the crowd in search of the magistrate,

but though he thrust his little turned-up nose in every direction, he

could not find him, and therefore set out for the Abbey, concluding he

had gone thither.

As Mistress Nutter walked along, she perceived James Device among the

crowd, holding Jennet by the hand, and motioned him to come to her. Jem

instantly understood the sign, and quitting his little sister, drew

near.

"Tell thy mother," said Mistress Nutter, in a tone calculated only for

his hearing, "to come to me, at the Abbey, quickly and secretly. I shall

be in the ruins of the old convent church. I have somewhat to say to

her, that concerns herself as well as me. Thou wilt have to go to Rough

Lee and Malkin Tower to-night."

Jem nodded, to show his perfect apprehension of what was said and his

assent to it, and while Mistress Nutter moved on with a slow and

dignified step, he returned to Jennet, and told her she must go home

directly, a piece of intelligence which was not received very graciously

by the little maiden; but nothing heeding her unwillingness, Jem walked

her off quickly in the direction of the cottage; but while on the way to

it, they accidentally encountered their mother, Elizabeth Device, and

therefore stopped.

"Yo mun go up to th' Abbey directly, mother," said Jem, with a wink,

"Mistress Nutter wishes to see ye. Yo'n find her i' t' ruins o' t' owd

convent church. Tak kere yo're neaw seen. Yo onderstond."

"Yeigh," replied Elizabeth, nodding her head significantly, "ey'n go at

wonst, an see efter Alizon ot t' same time. Fo ey'm towd hoo has

fainted, an been ta'en to th' Abbey by Lady Assheton."

"Never heed Alizon," replied Jem, gruffly. "Hoo's i' good hands. Ye

munna be seen, ey tell ye. Ey'm going to Malkin Tower to-neet, if yo'n

owt to send."

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

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

mother."

And as he and his little sister pursued their way to the cottage,

Elizabeth hobbled off towards the Abbey, muttering, as she went, "I hope

Alizon an Mistress Nutter winna meet. Nah that it matters, boh still

it's better not. Strange, the wench should ha' fainted. Boh she's always

foolish an timmersome, an ey half fear has lost her heart to young

Richard Assheton. Ey'n watch her narrowly, an if it turn out to be so,

she mun be cured, or be secured--ha! ha!"

And muttering in this way, she passed through the Abbey gateway, the

wicket being left open, and proceeded towards the ruinous convent

church, taking care as much as possible to avoid observation.

CHAPTER V.--MOTHER CHATTOX.

Not far from the green where the May-day revels were held, stood the

ancient parish church of Whalley, its square tower surmounted with a

flag-staff and banner, and shaking with the joyous peals of the ringers.

A picturesque and beautiful structure it was, though full of

architectural incongruities; and its grey walls and hoary buttresses,

with the lancet-shaped windows of the choir, and the ramified tracery of

the fine eastern window, could not fail to please any taste not quite so

critical as to require absolute harmony and perfection in a building.

Parts of the venerable fabric were older than the Abbey itself, dating

back as far as the eleventh century, when a chapel occupied the site;

and though many alterations had been made in the subsequent structure at

various times, and many beauties destroyed, especially during the period

of the Reformation, enough of its pristine character remained to render

it a very good specimen of an old country church. Internally, the

cylindrical columns of the north aisle, the construction of the choir,

and the three stone seats supported on rounded columns near the altar,

proclaimed its high antiquity. Within the choir were preserved the

eighteen richly-carved stalls once occupying a similar position in the

desecrated conventual church: and though exquisite in themselves, they

seemed here sadly out of place, not being proportionate to the

structure. Their elaborately-carved seats projected far into the body of

the church, and their crocketed pinnacles shot up almost to the ceiling.

But it was well they had not shared the destruction in which almost all

the other ornaments of the magnificent fane they once decorated were

involved. Carefully preserved, the black varnished oak well displayed

the quaint and grotesque designs with which many of them--the Prior's

stall in especial--were embellished. Chief among them was the abbot's

stall, festooned with sculptured vine wreaths and clustering grapes, and

bearing the auspicious inscription:

Semper gaudentes sint ista sede sedentes:

singularly inapplicable, however, to the last prelate who filled it.

Some fine old monuments, and warlike trophies of neighbouring wealthy

families, adorned the walls, and within the nave was a magnificent pew,

with a canopy and pillars of elaborately-carved oak, and lattice-work at

the sides, allotted to the manor of Read, and recently erected by Roger

Nowell; while in the north and south aisles were two small chapels,

converted since the reformed faith had obtained, into pews--the one

called Saint Mary's Cage, belonging to the Assheton family; and the

other appertaining to the Catterals of Little Mitton, and designated

Saint Nicholas's Cage. Under the last-named chapel were interred some

of the Paslews of Wiswall, and here lay the last unfortunate Abbot of

Whalley, between whoso grave, and the Assheton and Braddyll families, a

fatal relation was supposed to subsist. Another large pew, allotted to

the Towneleys, and designated Saint Anthony's Cage, was rendered

remarkable, by a characteristic speech of Sir John Towneley, which gave

much offence to the neighbouring dames. Called upon to decide as to the

position of the sittings in the church, the discourteous knight made

choice of Saint Anthony's Cage, already mentioned, declaring, "My man,

Shuttleworth of Hacking, made this form, and here will I sit when I

come; and my cousin Nowell may make a seat behind me if he please, and

my son Sherburne shall make one on the other side, and Master Catteral

another behind him, and for the residue the use shall be, first come

first speed, and that will make the proud wives of Whalley rise betimes

to come to church." One can fancy the rough knight's chuckle, as he

addressed these words to the old clerk, certain of their being quickly

repeated to the "proud wives" in question.

Within the churchyard grew two fine old yew-trees, now long since

decayed and gone, but then spreading their dark-green arms over the

little turf-covered graves. Reared against the buttresses of the church

was an old stone coffin, together with a fragment of a curious

monumental effigy, likewise of stone; but the most striking objects in

the place, and deservedly ranked amongst the wonders of Whalley, were

three remarkable obelisk-shaped crosses, set in a line upon pedestals,

covered with singular devices in fretwork, and all three differing in

size and design. Evidently of remotest antiquity, these crosses were

traditionally assigned to Paullinus, who, according to the Venerable

Bede, first preached the Gospel in these parts, in the early part of the

seventh century; but other legends were attached to them by the vulgar,

and dim mystery brooded over them.

Vestiges of another people and another faith were likewise here

discernible, for where the Saxon forefathers of the village prayed and

slumbered in death, the Roman invaders of the isle had trodden, and

perchance performed their religious rites; some traces of an encampment

being found in the churchyard by the historian of the spot, while the

north boundary of the hallowed precincts was formed by a deep foss, once

encompassing the nigh-obliterated fortification. Besides these records

of an elder people, there was another memento of bygone days and creeds,

in a little hermitage and chapel adjoining it, founded in the reign of

Edward III., by Henry, Duke of Lancaster, for the support of two

recluses and a priest to say masses daily for him and his descendants;

but this pious bequest being grievously abused in the subsequent reign

of Henry VI., by Isole de Heton, a fair widow, who in the first

transports of grief, vowing herself to heaven, took up her abode in the

hermitage, and led a very disorderly life therein, to the great scandal

of the Abbey, and the great prejudice of the morals of its brethren, and

at last, tired even of the slight restraint imposed upon her, fled away

"contrary to her oath and profession, not willing, nor intending to be

restored again;" the hermitage was dissolved by the pious monarch, and

masses ordered to be said daily in the parish church for the repose of

the soul of the founder. Such was the legend attached to the little

cell, and tradition went on to say that the anchoress broke her leg in

crossing Whalley Nab, and limped ever afterwards; a just judgment on

such a heinous offender. Both these little structures were picturesque

objects, being overgrown with ivy and woodbine. The chapel was

completely in ruins, while the cell, profaned by the misdoings of the

dissolute votaress Isole, had been converted into a cage for vagrants

and offenders, and made secure by a grated window, and a strong door

studded with broad-headed nails.

The view from the churchyard, embracing the vicarage-house, a

comfortable residence, surrounded by a large walled-in garden, well

stocked with fruit-trees, and sheltered by a fine grove of rook-haunted

timber, extended on the one hand over the village, and on the other over

the Abbey, and was bounded by the towering and well-wooded heights of

Whalley Nab. On the side of the Abbey, the most conspicuous objects were

the great north-eastern gateway, with the ruined conventual church. Ever

beautiful, the view was especially so on the present occasion, from the

animated scene combined with it; and the pleasant prospect was enjoyed

by a large assemblage, who had adjourned thither to witness the

concluding part of the festival.

Within the green and flower-decked bowers which, as has before been

mentioned, were erected in the churchyard, were seated Doctor Ormerod

and Sir Ralph Assheton, with such of their respective guests as had not

already retired, including Richard and Nicholas Assheton, both of whom

had returned from the abbey; the former having been dismissed by Lady

Assheton from further attendance upon Alizon, and the latter having

concluded his discourse with Parson Dewhurst, who, indeed, accompanied

him to the church, and was now placed between the Vicar and the Rector

of Middleton. From this gentle elevation the gay company on the green

could be fully discerned, the tall May-pole, with its garlands and

ribands, forming a pivot, about which the throng ever revolved, while

stationary amidst the moving masses, the rush-cart reared on high its

broad green back, as if to resist the living waves constantly dashed

against it. By-and-by a new kind of movement was perceptible, and it

soon became evident that a procession was being formed. Immediately

afterwards, the rush-cart was put in motion, and winded slowly along the

narrow street leading to the church, preceded by the morris-dancers and

the other May-day revellers, and followed by a great concourse of

people, shouting, dancing, and singing.

On came the crowd. The jingling of bells, and the sound of music grew

louder and louder, and the procession, lost for awhile behind some

intervening habitations, though the men bestriding the rush-cart could

be discerned over their summits, burst suddenly into view; and the

revellers entering the churchyard, drew up on either side of the little

path leading to the porch, while the rush-cart coming up the next

moment, stopped at the gate. Then four young maidens dressed in white,

and having baskets in their hands, advanced and scattered flowers along

the path; after which ladders were reared against the sides of the

rush-cart, and the men, descending from their exalted position, bore the

garlands to the church, preceded by the vicar and the two other divines,

and followed by Robin Hood and his band, the morris-dancers, and a troop

of little children singing a hymn. The next step was to unfasten the

bundles of rushes, of which the cart was composed, and this was very

quickly and skilfully performed, the utmost care being taken of the

trinkets and valuables with which it was ornamented. These were gathered

together in baskets and conveyed to the vestry, and there locked up.

This done, the bundles of rushes were taken up by several old women, who

strewed the aisles with them, and placed such as had been tied up as

mats in the pews. At the same time, two casks of ale set near the gate,

and given for the occasion by the vicar, were broached, and their

foaming contents freely distributed among the dancers and the thirsty

crowd. Very merry were they, as may be supposed, in consequence, but

their mirth was happily kept within due limits of decorum.

When the rush-cart was wellnigh unladen Richard Assheton entered the

church, and greatly pleased with the effect of the flowery garlands with

which the various pews were decorated, said as much to the vicar, who

smilingly replied, that he was glad to find he approved of the practice,

"even though it might savour of superstition;" and as the good doctor

walked away, being called forth, the young man almost unconsciously

turned into the chapel on the north aisle. Here he stood for a few

moments gazing round the church, wrapt in pleasing meditation, in which

many objects, somewhat foreign to the place and time, passed through his

mind, when, chancing to look down, he saw a small funeral wreath, of

mingled yew and cypress, lying at his feet, and a slight tremor passed

over his frame, as he found he was standing on the ill-omened grave of

Abbot Paslew. Before he could ask himself by whom this sad garland had

been so deposited, Nicholas Assheton came up to him, and with a look of

great uneasiness cried, "Come away instantly, Dick. Do you know where

you are standing?"

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

"Have you forgotten the common saying," cried Nicholas--"that the

Assheton who stands on that unlucky grave shall die within the year?

Come away at once."

"It is too late," replied Richard, "I have incurred the fate, if such a

fate be attached to the tomb; and as my moving away will not preserve

me, so my tarrying here cannot injure me further. But I have no fear."

"You have more courage than I possess," rejoined Nicholas. "I would not

set foot on that accursed stone for half the county. Its malign

influence on our house has been approved too often. The first to

experience the fatal destiny were Richard Assheton and John Braddyll,

the purchasers of the Abbey. Both met here together on the anniversary

of the abbot's execution--some forty years after its occurrence, it is

true, and when they were both pretty well stricken in years--and within

that year, namely 1578, both died, and were buried in the vault on the

opposite side of the church, not many paces from their old enemy. The

last instance was my poor brother Richard, who, being incredulous as you

are, was resolved to brave the destiny, and stationed himself upon the

tomb during divine service, but he too died within the appointed time."

"He was bewitched to death--so, at least, it is affirmed," said Richard

Assheton, with a smile. "But I believe in one evil influence just as

much as in the other."

"It matters not how the destiny be accomplished, so it come to pass,"

rejoined the squire, turning away. "Heaven shield you from it!"

"Stay!" said Richard, picking up the wreath. "Who, think you, can have

placed this funeral garland on the abbot's grave?"

"I cannot guess!" cried Nicholas, staring at it in amazement--"an enemy

of ours, most likely. It is neither customary nor lawful in our

Protestant country so to ornament graves. Put it down, Dick."

"I shall not displace it, certainly," replied Richard, laying it down

again; "but I as little think it has been placed here by a hostile hand,

as I do that harm will ensue to me from standing here. To relieve your

anxiety, however, I will come forth," he added, stepping into the aisle.

"Why should an enemy deposit a garland on the abbot's tomb, since it was

by mere chance that it hath met my eyes?"

"Mere chance!" cried Nicholas; "every thing is mere chance with you

philosophers. There is more than chance in it. My mind misgives me

strangely. That terrible old Abbot Paslew is as troublesome to us in

death, as he was during life to our predecessor, Richard Assheton. Not

content with making his tombstone a weapon of destruction to us, he

pays the Abbey itself an occasional visit, and his appearance always

betides some disaster to the family. I have never seen him myself, and

trust I never shall; but other people have, and have been nigh scared

out of their senses by the apparition."

"Idle tales, the invention of overheated brains," rejoined Richard.

"Trust me, the abbot's rest will not be broken till the day when all

shall rise from their tombs; though if ever the dead (supposing such a

thing possible) could be justified in injuring and affrighting the

living, it might be in his case, since he mainly owed his destruction to

our ancestor. On the same principle it has been held that church-lands

are unlucky to their lay possessors; but see how this superstitious

notion has been disproved in our own family, to whom Whalley Abbey and

its domains have brought wealth, power, and worldly happiness."

"There is something in the notion, nevertheless," replied Nicholas; "and

though our case may, I hope, continue an exception to the rule, most

grantees of ecclesiastical houses have found them a curse, and the time

may come when the Abbey may prove so to our descendants. But, without

discussing the point, there is one instance in which the malignant

influence of the vindictive abbot has undoubtedly extended long after

his death. You have heard, I suppose, that he pronounced a dreadful

anathema upon the child of a man who had the reputation of being a

wizard, and who afterwards acted as his executioner. I know not the

whole particulars of the dark story, but I know that Paslew fixed a

curse upon the child, declaring it should become a witch, and the mother

of witches. And the prediction has been verified. Nigh eighty years have

flown by since then, and the infant still lives--a fearful and

mischievous witch--and all her family are similarly fated--all are

witches."

"I never heard the story before," said Richard, somewhat thoughtfully;

"but I guess to whom you allude--Mother Demdike of Pendle Forest, and

her family."

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

"In that case Alizon Device must be a witch," cried Richard; "and I

think you will hardly venture upon such an assertion after what you have

seen of her to-day. If she be a witch, I would there were many such--as

fair and gentle. And see you not how easily the matter is explained?

'Give a dog an ill name and hang him'--a proverb with which you are

familiar enough. So with Mother Demdike. Whether really uttered or not,

the abbot's curse upon her and her issue has been bruited abroad, and

hence she is made a witch, and her children are supposed to inherit the

infamous taint. So it is with yon tomb. It is said to be dangerous to

our family, and dangerous no doubt it is to those who believe in the

saying, which, luckily, I do not. The prophecy works its own fulfilment.

The absurdity and injustice of yielding to the opinion are manifest. No

wrong can have been done the abbot by Mother Demdike, any more than by

her children, and yet they are to be punished for the misdeeds of their

predecessor."

"Ay, just as you and I, who are of the third and fourth generation, may

be punished for the sins of our fathers," rejoined Nicholas. "You have

Scripture against you, Dick. The only thing I see in favour of your

argument is, the instance you allege of Alizon. She does not look like a

witch, certainly; but there is no saying. She may be only the more

dangerous for her rare beauty, and apparent innocence!"

"I would answer for her truth with my life," cried Richard, quickly. "It

is impossible to look at her countenance, in which candour and purity

shine forth, and doubt her goodness."

"She hath cast her spells over you, Dick, that is certain," rejoined

Nicholas, laughing; "but to be serious. Alizon, I admit, is an exception

to the rest of the family, but that only strengthens the general rule.

Did you ever remark the strange look they all--save the fair maid in

question--have about the eyes?"

Richard answered in the negative.

"It is very singular, and I wonder you have not noticed it," pursued

Nicholas; "but the question of reputed witchcraft in Mother Demdike has

some chance of being speedily settled; for Master Potts, the little

London lawyer, who goes with us to Pendle Forest to-morrow, is about to

have her arrested and examined before a magistrate."

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

"Why so?" exclaimed Nicholas, in surprise.

"Because the prejudice existing against her is sure to convict and

destroy her," replied Richard. "Her great age, infirmities, and poverty,

will be proofs against her. How can she, or any old enfeebled creature

like her, whose decrepitude and misery should move compassion rather

than excite fear--how can such a person defend herself against charges

easily made, and impossible to refute? I do not deny the possibility of

witchcraft, even in our own days, though I think it of very unlikely

occurrence; but I would determinately resist giving credit to any tales

told by the superstitious vulgar, who, naturally prone to cruelty, have

so many motives for revenging imaginary wrongs. It is placing a dreadful

weapon in their hands, of which they have cunning enough to know the

use, but neither mercy nor justice enough to restrain them from using

it. Better let one guilty person escape, than many innocent perish. So

many undefined charges have been brought against Mother Demdike, that at

last they have fixed a stigma on her name, and made her an object of

dread and suspicion. She is endowed with mysterious power, which would

have no effect if not believed in; and now must be burned because she is

called a witch, and is doting and vain enough to accept the title."

"There is something in a witch difficult, nay, almost impossible to

describe," said Nicholas, "but you cannot be mistaken about her. By her

general ill course of life, by repeated acts of mischief, and by

threats, followed by the consequences menaced, she becomes known. There

is much mystery in the matter, not permitted human knowledge entirely to

penetrate; but, as we know from the Scriptures that the sin of

witchcraft did exist, and as we have no evidence that it has ceased, so

it is fair to conclude, that there may be practisers of the dark offence

in our own days, and such I hold to be Mother Demdike and Mother

Chattox. Rival potentates in evil, they contend which shall do most

mischief, but it must be admitted the former bears away the bell."

"If all the ill attributed to her were really caused by her

machinations, this might be correct," replied Richard, "but it only

shows her to be more calumniated than the other. In a word, cousin

Nicholas, I look upon them as two poor old creatures, who, persuaded

they really possess the supernatural power accorded to them by the

vulgar, strive to act up to their parts, and are mainly assisted in

doing so by the credulity and fears of their audience."

"Admitting the blind credulity of the multitude," said Nicholas, "and

their proneness to discern the hand of the witch in the most trifling

accidents; admitting also, their readiness to accuse any old crone

unlucky enough to offend them of sorcery; I still believe that there are

actual practisers of the black art, who, for a brief term of power, have

entered into a league with Satan, worship him and attend his sabbaths,

and have a familiar, in the shape of a cat, dog, toad, or mole, to obey

their behests, transform themselves into various shapes--as a hound,

horse, or hare,--raise storms of wind or hail, maim cattle, bewitch and

slay human beings, and ride whither they will on broomsticks. But,

holding the contrary opinion, you will not, I apprehend, aid Master

Potts in his quest of witches."

"I will not," rejoined Richard. "On the contrary, I will oppose him. But

enough of this. Let us go forth."

And they quitted the church together.

As they issued into the churchyard, they found the principal arbours

occupied by the morris-dancers, Robin Hood and his troop, Doctor Ormerod

and Sir Ralph having retired to the vicarage-house.

Many merry groups were scattered about, talking, laughing, and singing;

but two persons, seemingly objects of suspicion and alarm, and shunned

by every one who crossed their path, were advancing slowly towards the

three crosses of Paullinus, which stood in a line, not far from the

church-porch. They were females, one about five-and-twenty, very comely,

and habited in smart holiday attire, put on with considerable rustic

coquetry, so as to display a very neat foot and ankle, and with plenty

of ribands in her fine chestnut hair. The other was a very different

person, far advanced in years, bent almost double, palsy-stricken, her

arms and limbs shaking, her head nodding, her chin wagging, her snowy

locks hanging about her wrinkled visage, her brows and upper lip frore,

and her eyes almost sightless, the pupils being cased with a thin white

film. Her dress, of antiquated make and faded stuff, had been once deep

red in colour, and her old black hat was high-crowned and broad-brimmed.

She partly aided herself in walking with a crutch-handled stick, and

partly leaned upon her younger companion for support.

"Why, there is one of the old women we have just been speaking

of--Mother Chattox," said Richard, pointing them out, "and with her, her

grand-daughter, pretty Nan Redferne."

"So it is," cried Nicholas, "what makes the old hag here, I marvel! I

will go question her."

So saying, he strode quickly towards her.

"How now, Mother Chattox!" he cried. "What mischief is afoot? What makes

the darkness-loving owl abroad in the glare of day? What brings the

grisly she-wolf from her forest lair? Back to thy den, old witch! Ar't

crazed, as well as blind and palsied, that thou knowest not that this is

a merry-making, and not a devil's sabbath? Back to thy hut, I say! These

sacred precincts are no place for thee."

"Who is it speaks to me?" demanded the old hag, halting, and fixing her

glazed eyes upon him.

"One thou hast much injured," replied Nicholas. "One into whose house

thou hast brought quick-wasting sickness and death by thy infernal arts.

One thou hast good reason to fear; for learn, to thy confusion, thou

damned and murtherous witch, it is Nicholas, brother to thy victim,

Richard Assheton of Downham, who speaks to thee."

"I know none I have reason to fear," replied Mother Chattox; "especially

thee, Nicholas Assheton. Thy brother was no victim of mine. Thou wert

the gainer by his death, not I. Why should I slay him?"

"I will tell thee why, old hag," cried Nicholas; "he was inflamed by the

beauty of thy grand-daughter Nancy here, and it was to please Tom

Redferne, her sweetheart then, but her spouse since, that thou

bewitchedst him to death."

"That reason will not avail thee, Nicholas," rejoined Mother Chattox,

with a derisive laugh. "If I had any hand in his death, it was to serve

and pleasure thee, and that all men shall know, if I am questioned on

the subject--ha! ha! Take me to the crosses, Nance."

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

furiously.

"Nay, let her go her way," said Richard, who had drawn near during the

colloquy. "No good will come of meddling with her."

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

[Illustration: NAN REDFERNE AND MOTHER CHATTOX.]

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

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

seize them!"

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

"Well-favoured or not, kindly or cruel, I hate them all," cried Mother

Chattox. "To the crosses, I say!"

But Nicholas placed himself in their path.

"Is it to pray to Beelzebub, thy master, that thou wouldst go to the

crosses?" he asked.

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

"Thou shalt not stir till I have had an answer," rejoined Nicholas.

"They say those are Runic obelisks, and not Christian crosses, and that

the carvings upon them have a magical signification. The first, it is

averred, is written o'er with deadly curses, and the forms in which they

are traced, as serpentine, triangular, or round, indicate and rule their

swift or slow effect. The second bears charms against diseases, storms,

and lightning. And on the third is inscribed a verse which will render

him who can read it rightly, invisible to mortal view. Thou shouldst be

learned in such lore, old Pythoness. Is it so?"

The hag's chin wagged fearfully, and her frame trembled with passion,

but she spoke not.

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

"Ay, wherefore?" she rejoined.

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

you?" he asked.

"What! hast thou found it?" cried the hag. "It shall bring thee rare

luck, lad--rare luck. Now let me pass."

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

The hag uttered a scream of rage.

"Let me go, Nicholas Assheton," she shrieked, "or thou shalt rue it.

Cramps and aches shall wring and rack thy flesh and bones; fever shall

consume thee; ague shake thee--shake thee--ha!"

And Nicholas recoiled, appalled by her fearful gestures.

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

"And thou darest tell me so," cried the hag. "Set me before him, Nance,

that I may curse him," she added, raising her palsied arm.

"Nah, nah--yo'n cursed ower much already, grandmother," cried Nan

Redferne, endeavouring to drag her away. But the old woman resisted.

"I will teach him to cross my path," she vociferated, in accents shrill

and jarring as the cry of the goat-sucker.

"Handsome he is, it may be, now, but he shall not be so long. The bloom

shall fade from his cheek, the fire be extinguished in his eyes, the

strength depart from his limbs. Sorrow shall be her portion who loves

him--sorrow and shame!"

"Horrible!" exclaimed Richard, endeavouring to exclude the voice of the

crone, which pierced his ears like some sharp instrument.

"Ha! ha! you fear me now," she cried. "By this, and this, the spell

shall work," she added, describing a circle in the air with her stick,

then crossing it twice, and finally scattering over him a handful of

grave dust, snatched from an adjoining hillock.

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

tone.

Her grand-daughter complied, with a glance of deep commiseration at

Richard, who remained stupefied at the ominous proceeding.

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

momentary shock.

"So you are convinced at last," rejoined Nicholas. "I can take breath

now the old hell-cat is gone. But she shall not escape us. Keep an eye

upon her, while I see if Simon Sparshot, the beadle, be within the

churchyard, and if so he shall take her into custody, and lock her in

the cage."

With this, he ran towards the throng, shouting lustily for the beadle.

Presently a big, burly fellow, in a scarlet doublet, laced with gold, a

black velvet cap trimmed with red ribands, yellow hose, and shoes with

great roses in them, and bearing a long silver-headed staff, answered

the summons, and upon being told why his services were required,

immediately roared out at the top of a stentorian voice, "A witch,

lads!--a witch!"

All was astir in an instant. Robin Hood and his merry men, with the

morris-dancers, rushed out of their bowers, and the whole churchyard was

in agitation. Above the din was heard the loud voice of Simon Sparshot,

still shouting, "A witch!--witch!--Mother Chattox!"

"Where--where?" demanded several voices.

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

A general movement took place in that direction, the crowd being headed

by the squire and the beadle, but when they came up, they found only Nan

Redferne standing behind the obelisk.

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

dismay.

"I thought I saw her standing there with her grand-daughter," replied

Richard; "but in truth I did not watch very closely."

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

But neither behind the crosses, nor behind any monument, nor in any hole

or corner, nor on the other side of the churchyard wall, nor at the

back of the little hermitage or chapel, though all were quickly

examined, could the old hag be found.

On being questioned, Nan Redferne refused to say aught concerning her

grandmother's flight or place of concealment.

"I begin to think there is some truth in that strange legend of the

cross," said Nicholas. "Notwithstanding her blindness, the old hag must

have managed to read the magic verse upon it, and so have rendered

herself invisible. But we have got the young witch safe."

"Yeigh, squoire!" responded Sparshot, who had seized hold of Nance--"hoo

be safe enough."

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

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

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

her, Sparshot."

"I forbid him to do so, till she has been examined," cried a sharp

voice. And the next moment Master Potts was seen pushing his way through

the crowd. "So you have found a witch, my masters. I heard your shouts,

and hurried on as fast as I could. Just in time, Master Nicholas--just

in time," he added, rubbing his hands gleefully.

"Lemme go, Simon," besought Nance.

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

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

By this time the crowd had gathered round her, yelling, hooting, and

shaking their hands at her, as if about to tear her in pieces; but

Richard Assheton planted himself resolutely before her, and pushed back

the foremost of them.

"Remove her instantly to the Abbey, Sparshot," he cried, "and let her be

kept in safe custody till Sir Ralph has time to examine her. Will that

content you, masters?"

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

"Quite right, my worthy friends, quite right," said Potts. "_Primo_, let

us make sure she is a witch--_secundo_, let us take her to the Abbey."

"There can be no doubt as to her being a witch, Master Potts," rejoined

Nicholas; "her old grand-dame, Mother Chattox, has just vanished from

our sight."

"Has Mother Chattox been here?" cried Potts, opening his round eyes to

their widest extent.

"Not many minutes since," replied Nicholas. "In fact, she may be here

still for aught I know."

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

"You won't discover her for all your quickness," replied Nicholas. "She

has rendered herself invisible, by reciting the magical verses inscribed

on that cross."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the attorney, closely examining the mysterious

inscriptions. "What strange, uncouth characters! I can make neither head

nor tail, unless it be the devil's tail, of them."

At this moment a whoop was raised by Jem Device, who, having taken his

little sister home, had returned to the sports on the green, and now

formed part of the assemblage in the churchyard. Between the rival witch

potentates, Mothers Demdike and Chattox, it has already been said a

deadly enmity existed, and the feud was carried on with equal animosity

by their descendants; and though Jem himself came under the same

suspicion as Nan Redferne, that circumstance created no tie of interest

between them, but the contrary, and he was the most active of her

assailants. He had set up the above-mentioned cry from observing a large

rat running along the side of the wall.

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

rotten!--loo-loo-loo!"

Half the crowd started in pursuit of the animal, and twenty sticks were

thrown at it, but a stone cast by Jem stayed its progress, and it was

instantly despatched. It did not change, however, as was expected by the

credulous hinds, into an old woman, and they gave vent to their

disappointment and rage in renewed threats against Nan Redferne. The

dead rat was hurled at her by Jem, but missing its mark, it hit Master

Potts on the head, and nearly knocked him off the cross, upon which he

had mounted to obtain a better view of the proceedings. Irritated by

this circumstance, as well as by the failure of the experiment, the

little attorney jumped down and fell to kicking the unfortunate rat,

after which, his fury being somewhat appeased, he turned to Nance, who

had sunk for support against the pedestal, and said to her--"If you will

tell us what has become of the old witch your grandmother, and undertake

to bear witness against her, you shall be set free."

"Ey'n tell ye nowt, mon," replied Nance, doggedly. "Put me to onny trial

ye like, ye shanna get a word fro me."

"That remains to be seen," retorted Potts, "but I apprehend we shall

make you speak, and pretty plainly too, before we've done with you.--You

hear what this perverse and wrong-headed young witch declares, masters,"

he shouted, again clambering upon the cross. "I have offered her

liberty, on condition of disclosing to us the manner of her diabolical

old relative's evasion, and she rejects it."

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

her!--swim her!"

"You had better tell them what you know, Nance," said Richard, in a low

tone, "or I shall have difficulty in preserving you from their fury."

"Ey darena, Master Richard," she replied, shaking her head; and then she

added firmly, "Ey winna."

Finding it useless to reason with her, and fearing also that the

infuriated crowd might attempt to put their threats into execution,

Richard turned to his cousin Nicholas, and said: "We must get her away,

or violence will be done."

"She does not deserve your compassion, Dick," replied Nicholas; "she is

only a few degrees better than the old hag who has escaped. Sparshot

here tells me she is noted for her skill in modelling clay figures."

"Yeigh, that hoo be," replied the broad-faced beadle; "hoo's

unaccountable cliver ot that sort o' wark. A clay figger os big os a six

months' barn, fashiont i' th' likeness o' Farmer Grimble o' Briercliffe

lawnd, os died last month, war seen i' her cottage, an monny others

besoide. Amongst 'em a moddle o' your lamented brother, Squoire Ruchot

Assheton o' Downham, wi' t' yeod pood off, and th' 'eart pieret thro'

an' thro' wi' pins and needles."

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

furiously.

"If the head were off, Simon, I don't see how the likeness to my poor

brother could well be recognised," said Nicholas, with a half smile.

"But let her be put to some mild trial--weighed against the church

Bible."

"Be it so," replied Potts, jumping down; "but if that fail, we must have

recourse to stronger measures. Take notice that, with all her fright,

she has not been able to shed a tear, not a single tear--a clear

witch--a clear witch!"

"Ey'd scorn to weep fo t' like o' yo!" cried Nance, disdainfully, having

now completely recovered her natural audacity.

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

Potts.

As soon as it was known what was about to occur, the whole crowd moved

towards the church porch, Nan Redferne walking between Richard Assheton

and the beadle, who kept hold of her arm to prevent any attempt at

escape; and by the time they reached the appointed place, Ben Baggiley,

the baker, who had been despatched for the purpose, appeared with an

enormous pair of wooden scales, while Sampson Harrop, the clerk, having

visited the pulpit, came forth with the church Bible, an immense volume,

bound in black, with great silver clasps.

"Come, that's a good big Bible at all events," cried Potts, eyeing it

with satisfaction. "It looks like my honourable and singular good Lord

Chief-Justice Sir Edward Coke's learned 'Institutes of the Laws of

England,' only that that great legal tome is generally bound in

calf--law calf, as we say."

"Large as the book is, it will scarce prove heavy enough to weigh down

the witch, I opine," observed Nicholas, with a smile.

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

By this time, the scales having been affixed to a hook in the porch by

Baggiley, the sacred volume was placed on one side, and Nance set down

by the beadle on the other. The result of the experiment was precisely

what might have been anticipated--the moment the young woman took her

place in the balance, it sank down to the ground, while the other kicked

the beam.

"I hope you are satisfied now, Master Potts," cried Richard Assheton.

"By your own trial her innocence is approved."

"Your pardon, Master Richard, this is Squire Nicholas's trial, not

mine," replied Potts. "I am for the ordeal of swimming. How say you,

masters! Shall we be content with this doubtful experiment?"

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

"swim her--swim her!"

"I knew you would have it so," said Potts, approvingly. "Where is a

fitting place for the trial?"

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

Calder."

"The river, by all means--nothing like a running stream," said Potts.

"Let cords be procured to bind her."

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

the cause.

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

Richard.

"No outrage like this shall be perpetrated," cried the young man,

firmly; "I call upon you, cousin Nicholas, to help me. Go into the

church," he added, thrusting Nance backward, and presenting his sword at

the breast of Jem Device, who attempted to follow her, and who retired

muttering threats and curses; "I will run the first man through the body

who attempts to pass."

As Nan Redferne made good her retreat, and shut the church-door after

her, Master Potts, pale with rage, cried out to Richard, "You have aided

the escape of a desperate and notorious offender--actually in custody,

sir, and have rendered yourself liable to indictment for it, sir, with

consequences of fine and imprisonment, sir:--heavy fine and long

imprisonment, sir. Do you mark me, Master Richard?"

"I will answer the consequences of my act to those empowered to question

it, sir," replied Richard, sternly.

"Well, sir, I have given you notice," rejoined Potts, "due notice. We

shall hear what Sir Ralph will say to the matter, and Master Roger

Nowell, and--"

"You forget me, good Master Potts," interrupted Nicholas, laughingly; "I

entirely disapprove of it. It is a most flagrant breach of duty.

Nevertheless, I am glad the poor wench has got off."

"She is safe within the church," said Potts, "and I command Master

Richard, in the king's name, to let us pass. Beadle! Sharpshot,

Sparshot, or whatever be your confounded name do your duty, sirrah.

Enter the church, and bring forth the witch."

"Ey darna, mester," replied Simon; "young mester Ruchot ud slit mey

weasand os soon os look ot meh."

Richard put an end to further altercation, by stepping back quickly,

locking the door, and then taking out the key, and putting it into his

pocket.

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

lawyer.

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

"Yeigh, theere be one ot t'other soide," replied Sparshot, "boh it be

locked, ey reckon, an maybe hoo'n getten out that way."

"Quick, quick, and let's see," cried Potts; "justice must not be

thwarted in this shameful manner."

While the greater part of the crowd set off after Potts and the beadle,

Richard Assheton, anxious to know what had become of the fugitive, and

determined not to abandon her while any danger existed, unlocked the

church-door, and entered the holy structure, followed by Nicholas. On

looking around, Nance was nowhere to be seen, neither did she answer to

his repeated calls, and Richard concluded she must have escaped, when

all at once a loud exulting shout was heard without, leaving no doubt

that the poor young woman had again fallen into the hands of her

captors. The next moment a sharp, piercing scream in a female key

confirmed the supposition. On hearing this cry, Richard instantly flew

to the opposite door, through which Nance must have passed, but on

trying it he found it fastened outside; and filled with sudden

misgiving, for he now recollected leaving the key in the other door, he

called to Nicholas to come with him, and hurried back to it. His

apprehensions were verified; the door was locked. At first Nicholas was

inclined to laugh at the trick played them; but a single look from

Richard checked his tendency to merriment, and he followed his young

relative, who had sprung to a window looking upon that part of the

churchyard whence the shouts came, and flung it open. Richard's egress,

however, was prevented by an iron bar, and he called out loudly and

fiercely to the beadle, whom he saw standing in the midst of the crowd,

to unlock the door.

"Have a little patience, good Master Richard," replied Potts, turning up

his provoking little visage, now charged with triumphant malice. "You

shall come out presently. We are busy just now--engaged in binding the

witch, as you see. Both keys are safely in my pocket, and I will send

you one of them when we start for the river, good Master Richard. We

lawyers are not to be overreached you see--ha! ha!"

"You shall repent this conduct when I do get out," cried Richard,

furiously. "Sparshot, I command you to bring the key instantly."

But, encouraged by the attorney, the beadle affected not to hear

Richard's angry vociferations, and the others were unable to aid the

young man, if they had been so disposed, and all were too much

interested in what was going forward to run off to the vicarage, and

acquaint Sir Ralph with the circumstances in which his relatives were

placed, even though enjoined to do so.

On being set free by Richard, Nance had flown quickly through the

church, and passed out at the side door, and was making good her retreat

at the back of the edifice, when her flying figure was descried by Jem

Device, who, failing in his first attempt, had run round that way,

fancying he should catch her.

He instantly dashed after her with all the fury of a bloodhound, and,

being possessed of remarkable activity, speedily overtook her, and,

heedless of her threats and entreaties, secured her.

"Lemme go, Jem," she cried, "an ey win do thee a good turn one o' these

days, when theaw may chonce to be i' th' same strait os me." But seeing

him inexorable, she added, "My granddame shan rack thy boans sorely,

lad, for this."

Jem replied by a coarse laugh of defiance, and, dragging her along,

delivered her to Master Potts and the beadle, who were then hurrying to

the other door of the church. To prevent interruption, the cunning

attorney, having ascertained that the two Asshetons were inside,

instantly gave orders to have both doors locked, and the injunctions

being promptly obeyed, he took possession of the keys himself, chuckling

at the success of the stratagem. "A fair reprisal," he muttered; "this

young milksop shall find he is no match for a skilful lawyer like me.

Now, the cords--the cords!"

It was at the sight of the bonds, which were quickly brought by

Baggiley, that Nance uttered the piercing cry that had roused Richard's

indignation. Feeling secure of his prisoner, and now no longer

apprehensive of interruption, Master Potts was in no hurry to conclude

the arrangements, but rather prolonged them to exasperate Richard.

Little consideration was shown the unfortunate captive. The new shoes

and stockings of which she had been so vain a short time before, were

torn from her feet and limbs by the rude hands of the remorseless Jem

and the beadle, and bent down by the main force of these two strong men,

her thumbs and great toes were tightly bound together, crosswise, by the

cords. The churchyard rang with her shrieks, and, with his blood boiling

with indignation at the sight, Richard redoubled his exertions to burst

through the window and fly to her assistance. But though Nicholas now

lent his powerful aid to the task, their combined efforts to obtain

liberation were unavailing; and with rage almost amounting to frenzy,

Richard beheld the poor young woman borne shrieking away by her captors.

Nor was Nicholas much less incensed, and he swore a deep oath when he

did get at liberty that Master Potts should pay dearly for his rascally

conduct.

CHAPTER VI.--THE ORDEAL BY SWIMMING.

Bound hand and foot in the painful posture before described, roughly and

insolently handled on all sides, in peril of her life from the frightful

ordeal to which she was about to be subjected, the miserable captive was

borne along on the shoulders of Jem Device and Sparshot, her long, fine

chestnut hair trailing upon the ground, her white shoulders exposed to

the insolent gaze of the crowd, and her trim holiday attire torn to rags

by the rough treatment she had experienced. Nance Redferne, it has been

said, was a very comely young woman; but neither her beauty, her youth,

nor her sex, had any effect upon the ferocious crowd, who were too much

accustomed to such brutal and debasing exhibitions, to feel any thing

but savage delight in the spectacle of a fellow-creature so scandalously

treated and tormented, and the only excuse to be offered for their

barbarity, is the firm belief they entertained that they were dealing

with a witch. And when even in our own day so many revolting scenes are

enacted to gratify the brutal passions of the mob, while prize-fights

are tolerated, and wretched animals goaded on to tear each other in

pieces, it is not to be wondered at that, in times of less enlightenment

and refinement, greater cruelties should be practised. Indeed, it may be

well to consider how far we have really advanced in civilisation since

then; for until cruelty, whether to man or beast, be wholly banished

from our sports, we cannot justly reproach our ancestors, or

congratulate ourselves on our improvement.

Nance's cries of distress were only answered by jeers, and renewed

insults, and wearied out at length, the poor creature ceased struggling

and shrieking, the dogged resolution she had before exhibited again

coming to her aid.

But her fortitude was to be yet more severely tested. Revealed by the

disorder of her habiliments, and contrasting strongly with the extreme

whiteness of her skin, a dun-coloured mole was discovered upon her

breast. It was pointed out to Potts by Jem Device, who declared it to be

a witch-mark, and the spot where her familiar drained her blood.

"This is one of the 'good helps' to the discovery of a witch, pointed

out by our sovereign lord the king," said the attorney, narrowly

examining the spot. "'The one,' saith our wise prince, 'is the finding

of their mark, and the trying the insensibleness thereof. The other is

their fleeting on the water.' The water-ordeal will come presently, but

the insensibility of the mark might be at once attested."

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

And taking a pin from his sleeve, the ruffian plunged it deeply into the

poor creature's flesh. Nance winced, but she set her teeth hardly, and

repressed the cry that must otherwise have been wrung from her.

"A clear witch!" cried Jem, drawing forth the pin; "not a drop o' blood

flows, an hoo feels nowt!"

"Feel nowt?" rejoined Nance, between her ground teeth. "May ye ha a pang

os sharp i' your cancart eart, ye villain."

After this barbarous test, the crowd, confirmed by it in their notions

of Nan's guiltiness, hurried on, their numbers increasing as they

proceeded along the main street of the village leading towards the

river; all the villagers left at home rushing forth on hearing a witch

was about to be swum, and when they came within a bow-shot of the

stream, Sparshot called to Baggiley to lay hold of Nance, while he

himself, accompanied by several of the crowd, ran over the bridge, the

part he had to enact requiring him to be on the other side of the water.

Meantime, the main party turned down a little footpath protected by a

gate on the left, which led between garden hedges to the grassy banks of

the Calder, and in taking this course they passed by the cottage of

Elizabeth Device. Hearing the shouts of the rabble, little Jennet, who

had been in no very happy frame of mind since she had been brought home,

came forth, and seeing her brother, called out to him, in her usual

sharp tones, "What's the matter, Jem? Who han ye gotten there?"

"A witch," replied Jem, gruffly. "Nance Redferne, Mother Chattox's

grand-daughter. Come an see her swum i' th' Calder."

Jennet readily complied, for her curiosity was aroused, and she shared

in the family feelings of dislike to Mother Chattox and her descendants.

"Is this Nance Redferne?" she cried, keeping close to her brother, "Ey'm

glad yo'n caught her at last. How dun ye find yersel, Nance?"

"Ill at ease, Jennet," replied Nance, with a bitter look; "boh it ill

becomes ye to jeer me, lass, seein' yo're a born witch yoursel."

"Aha!" cried Potts, looking at the little girl, "So this is a born

witch--eh, Nance?"

"A born an' bred witch," rejoined Nance; "jist as her brother Jem here

is a wizard. They're the gran-childer o' Mother Demdike o' Pendle, the

greatest witch i' these parts, an childer o' Bess Device, who's nah much

better. Ask me to witness agen 'em, that's aw."

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

deep menace.

"Ye canna, mon, if ey'm the witch ye ca' me," rejoined Nance. "Jennet's

turn'll come os weel os mine, one o' these days. Mark my words."

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

fiercely.

"Ye'n gotten the fiend's mark o' your sleeve," cried Nance. "Ey see it

written i' letters ov blood."

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

quickly.

"Good!--very good!" observed Potts, rubbing his hands. "'Who but witches

can be proof against witches?' saith our sagacious sovereign. I shall

make something of this girl. She seems a remarkably quick

child--remarkably quick--ha, ha!"

By this time, the party having gained the broad flat mead through which

the Calder flowed, took their way quickly towards its banks, the spot

selected for the ordeal lying about fifty yards above the weir, where

the current, ordinarily rapid, was checked by the dam, offering a smooth

surface, with considerable depth of water. If soft natural beauties

could have subdued the hearts of those engaged in this cruel and wicked

experiment, never was scene better calculated for the purpose than that

under contemplation. Through a lovely green valley meandered the Calder,

now winding round some verdant knoll, now washing the base of lofty

heights feathered with timber to their very summits, now lost amid thick

woods, and only discernible at intervals by a glimmer amongst the trees.

Immediately in front of the assemblage rose Whalley Nab, its steep sides

and brow partially covered with timber, with green patches in the

uplands where sheep and cattle fed. Just below the spot where the crowd

were collected, the stream, here of some width, passed over the weir,

and swept in a foaming cascade over the huge stones supporting the dam,

giving the rushing current the semblance and almost the beauty of a

natural waterfall. Below this the stream ran brawling on in a wider, but

shallower channel, making pleasant music as it went, and leaving many

dry beds of sand and gravel in the midst; while a hundred yards lower

down, it was crossed by the arches of the bridge. Further still, a row

of tall cypresses lined the bank of the river, and screened that part of

the Abbey, converted into a residence by the Asshetons; and after this

came the ruins of the refectory, the cloisters, the dormitory, the

conventual church, and other parts of the venerable structure,

overshadowed by noble lime-trees and elms. Lovelier or more peaceful

scene could not be imagined. The green meads, the bright clear stream,

with its white foaming weir, the woody heights reflected in the glassy

waters, the picturesque old bridge, and the dark grey ruins beyond it,

all might have engaged the attention and melted the heart. Then the

hour, when evening was coming on, and when each beautiful object,

deriving new beauty from the medium through which it was viewed,

exercised a softening influence, and awakened kindly emotions. To most

the scene was familiar, and therefore could have no charm of novelty. To

Potts, however, it was altogether new; but he was susceptible of few

gentle impressions, and neither the tender beauty of the evening, nor

the wooing loveliness of the spot, awakened any responsive emotion in

his breast. He was dead to every thing except the ruthless experiment

about to be made.

Almost at the same time that Jem Device and his party reached the near

bank of the stream, the beadle and the others appeared on the opposite

side. Little was said, but instant preparations were made for the

ordeal. Two long coils of rope having been brought by Baggiley, one of

them was made fast to the right arm of the victim, and the other to the

left; and this done, Jem Device, shouting to Sparshot to look out, flung

one coil of rope across the river, where it was caught with much

dexterity by the beadle. The assemblage then spread out on the bank,

while Jem, taking the poor young woman in his arms, who neither spoke

nor struggled, but held her breath tightly, approached the river.

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

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

And without bestowing further attention upon her, he let down his burden

carefully into the water; and this achieved, he called out to the

beadle, who drew her slowly towards him, while Jem guided her with the

other rope.

The crowd watched the experiment for a few moments in profound silence,

but as the poor young woman, who had now reached the centre of the

stream, still floated, being supported either by the tension of the

cords, or by her woollen apparel, a loud shout was raised that she could

not sink, and was, therefore, an undeniable witch.

"Steady, lads--steady a moment," cried Potts, enchanted with the success

of the experiment; "leave her where she is, that her buoyancy may be

fully attested. You know, masters," he cried, with a loud voice, "the

meaning of this water ordeal. Our sovereign lord and master the king, in

his wisdom, hath graciously vouchsafed to explain the matter thus:

'Water,' he saith, 'shall refuse to receive them (meaning witches, of

course) in her bosom, that have shaken off their sacred water of

baptism, and wilfully refused the benefit thereof.' It is manifest, you

see, that this diabolical young woman hath renounced her baptism, for

the water rejecteth her. _Non potest mergi_, as Pliny saith. She floats

like a cork, or as if the clear water of the Calder had suddenly become

like the slab, salt waves of the Dead Sea, in which, nothing can sink.

You behold the marvel with your own eyes, my masters."

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

"Hoo be a witch fo sartin," cried Jem Device. But as he spoke, chancing

slightly to slacken the rope, the tension of which maintained the

equilibrium of the body, the poor woman instantly sank.

A groan, as much of disappointment as sympathy, broke from the

spectators, but none attempted to aid her; and on seeing her sink, Jem

abandoned the rope altogether.

But assistance was at hand. Two persons rushed quickly and furiously to

the spot. They were Richard and Nicholas Assheton. The iron bar had at

length yielded to their efforts, and the first use they made of their

freedom was to hurry to the river. A glance showed them what had

occurred, and the younger Assheton, unhesitatingly plunging into the

water, seized the rope dropped by Jem, and calling to the beadle to let

go his hold, dragged forth the poor half-drowned young woman, and placed

her on the bank, hewing asunder the cords that bound her hands and feet

with his sword. But though still sensible, Nance was so much exhausted

by the shock she had undergone, and her muscles were so severely

strained by the painful and unnatural posture to which she had been

compelled, that she was wholly unable to move. Her thumbs were blackened

and swollen, and the cords had cut into the flesh, while blood trickled

down from the puncture in her breast. Fixing a look of inexpressible

gratitude upon her preserver, she made an effort to speak, but the

exertion was too great; violent hysterical sobbing came on, and her

senses soon after forsook her. Richard called loudly for assistance, and

the sentiments of the most humane part of the crowd having undergone a

change since the failure of the ordeal, some females came forward, and

took steps for her restoration. Sensibility having returned, a cloak was

wrapped around her, and she was conveyed to a neighbouring cottage and

put to bed, where her stiffened limbs were chafed and warm drinks

administered, and it began to be hoped that no serious consequences

would ensue.

Meanwhile, a catastrophe had wellnigh occurred in another quarter. With

eyes flashing with fury, Nicholas Assheton pushed aside the crowd, and

made his way to the bank whereon Master Potts stood. Not liking his

looks, the little attorney would have taken to his heels, but finding

escape impossible, he called upon Baggiley to protect him. But he was

instantly in the forcible gripe of the squire, who shouted, "I'll teach

you, mongrel hound, to play tricks with gentlemen."

"Master Nicholas," cried the terrified and half-strangled attorney, "my

very good sir, I entreat you to let me alone. This is a breach of the

king's peace, sir. Assault and battery, under aggravated circumstances,

and punishable with ignominious corporal penalties, besides fine and

imprisonment, sir. I take you to witness the assault, Master Baggiley. I

shall bring my ac--ac--ah--o--o--oh!"

"Then you shall have something to bring your ac--ac--action for,

rascal," cried Nicholas. And, seizing the attorney by the nape of the

neck with one hand, and the hind wings of his doublet with the other, he

cast him to a considerable distance into the river, where he fell with a

tremendous splash.

"He is no wizard, at all events," laughed Nicholas, as Potts went down

like a lump of lead.

But the attorney was not born to be drowned; at least, at this period of

his career. On rising to the surface, a few seconds after his immersion,

he roared lustily for help, but would infallibly have been carried over

the weir, if Jem Device had not flung him the rope now disengaged from

Nance Redferne, and which he succeeded in catching. In this way he was

dragged out; and as he crept up the bank, with the wet pouring from his

apparel, which now clung tightly to his lathy limbs, he was greeted by

the jeers of Nicholas.

"How like you the water-ordeal--eh, Master Attorney? No occasion for a

second trial, I think. If Jem Device had known his own interest, he

would have left you to fatten the Calder eels; but he will find it out

in time."

"You will find it out too, Master Nicholas," rejoined Potts, clapping on

his wet cap. "Take me to the Dragon quickly, good fellow," he added, to

Jem Device, "and I will recompense thee for thy pains, as well as for

the service thou hast just rendered me. I shall have rheumatism in my

joints, pains in my loins, and rheum in my head, oh dear--oh dear!"

"In which case you will not be able to pay Mother Demdike your purposed

visit to-morrow," jeered Nicholas. "You forgot you were to arrest her,

and bring her before a magistrate."

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

"To the fiend wi' thee," cried Jem, shaking him off roughly. "The

squoire is reet. Wouldee had let thee drown."

"What, have you changed your mind already, Jem?" cried Nicholas, in a

taunting tone. "You'll have your grandmother's thanks for the service

you've rendered her, lad--ha! ha!"

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

the attorney askance.

"No, no, Jem," observed Nicholas, "things must take their course. What's

done is done. But if Master Potts be wise, he'll take himself out of

court without delay."

"You'll be glad to get me out of court one of these days, squire,"

muttered Potts, "and so will you too, Master James Device.--A day of

reckoning will come for both--heavy reckoning. Ugh! ugh!" he added,

shivering, "how my teeth chatter!"

"Make what haste you can to the Dragon," cried the good-natured squire;

"get your clothes dried, and bid John Lawe brew you a pottle of strong

sack, swallow it scalding hot, and you'll never look behind you."

"Nor before me either," retorted Potts, "Scalding sack! This

bloodthirsty squire has a new design upon my life!"

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

"Thanke'e friend," replied Potts, taking his arm. "A word at parting,

Master Nicholas. This is not the only discovery of witchcraft I've made.

I've another case, somewhat nearer home. Ha! ha!"

With this, he hobbled off in the direction of the alehouse, his steps

being traceable along the dusty road like the course of a watering-cart.

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

"No you won't, lad," rejoined Nicholas, "and if you'll take my advice,

you'll get out of Whalley as fast as you can. You will be safer on the

heath of Pendle than here, when Sir Ralph and Master Roger Nowell come

to know what has taken place. And mind this, sirrah--the hounds will be

out in the forest to-morrow. D'ye heed?"

Jem growled something in reply, and, seizing his little sister's hand,

strode off with her towards his mother's dwelling, uttering not a word

by the way.

Having seen Nance Redferne conveyed to the cottage, as before mentioned,

Richard Assheton, regardless of the wet state of his own apparel, now

joined his cousin, the squire, and they walked to the Abbey together,

conversing on what had taken place, while the crowd dispersed, some

returning to the bowers in the churchyard, and others to the green,

their merriment in nowise damped by the recent occurrences, which they

looked upon as part of the day's sport. As some of them passed by,

laughing, singing, and dancing, Richard Assheton remarked, "I can

scarcely believe these to be the same people I so lately saw in the

churchyard. They then seemed totally devoid of humanity."

"Pshaw! they are humane enough," rejoined Nicholas; "but you cannot

expect them to show mercy to a witch, any more than to a wolf, or other

savage and devouring beast."

"But the means taken to prove her guilt were as absurd as iniquitous,"

said Richard, "and savour of the barbarous ages. If she had perished,

all concerned in the trial would have been guilty of murder."

"But no judge would condemn them," returned Nicholas; "and they have the

highest authority in the realm to uphold them. As to leniency to

witches, in a general way, I would show none. Traitors alike to God and

man, and bond slaves of Satan, they are out of the pale of Christian

charity."

"No criminal, however great, is out of the pale of Christian charity,"

replied Richard; "but such scenes as we have just witnessed are a

disgrace to humanity, and a mockery of justice. In seeking to discover

and punish one offence, a greater is committed. Suppose this poor young

woman really guilty--what then? Our laws are made for protection, as

well as punishment of wrong. She should he arraigned, convicted, and

condemned before punishment."

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

"True," said the young man, with a shudder, "and it is another relic of

a ruthless age. But torture is only allowed under the eye of the law,

and can be inflicted by none but its sworn servants. But, supposing this

poor young woman innocent of the crime imputed to her, which I really

believe her to be, how, then, will you excuse the atrocities to which

she has been subjected?"

"I do not believe her innocent," rejoined Nicholas; "her relationship to

a notorious witch, and her fabrication of clay images, make her justly

suspected."

"Then let her be examined by a magistrate," said Richard; "but, even

then, woe betide her! When I think that Alizon Device is liable to the

same atrocious treatment, in consequence of her relationship to Mother

Demdike, I can scarce contain my indignation."

"It is unlucky for her, indeed," rejoined Nicholas; "but of all Nance's

assailants the most infuriated was Alizon's brother, Jem Device."

"I saw it," cried Richard--an uneasy expression passing over his

countenance. "Would she could be removed from that family!"

"To what purpose?" demanded Nicholas, quickly. "Her family are more

likely to be removed from her if Master Potts stay in the

neighbourhood."

"Poor girl!" exclaimed Richard.

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

Abbey.

To return to Jem Device. On reaching the cottage, the ruffian flung

himself into a chair, and for a time seemed lost in reflection. At last

he looked up, and said gruffly to Jennet, who stood watching him, "See

if mother be come whoam?"

"Eigh, eigh, ey'm here, Jem," said Elizabeth Device, opening the inner

door and coming forth. "So, ye ha been swimmin' Nance Redferne, lad, eh!

Ey'm glad on it--ha! ha!"

Jem gave her a significant look, upon which she motioned Jennet to

withdraw, and the injunction being complied with, though with evident

reluctance, by the little girl, she closed the door upon her.

"Now, Jem, what hast got to say to me, lad, eh?" demanded Elizabeth,

stepping up to him.

"Neaw great deal, mother," he replied; "boh ey keawnsel ye to look weel

efter yersel. We're aw i' dawnger."

"Ey knoas it, lad, ey knoas it," replied Elizabeth; "boh fo my own pert

ey'm nah afeerd. They darna touch me; an' if they dun, ey con defend

mysel reet weel. Here's a letter to thy gran-mother," she added, giving

him a sealed packet. "Take care on it."

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

"Eigh, who else should it be from?" rejoined Elizabeth. "Your

gran-mother win' ha' enough to do to neet, an so win yo, too, Jem,

lettin alone the walk fro here to Malkin Tower."

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

seen Mistress Nutter?"

"Ey found her i' th' Abbey garden," replied Elizabeth, "an we had some

tawk together, abowt th' boundary line o' th' Rough Lee estates, and

other matters."

And, as she spoke, she set a cold pasty, with oat cakes, cheese, and

butter, before her son, and next proceeded to draw him a jug of ale.

"What other matters dun you mean, mother?" inquired Jem, attacking the

pasty. "War it owt relatin' to that little Lunnon lawyer, Mester Potts?"

"Theawst hit it, Jem," replied Elizabeth, seating herself near him.

"That Potts means to visit thy gran-mother to morrow."

"Weel!" said Jem, grimly.

"An arrest her," pursued Elizabeth.

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

"Nah quite, Jem," responded Elizabeth, joining in the laugh. "'Specially

when th' owd dame's prepared, as she win be now."

"Potts may set out 'o that journey, boh he winna come back again,"

remarked Jem, in a sombre tone.

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

Elizabeth.

"Ay, wait," added a voice.

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

Elizabeth did not answer in words, but her significant looks were quite

response enough for her son.

"Os ye win, mother," he said in an altered tone. After a pause, employed

in eating, he added, "Did Mistress Nutter put onny questions to ye about

Alizon?"

"More nor enough, lad," replied Elizabeth; "fo what had ey to tell her?

She praised her beauty, an said how unlike she wur to Jennet an thee,

lad--ha! ha!--An wondert how ey cum to ha such a dowter, an monny other

things besoide. An what could ey say to it aw, except--"

"Except what, mother?" interrupted Jem.

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

"Humph!" exclaimed Jem.

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

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

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

"Neaw--mother will onderstond," replied Elizabeth. "Bid her be on her

guard, fo' the enemy is abroad."

"Meanin' Potts?" said Jem.

"Meaning Potts," answered the voice.

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

At this moment, Tib came from under a piece of furniture, where he had

apparently been lying, and rubbed himself familiarly against his legs.

"Ey needna be afeerd o' owt happenin to ye, mother," said Jem, patting

the cat's back. "Tib win tay care on yo."

"Eigh, eigh," replied Elizabeth, bending down to pat him, "he's a trusty

cat." But the ill-tempered animal would not be propitiated, but erected

his back, and menaced her with his claws.

"Yo han offended him, mother," said Jem. "One word efore ey start. Are

ye quite sure Potts didna owerhear your conversation wi' Mistress

Nutter?"

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

"Fro' summat the knave threw out to Squoire Nicholas just now," rejoined

Jem. "He said he'd another case o' witchcraft nearer whoam. Whot could

he mean?"

"Whot, indeed?" cried Elizabeth, quickly.

"Look at Tib," exclaimed her son.

As he spoke, the cat sprang towards the inner door, and scratched

violently against it.

Elizabeth immediately raised the latch, and found Jennet behind it, with

a face like scarlet.

"Yo'n been listenin, ye young eavesdropper," cried Elizabeth, boxing her

ears soundly; "take that fo' your pains--an that."

"Touch me again, an Mester Potts shan knoa aw ey'n heer'd," said the

little girl, repressing her tears.

Elizabeth regarded her angrily; but the looks of the child were so

spiteful, that she did not dare to strike her. She glanced too at Tib;

but the uncertain cat was now rubbing himself in the most friendly

manner against Jennet.

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

"Best nah provoke me, mother," rejoined Jennet in a determined tone; "if

ye dun, aw secrets shan out. Ey knoa why Jem's goin' to Malkin-Tower

to-neet--an why yo're afeerd o' Mester Potts."

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

fiercely.

Jennet replied with a mocking laugh, while Tib rubbed against her more

fondly than ever.

"Let her alone," interposed Jem. "An now ey mun be off. So, fare ye

weel, mother,--an yo, too, Jennet." And with this, he put on his cap,

seized his cudgel, and quitted the cottage.

CHAPTER VII.--THE RUINED CONVENTUAL CHURCH.

Beneath a wild cherry-tree, planted by chance in the Abbey gardens, and

of such remarkable size that it almost rivalled the elms and lime trees

surrounding it, and when in bloom resembled an enormous garland, stood

two young maidens, both of rare beauty, though in totally different

styles;--the one being fair-haired and blue-eyed, with a snowy skin

tinged with delicate bloom, like that of roses seen through milk, to

borrow a simile from old Anacreon; while the other far eclipsed her in

the brilliancy of her complexion, the dark splendour of her eyes, and

the luxuriance of her jetty tresses, which, unbound and knotted with

ribands, flowed down almost to the ground. In age, there was little

disparity between them, though perhaps the dark-haired girl might be a

year nearer twenty than the other, and somewhat more of seriousness,

though not much, sat upon her lovely countenance than on the other's

laughing features. Different were they too, in degree, and here social

position was infinitely in favour of the fairer girl, but no one would

have judged it so if not previously acquainted with their history.

Indeed, it was rather the one having least title to be proud (if any one

has such title) who now seemed to look up to her companion with mingled

admiration and regard; the latter being enthralled at the moment by the

rich notes of a thrush poured from a neighbouring lime-tree.

Pleasant was the garden where the two girls stood, shaded by great

trees, laid out in exquisite parterres, with knots and figures, quaint

flower-beds, shorn trees and hedges, covered alleys and arbours,

terraces and mounds, in the taste of the time, and above all an

admirably kept bowling-green. It was bounded on the one hand by the

ruined chapter-house and vestry of the old monastic structure, and on

the other by the stately pile of buildings formerly making part of the

Abbot's lodging, in which the long gallery was situated, some of its

windows looking upon the bowling-green, and then kept in excellent

condition, but now roofless and desolate. Behind them, on the right,

half hidden by trees, lay the desecrated and despoiled conventual

church. Reared at such cost, and with so much magnificence, by thirteen

abbots--the great work having been commenced, as heretofore stated, by

Robert de Topcliffe, in 1330, and only completed in all its details by

John Paslew; this splendid structure, surpassing, according to Whitaker,

"many cathedrals in extent," was now abandoned to the slow ravages of

decay. Would it had never encountered worse enemy! But some half

century later, the hand of man was called in to accelerate its

destruction, and it was then almost entirely rased to the ground. At the

period in question though partially unroofed, and with some of the walls

destroyed, it was still beautiful and picturesque--more picturesque,

indeed than in the days of its pride and splendour. The tower with its

lofty crocketed spire was still standing, though the latter was cracked

and tottering, and the jackdaws roosted within its windows and belfry.

Two ranges of broken columns told of the bygone glories of the aisles;

and the beautiful side chapels having escaped injury better than other

parts of the fabric, remained in tolerable preservation. But the choir

and high altar were stripped of all their rich carving and ornaments,

and the rain descended through the open rood-loft upon the now

grass-grown graves of the abbots in the presbytery. Here and there the

ramified mullions still retained their wealth of painted glass, and the

grand eastern window shone gorgeously as of yore. All else was neglect

and ruin. Briers and turf usurped the place of the marble pavement; many

of the pillars were festooned with ivy; and, in some places, the

shattered walls were covered with creepers, and trees had taken root in

the crevices of the masonry. Beautiful at all times were these

magnificent ruins; but never so beautiful as when seen by the witching

light of the moon--the hour, according to the best authority, when all

ruins should be viewed--when the long lines of broken pillars, the

mouldering arches, and the still glowing panes over the altar, had a

magical effect.

In front of the maidens stood a square tower, part of the defences of

the religious establishment, erected by Abbot Lyndelay, in the reign of

Edward III., but disused and decaying. It was sustained by high and

richly groined arches, crossing the swift mill-race, and faced the

river. A path led through the ruined chapter-house to the spacious

cloister quadrangle, once used as a cemetery for the monks, but now

converted into a kitchen garden, its broad area being planted out, and

fruit-trees trained against the hoary walls. Little of the old refectory

was left, except the dilapidated stairs once conducting to the gallery

where the brethren were wont to take their meals, but the inner wall

still served to enclose the garden on that side. Of the dormitory,

formerly constituting the eastern angle of the cloisters, the shell was

still left, and it was used partly as a grange, partly as a shed for

cattle, the farm-yard and tenements lying on this side.

Thus it will be seen that the garden and grounds, filling up the ruins

of Whalley Abbey, offered abundant points of picturesque attraction, all

of which--with the exception of the ruined conventual church--had been

visited by the two girls. They had tracked the labyrinths of passages,

scaled the broken staircases, crept into the roofless and neglected

chambers, peered timorously into the black and yawning vaults, and now,

having finished their investigations, had paused for awhile, previous to

extending their ramble to the church, beneath the wild cherry-tree to

listen to the warbling of the birds.

"You should hear the nightingales at Middleton, Alizon," observed

Dorothy Assheton, breaking silence; "they sing even more exquisitely

than yon thrush. You must come and see me. I should like to show you the

old house and gardens, though they are very different from these, and we

have no ancient monastic ruins to ornament them. Still, they are very

beautiful; and, as I find you are fond of flowers, I will show you some

I have reared myself, for I am something of a gardener, Alizon. Promise

you will come."

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

"And why not, then?" cried Dorothy. "What should prevent you? Do you

know, Alizon, what I should like better than all? You are so amiable,

and so good, and so--so very pretty; nay, don't blush--there is no one

by to hear me--you are so charming altogether, that I should like you to

come and live with me. You shall be my handmaiden if you will."

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

"but--"

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

"Alas! I have," replied Alizon.

"How can that be!" cried Dorothy, with a disappointed look. "It is not

likely your mother will stand in the way of your advancement, and you

have not, I suppose, any other tie? Nay, forgive me if I appear too

inquisitive. My curiosity only proceeds from the interest I take in

you."

"I know it--I feel it, dear, kind young lady," replied Alizon, with the

colour again mounting her cheeks. "I have no tie in the world except my

family. But I am persuaded my mother will never allow me to quit her,

however great the advantage might be to me."

"Well, though sorry, I am scarcely surprised at it," said Dorothy. "She

must love you too dearly to part with you."

"I wish I could think so," sighed Alizon. "Proud of me in some sort,

though with little reason, she may be, but love me, most assuredly, she

does not. Nay more, I am persuaded she would be glad to be freed from my

presence, which is an evident restraint and annoyance to her, were it

not for some motive stronger than natural affection that binds her to

me."

"Now, in good sooth, you amaze me, Alizon!" cried Dorothy. "What

possible motive can it be, if not of affection?"

"Of interest, I think," replied Alizon. "I speak to you without reserve,

dear young lady, for the sympathy you have shown me deserves and

demands confidence on my part, and there are none with whom I can freely

converse, so that every emotion has been locked up in my own bosom. My

mother fancies I shall one day be of use to her, and therefore keeps me

with her. Hints to this effect she has thrown out, when indulging in the

uncontrollable fits of passion to which she is liable. And yet I have no

just reason to complain; for though she has shown me little maternal

tenderness, and repelled all exhibition of affection on my part, she has

treated me very differently from her other children, and with much

greater consideration. I can make slight boast of education, but the

best the village could afford has been given me; and I have derived much

religious culture from good Doctor Ormerod. The kind ladies of the

vicarage proposed, as you have done, that I should live with them, but

my mother forbade it; enjoining me, on the peril of incurring her

displeasure, not to leave her, and reminding me of all the benefits I

have received from her, and of the necessity of making an adequate

return. And, ungrateful indeed I should be, if I did not comply; for,

though her manner is harsh and cold to me, she has never ill-used me, as

she has done her favourite child, my little sister Jennet, but has

always allowed me a separate chamber, where I can retire when I please,

to read, or meditate, or pray. For, alas! dear young lady, I dare not

pray before my mother. Be not shocked at what I tell you, but I cannot

hide it. My poor mother denies herself the consolation of

religion--never addresses herself to Heaven in prayer--never opens the

book of Life and Truth--never enters church. In her own mistaken way she

has brought up poor little Jennet, who has been taught to make a scoff

at religious truths and ordinances, and has never been suffered to keep

holy the Sabbath-day. Happy and thankful am I, that no such evil lessons

have been taught me, but rather, that I have profited by the sad

example. In my own secret chamber I have prayed, daily and nightly, for

both--prayed that their hearts might be turned. Often have I besought my

mother to let me take Jennet to church, but she never would consent. And

in that poor misguided child, dear young lady, there is a strange

mixture of good and ill. Afflicted with personal deformity, and delicate

in health, the mind perhaps sympathising with the body, she is wayward

and uncertain in temper, but sensitive and keenly alive to kindness, and

with a shrewdness beyond her years. At the risk of offending my mother,

for I felt confident I was acting rightly, I have endeavoured to instil

religious principles into her heart, and to inspire her with a love of

truth. Sometimes she has listened to me; and I have observed strange

struggles in her nature, as if the good were obtaining mastery of the

evil principle, and I have striven the more to convince her, and win her

over, but never with entire success, for my efforts have been overcome

by pernicious counsels, and sceptical sneers. Oh, dear young lady, what

would I not do to be the instrument of her salvation!"

"You pain me much by this relation, Alizon," said Dorothy Assheton, who

had listened with profound attention, "and I now wish more ardently than

ever to take you from such a family."

"I cannot leave them, dear young lady," replied Alizon; "for I feel I

may be of infinite service--especially to Jennet--by staying with them.

Where there is a soul to be saved, especially the soul of one dear as a

sister, no sacrifice can be too great to make--no price too heavy to

pay. By the blessing of Heaven I hope to save her! And that is the great

tie that binds me to a home, only so in name."

"I will not oppose your virtuous intentions, dear Alizon," replied

Dorothy; "but I must now mention a circumstance in connexion with your

mother, of which you are perhaps in ignorance, but which it is right you

should know, and therefore no false delicacy on my part shall restrain

me from mentioning it. Your grandmother, Old Demdike, is in very ill

depute in Pendle, and is stigmatised by the common folk, and even by

others, as a witch. Your mother, too, shares in the opprobrium attaching

to her."

"I dreaded this," replied Alizon, turning deadly pale, and trembling

violently, "I feared you had heard the terrible report. But oh, believe

it not! My poor mother is erring enough, but she is not so bad as that.

Oh, believe it not!"

"I will not believe it," said Dorothy, "since she is blessed with such a

daughter as you. But what I fear is that you--you so kind, so good, so

beautiful--may come under the same ban."

"I must run this risk also, in the good work I have appointed myself,"

replied Alizon. "If I am ill thought of by men, I shall have the

approval of my own conscience to uphold me. Whatever betide, and

whatever be said, do not you think ill of me, dear young lady."

"Fear it not," returned Dorothy, earnestly.

While thus conversing, they gradually strayed away from the cherry-tree,

and taking a winding path leading in that direction, entered the

conventual church, about the middle of the south aisle. After gazing

with wonder and delight at the still majestic pillars, that, like ghosts

of the departed brethren, seemed to protest against the desolation

around them, they took their way along the nave, through broken arches,

and over prostrate fragments of stone, to the eastern extremity of the

fane, and having admired the light shafts and clerestory windows of the

choir, as well as the magnificent painted glass over the altar, they

stopped before an arched doorway on the right, with two Gothic niches,

in one of which was a small stone statue of Saint Agnes with her lamb,

and in the other a similar representation of Saint Margaret, crowned,

and piercing the dragon with a cross. Both were sculptures of much

merit, and it was wonderful they had escaped destruction. The door was

closed, but it easily opened when tried by Dorothy, and they found

themselves in a small but beautiful chapel. What struck them chiefly in

it was a magnificent monument of white marble, enriched with numerous

small shields, painted and gilt, supporting two recumbent figures,

representing Henry de Lacy, one of the founders of the Abbey, and his

consort. The knight was cased in plate armour, covered with a surcoat,

emblazoned with his arms, and his feet resting upon a hound. This superb

monument was wholly uninjured, the painting and gilding being still

fresh and bright. Behind it a flag had been removed, discovering a

flight of steep stone steps, leading to a vault, or other subterranean

chamber.

After looking round this chapel, Dorothy remarked, "There is something

else that has just occurred to me. When a child, a strange dark tale was

told me, to the effect that the last ill-fated Abbot of Whalley laid his

dying curse upon your grandmother, then an infant, predicting that she

should be a witch, and the mother of witches."

"I have heard the dread tradition, too," rejoined Alizon; "but I cannot,

will not, believe it. An all-benign Power will never sanction such

terrible imprecations."

"Far be it from me to affirm the contrary," replied Dorothy; "but it is

undoubted that some families have been, and are, under the influence of

an inevitable fatality. In one respect, connected also with the same

unfortunate prelate, I might instance our own family. Abbot Paslew is

said to be unlucky to us even in his grave. If such a curse, as I have

described, hangs over the head of your family, all your efforts to

remove it will be ineffectual."

"I trust not," said Alizon. "Oh! dear young lady, you have now

penetrated the secret of my heart. The mystery of my life is laid open

to you. Disguise it as I may, I cannot but believe my mother to be under

some baneful influence. Her unholy life, her strange actions, all

impress me with the idea. And there is the same tendency in Jennet."

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

"I have," returned Alizon, slightly colouring; "but I see little of him,

for he lives near my grandmother, in Pendle Forest, and always avoids me

in his rare visits here. You will think it strange when I tell you I

have never beheld my grandmother Demdike."

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

"I have never even been to Pendle," pursued Alizon, "though Jennet and

my mother go there frequently. At one time I much wished to see my aged

relative, and pressed my mother to take me with her; but she refused,

and now I have no desire to go."

"Strange!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Every thing you tell me strengthens the

idea I conceived, the moment I saw you, and which my brother also

entertained, that you are not the daughter of Elizabeth Device."

"Did your brother think this?" cried Alizon, eagerly. But she

immediately cast down her eyes.

"He did," replied Dorothy, not noticing her confusion. "'It is

impossible,' he said, 'that that lovely girl can be sprung from'--but I

will not wound you by adding the rest."

"I cannot disown my kindred," said Alizon. "Still, I must confess that

some notions of the sort have crossed me, arising, probably, from my

mother's extraordinary treatment, and from many other circumstances,

which, though trifling in themselves, were not without weight in leading

me to the conclusion. Hitherto I have treated it only as a passing

fancy, but if you and Master Richard Assheton"--and her voice slightly

faltered as she pronounced the name--"think so, it may warrant me in

more seriously considering the matter."

"Do consider it most seriously, dear Alizon," cried Dorothy. "I have

made up my mind, and Richard has made up his mind, too, that you are not

Mother Demdike's grand-daughter, nor Elizabeth Device's daughter, nor

Jennet's sister--nor any relation of theirs. We are sure of it, and we

will have you of our mind."

The fair and animated speaker could not help noticing the blushes that

mantled Alizon's cheeks as she spoke, but she attributed them to other

than the true cause. Nor did she mend the matter as she proceeded.

"I am sure you are well born, Alizon," she said, "and so it will be

found in the end. And Richard thinks so, too, for he said so to me; and

Richard is my oracle, Alizon."

In spite of herself Alizon's eyes sparkled with pleasure; but she

speedily checked the emotion.

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

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

history."

"I cannot consent to it," replied Alizon. "I cannot leave one who, if

she be not my parent, has stood to me in that relation. Neither can I

have her brought into trouble on my account. What will she think of me,

if she learns I have indulged such a notion? She will say, and with

truth, that I am the most ungrateful of human beings, as well as the

most unnatural of children. No, dear young lady, it must not be. These

fancies are brilliant, but fallacious, and, like bubbles, burst as soon

as formed."

"I admire your sentiments, though I do not admit the justice of your

reasoning," rejoined Dorothy. "It is not on your own account merely,

though that is much, that the secret of your birth--if there be

one--ought to be cleared up; but, for the sake of those with whom you

may be connected. There may be a mother, like mine, weeping for you as

lost--a brother, like Richard, mourning you as dead. Think of the sad

hearts your restoration will make joyful. As to Elizabeth Device, no

consideration should be shown her. If she has stolen you from your

parents, as I suspect, she deserves no pity."

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

At this juncture they were startled, by seeing an old woman come from

behind the monument and plant herself before them. Both uttered a cry,

and would have fled, but a gesture from the crone detained them. Very

old was she, and of strange and sinister aspect, almost blind, bent

double, with frosted brows and chin, and shaking with palsy.

"Stay where you are," cried the hag, in an imperious tone. "I want to

speak to you. Come nearer to me, my pretty wheans; nearer--nearer."

And as they complied, drawn towards her by an impulse they could not

resist, the old woman caught hold of Alizon's arm, and said with a

chuckle. "So you are the wench they call Alizon Device, eh!"

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

"Do you know who I am?" cried the hag, grasping her yet more tightly.

"Do you know who I am, I say? If not, I will tell you. I am Mother

Chattox of Pendle Forest, the rival of Mother Demdike, and the enemy of

all her accursed brood. Now, do you know me, wench? Men call me witch.

Whether I am so or not, I have some power, as they and you shall find.

Mother Demdike has often defied me--often injured me, but I will have my

revenge upon her--ha! ha!"

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

"I will run and bring assistance," cried Dorothy. And she flew to the

door, but it resisted her attempts to open it.

"Come back," screamed the hag. "You strive in vain. The door is fast

shut--fast shut. Come back, I say. Who are you?" she added, as the maid

drew near, ready to sink with terror. "Your voice is an Assheton's

voice. I know you now. You are Dorothy Assheton--whey-skinned, blue-eyed

Dorothy. Listen to me, Dorothy. I owe your family a grudge, and, if you

provoke me, I will pay it off in part on you. Stir not, as you value

your life."

The poor girl did not dare to move, and Alizon remained as if fascinated

by the terrible old woman.

"I will tell you what has happened, Dorothy," pursued Mother Chattox. "I

came hither to Whalley on business of my own; meddling with no one;

harming no one. Tread upon the adder and it will bite; and, when

molested, I bite like the adder. Your cousin, Nick Assheton, came in my

way, called me 'witch,' and menaced me. I cursed him--ha! ha! And then

your brother, Richard--"

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

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

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

heart of the girl.

"What of Richard Assheton?" repeated Alizon.

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

exultation.

"Release me, wicked woman," cried Alizon.

"Wicked, am I? ha! ha!" rejoined Mother Chattox, chuckling maliciously,

"because, forsooth, I read thy heart, and betray its secrets. Wicked,

eh! I tell thee wench again, Richard Assheton is lord and master here.

Every pulse in thy bosom beats for him--for him alone. But beware of his

love. Beware of it, I say. It shall bring thee ruin and despair."

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

"Not yet," replied the inexorable old woman, "not yet. My tale is not

half told. My curse fell on Richard's head, as it did on Nicholas's. And

then the hell-hounds thought to catch me; but they were at fault. I

tricked them nicely--ha! ha! However, they took my Nance--my pretty

Nance--they seized her, bound her, bore her to the Calder--and there

swam her. Curses light on them all!--all!--but chief on him who did it!"

"Who was he?" inquired Alizon, tremblingly.

"Jem Device," replied the old woman--"it was he who bound her--he who

plunged her in the river, he who swam her. But I will pinch and plague

him for it, I will strew his couch with nettles, and all wholesome food

shall be poison to him. His blood shall be as water, and his flesh

shrink from his bones. He shall waste away slowly--slowly--slowly--till

he drops like a skeleton into the grave ready digged for him. All

connected with him shall feel my fury. I would kill thee now, if thou

wert aught of his."

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

"Why, this," rejoined Mother Chattox, "and let the knowledge work in

thee, to the confusion of Bess Device. Thou art not her daughter."

"It is as I thought," cried Dorothy Assheton, roused by the intelligence

from her terror.

"I tell thee not this secret to pleasure thee," continued Mother

Chattox, "but to confound Elizabeth Device. I have no other motive. She

hath provoked my vengeance, and she shall feel it. Thou art not her

child, I say. The secret of thy birth is known to me, but the time is

not yet come for its disclosure. It shall out, one day, to the confusion

of those who offend me. When thou goest home tell thy reputed mother

what I have said, and mark how she takes the information. Ha! who comes

here?"

The hag's last exclamation was occasioned by the sudden appearance of

Mistress Nutter, who opened the door of the chapel, and, staring in

astonishment at the group, came quickly forward.

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

"I came here to avoid pursuit," replied the old hag, with a cowed

manner, and in accents sounding strangely submissive after her late

infuriated tone.

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

authoritatively.

"Ask them," the hag replied.

"She declares that Alizon is not the daughter of Elizabeth Device,"

cried Dorothy Assheton.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mistress Nutter quickly, and as if a spring of

extraordinary interest had been suddenly touched. "What reason hast thou

for this assertion?"

"No good reason," replied the old woman evasively, yet with evident

apprehension of her questioner.

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

"What you, too, take an interest in the wench, like the rest!" returned

Mother Chattox. "Is she so very winning?"

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

"Ask Bess Device, or Mother Demdike," replied Mother Chattox; "they know

more about the matter than me."

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

"Many an one has lost a child who would gladly have it back again," said

the old hag, mysteriously.

"Who has lost one?" asked Mistress Nutter.

"Nay, it passeth me to tell," replied the old woman with affected

ignorance. "Question those who stole her. I have set you on the track.

If you fail in pursuing it, come to me. You know where to find me."

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

answer now."

And as she spoke she waved her hands twice or thrice over the old woman.

In doing this her figure seemed to dilate, and her countenance underwent

a marked and fearful change. All her beauty vanished, her eyes blazed,

and terror sat on her wrinkled brow. The hag, on the contrary, crouched

lower down, and seemed to dwindle less than her ordinary size. Writhing

as from heavy blows, and with a mixture of malice and fear in her

countenance, she cried, "Were I to speak, you would not thank me. Let me

go."

"Answer," vociferated Mistress Nutter, disregarding the caution, and

speaking in a sharp piercing voice, strangely contrasting with her

ordinary utterance. "Answer, I say, or I will beat thee to the dust."

And she continued her gestures, while the sufferings of the old hag

evidently increased, and she crouched nearer and nearer to the ground,

moaning out the words, "Do not force me to speak. You will repent

it!--you will repent it!"

"Do not torment her thus, madam," cried Alizon, who with Dorothy looked

at the strange scene with mingled apprehension and wonderment. "Much as

I desire to know the secret of my birth, I would not obtain it thus."

As she uttered these words, the old woman contrived to shuffle off, and

disappeared behind the tomb.

"Why did you interpose, Alizon," cried Mistress Nutter, somewhat

angrily, and dropping her hands. "You broke the power I had over her. I

would have compelled her to speak."

"I thank you, gracious lady, for your consideration," replied Alizon,

gratefully; "but the sight was too painful."

"What has become of her--where is she gone?" cried Dorothy, peeping

behind the tomb. "She has crept into this vault, I suppose."

"Do not trouble yourelf about her more, Dorothy," said Mistress Nutter,

resuming her wonted voice and wonted looks. "Let us return to the house.

Thus much is ascertained, Alizon, that you are no child of your supposed

parent. Wait a little, and the rest shall be found out for you. And,

meantime, be assured that I take strong interest in you."

"That we all do," added Dorothy.

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

With this they went forth, and, traversing the shafted aisle, quitted

the conventual church, and took their way along the alley leading to the

garden.

"Say not a word at present to Elizabeth Device of the information you

have obtained, Alizon," observed Mistress Nutter. "I have reasons for

this counsel, which I will afterwards explain to you. And do you keep

silence on the subject, Dorothy."

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

"Not Richard--not any one," returned Mistress Nutter, "or you may

seriously affect Alizon's prospects."

"You have cautioned me in time," cried Dorothy, "for here comes my

brother with our cousin Nicholas."

And as she spoke a turn in the alley showed Richard and Nicholas

Assheton advancing towards them.

A strange revolution had been produced in Alizon's feelings by the

events of the last half hour. The opinions expressed by Dorothy

Assheton, as to her birth, had been singularly confirmed by Mother

Chattox; but could reliance be placed on the old woman's assertions?

Might they not have been made with mischievous intent? And was it not

possible, nay, probable, that, in her place of concealment behind the

tomb, the vindictive hag had overheard the previous conversation with

Dorothy, and based her own declaration upon it? All these suggestions

occurred to Alizon, but the previous idea having once gained admission

to her breast, soon established itself firmly there, in spite of doubts

and misgivings, and began to mix itself up with new thoughts and

wishes, with which other persons were connected; for she could not help

fancying she might be well-born, and if so the vast distance heretofore

existing between her and Richard Assheton might be greatly diminished,

if not altogether removed. So rapid is the progress of thought, that

only a few minutes were required for this long train of reflections to

pass through her mind, and it was merely put to flight by the approach

of the main object of her thoughts.

On joining the party, Richard Assheton saw plainly that something had

happened; but as both his sister and Alizon laboured under evident

embarrassment, he abstained from making inquiries as to its cause for

the present, hoping a better opportunity of doing so would occur, and

the conversation was kept up by Nicholas Assheton, who described, in his

wonted lively manner, the encounter with Mother Chattox and Nance

Redferne, the swimming of the latter, and the trickery and punishment of

Potts. During the recital Mistress Nutter often glanced uneasily at the

two girls, but neither of them offered any interruption until Nicholas

had finished, when Dorothy, taking her brother's hand, said, with a look

of affectionate admiration, "You acted like yourself, dear Richard."

Alizon did not venture to give utterance to the same sentiment, but her

looks plainly expressed it.

"I only wish you had punished that cruel James Device, as well as saved

poor Nance," added Dorothy.

"Hush!" exclaimed Richard, glancing at Alizon.

"You need not be afraid of hurting her feelings," cried the young lady.

"She does not mind him now."

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

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

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

"Indeed I cannot," she answered in confusion.

"You would have laughed to see Potts creep out of the river," said

Nicholas, turning to Dorothy; "he looked just like a drowned

rat--ha!--ha!"

"You have made a bitter enemy of him, Nicholas," observed Mistress

Nutter; "so look well to yourself."

"I heed him not," rejoined the squire; "he knows me now too well to

meddle with me again, and I shall take good care how I put myself in his

power. One thing I may mention, to show the impotent malice of the

knave. Just as he was setting off, he said, 'This is not the only

discovery of witchcraft I have made to-day. I have another case nearer

home.' What could he mean?"

"I know not," replied Mistress Nutter, a shade of disquietude passing

over her countenance. "But he is quite capable of bringing the charge

against you or any of us."

"He is so," said Nicholas. "After what has occurred, I wonder whether

he will go over to Rough Lee to-morrow?"

"Very likely not," replied Mistress Nutter, "and in that case Master

Roger Nowell must provide some other person competent to examine the

boundary-line of the properties on his behalf."

"Then you are confident of the adjudication being in your favour?" said

Nicholas.

"Quite so," replied Mistress Nutter, with a self-satisfied smile.

"The result, I hope, may justify your expectation," said Nicholas; "but

it is right to tell you, that Sir Ralph, in consenting to postpone his

decision, has only done so out of consideration to you. If the division

of the properties be as represented by him, Master Nowell will

unquestionably obtain an award in his favour."

"Under such circumstances he may," said Mistress Nutter; "but you will

find the contrary turn out to be the fact. I will show you a plan I have

had lately prepared, and you can then judge for yourself."

While thus conversing, the party passed through a door in the high stone

wall dividing the garden from the court, and proceeded towards the

principal entrance of the mansion. Built out of the ruins of the Abbey,

which had served as a very convenient quarry for the construction of

this edifice, as well as for Portfield, the house was large and

irregular, planned chiefly with the view of embodying part of the old

abbot's lodging, and consisting of a wide front, with two wings, one of

which looked into the court, and the other, comprehending the long

gallery, into the garden. The old north-east gate of the Abbey, with its

lofty archway and embattled walls, served as an entrance to the great

court-yard, and at its wicket ordinarily stood Ned Huddlestone, the

porter, though he was absent on the present occasion, being occupied

with the May-day festivities. Immediately opposite the gateway sprang a

flight of stone steps, with a double landing-place and a broad

balustrade of the same material, on the lowest pillar of which was

placed a large escutcheon sculptured with the arms of the

family--argent, a mullet sable--with a rebus on the name--an ash on a

tun. The great door to which these steps conducted stood wide open, and

before it, on the upper landing-place, were collected Lady Assheton,

Mistress Braddyll, Mistress Nicholas Assheton, and some other dames,

laughing and conversing together. Some long-eared spaniels, favourites

of the lady of the house, were chasing each other up and down the steps,

disturbing the slumbers of a couple of fine blood-hounds in the

court-yard; or persecuting the proud peafowl that strutted about to

display their gorgeous plumage to the spectators.

On seeing the party approach, Lady Assheton came down to meet them.

"You have been long absent," she said to Dorothy; "but I suppose you

have been exploring the ruins?"

"Yes, we have not left a hole or corner unvisited," was the reply.

"That is right," said Lady Assheton. "I knew you would make a good

guide, Dorothy. Of course you have often seen the old conventual church

before, Alizon?"

"I am ashamed to say I have not, your ladyship," she replied.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Lady Assheton; "and yet you have lived all your life

in the village?"

"Quite true, your ladyship," answered Alizon; "but these ruins have been

prohibited to me."

"Not by us," said Lady Assheton; "they are open to every one."

"I was forbidden to visit them by my mother," said Alizon. And for the

first time the word "mother" seemed strange to her.

Lady Assheton looked surprised, but made no remark, and mounting the

steps, led the way to a spacious though not very lofty chamber, with

huge uncovered rafters, and a floor of polished oak. Over a great

fireplace at one side, furnished with immense andirons, hung a noble

pair of antlers, and similar trophies of the chase were affixed to other

parts of the walls. Here and there were likewise hung rusty skull-caps,

breastplates, two-handed and single-handed swords, maces, halberts, and

arquebusses, with chain-shirts, buff-jerkins, matchlocks, and other

warlike implements, amongst which were several shields painted with the

arms of the Asshetons and their alliances. High-backed chairs of gilt

leather were ranged against the walls, and ebony cabinets inlaid with

ivory were set between them at intervals, supporting rare specimens of

glass and earthenware. Opposite the fireplace, stood a large clock,

curiously painted and decorated with emblematical devices, with the

signs of the zodiac, and provided with movable figures to strike the

hours on a bell; while from the centre of the roof hung a great

chandelier of stag's horn.

Lady Assheton did not tarry long within the entrance hall, for such it

was, but conducted her guests through an arched doorway on the right

into the long gallery. One hundred and fifty feet in length, and

proportionately wide and lofty, this vast chamber had undergone little

change since its original construction by the old owners of the Abbey.

Panelled and floored with lustrous oak, and hung in some parts with

antique tapestry, representing scriptural subjects, one side was pierced

with lofty pointed windows, looking out upon the garden, while the

southern extremity boasted a magnificent window, with heavy stone

mullions, though of more recent workmanship than the framework,

commanding Whalley Nab and the river. The furniture of the apartment was

grand but gloomy, and consisted of antique chairs and tables belonging

to the Abbey. Some curious ecclesiastical sculptures, wood carvings, and

saintly images, were placed at intervals near the walls, and on the

upper panels were hung a row of family portraits.

Quitting the rest of the company, and proceeding to the southern

window, Dorothy invited Alizon and her brother to place themselves

beside her on the cushioned seats of the deep embrasure. Little

conversation, however, ensued; Alizon's heart being too full for

utterance, and recent occurrences engrossing Dorothy's thoughts, to the

exclusion of every thing else. Having made one or two unsuccessful

efforts to engage them in talk, Richard likewise lapsed into silence,

and gazed out on the lovely scenery before him. The evening has been

described as beautiful; and the swift Calder, as it hurried by, was

tinged with rays of the declining sun, whilst the woody heights of

Whalley Nab were steeped in the same rosy light. But the view failed to

interest Richard in his present mood, and after a brief survey, he stole

a look at Alizon, and was surprised to find her in tears.

"What saddening thoughts cross you, fair girl?" he inquired, with deep

interest.

"I can hardly account for my sudden despondency," she replied; "but I

have heard that great happiness is the precursor of dejection, and the

saying I suppose must be true, for I have been happier to-day than I

ever was before in my life. But the feeling of sadness is now past," she

added, smiling.

"I am glad of it," said Richard. "May I not know what has occurred to

you?"

"Not at present," interposed Dorothy; "but I am sure you will be pleased

when you are made acquainted with the circumstance. I would tell you now

if I might."

"May I guess?" said Richard.

"I don't know," rejoined Dorothy, who was dying to tell him. "May he?"

"Oh no, no!" cried Alizon.

"You are very perverse," said Richard, with a look of disappointment.

"There can be no harm in guessing; and you can please yourself as to

giving an answer. I fancy, then, that Alizon has made some discovery."

Dorothy nodded.

"Relative to her parentage?" pursued Richard.

Another nod.

"She has found out she is not Elizabeth Device's daughter?" said

Richard.

"Some witch must have told you this," exclaimed Dorothy.

"Have I indeed guessed rightly?" cried Richard, with an eagerness that

startled his sister. "Do not keep me in suspense. Speak plainly."

"How am I to answer him, Alizon?" said Dorothy.

"Nay, do not appeal to me, dear young lady," she answered, blushing.

"I have gone too far to retreat," rejoined Dorothy, "and therefore,

despite Mistress Nutter's interdiction, the truth shall out. You have

guessed shrewdly, Richard. A discovery _has_ been made--a very great

discovery. Alizon is not the daughter of Elizabeth Device."

"The intelligence delights me, though it scarcely surprises me," cried

Richard, gazing with heartfelt pleasure at the blushing girl; "for I was

sure of the fact from the first. Nothing so good and charming as Alizon

could spring from so foul a source. How and by what means you have

derived this information, as well as whose daughter you are, I shall

wait patiently to learn. Enough for me you are not the sister of James

Device--enough you are not the grandchild of Mother Demdike."

"You know all I know, in knowing thus much," replied Alizon, timidly.

"And secrecy has been enjoined by Mistress Nutter, in order that the

rest may be found out. But oh! should the hopes I have--perhaps too

hastily--indulged, prove fallacious--"

"They cannot be fallacious, Alizon," interrupted Richard, eagerly. "On

that score rest easy. Your connexion with that wretched family is for

ever broken. But I can see the necessity of caution, and shall observe

it. And so Mistress Nutter takes an interest in you?"

"The strongest," replied Dorothy; "but see! she comes this way."

But we must now go back for a short space.

While Mistress Nutter and Nicholas were seated at a table examining a

plan of the Rough Lee estates, the latter was greatly astonished to see

the door open and give admittance to Master Potts, who he fancied snugly

lying between a couple of blankets, at the Dragon. The attorney was clad

in a riding-dress, which he had exchanged for his wet habiliments, and

was accompanied by Sir Ralph Assheton and Master Roger Nowell. On seeing

Nicholas, he instantly stepped up to him.

"Aha! squire," he cried, "you did not expect to see me again so soon,

eh! A pottle of hot sack put my blood into circulation, and having,

luckily, a change of raiment in my valise, I am all right again. Not so

easily got rid of, you see!"

"So it appears," replied Nicholas, laughing.

"We have a trifling account to settle together, sir," said the attorney,

putting on a serious look.

"Whenever you please, sir," replied Nicholas, good-humouredly, tapping

the hilt of his sword.

"Not in that way," cried Potts, darting quickly back. "I never fight

with those weapons--never. Our dispute must be settled in a court of

law, sir--in a court of law. You understand, Master Nicholas?"

"There is a shrewd maxim, Master Potts, that he who is his own lawyer

has a fool for his client," observed Nicholas, drily. "Would it not be

better to stick to the defence of others, rather than practise in your

own behalf?"

"You have expressed my opinion, Master Nicholas," observed Roger

Nowell; "and I hope Master Potts will not commence any action on his own

account till he has finished my business."

"Assuredly not, sir, since you desire it," replied the attorney,

obsequiously. "But my motives must not be mistaken. I have a clear case

of assault and battery against Master Nicholas Assheton, or I may

proceed against him criminally for an attempt on my life."

"Have you given him no provocation, sir?" demanded Sir Ralph, sternly.

"No provocation can justify the treatment I have experienced, Sir

Ralph," replied Potts. "However, to show I am a man of peace, and

harbour no resentment, however just grounds I may have for such a

feeling, I am willing to make up the matter with Master Nicholas,

provided--"

"He offers you a handsome consideration, eh?" said the squire.

"Provided he offers me a handsome apology--such as a gentleman may

accept," rejoined Potts, consequentially.

"And which he will not refuse, I am sure," said Sir Ralph, glancing at

his cousin.

"I should certainly be sorry to have drowned you," said the

squire--"very sorry."

"Enough--enough--I am content," cried Potts, holding out his hand, which

Nicholas grasped with an energy that brought tears into the little man's

eyes.

"I am glad the matter is amicably adjusted," observed Roger Nowell, "for

I suspect both parties have been to blame. And I must now request you,

Master Potts, to forego your search, and inquiries after witches, till

such time as you have settled this question of the boundary line for me.

One matter at a time, my good sir."

"But, Master Nowell," cried Potts, "my much esteemed and singular good

client--"

"I will have no nay," interrupted Nowell, peremptorily.

"Hum!" muttered Potts; "I shall lose the best chance of distinction ever

thrown in my way."

"I care not," said Nowell.

"Just as you came up, Master Nowell," observed Nicholas, "I was

examining a plan of the disputed estates in Pendle Forest. It differs

from yours, and, if correct, certainly substantiates Mistress Nutter's

claim."

"I have mine with me," replied Nowell, producing a plan, and opening it.

"We can compare the two, if you please. The line runs thus:--From the

foot of Pendle Hill, beginning with Barley Booth, the boundary is marked

by a stone wall, as far as certain fields in the occupation of John

Ogden. Is it not so?"

"It is," replied Nicholas, comparing the statement with the other plan.

"It then runs on in a northerly direction," pursued Nowell, "towards

Burst Clough, and here the landmarks are certain stones placed in the

moor, one hundred yards apart, and giving me twenty acres of this land,

and Mistress Nutter ten."

"On the contrary," replied Nicholas. "This plan gives Mistress Nutter

twenty acres, and you ten."

"Then the plan is wrong," cried Nowell, sharply.

"It has been carefully prepared," said Mistress Nutter, who had

approached the table.

"No matter; it is wrong, I say," cried Nowell, angrily.

"You see where the landmarks are placed, Master Nowell," said Nicholas,

pointing to the measurement. "I merely go by them."

"The landmarks are improperly placed in that plan," cried Nowell.

"I will examine them myself to-morrow," said Potts, taking out a large

memorandum-hook; "there cannot be an error of ten acres--ten perches--or

ten feet, possibly, but acres--pshaw!"

"Laugh as you please; but go on," said Mrs. Nutter.

"Well, then," pursued Nicholas, "the line approaches the bank of a

rivulet, called Moss Brook--a rare place for woodcocks and snipes that

Moss Brook, I may remark--the land on the left consisting of five acres

of waste land, marked by a sheepfold, and two posts set up in a line

with it, belonging to Mistress Nutter."

"To Mistress Nutter!" exclaimed Nowell, indignantly. "To me, you mean."

"It is here set down to Mistress Nutter," said Nicholas.

"Then it is set down wrongfully," cried Nowell. "That plan is altogether

incorrect."

"On which side of the field does the rivulet flow?" inquired Potts.

"On the right," replied Nicholas.

"On the left," cried Nowell.

"There must be some extraordinary mistake," said Potts. "I shall make a

note of that, and examine it to-morrow.--N.B. Waste land--sheepfold--

rivulet called Moss Brook, flowing on the left."

"On the right," cried Mistress Nutter.

"That remains to be seen," rejoined Potts, "I have made the entry as on

the left."

"Go on, Master Nicholas," said Nowell, "I should like to see how many

other errors that plan contains."

"Passing the rivulet," pursued the squire, "we come to a footpath

leading to the limestone quarry, about which there can be no mistake.

Then by Cat Gallows Wood and Swallow Hole; and then by another path to

Worston Moor, skirting a hut in the occupation of James Device--ha! ha!

Master Jem, are you here? I thought you dwelt with your grandmother at

Malkin Tower--excuse me, Master Nowell, but one must relieve the dulness

of this plan by an exclamation or so--and here being waste land again,

the landmarks are certain stones set at intervals towards Hook Cliff,

and giving Mistress Nutter two-thirds of the whole moor, and Master

Roger Nowell one-third."

"False again," cried Nowell, furiously. "The two-thirds are mine, the

one-third Mistress Nutter's."

"Somebody must be very wrong," cried Nicholas.

"Very wrong indeed," added Potts; "and I suspect that that somebody

is--"

"Master Nowell," said Mistress Nutter.

"Mistress Nutter," cried Master Nowell.

"Both are wrong and both right, according to your own showing," said

Nicholas, laughing.

"To-morrow will decide the question," said Potts.

"Better wait till then," interposed Sir Ralph. "Take both plans with

you, and you will then ascertain which is correct."

"Agreed," cried Nowell. "Here is mine."

"And here is mine," said Mistress Nutter. "I will abide by the

investigation."

"And Master Potts and I will verify the statements," said Nicholas.

"We will, sir," replied the attorney, putting his memorandum book in his

pocket. "We will."

The plans were then delivered to the custody of Sir Ralph, who promised

to hand them over to Potts and Nicholas on the morrow.

The party then separated; Mistress Nutter shaping her course towards the

window where Alizon and the two other young people were seated, while

Potts, plucking the squire's sleeve, said, with a very mysterious look,

that he desired a word with him in private. Wondering what could be the

nature of the communication the attorney desired to make, Nicholas

withdrew with him into a corner, and Nowell, who saw them retire, and

could not help watching them with some curiosity, remarked that the

squire's hilarious countenance fell as he listened to the attorney,

while, on the contrary, the features of the latter gleamed with

malicious satisfaction.

Meanwhile, Mistress Nutter approached Alizon, and beckoning her towards

her, they quitted the room together. As the young girl went forth, she

cast a wistful look at Dorothy and her brother.

"You think with me, that that lovely girl is well born?" said Dorothy,

as Alizon disappeared.

"It were heresy to doubt it," answered Richard.

"Shall I tell you another secret?" she continued, regarding him

fixedly--"if, indeed, it be a secret, for you must be sadly wanting in

discernment if you have not found it out ere this. She loves you."

"Dorothy!" exclaimed Richard.

"I am sure of it," she rejoined. "But I would not tell you this, if I

were not quite equally sure that you love her in return."

"On my faith, Dorothy, you give yourself credit for wonderful

penetration," cried Richard.

"Not a whit more than I am entitled to," she answered. "Nay, it will not

do to attempt concealment with me. If I had not been certain of the

matter before, your manner now would convince me. I am very glad of it.

She will make a charming sister, and I shall he very fond of her."

"How you do run on, madcap!" cried her brother, trying to look

displeased, but totally failing in assuming the expression.

"Stranger things have come to pass," said Dorothy; "and one reads in

story-hooks of young nobles marrying village maidens in spite of

parental opposition. I dare say you will get nobody's consent to the

marriage but mine, Richard."

"I dare say not," he replied, rather blankly.

"That is, if she should not turn out to be somebody's daughter," pursued

Dorothy; "somebody, I mean, quite as great as the heir of Middleton,

which I make no doubt she will."

"I hope she may," replied Richard.

"Why, you don't mean to say you wouldn't marry her if she didn't!" cried

Dorothy. "I'm ashamed of you, Richard."

"It would remove all opposition, at all events," said her brother.

"So it would," said Dorothy; "and now I'll tell you another notion of

mine, Richard. Somehow or other, it has come into my head that Alizon is

the daughter of--whom do you think?"

"Whom!" he cried.

"Guess," she rejoined.

"I can't," he exclaimed, impatiently.

"Well, then, I'll tell you without more ado," she answered. "Mind, it's

only my notion, and I've no precise grounds for it. But, in my opinion,

she's the daughter of the lady who has just left the room."

"Of Mistress Nutter!" ejaculated Richard, starting. "What makes you

think so?"

"The extraordinary and otherwise unaccountable interest she takes in

her," replied Dorothy. "And, if you recollect, Mistress Nutter had an

infant daughter who was lost in a strange manner."

"I thought the child died," replied Richard; "but it may be as you say.

I hope it is so."

"Time will show," said Dorothy; "but I have made up my mind about the

matter."

At this moment Nicholas Assheton came up to them, looking grave and

uneasy.

"What has happened?" asked Richard, anxiously.

"I have just received some very unpleasant intelligence," replied

Nicholas. "I told you of a menace uttered by that confounded Potts, on

quitting me after his ducking. He has now spoken out plainly, and

declares he overheard part of a conversation between Mistress Nutter and

Elizabeth Device, which took place in the ruins of the convent church

this morning, and he is satisfied that--"

"Well!" cried Richard, breathlessly.

"That Mistress Nutter is a witch, and in league with witches," continued

Nicholas.

"Ha!" exclaimed Richard, turning deathly pale.

"I suspect the rascal has invented the charge," said Nicholas; "but he

is quite unscrupulous enough to make it; and, if made, it will be fatal

to our relative's reputation, if not to her life."

"It is false, I am sure of it," cried Richard, torn by conflicting

emotions.

"Would I could think so!" cried Dorothy, suddenly recollecting Mistress

Nutter's strange demeanour in the little chapel, and the unaccountable

influence she seemed to exercise over the old crone. "But something has

occurred to-day that leads me to a contrary conviction."

"What is it? Speak!" cried Richard.

"Not now--not now," replied Dorothy.

"Whatever suspicions you may entertain, keep silence, or you will

destroy Mistress Nutter," said Nicholas.

"Fear me not," rejoined Dorothy. "Oh, Alizon!" she murmured, "that this

unhappy question should arise at such a moment."

"Do you indeed believe the charge, Dorothy?" asked Richard, in a low

voice.

"I do," she answered in the same tone. "If Alizon be her daughter, she

can never be your wife."

"How?" cried Richard.

"Never--never!" repeated Dorothy, emphatically. "The daughter of a

witch, be that witch named Elizabeth Device or Alice Nutter, is no mate

for you."

"You prejudge Mistress Nutter, Dorothy," he cried.

"Alas! Richard. I have too good reason for what I say," she answered,

sadly.

Richard uttered an exclamation of despair. And on the instant the lively

sounds of tabor and pipe, mixed with the jingling of bells, arose from

the court-yard, and presently afterwards an attendant entered to

announce that the May-day revellers were without, and directions were

given by Sir Ralph that they should be shown into the great

banqueting-hall below the gallery, which had been prepared for their

reception.

CHAPTER VIII.--THE REVELATION.

On quitting the long gallery, Mistress Nutter and Alizon ascended a wide

staircase, and, traversing a corridor, came to an antique, tapestried

chamber, richly but cumbrously furnished, having a carved oak bedstead

with sombre hangings, a few high-backed chairs of the same material, and

a massive wardrobe, with shrine-work atop, and two finely sculptured

figures, of the size of life, in the habits of Cistertian monks, placed

as supporters at either extremity. At one side of the bed the tapestry

was drawn aside, showing the entrance to a closet or inner room, and

opposite it there was a great yawning fireplace, with a lofty

mantelpiece and chimney projecting beyond the walls. The windows were

narrow, and darkened by heavy transom bars and small diamond panes while

the view without, looking upon Whalley Nab, was obstructed by the

contiguity of a tall cypress, whose funereal branches added to the

general gloom. The room was one of those formerly allotted to their

guests by the hospitable abbots, and had undergone little change since

their time, except in regard to furniture; and even that appeared old

and faded now. What with the gloomy arras, the shrouded bedstead, and

the Gothic wardrobe with its mysterious figures, the chamber had a grim,

ghostly air, and so the young girl thought on entering it.

"I have brought you hither, Alizon," said Mistress Nutter, motioning her

to a seat, "that we may converse without chance of interruption, for I

have much to say. On first seeing you to-day, your appearance, so

superior to the rest of the May-day mummers, struck me forcibly, and I

resolved to question Elizabeth Device about you. Accordingly I bade her

join me in the Abbey gardens. She did so, and had not long left me when

I accidentally met you and the others in the Lacy Chapel. When

questioned, Elizabeth affected great surprise, and denied positively

that there was any foundation for the idea that you were other than her

child; but, notwithstanding her asseverations, I could see from her

confused manner that there was more in the notion than she chose to

admit, and I determined to have recourse to other means of arriving at

the truth, little expecting my suspicions would be so soon confirmed by

Mother Chattox. To my interrogation of that old woman, you were yourself

a party, and I am now rejoiced that you interfered to prevent me from

prosecuting my inquiries to the utmost. There was one present from whom

the secret of your birth must be strictly kept--at least, for

awhile--and my impatience carried me too far."

"I only obeyed a natural impulse, madam," said Alizon; "but I am at a

loss to conceive what claim I can possibly have to the consideration you

show me."

"Listen to me, and you shall learn," replied Mistress Nutter. "It is a

sad tale, and its recital will tear open old wounds, but it must not be

withheld on that account. I do not ask you to bury the secrets I am

about to impart in the recesses of your bosom. You will do so when you

learn them, without my telling you. When little more than your age I was

wedded; but not to him I would have chosen if choice had been permitted

me. The union I need scarcely say was unhappy--most unhappy--though my

discomforts were scrupulously concealed, and I was looked upon as a

devoted wife, and my husband as a model of conjugal affection. But this

was merely the surface--internally all was strife and misery. Erelong my

dislike of my husband increased to absolute hate, while on his part,

though he still regarded me with as much passion as heretofore, he

became frantically jealous--and above all of Edward Braddyll of

Portfield, who, as his bosom friend, and my distant relative, was a

frequent visiter at the house. To relate the numerous exhibitions of

jealousy that occurred would answer little purpose, and it will be

enough to say that not a word or look passed between Edward and myself

but was misconstrued. I took care never to be alone with our guest--nor

to give any just ground for suspicion--but my caution availed nothing.

An easy remedy would have been to forbid Edward the house, but this my

husband's pride rejected. He preferred to endure the jealous torment

occasioned by the presence of his wife's fancied lover, and inflict

needless anguish on her, rather than brook the jeers of a few

indifferent acquaintances. The same feeling made him desire to keep up

an apparent good understanding with me; and so far I seconded his views,

for I shared in his pride, if in nothing else. Our quarrels were all in

private, when no eye could see us--no ear listen."

"Yours is a melancholy history, madam," remarked Alizon, in a tone of

profound interest.

"You will think so ere I have done," returned the lady, sadly. "The only

person in my confidence, and aware of my secret sorrows, was Elizabeth

Device, who with her husband, John Device, then lived at Rough Lee.

Serving me in the quality of tire-woman and personal attendant, she

could not be kept in ignorance of what took place, and the poor soul

offered me all the sympathy in her power. Much was it needed, for I had

no other sympathy. After awhile, I know not from what cause, unless from

some imprudence on the part of Edward Braddyll, who was wild and

reckless, my husband conceived worse suspicions than ever of me, and

began to treat me with such harshness and cruelty, that, unable longer

to endure his violence, I appealed to my father. But he was of a stern

and arbitrary nature, and, having forced me into the match, would not

listen to my complaints, but bade me submit. 'It was my duty to do so,'

he said, and he added some cutting expressions to the effect that I

deserved the treatment I experienced, and dismissed me. Driven to

desperation, I sought counsel and assistance from one I should most have

avoided--from Edward Braddyll--and he proposed flight from my husband's

roof--flight with him."

"But you were saved, madam?" cried Alizon, greatly shocked by the

narration. "You were saved?"

"Hear me out," rejoined Mistress Nutter. "Outraged as my feelings were,

and loathsome as my husband was to me, I spurned the base proposal, and

instantly quitted my false friend. Nor would I have seen him more, if

permitted; but that secret interview with him was my first and

last;--for it had been witnessed by my husband."

"Ha!" exclaimed Alizon.

"Concealed behind the arras, Richard Nutter heard enough to confirm his

worst suspicions," pursued the lady; "but he did not hear my

justification. He saw Edward Braddyll at my feet--he heard him urge me

to fly--but he did not wait to learn if I consented, and, looking upon

me as guilty, left his hiding-place to take measures for frustrating the

plan, he supposed concerted between us. That night I was made prisoner

in my room, and endured treatment the most inhuman. But a proposal was

made by my husband, that promised some alleviation of my suffering.

Henceforth we were to meet only in public, when a semblance of affection

was to be maintained on both sides. This was done, he said, to save my

character, and preserve his own name unspotted in the eyes of others,

however tarnished it might be in his own. I willingly consented to the

arrangement; and thus for a brief space I became tranquil, if not happy.

But another and severer trial awaited me."

"Alas, madam!" exclaimed Alizon, sympathisingly.

"My cup of sorrow, I thought, was full," pursued Mistress Nutter; "but

the drop was wanting to make it overflow. It came soon enough. Amidst my

griefs I expected to be a mother, and with that thought how many fond

and cheering anticipations mingled! In my child I hoped to find a balm

for my woes: in its smiles and innocent endearments a compensation for

the harshness and injustice I had experienced. How little did I foresee

that it was to be a new instrument of torture to me; and that I should

be cruelly robbed of the only blessing ever vouchsafed me!"

"Did the child die, madam?" asked Alizon.

"You shall hear," replied Mistress Nutter. "A daughter was born to me. I

was made happy by its birth. A new existence, bright and unclouded,

seemed dawning upon me; but it was like a sunburst on a stormy day. Some

two months before this event Elizabeth Device had given birth to a

daughter, and she now took my child under her fostering care; for

weakness prevented me from affording it the support it is a mother's

blessed privilege to bestow. She seemed as fond of it as myself; and

never was babe more calculated to win love than my little Millicent. Oh!

how shall I go on? The retrospect I am compelled to take is frightful,

but I cannot shun it. The foul and false suspicions entertained by my

husband began to settle on the child. He would not believe it to be his

own. With violent oaths and threats he first announced his odious

suspicions to Elizabeth Device, and she, full of terror, communicated

them to me. The tidings filled me with inexpressible alarm; for I knew,

if the dread idea had once taken possession of him, it would never be

removed, while what he threatened would be executed. I would have fled

at once with my poor babe if I had known where to go; but I had no place

of shelter. It would be in vain to seek refuge with my father; and I had

no other relative or friend whom I could trust. Where then should I fly?

At last I bethought me of a retreat, and arranged a plan of escape with

Elizabeth Device. Vain were my precautions. On that very night, I was

startled from slumber by a sudden cry from the nurse, who was seated by

the fire, with the child on her knees. It was long past midnight, and

all the household were at rest. Two persons had entered the room. One

was my ruthless husband, Richard Nutter; the other was John Device, a

powerful ruffianly fellow, who planted himself near the door.

"Marching quickly towards Elizabeth, who had arisen on seeing him, my

husband snatched the child from her before I could seize it, and with a

violent blow on the chest felled me to the ground, where I lay helpless,

speechless. With reeling senses I heard Elizabeth cry out that it was

her own child, and call upon her husband to save it. Richard Nutter

paused, but re-assured by a laugh of disbelief from his ruffianly

follower, he told Elizabeth the pitiful excuse would not avail to save

the brat. And then I saw a weapon gleam--there was a feeble piteous

cry--a cry that might have moved a demon--but it did not move _him_.

With wicked words and blood-imbrued hands he cast the body on the fire.

The horrid sight was too much for me, and I became senseless."

"A dreadful tale, indeed, madam!" cried Alizon, frozen with horror.

"The crime was hidden--hidden from the eyes of men, but mark the

retribution that followed," said Mistress Nutter; her eyes sparkling

with vindictive joy. "Of the two murderers both perished miserably. John

Device was drowned in a moss-pool. Richard Nutter's end was terrible,

sharpened by the pangs of remorse, and marked by frightful suffering.

But another dark event preceded his death, which may have laid a crime

the more on his already heavily-burdened soul. Edward Braddyll, the

object of his jealousy and hate, suddenly sickened of a malady so

strange and fearful, that all who saw him affirmed it the result of

witchcraft. None thought of my husband's agency in the dark affair

except myself; but knowing he had held many secret conferences about the

time with Mother Chattox, I more than suspected him. The sick man died;

and from that hour Richard Nutter knew no rest. Ever on horseback, or

fiercely carousing, he sought in vain to stifle remorse. Visions scared

him by night, and vague fears pursued him by day. He would start at

shadows, and talk wildly. To me his whole demeanour was altered; and he

strove by every means in his power to win my love. But he could not give

me back the treasure he had taken. He could not bring to life my

murdered babe. Like his victim, he fell ill on a sudden, and of a

strange and terrible sickness. I saw he could not recover, and therefore

tended him carefully. He died; and I shed no tear."

"Alas!" exclaimed Alizon, "though guilty, I cannot but compassionate

him."

"You are right to do so, Alizon," said Mistress Nutter, rising, while

the young girl rose too; "for he was your father."

"My father!" she exclaimed, in amazement. "Then you are my mother?"

"I am--I am," replied Mistress Nutter, straining her to her bosom. "Oh,

my child!--my dear child!" she cried. "The voice of nature from the

first pleaded eloquently in your behalf, and I should have been deaf to

all impulses of affection if I had not listened to the call. I now trace

in every feature the lineaments of the babe I thought lost for ever. All

is clear to me. The exclamation of Elizabeth Device, which, like my

ruthless husband, I looked upon as an artifice to save the infant's

life, I now find to be the truth. Her child perished instead of mine.

How or why she exchanged the infants on that night remains to be

explained, but that she did so is certain; while that she should

afterwards conceal the circumstance is easily comprehended, from a

natural dread of her own husband as well as of mine. It is possible that

from some cause she may still deny the truth, but I can make it her

interest to speak plainly. The main difficulty will lie in my public

acknowledgment of you. But, at whatever cost, it shall be made."

"Oh! consider it well;" said Alizon, "I will be your daughter in

love--in duty--in all but name. But sully not my poor father's honour,

which even at the peril of his soul he sought to maintain! How can I be

owned as your daughter without involving the discovery of this tragic

history?"

"You are right, Alizon," rejoined Mistress Nutter, thoughtfully. "It

will bring the dark deed to light. But you shall never return to

Elizabeth Device. You shall go with me to Rough Lee, and take up your

abode in the house where I was once so wretched--but where I shall now

be full of happiness with you. You shall see the dark spots on the

hearth, which I took to be your blood."

"If not mine, it was blood spilt by my father," said Alizon, with a

shudder.

Was it fancy, or did a low groan break upon her ear? It must be

imaginary, for Mistress Nutter seemed unconscious of the dismal sound.

It was now growing rapidly dark, and the more distant objects in the

room were wrapped in obscurity; but Alizon's gaze rested on the two

monkish figures supporting the wardrobe.

"Look there, mother," she said to Mistress Nutter.

"Where?" cried the lady, turning round quickly, "Ah! I see. You alarm

yourself needlessly, my child. Those are only carved figures of two

brethren of the Abbey. They are said, I know not with what truth--to be

statues of John Paslew and Borlace Alvetham."

"I thought they stirred," said Alizon.

"It was mere fancy," replied Mistress Nutter. "Calm yourself, sweet

child. Let us think of other things--of our newly discovered

relationship. Henceforth, to me you are Millicent Nutter; though to

others you must still be Alizon Device. My sweet Millicent," she cried,

embracing her again and again. "Ah, little--little did I think to see

you more!"

Alizon's fears were speedily chased away.

"Forgive me, dear mother," she cried, "if I have failed to express the

full delight I experience in my restitution to you. The shock of your

sad tale at first deadened my joy, while the suddenness of the

information respecting myself so overwhelmed me, that like one chancing

upon a hidden treasure, and gazing at it confounded, I was unable to

credit my own good fortune. Even now I am quite bewildered; and no

wonder, for many thoughts, each of different import, throng upon me.

Independently of the pleasure and natural pride I must feel in being

acknowledged by you as a daughter, it is a source of the deepest

satisfaction to me to know that I am not, in any way, connected with

Elizabeth Device--not from her humble station--for poverty weighs little

with me in comparison with virtue and goodness--but from her sinfulness.

You know the dark offence laid to her charge?"

"I do," replied Mistress Nutter, in a low deep tone, "but I do not

believe it."

"Nor I," returned Alizon. "Still, she acts as if she were the wicked

thing she is called; avoids all religious offices; shuns all places of

worship; and derides the Holy Scriptures. Oh, mother! you will

comprehend the frequent conflict of feelings I must have endured. You

will understand my horror when I have sometimes thought myself the

daughter of a witch."

"Why did you not leave her if you thought so?" said Mistress Nutter,

frowning.

"I could not leave her," replied Alizon, "for I then thought her my

mother."

Mistress Nutter fell upon her daughter's neck, and wept aloud. "You have

an excellent heart, my child," she said at length, checking her emotion.

"I have nothing to complain of in Elizabeth Device, dear mother," she

replied. "What she denied herself, she did not refuse me; and though I

have necessarily many and great deficiencies, you will find in me, I

trust, no evil principles. And, oh! shall we not strive to rescue that

poor benighted creature from the pit? We may yet save her."

"It is too late," replied Mistress Nutter in a sombre tone.

"It cannot be too late," said Alizon, confidently. "She cannot be beyond

redemption. But even if she should prove intractable, poor little Jennet

may be preserved. She is yet a child, with some good--though, alas! much

evil, also--in her nature. Let our united efforts be exerted in this

good work, and we must succeed. The weeds extirpated, the flowers will

spring up freely, and bloom in beauty."

"I can have nothing to do with her," said Mistress Nutter, in a freezing

tone--"nor must you."

"Oh! say not so, mother," cried Alizon. "You rob me of half the

happiness I feel in being restored to you. When I was Jennets sister, I

devoted myself to the task of reclaiming her. I hoped to be her guardian

angel--to step between her and the assaults of evil--and I cannot, will

not, now abandon her. If no longer my sister, she is still dear to me.

And recollect that I owe a deep debt of gratitude to her mother--a debt

I can never pay."

"How so?" cried Mistress Nutter. "You owe her nothing--but the

contrary."

"I owe her a life," said Alizon. "Was not her infant's blood poured out

for mine! And shall I not save the child left her, if I can?"

"I shall not oppose your inclinations," replied Mistress Nutter, with

reluctant assent; "but Elizabeth, I suspect, will thank you little for

your interference."

"Not now, perhaps," returned Alizon; "but a time will come when she will

do so."

While this conversation took place, it had been rapidly growing dark,

and the gloom at length increased so much, that the speakers could

scarcely see each other's faces. The sudden and portentous darkness was

accounted for by a vivid flash of lightning, followed by a low growl of

thunder rumbling over Whalley Nab. The mother and daughter drew close

together, and Mistress Nutter passed her arm round Alizon's neck.

The storm came quickly on, with forked and dangerous lightning, and

loud claps of thunder threatening mischief. Presently, all its fury

seemed collected over the Abbey. The red flashes hissed, and the peals

of thunder rolled overhead. But other terrors were added to Alizon's

natural dread of the elemental warfare. Again she fancied the two

monkish figures, which had before excited her alarm, moved, and even

shook their arms menacingly at her. At first she attributed this wild

idea to her overwrought imagination, and strove to convince herself of

its fallacy by keeping her eyes steadily fixed upon them. But each

succeeding flash only served to confirm her superstitious apprehensions.

Another circumstance contributed to heighten her alarm. Scared most

probably by the storm, a large white owl fluttered down the chimney, and

after wheeling twice or thrice round the chamber, settled upon the bed,

hooting, puffing, ruffling its feathers, and glaring at her with eyes

that glowed like fiery coals.

Mistress Nutter seemed little moved by the storm, though she kept a

profound silence, but when Alizon gazed in her face, she was frightened

by its expression, which reminded her of the terrible aspect she had

worn at the interview with Mother Chattox.

All at once Mistress Nutter arose, and, rapid as the lightning playing

around her and revealing her movements, made several passes, with

extended hands, over her daughter; and on this the latter instantly fell

back, as if fainting, though still retaining her consciousness; and,

what was stranger still, though her eyes were closed, her power of sight

remained.

In this condition she fancied invisible forms were moving about her.

Strange sounds seemed to salute her ears, like the gibbering of ghosts,

and she thought she felt the flapping of unseen wings around her.

All at once her attention was drawn--she knew not why--towards the

closet, and from out it she fancied she saw issue the tall dark figure

of a man. She was sure she saw him; for her imagination could not body

forth features charged with such a fiendish expression, or eyes of such

unearthly lustre. He was clothed in black, but the fashion of his

raiments was unlike aught she had ever seen. His stature was gigantic,

and a pale phosphoric light enshrouded him. As he advanced, forked

lightnings shot into the room, and the thunder split overhead. The owl

hooted fearfully, quitted its perch, and flew off by the way it had

entered the chamber.

The Dark Shape came on. It stood beside Mistress Nutter, and she

prostrated herself before it. The gestures of the figure were angry and

imperious--those of Mistress Nutter supplicating. Their converse was

drowned by the rattling of the storm. At last the figure pointed to

Alizon, and the word "midnight" broke in tones louder than the thunder

from its lips. All consciousness then forsook her.

How long she continued in this state she knew not, but the touch of a

finger applied to her brow seemed to recall her suddenly to animation.

She heaved a deep sigh, and looked around. A wondrous change had

occurred. The storm had passed off, and the moon was shining brightly

over the top of the cypress-tree, flooding the chamber with its gentle

radiance, while her mother was bending over her with looks of tenderest

affection.

"You are better now, sweet child," said Mistress Nutter. "You were

overcome by the storm. It was sudden and terrible."

"Terrible, indeed!" replied Alizon, imperfectly recalling what had

passed. "But it was not alone the storm that frightened me. This chamber

has been invaded by evil beings. Methought I beheld a dark figure come

from out yon closet, and stand before you."

"You have been thrown into a state of stupor by the influence of the

electric fluid," replied Mistress Nutter, "and while in that condition

visions have passed through your brain. That is all, my child."

"Oh! I hope so," said Alizon.

"Such ecstasies are of frequent occurrence," replied Mistress Nutter.

"But, since you are quite recovered, we will descend to Lady Assheton,

who may wonder at our absence. You will share this room with me

to-night, my child; for, as I have already said, you cannot return to

Elizabeth Device. I will make all needful explanations to Lady Assheton,

and will see Elizabeth in the morning--perhaps to-night. Reassure

yourself, sweet child. There is nothing to fear."

"I trust not, mother," replied Alizon. "But it would ease my mind to

look into that closet."

"Do so, then, by all means," replied Mistress Nutter with a forced

smile.

Alizon peeped timorously into the little room, which was lighted up by

the moon's rays. There was a faded white habit, like the robe of a

Cistertian monk, hanging in one corner, and beneath it an old chest.

Alizon would fain have opened the chest, but Mistress Nutter called out

to her impatiently, "You will discover nothing, I am sure. Come, let us

go down-stairs."

And they quitted the room together.

CHAPTER IX.--THE TWO PORTRAITS IN THE BANQUETING-HALL.

The banqueting-hall lay immediately under the long gallery,

corresponding with it in all but height; and though in this respect it

fell somewhat short of the magnificent upper room, it was quite lofty

enough to admit of a gallery of its own for spectators and minstrels.

Great pains had been taken in decorating the hall for the occasion.

Between the forest of stags' horns that branched from the gallery rails

were hung rich carpets, intermixed with garlands of flowers, and banners

painted with the arms of the Assheton family, were suspended from the

corners. Over the fireplace, where, despite the advanced season, a pile

of turf and wood was burning, were hung two panoplies of arms, and above

them, on a bracket, was set a complete suit of mail, once belonging to

Richard Assheton, the first possessor of the mansion. On the opposite

wall hung two remarkable portraits--the one representing a religious

votaress in a loose robe of black, with wide sleeves, holding a rosary

and missal in her hand, and having her brow and neck entirely concealed

by the wimple, in which her head and shoulders were enveloped. Such of

her features as could be seen were of extraordinary loveliness, though

of a voluptuous character, the eyes being dark and languishing, and

shaded by long lashes, and the lips carnation-hued and full. This was

the fair votaress, Isole de Heton, who brought such scandal on the Abbey

in the reign of Henry VI. The other portrait was that of an abbot, in

the white gown and scapulary of the Cistertian order. The countenance

was proud and stern, but tinctured with melancholy. In a small shield at

one corner the arms were blazoned--argent, a fess between three mullets,

sable, pierced of the field, a crescent for difference--proving it to be

the portrait of John Paslew. Both pictures had been found in the abbot's

lodgings, when taken possession of by Richard Assheton, but they owed

their present position to his descendant, Sir Ralph, who discovering

them in an out-of-the-way closet, where they had been cast aside, and

struck with their extraordinary merit, hung them up as above stated.

The long oaken table, usually standing in the middle of the hall, had

been removed to one side, to allow free scope for dancing and other

pastimes, but it was still devoted to hospitable uses, being covered

with trenchers and drinking-cups, and spread for a substantial repast.

Near it stood two carvers, with aprons round their waists, brandishing

long knives, while other yeomen of the kitchen and cellar were at hand

to keep the trenchers well supplied, and the cups filled with strong

ale, or bragget, as might suit the taste of the guests. Nor were these

the only festive preparations. The upper part of the hall was reserved

for Sir Ralph's immediate friends, and here, on a slightly raised

elevation, stood a cross table, spread for a goodly supper, the snowy

napery being ornamented with wreaths and ropes of flowers, and shining

with costly vessels. At the lower end of the room, beneath the gallery,

which it served to support, was a Gothic screen, embellishing an open

armoury, which made a grand display of silver plates and flagons.

Through one of the doorways contrived in this screen, the May-day

revellers were ushered into the hall by old Adam Whitworth, the

white-headed steward.

"I pray you be seated, good masters, and you, too, comely dames," said

Adam, leading them to the table, and assigning each a place with his

wand. "Fall to, and spare not, for it is my honoured master's desire you

should sup well. You will find that venison pasty worth a trial, and the

baked red deer in the centre of the table is a noble dish. The fellow to

it was served at Sir Ralph's own table at dinner, and was pronounced

excellent. I pray you try it, masters.--Here, Ned Scargill, mind your

office, good fellow, and break me that deer. And you, Paul Pimlot,

exercise your craft on the venison pasty."

And as trencher after trencher was rapidly filled by the two carvers,

who demeaned themselves in their task like men acquainted with the

powers of rustic appetite, the old steward addressed himself to the

dames.

"What can I do for you, fair mistresses?" he said. "Here be sack

possets, junkets and cream, for such as like them--French puffs and

Italian puddings, right good, I warrant you, and especially admired by

my honourable good lady. Indeed, I am not sure she hath not lent a hand

herself in their preparation. Then here be fritters in the court

fashion, made with curds of sack posset, eggs and ale, and seasoned with

nutmeg and pepper. You will taste them, I am sure, for they are

favourites with our sovereign lady, the queen. Here, Gregory,

Dickon--bestir yourselves, knaves, and pour forth a cup of sack for each

of these dames. As you drink, mistresses, neglect not the health of our

honourable good master Sir Ralph, and his lady. It is well--it is well.

I will convey to them both your dutiful good wishes. But I must see all

your wants supplied. Good Dame Openshaw, you have nought before you. Be

prevailed upon to taste these dropt raisins or a fond pudding. And you,

too, sweet Dame Tetlow. Squire Nicholas gave me special caution to take

care of you, but the injunction was unneeded, as I should have done so

without it.--Another cup of canary to Dame Tetlow, Gregory. Fill to the

brim, knave--to the very brim. To the health of Squire Nicholas," he

added in a low tone, as he handed the brimming goblet to the blushing

dame; "and be sure and tell him, if he questions you, that I obeyed his

behests to the best of my ability. I pray you taste this pippin jelly,

dame. It is as red as rubies, but not so red as your lips, or some leach

of almonds, which, lily-white though it be, is not to be compared with

the teeth that shall touch it."

"Odd's heart! mester steward, yo mun ha' larnt that protty speech fro'

th' squoire himself," replied Dame Tetlow, laughing.

"It may be the recollection of something said to me by him, brought to

mind by your presence," replied Adam Whitworth, gallantly. "If I can

serve you in aught else, sign to me, dame.--Now, knaves, fill the

cups--ale or bragget, at your pleasure, masters. Drink and stint not,

and you will the better please your liberal entertainer and my honoured

master."

Thus exhorted, the guests set seriously to work to fulfil the

hospitable intentions of the provider of the feast. Cups flowed fast and

freely, and erelong little was left of the venison pasty but the outer

crust, and nothing more than a few fragments of the baked red deer. The

lighter articles then came in for a share of attention, and salmon from

the Ribble, jack, trout, and eels from the Hodder and Calder, boiled,

broiled, stewed, and pickled, and of delicious flavour, were discussed

with infinite relish. Puddings and pastry were left to more delicate

stomachs--the solids only being in request with the men. Hitherto, the

demolition of the viands had given sufficient employment, but now the

edge of appetite beginning to be dulled, tongues were unloosed, and much

merriment prevailed. More than eighty in number, the guests were

dispersed without any regard to order, and thus the chief actors in the

revel were scattered promiscuously about the table, diversifying it with

their gay costumes. Robin Hood sat between two pretty female

morris-dancers, whose partners had got to the other end of the table;

while Ned Huddlestone, the representative of Friar Tuck, was equally

fortunate, having a buxom dame on either side of him, towards whom he

distributed his favours with singular impartiality. As porter to the

Abbey, Ned made himself at home; and, next to Adam Whitworth, was

perhaps the most important personage present, continually roaring for

ale, and pledging the damsels around him. From the way he went on, it

seemed highly probable he would be under the table before supper was

over; but Ned Huddlestone, like the burly priest whose gown he wore, had

a stout bullet head, proof against all assaults of liquor; and the

copious draughts he swallowed, instead of subduing him, only tended to

make him more uproarious. Blessed also with lusty lungs, his shouts of

laughter made the roof ring again. But if the strong liquor failed to

make due impression upon him, the like cannot be said of Jack Roby, who,

it will be remembered, took the part of the Fool, and who, having drunk

overmuch, mistook the hobby-horse for a real steed, and in an effort to

bestride it, fell head-foremost on the floor, and, being found incapable

of rising, was carried out to an adjoining room, and laid on a bench.

This, however, was the only case of excess; for though the Sherwood

foresters emptied their cups often enough to heighten their mirth, none

of them seemed the worse for what they drank. Lawrence Blackrod, Mr.

Parker's keeper, had fortunately got next to his old flame, Sukey

Worseley; while Phil Rawson, the forester, who enacted Will Scarlet, and

Nancy Holt, between whom an equally tender feeling subsisted, had

likewise got together. A little beyond them sat the gentleman usher and

parish clerk, Sampson Harrop, who, piquing himself on his good manners,

drank very sparingly, and was content to sup on sweetmeats and a bowl of

fleetings, as curds separated from whey are termed in this district. Tom

the piper, and his companion the taborer, ate for the next week, but

were somewhat more sparing in the matter of drink, their services as

minstrels being required later on. Thus the various guests enjoyed

themselves according to their bent, and universal hilarity prevailed. It

would be strange indeed if it had been otherwise; for what with the good

cheer, and the bright eyes around them, the rustics had attained a point

of felicity not likely to be surpassed. Of the numerous assemblage more

than half were of the fairer sex; and of these the greater portion were

young and good-looking, while in the case of the morris-dancers, their

natural charms were heightened by their fanciful attire.

Before supper was half over, it became so dark that it was found

necessary to illuminate the great lamp suspended from the centre of the

roof, while other lights were set on the board, and two flaming torches

placed in sockets on either side of the chimney-piece. Scarcely was this

accomplished when the storm came on, much to the surprise of the

weatherwise, who had not calculated upon such an occurrence, not having

seen any indications whatever of it in the heavens. But all were too

comfortably sheltered, and too well employed, to pay much attention to

what was going on without; and, unless when a flash of lightning more

than usually vivid dazzled the gaze, or a peal of thunder more appalling

than the rest broke overhead, no alarm was expressed, even by the women.

To be sure, a little pretty trepidation was now and then evinced by the

younger damsels; but even this was only done with the view of exacting

attention on the part of their swains, and never failed in effect. The

thunder-storm, therefore, instead of putting a stop to the general

enjoyment, only tended to increase it. However the last peal was loud

enough to silence the most uproarious. The women turned pale, and the

men looked at each other anxiously, listening to hear if any damage had

been done. But, as nothing transpired, their spirits revived. A few

minutes afterwards word was brought that the Conventual Church had been

struck by a thunderbolt, but this was not regarded as a very serious

disaster. The bearer of the intelligence was little Jennet, who said she

had been caught in the ruins by the storm, and after being dreadfully

frightened by the lightning, had seen a bolt strike the steeple, and

heard some stones rattle down, after which she ran away. No one thought

of inquiring what she had been doing there at the time, but room was

made for her at the supper-table next to Sampson Harrop, while the good

steward, patting her on the head, filled her a cup of canary with his

own hand, and gave her some cates to eat.

"Ey dunna see Alizon" observed the little girl, looking round the table,

after she had drunk the wine.

"Your sister is not here, Jennet," replied Adam Whitworth, with a smile.

"She is too great a lady for us now. Since she came up with her ladyship

from the green she has been treated quite like one of the guests, and

has been walking about the garden and ruins all the afternoon with young

Mistress Dorothy, who has taken quite a fancy to her. Indeed, for the

matter of that, all the ladies seem to have taken a fancy to her, and

she is now closeted with Mistress Nutter in her own room."

This was gall and wormwood to Jennet.

"She'll be hard to please when she goes home again, after playing the

fine dame here," pursued the steward.

"Then ey hope she'll never come home again," rejoined Jennet;

spitefully, "fo' we dunna want fine dames i' our poor cottage."

"For my part I do not wonder Alizon pleases the gentle folks," observed

Sampson Harrop, "since such pains have been taken with her manners and

education; and I must say she does great credit to her instructor, who,

for reasons unnecessary to mention, shall be nameless. I wish I could

say the same for you, Jennet; but though you're not deficient in

ability, you've no perseverance or pleasure in study."

"Ey knoa os much os ey care to knoa," replied Jennet, "an more than yo

con teach me, Mester Harrop. Why is Alizon always to be thrown i' my

teeth?"

"Because she's the best model you can have," rejoined Sampson. "Ah! if

I'd my own way wi' ye, lass, I'd mend your temper and manners. But you

come of an ill stock, ye saucy hussy."

"Ey come fro' th' same stock as Alizon, onny how," said Jennet.

"Unluckily that cannot be denied," replied Sampson; "but you're as

different from her as light from darkness."

Jennet eyed him bitterly, and then rose from the table.

"Ey'n go," she said.

"No--no; sit down," interposed the good-natured steward. "The dancing

and pastimes will begin presently, and you will see your sister. She

will come down with the ladies."

"That's the very reason she wishes to go," said Sampson Harrop. "The

spiteful little creature cannot bear to see her sister better treated

than herself. Go your ways, then. It is the best thing you can do.

Alizon would blush to see you here."

"Then ey'n een stay an vex her," replied Jennet, sharply; "boh ey winna

sit near yo onny longer, Mester Sampson Harrop, who ca' yersel gentleman

usher, boh who are nah gentleman at aw, nor owt like it, boh merely

parish clerk an schoolmester, an a poor schoolmester to boot. Eyn go an

sit by Sukey Worseley an Nancy Holt, whom ey see yonder."

"You've found your match, Master Harrop," said the steward, laughing, as

the little girl walked away.

"I should account it a disgrace to bandy words with the like of her,

Adam," rejoined the clerk, angrily; "but I'm greatly out in my

reckoning, if she does not make a second Mother Demdike, and worse could

not well befall her."

Jennet's society could have been very well dispensed with by her two

friends, but she would not be shaken off. On the contrary, finding

herself in the way, she only determined the more pertinaciously to

remain, and began to exercise all her powers of teasing, which have been

described as considerable, and which on this occasion proved eminently

successful. And the worst of it was, there was no crushing the plaguy

little insect; any effort made to catch her only resulting in an escape

on her part, and a new charge on some undefended quarter, with sharper

stinging and more intolerable buzzing than ever.

Out of all patience, Sukey Worseley at length exclaimed, "Ey should

loike to see ye swum, crosswise, i' th' Calder, Jennet, as Nance

Redferne war this efternoon."

"May be ye would, Sukey," replied the little girl, "boh eym nah so

likely to be tried that way as yourself, lass; an if ey war swum ey

should sink, while yo, wi' your broad back and shouthers, would be sure

to float, an then yo'd be counted a witch."

"Heed her not, Sukey," said Blackrod, unable to resist a laugh, though

the poor girl was greatly discomfited by this personal allusion; "ye may

ha' a broad back o' our own, an the broader the better to my mind, boh

mey word on't ye'll never be ta'en fo a witch. Yo're far too comely."

This assurance was a balm to poor Sukey's wounded spirit, and she

replied with a well-pleased smile, "Ey hope ey dunna look like one,

Lorry."

"Not a bit, lass," said Blackrod, lifting a huge ale-cup to his lips.

"Your health, sweetheart."

"What think ye then o' Nance Redferne?" observed Jennet. "Is she neaw

comely?--ay, comelier far than fat, fubsy Sukey here--or than Nancy

Holt, wi' her yallo hure an frecklet feace--an yet ye ca' her a witch."

"Ey ca' thee one, theaw feaw little whean--an the dowter--an grandowter

o' one--an that's more," cried Nancy. "Freckles i' your own feace, ye

mismannert minx."

"Ne'er heed her, Nance," said Phil Rawson, putting his arm round the

angry damsel's waist, and drawing her gently down. "Every one to his

taste, an freckles an yellow hure are so to mine. So dunna fret about

it, an spoil your protty lips wi' pouting. Better ha' freckles o' your

feace than spots o' your heart, loike that ill-favort little hussy."

"Dunna offend her, Phil," said Nancy Holt, noticing with alarm the

malignant look fixed upon her lover by Jennet. "She's dawngerous."

"Firrups tak her!" replied Phil Eawson. "Boh who the dole's that? Ey

didna notice him efore, an he's neaw one o' our party."

The latter observation was occasioned by the entrance of a tall

personage, in the garb of a Cistertian monk, who issued from one of the

doorways in the screen, and glided towards the upper table, attracting

general attention and misgiving as he proceeded. His countenance was

cadaverous, his lips livid, and his eyes black and deep sunken in their

sockets, with a bistre-coloured circle around them. His frame was meagre

and bony. What remained of hair on his head was raven black, but either

he was bald on the crown, or carried his attention to costume so far as

to adopt the priestly tonsure. His forehead was lofty and sallow, and

seemed stamped, like his features, with profound gloom. His garments

were faded and mouldering, and materially contributed to his ghostly

appearance.

"Who is it?" cried Sukey and Nance together.

But no one could answer the question.

"He dusna look loike a bein' o' this warld," observed Blackrod, gaping

with alarm, for the stout keeper was easily assailable on the side of

superstition; "an there is a mowdy air about him, that gies one the

shivers to see. Ey've often heer'd say the Abbey is haanted; an that

pale-feaced chap looks like one o' th' owd monks risen fro' his grave to

join our revel."

"An see, he looks this way," cried Phil Rawson.

"What flaming een! they mey the very flesh crawl o' one's booans."

"Is it a ghost, Lorry?" said Sukey, drawing nearer to the stalwart

keeper.

"By th' maskins, lass, ey conna tell," replied Blackrod; "boh whotever

it be, ey'll protect ye."

"Tak care o' me, Phil," ejaculated Nancy Holt, pressing close to her

lover's side.

"Eigh, that I win," rejoined the forester.

"Ey dunna care for ghosts so long as yo are near me, Phil," said Nancy,

tenderly.

"Then ey'n never leave ye, Nance," replied Phil.

"Ghost or not," said Jennet, who had been occupied in regarding the

new-comer attentively, "ey'n go an speak to it. Ey'm nah afeerd, if yo

are."

"Eigh do, Jennet, that's a brave little lass," said Blackrod, glad to be

rid of her in any way.

"Stay!" cried Adam Whitworth, coming up at the moment, and overhearing

what was said--"you must not go near the gentleman. I will not have him

molested, or even spoken with, till Sir Ralph appears."

Meanwhile, the stranger, without returning the glances fixed upon him,

or deigning to notice any of the company, pursued his way, and sat down

in a chair at the upper table.

But his entrance had been witnessed by others besides the rustic guests

and servitors. Nicholas and Richard Assheton chanced to be in the

gallery at the time, and, greatly struck by the singularity of his

appearance, immediately descended to make inquiries respecting him. As

they appeared below, the old steward advanced to meet them.

"Who the devil have you got there, Adam?" asked the squire.

"It passeth me almost to tell you, Master Nicholas," replied the

steward; "and, not knowing whether the gentleman be invited or not, I am

fain to wait Sir Ralph's pleasure in regard to him."

"Have you no notion who he is?" inquired Richard.

"All I know about him may be soon told, Master Richard," replied Adam.

"He is a stranger in these parts, and hath very recently taken up his

abode in Wiswall Hall, which has been abandoned of late years, as you

know, and suffered to go to decay. Some few months ago an aged couple

from Colne, named Hewit, took possession of part of the hall, and were

suffered to remain there, though old Katty Hewit, or Mould-heels, as she

is familiarly termed by the common folk, is in no very good repute

hereabouts, and was driven, it is said from Colne, owing to her

practices as a witch. Be that as it may, soon after these Hewits were

settled at Wiswall, comes this stranger, and fixes himself in another

part of the hall. How he lives no one can tell, but it is said he

rambles all night long, like a troubled spirit, about the deserted

rooms, attended by Mother Mould-heels; while in the daytime he is never

seen."

"Can he be of sound mind?" asked Richard.

"Hardly so, I should think, Master Richard," replied the steward. "As to

who he may be there are many opinions; and some aver he is Francis

Paslew, grandson of Francis, brother to the abbot, and being a Jesuit

priest, for you know the Paslews have all strictly adhered to the old

faith--and that is why they have fled the country and abandoned their

residence--he is obliged to keep himself concealed."

"If such be the case, he must be crazed indeed to venture here,"

observed Nicholas; "and yet I am half inclined to credit the report.

Look at him, Dick. He is the very image of the old abbot."

"Yon portrait might have been painted for him," said Richard, gazing at

the picture on the wall, and from it to the monk as he spoke; "the very

same garb, too."

"There is an old monastic robe up-stairs, in the closet adjoining the

room occupied by Mistress Nutter," observed the steward, "said to be the

garment in which Abbot Paslew suffered death. Some stains are upon it,

supposed to be the blood of the wizard Demdike, who perished in an

extraordinary manner on the same day."

"I have seen it," cried Nicholas, "and the monk's habit looks precisely

like it, and, if my eyes deceive me not, is stained in the same manner."

"I see the spots plainly on the breast," cried Richard. "How can he have

procured the robe?"

"Heaven only knows," replied the old steward. "It is a very strange

occurrence."

"I will go question him," said Richard.

So saying, he proceeded to the upper table, accompanied by Nicholas. As

they drew near, the stranger arose, and fixed a grim look upon Richard,

who was a little in advance.

"It is the abbot's ghost!" cried Nicholas, stopping, and detaining his

cousin. "You shall not address it."

During the contention that ensued, the monk glided towards a side-door

at the upper end of the hall, and passed through it. So general was the

consternation, that no one attempted to stay him, nor would any one

follow to see whither he went. Released, at length, from the strong

grasp of the squire, Richard rushed forth, and not returning, Nicholas,

after the lapse of a few minutes, went in search of him, but came back

presently, and told the old steward he could neither find him nor the

monk.

"Master Richard will be back anon, I dare say, Adam," he remarked; "if

not, I will make further search for him; but you had better not mention

this mysterious occurrence to Sir Ralph, at all events not until the

festivities are over, and the ladies have retired. It might disturb

them. I fear the appearance of this monk bodes no good to our family;

and what makes it worse is, it is not the first ill omen that has

befallen us to-day, Master Richard was unlucky enough to stand on Abbot

Paslew's grave!"

"Mercy on us! that was unlucky indeed!" cried Adam, in great

trepidation. "Poor dear young gentleman! Bid him take especial care of

himself, good Master Nicholas. I noticed just now, that yon fearsome

monk regarded him more attentively than you. Bid him be careful, I

conjure you, sir. But here comes my honoured master and his guests.

Here, Gregory, Dickon, bestir yourselves, knaves; and serve supper at

the upper table in a trice."

Any apprehensions Nicholas might entertain for Richard were at this

moment relieved, for as Sir Ralph and his guests came in at one door,

the young man entered by another. He looked deathly pale. Nicholas put

his finger to his lips in token of silence--a gesture which the other

signified that he understood.

Sir Ralph and his guests having taken their places at the table, an

excellent and plentiful repast was speedily set before them, and if they

did not do quite such ample justice to it as the hungry rustics at the

lower board had done to the good things provided for them, the cook

could not reasonably complain. No allusion whatever being made to the

recent strange occurrence, the cheerfulness of the company was

uninterrupted; but the noise in the lower part of the hall had in a

great measure subsided, partly out of respect to the host, and partly in

consequence of the alarm occasioned by the supposed supernatural

visitation. Richard continued silent and preoccupied, and neither ate

nor drank; but Nicholas appearing to think his courage would be best

sustained by an extra allowance of clary and sack, applied himself

frequently to the goblet with that view, and erelong his spirits

improved so wonderfully, and his natural boldness was so much increased,

that he was ready to confront Abbot Paslew, or any other abbot of them

all, wherever they might chance to cross him. In this enterprising frame

of mind he drew Richard aside, and questioned him as to what had taken

place in his pursuit of the mysterious monk.

"You overtook him, Dick, of course?" he said, "and put it to him roundly

why he came hither, where neither ghosts nor Jesuit priests, whichever

he may be, are wanted. What answered he, eh? Would I had been there to

interrogate him! He should have declared how he became possessed of that

old moth-eaten, blood-stained, monkish gown, or I would have unfrocked

him, even if he had proved to be a skeleton. But I interrupt you. You

have not told me what occurred at the interview?"

"There was no interview," replied Richard, gravely.

"No interview!" echoed Nicholas. "S'blood, man!--but I must be careful,

for Doctor Ormerod and Parson Dewhurst are within hearing, and may

lecture me on the wantonness and profanity of swearing. By Saint Gregory

de Northbury!--no, that's an oath too, and, what is worse, a Popish

oath. By--I have several tremendous imprecations at my tongue's end, but

they shall not out. It is a sinful propensity, and must be controlled.

In a word, then, you let him escape, Dick?"

"If you were so anxious to stay him, I wonder you came not with me,"

replied Richard; "but you now hold very different language from what you

used when I quitted the hall."

"Ah, true--right--Dick," replied Nicholas; "my sentiments have undergone

a wonderful change since then. I now regret having stopped you. By my

troth! if I meet that confounded monk again, he shall give a good

account of himself, I promise him. But what said he to you, Dick? Make

an end of your story."

"I have not begun it yet," replied Richard. "But pay attention, and you

shall hear what occurred. When I rushed forth, the monk had already

gained the entrance-hall. No one was within it at the time, all the

serving-men being busied here with the feasting. I summoned him to stay,

but he answered not, and, still grimly regarding me, glided towards the

outer door, which (I know not by what chance) stood open, and passing

through it, closed it upon me. This delayed me a moment; and when I got

out, he had already descended the steps, and was moving towards the

garden. It was bright moonlight, so I could see him distinctly. And mark

this, Nicholas--the two great blood-hounds were running about at large

in the court-yard, but they slunk off, as if alarmed at his appearance.

The monk had now gained the garden, and was shaping his course swiftly

towards the ruined Conventual Church. Determined to overtake him, I

quickened my pace; but he gained the old fane before me, and threaded

the broken aisles with noiseless celerity. In the choir he paused and

confronted me. When within a few yards of him, I paused, arrested by his

fixed and terrible gaze. Nicholas, his look froze my blood. I would have

spoken, but I could not. My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth for

very fear. Before I could shake off this apprehension the figure raised

its hand menacingly thrice, and passed into the Lacy Chapel. As soon as

he was gone my courage returned, and I followed. The little chapel was

brilliantly illuminated by the moon; but it was empty. I could only see

the white monument of Sir Henry de Lacy glistening in the pale

radiance."

"I must take a cup of wine after this horrific relation," said Nicholas,

replenishing his goblet. "It has chilled my blood, as the monk's icy

gaze froze yours. Body o' me! but this is strange indeed. Another oath.

Lord help me!--I shall never get rid of the infernal--I mean, the evil

habit. Will you not pledge me, Dick?"

The young man shook his head.

"You are wrong," pursued Nicholas,--"decidedly wrong. Wine gladdeneth

the heart of man, and restoreth courage. A short while ago I was

downcast as you, melancholy as an owl, and timorous as a kid, but now I

am resolute as an eagle, stout of heart, and cheerful of spirit; and all

owing to a cup of wine. Try the remedy, Dick, and get rid of your gloom.

You look like a death's-head at a festival. What if you have stumbled on

an ill-omened grave! What if you have been banned by a witch! What if

you have stood face to face with the devil--or a ghost! Heed them not!

Drink, and set care at defiance. And, not to gainsay my own counsel, I

shall fill my cup again. For, in good sooth, this is rare clary, Dick;

and, talking of wine, you should taste some of the wonderful Rhenish

found in the abbot's cellar by our ancestor, Richard Assheton--a century

old if it be a day, and yet cordial and corroborative as ever. Those

monks were lusty tipplers, Dick. I sometimes wish I had been an abbot

myself. I should have made a rare father confessor--especially to a

pretty penitent. Here, Gregory, hie thee to the master cellarer, and bid

him fill me a goblet of the old Rhenish--the wine from the abbot's

cellar. Thou understandest--or, stay, better bring the flask. I have a

profound respect for the venerable bottle, and would pay my devoirs to

it. Hie away, good fellow!"

"You will drink too much if you go on thus," remarked Richard.

"Not a drop," rejoined Nicholas. "I am blithe as a lark, and would keep

so. That is why I drink. But to return to our ghosts. Since this place

must be haunted, I would it were visited by spirits of a livelier kind

than old Paslew. There is Isole de Heton, for instance. The fair

votaress would be the sort of ghost for me. I would not turn my back on

her, but face her manfully. Look at her picture, Dick. Was ever

countenance sweeter than hers--lips more tempting, or eyes more melting!

Is she not adorable? Zounds!" he exclaimed, suddenly pausing, and

staring at the portrait--"Would you believe it, Dick? The fair Isole

winked at me--I'll swear she did. I mean--I will venture to affirm upon

oath, if required, that she winked."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Richard. "The fumes of the wine have mounted to your

brain, and disordered it."

"No such thing," cried Nicholas, regarding the picture as steadily as he

could--"she's leering at me now. By the Queen of Paphos! another wink.

Nay, if you doubt me, watch her well yourself. A pleasant adventure

this--ha!--ha!"

"A truce to this drunken foolery," cried Richard, moving away.

"Drunken! s'death! recall that epithet, Dick," cried Nicholas, angrily.

"I am no more drunk than yourself, you dog. I can walk as steadily, and

see as plainly, as you; and I will maintain it at the point of the

sword, that the eyes of that picture have lovingly regarded me; nay,

that they follow me now."

"A common delusion with a portrait," said Richard; "they appear to

follow _me_."

"But they do not wink at you as they do at me," said Nicholas, "neither

do the lips break into smiles, and display the pearly teeth beneath

them, as occurs in my case. Grim old abbots frown on you, but fair,

though frail, votaresses smile on me. I am the favoured mortal, Dick."

"Were it as you represent, Nicholas," replied Richard, gravely, "I

should say, indeed, that some evil principle was at work to lure you

through your passions to perdition. But I know they are all fancies

engendered by your heated brain, which in your calmer moments you will

discard, as I discard them now. If I have any weight with you, I counsel

you to drink no more, or you will commit some mad foolery, of which you

will be ashamed hereafter. The discreeter course would be to retire

altogether; and for this you have ample excuse, as you will have to

arise betimes to-morrow, to set out for Pendle Forest with Master

Potts."

"Retire!" exclaimed Nicholas, bursting into a loud, contemptuous laugh.

"I like thy counsel, lad. Yes, I will retire when I have finished the

old monastic Rhenish which Gregory is bringing me. I will retire when I

have danced the Morisco with the May Queen--the Cushion Dance with Dame

Tetlow--and the Brawl with the lovely Isole de Heton. Another wink,

Dick. By our Lady! she assents to my proposition. When I have done all

this, and somewhat more, it will be time to think of retiring. But I

have the night before me, Dick--not to be spent in drowsy

unconsciousness, as thou recommendest, but in active, pleasurable

enjoyment. No man requires less sleep than I do. Ordinarily, I 'retire,'

as thou termest it, at ten, and rise with the sun. In summer I am abroad

soon after three, and mend that if thou canst, Dick. To-night I shall

seek my couch about midnight, and yet I'll warrant me I shall be the

first stirring in the Abbey; and, in any case, I shall be in the saddle

before thee."

"It may be," replied Richard; "but it was to preserve you from

extravagance to-night that I volunteered advice, which, from my

knowledge of your character, I might as well have withheld. But let me

caution you on another point. Dance with Dame Tetlow, or any other dame

you please--dance with the fair Isole de Heton, if you can prevail upon

her to descend from her frame and give you her hand; but I object--most

decidedly object--to your dancing with Alizon Device."

"Why so?" cried Nicholas; "why should I not dance with whom I please?

And what right hast thou to forbid me Alizon? Troth, lad, art thou so

ignorant of human nature as not to know that forbidden fruit is the

sweetest. It hath ever been so since the fall. I am now only the more

bent upon dancing with the prohibited damsel. But I would fain know the

principle on which thou erectest thyself into her guardian. Is it

because she fainted when thy sword was crossed with that hot-headed

fool, Sir Thomas Metcalfe, that thou flatterest thyself she is in love

with thee? Be not too sure of it, Dick. Many a timid wench has swooned

at the sight of a naked weapon, without being enamoured of the

swordsman. The fainting proves nothing. But grant she loves thee--what

then! An end must speedily come of it; so better finish at once, before

she be entangled in a mesh from which she cannot be extricated without

danger. For hark thee, Dick, whatever thou mayst think, I am not so far

gone that I know not what I say, neither is my vision so much obscured

that I see not some matters plainly enough, and I understand thee and

Alizon well, and see through you both. This matter must go no further.

It has gone too far already. After to-night you must see her no more. I

am serious in this--serious _inter pocula_, if such a thing can be. It

is necessary to observe caution, for reasons that will at once occur to

thee. Thou canst not wed this girl--then why trifle with her till her

heart be broken."

"Broken it shall never be by me!" cried Richard.

"But I tell you it will be broken, if you do not desist at once,"

rejoined Nicholas. "I was but jesting when I said I would rob you of her

in the Morisco, though it would be charity to both, and spare you many a

pang hereafter, were I to put my threat into execution. However, I have

a soft heart where aught of love is concerned, and, having pointed out

the risk you will incur, I shall leave you to follow your own devices.

But, for Alizon's sake, stop in time."

"You now speak soberly and sensibly enough, Nicholas," replied Richard,

"and I thank you heartily for your counsel; and if I do not follow it by

withdrawing at once from a pursuit which may appear to you hopeless, if

not dangerous, you will, I hope, give me credit for being actuated by

worthy motives. I will at once, and frankly admit, that I love Alizon;

and loving her, you may rest assured I would sacrifice my life a

thousand times rather than endanger her happiness. But there is a point

in her history, with which if you were acquainted, it might alter your

view of the case; but this is not the season for its disclosure,

neither, I am bound to say, does the circumstance so materially alter

the apparent posture of affairs as to remove all difficulty. On the

contrary, it leaves an insurmountable obstacle behind it."

"Are you wise, then, in going on?" asked Nicholas.

"I know not," answered Richard, "but I feel as if I were the sport of

fate. Uncertain whither to turn for the best, I leave the disposition of

my course to chance. But, alas!" he added, sadly, "all seems to point

out that this meeting with Alizon will be my last."

"Well, cheer up, lad," said Nicholas. "These afflictions are hard to

bear, it is true; but somehow they are got over. Just as if your horse

should fling you in the midst of a hedge when you are making a flying

leap, you get scratched and bruised, but you scramble out, and in a day

or two are on your legs again. Love breaks no bones, that's one comfort.

When at your age, I was desperately in love, not with Mistress Nicholas

Assheton--Heaven help the fond soul! but with--never mind with whom; but

it was not a very prudent match, and so, in my worldly wisdom, I was

obliged to cry off. A sad business it was. I thought I should have died

of it, and I made quite sure that the devoted girl would die first, in

which case we were to occupy the same grave. But I was not driven to

such a dire extremity, for before I had kept house a week, Jack Walker,

the keeper of Downham, made his appearance in my room, and after telling

me of the mischief done by a pair of otters in the Ribble, finding me in

a very desponding state, ventured to inquire if I had heard the news.

Expecting to hear of the death of the girl, I prepared myself for an

outburst of grief, and resolved to give immediate directions for a

double funeral, when he informed me--what do you think, Dick?--that she

was going to be married to himself. I recovered at once, and immediately

went out to hunt the otters, and rare sport we had. But here comes

Gregory with the famous old Rhenish. Better take a cup, Dick; this is

the best cure for the heartache, and for all other aches and grievances.

Ah! glorious stuff--miraculous wine!" he added, smacking his lips with

extraordinary satisfaction after a deep draught; "those worthy fathers

were excellent judges. I have a great reverence for them. But where can

Alizon be all this while? Supper is wellnigh over, and the dancing and

pastimes will commence anon, and yet she comes not."

"She is here," cried Richard.

And as he spoke Mistress Nutter and Alizon entered the hall.

Richard endeavoured to read in the young girl's countenance some

intimation of what had passed between her and Mistress Nutter, but he

only remarked that she was paler than before, and had traces of anxiety

about her. Mistress Nutter also looked gloomy and thoughtful, and there

was nothing in the manner or deportment of either to lead to the

conclusion, that a discovery of relationship between them had taken

place. As Alizon moved on, her eyes met those of Richard--but the look

was intercepted by Mistress Nutter, who instantly called off her

daughter's attention to herself; and, while the young man hesitated to

join them, his sister came quickly up to him, and drew him away in

another direction. Left to himself, Nicholas tossed off another cup of

the miraculous Rhenish, which improved in flavour as he discussed it,

and then, placing a chair opposite the portrait of Isole de Heton,

filled a bumper, and, uttering the name of the fair votaress, drained it

to her. This time he was quite certain he received a significant glance

in return, and no one being near to contradict him, he went on indulging

the idea of an amorous understanding between himself and the picture,

till he had finished the bottle, and obtained as many ogles as he

swallowed draughts of wine, upon which he arose and staggered off in

search of Dame Tetlow.

Meanwhile, Mistress Nutter having made her excuses to Lady Assheton for

not attending the supper, walked down the hall with her daughter, until

such time as the dancing and pastimes should commence. As will be

readily supposed under the circumstances, this part of the entertainment

was distasteful to both of them; but it could not be avoided without

entering into explanations, which Mistress Nutter was unwilling to make,

and she, therefore, counselled her daughter to act in all respects as if

she were still Alizon Device, and in no way connected with her.

"I shall take an early opportunity of announcing my intention to adopt

you," she said, "and then you can act differently. Meantime, keep near

me as much as you can. Say little to Dorothy or Richard Assheton, and

prepare to retire early; for this noisy and riotous assemblage is not

much to my taste, and I care not how soon I quit it."

Alizon assented to what was said, and stole a timid glance towards

Richard and Dorothy; but the latter, who alone perceived it, instantly

averted her head, in such way as to make it evident she wished to shun

her regards. Slight as it was, this circumstance occasioned Alizon much

pain, for she could not conceive how she had offended her new-made

friend, and it was some relief to encounter a party of acquaintances who

had risen from the lower table at her approach, though they did not

presume to address her while she was with Mistress Nutter, but waited

respectfully at a little distance. Alizon, however, flew towards them.

"Ah, Susan!--ah, Nancy!" she cried taking the hand of each--"how glad I

am to see you here; and you too, Lawrence Blackrod--and you, Phil

Rawson--and you, also, good Master Harrop. How happy you all look!"

"An wi' good reason, sweet Alizon," replied Blackrod. "Boh we began to

be afeerd we'd lost ye, an that wad ha' bin a sore mishap--to lose our

May Queen--an th' prettiest May Queen os ever dawnced i' this ha', or i'

onny other ha' i' Lonkyshiar."

"We ha drunk your health, sweet Alizon," added Phil--"an wishin' ye may

be os happy os ye desarve, wi' the mon o' your heart, if onny sich lucky

chap there be."

"Thank you--thank you both," replied Alizon, blushing; "and in return I

cannot wish you better fortune, Philip, than to be united to the good

girl near you, for I know her kindly disposition so well, that I am sure

she will make you happy."

"Ey'm satisfied on't myself," replied Rawson; "an ey hope ere long

she'll be missus o' a little cot i' Bowland Forest, an that yo'll pay us

a visit, Alizon, an see an judge fo' yourself how happy we be. Nance win

make a rare forester's wife."

"Not a bit better than my Sukey," cried Lawrence Blackrod. "Ye shanna

get th' start o' me, Phil, fo' by th' mess! the very same day os sees yo

wedded to Nancy Holt shan find me united to Sukey Worseley. An so Alizon

win ha' two cottages i' Bowland Forest to visit i'stead o' one."

"And well pleased I shall be to visit them both," she rejoined. At this

moment Mistress Nutter came up.

"My good friends," she said, "as you appear to take so much interest in

Alizon, you may be glad to learn that it is my intention to adopt her as

a daughter, having no child of my own; and, though her position

henceforth will be very different from what it has been, I am sure she

will never forget her old friends."

"Never, indeed, never!" cried Alizon, earnestly.

"This is good news, indeed," cried Sampson Harrop, joyfully, while the

others joined in his exclamation. "We all rejoice in Alizon's good

fortune, and think she richly deserves it. For my own part, I was always

sure she would have rare luck, but I did not expect such luck as this."

"What's to become o' me?" cried Jennet, coming from behind a chair,

where she had hitherto concealed herself.

"I will always take care of you," replied Alizon, stooping, and kissing

her.

"Do not promise more than you may be able to perform, Alizon," observed

Mistress Nutter, coldly, and regarding the little girl with a look of

disgust; "an ill-favour'd little creature, with the Demdike eyes."

"And as ill-tempered as she is ill-favoured," rejoined Sampson Harrop;

"and, though she cannot help being ugly, she might help being

malicious."

Jennet gave him a bitter look.

"You do her injustice, Master Harrop," said Alizon. "Poor little Jennet

is quick-tempered, but not malevolent."

"Ey con hate weel if ey conna love," replied Jennet, "an con recollect

injuries if ey forget kindnesses.--Boh dunna trouble yourself about me,

sister. Ey dunna envy ye your luck. Ey dunna want to be adopted by a

grand-dame. Ey'm content os ey am. Boh are na ye gettin' on rayther too

fast, lass? Mother's consent has to be axed, ey suppose, efore ye leave

her."

"There is little fear of her refusal," observed Mistress Nutter.

"Ey dunna knoa that," rejoined Jennet. "If she were to refuse, it wadna

surprise me."

"Nothing spiteful she could do would surprise me," remarked Harrop. "But

how are you likely to know what your mother will think and do, you

forward little hussy?"

"Ey judge fro circumstances," replied the little girl. "Mother has often

said she conna weel spare Alizon. An mayhap Mistress Nutter may knoa,

that she con be very obstinate when she tays a whim into her head."

"I _do_ know it," replied Mistress Nutter; "and, from my experience of

her temper in former days, I should be loath to have you near me, who

seem to inherit her obstinacy."

"Wi' sich misgivings ey wonder ye wish to tak Alizon, madam," said

Jennet; "fo she's os much o' her mother about her os me, onny she dunna

choose to show it."

"Peace, thou mischievous urchin," cried Mistress Nutter, losing all

patience.

"Shall I take her away?" said Harrop--seizing her hand.

"Ay, do," said Mistress Nutter.

"No, no, let her stay!" cried Alizon, quickly; "I shall be miserable if

she goes."

"Oh, ey'm quite ready to go," said Jennet, "fo ey care little fo sich

seets os this--boh efore ey leave ey wad fain say a few words to Mester

Potts, whom ey see yonder."

"What can you want with him, Jennet," cried Alizon, in surprise.

"Onny to tell him what brother Jem is gone to Pendle fo to-neet,"

replied the little girl, with a significant and malicious look at

Mistress Nutter.

"Ha!" muttered the lady. "There is more malice in this little wasp than

I thought. But I must rob it of its sting."

And while thus communing with herself, she fixed a searching look on

Jennet, and then raising her hand quickly, waved it in her face.

"Oh!" cried the little girl, falling suddenly backwards.

"What's the matter?" demanded Alizon, flying to her.

"Ey dunna reetly knoa," replied Jennet.

"She's seized with a sudden faintness," said Harrop. "Better she should

go home then at once. I'll find somebody to take her."

"Neaw, neaw, ey'n sit down here," said Jennet; "ey shan be better soon."

"Come along, Alizon," said Mistress Nutter, apparently unconcerned at

the circumstance.

Having confided the little girl, who was now recovered from the shock,

to the care of Nancy Holt, Alizon followed her mother.

At this moment Sir Ralph, who had quitted the supper-table, clapped his

hands loudly, thus giving the signal to the minstrels, who, having

repaired to the gallery, now struck up a merry tune, and instantly the

whole hall was in motion. Snatching up his wand Sampson Harrop hurried

after Alizon, beseeching her to return with him, and join a procession

about to be formed by the revellers, and of course, as May Queen, and

the most important personage in it, she could not refuse. Very short

space sufficed the morris-dancers to find their partners; Robin Hood and

the foresters got into their places; the hobby-horse curveted and

capered; Friar Tuck resumed his drolleries; and even Jack Roby was so

far recovered as to be able to get on his legs, though he could not walk

very steadily. Marshalled by the gentleman-usher, and headed by Robin

Hood and the May Queen, the procession marched round the hall, the

minstrels playing merrily the while, and then drew up before the upper

table, where a brief oration was pronounced by Sir Ralph. A shout that

made the rafters ring again followed the address, after which a couranto

was called for by the host, who, taking Mistress Nicholas Assheton by

the hand, led her into the body of the hall, whither he was speedily

followed by the other guests, who had found partners in like manner.

Before relating how the ball was opened a word must be bestowed upon

Mistress Nicholas Assheton, whom I have neglected nearly as much as she

was neglected by her unworthy spouse, and I therefore hasten to repair

the injustice by declaring that she was a very amiable and very charming

woman, and danced delightfully. And recollect, ladies, these were

dancing days--I mean days when knowledge of figures as well as skill was

required, more than twenty forgotten dances being in vogue, the very

names of which may surprise you as I recapitulate them. There was the

Passamezzo, a great favourite with Queen Elizabeth, who used to foot it

merrily, when, as you are told by Gray--

"The great Lord-keeper led the brawls,

And seals and maces danced before him!"

the grave Pavane, likewise a favourite with the Virgin Queen, and which

I should like to see supersede the eternal polka at Almack's and

elsewhere, and in which--

"Five was the number of the music's feet

Which still the dance did with live paces meet;"

the Couranto, with its "current traverses," "sliding passages," and

solemn tune, wherein, according to Sir John Davies--

--"that dancer greatest praise hath won

Who with best order can all order shun;"

the Lavolta, also delineated by the same knowing hand--

"Where arm in arm two dancers are entwined,

And whirl themselves with strict embracements bound,

their feet an anapest do sound."

Is not this very much like a waltz? Yes, ladies, you have been dancing

the lavolta of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries without being

aware of it. But there was another waltz still older, called the

Sauteuse, which I suspect answered to your favourite polka. Then there

were brawls, galliards, paspys, sarabands, country-dances of various

figures, cushion dances (another dance I long to see revived), kissing

dances, and rounds, any of which are better than the objectionable

polka. Thus you will see that there was infinite variety at least at the

period under consideration, and that you have rather retrograded than

advanced in the saltatory art. But to return to the ball.

Mistress Nicholas Assheton, I have said, excelled in the graceful

accomplishment of dancing, and that was probably the reason why she had

been selected for the couranto by Sir Ralph, who knew the value of a

good partner. By many persons she was accounted the handsomest woman in

the room, and in dignity of carriage she was certainly unrivalled. This

was precisely what Sir Ralph required, and having executed a few

"current traverses and sliding passages" with her, with a gravity and

stateliness worthy of Sir Christopher Hatton himself, when graced by the

hand of his sovereign mistress, he conducted her, amid the hushed

admiration of the beholders, to a seat. Still the dance continued with

unabated spirit; all those engaged in it running up and down, or

"turning and winding with unlooked-for change." Alizon's hand had been

claimed by Richard Assheton, and next to the stately host and his

dignified partner, they came in for the largest share of admiration and

attention; and if the untutored girl fell short of the accomplished dame

in precision and skill, she made up for the want of them in natural

grace and freedom of movement, for the display of which the couranto,

with its frequent and impromptu changes, afforded ample opportunity.

Even Sir Ralph was struck with her extreme gracefulness, and pointed her

out to Mistress Nicholas, who, unenvying and amiable, joined heartily in

his praises. Overhearing what was said, Mrs. Nutter thought it a fitting

opportunity to announce her intention of adopting the young girl; and

though Sir Ralph seemed a good deal surprised at the suddenness of the

declaration, he raised no objection to the plan; but, on the contrary,

applauded it. But another person, by no means disposed to regard it in

an equally favourable light became acquainted with the intelligence at

the same time. This was Master Potts, who instantly set his wits at work

to discover its import. Ever on the alert, his little eyes, sharp as

needles, had detected Jennet amongst the rustic company, and he now made

his way towards her, resolved, by dint of cross-questioning and

otherwise, to extract all the information he possibly could from her.

The dance over, Richard and his partner wandered towards a more retired

part of the hall.

"Why does your sister shun me?" inquired Alizon, with a look of great

distress. "What can I have done to offend her? Whenever I regard her she

averts her head, and as I approached her just now, she moved away,

making it evident she designed to avoid me. If I could think myself in

any way different from what I was this morning, when she treated me with

such unbounded confidence and kindness, or accuse myself of any offence

towards her, even in thought, I could understand it; but as it is, her

present coldness appears inexplicable and unreasonable, and gives me

great pain. I would not forfeit her regard for worlds, and therefore

beseech you to tell me what I have done amiss, that I may endeavour to

repair it."

"You have done nothing--nothing whatever, sweet girl," replied Richard.

"It is only caprice on Dorothy's part, and except that it distresses

you, her conduct, which you justly call 'unreasonable,' does not deserve

a moment's serious consideration."

"Oh no! you cannot deceive me thus," cried Alizon. "She is too kind--too

well-judging, to be capricious. Something must have occurred to make her

change her opinion of me, though what it is I cannot conjecture. I have

gained much to-day--more than I had any right to expect; but if I have

forfeited the good opinion of your sister, the loss of her friendship

will counterbalance all the rest."

"But you have not lost it, Alizon," replied Richard, earnestly. "Dorothy

has got some strange notions into her head, which only require to be

combated. She does not like Mistress Nutter, and is piqued and

displeased by the extraordinary interest which that lady displays

towards you. That is all."

"But why should she not like Mistress Nutter?" inquired Alizon.

"Nay, there is no accounting for fancies," returned Richard, with a

faint smile. "I do not attempt to defend her, but simply offer the only

excuse in my power for her conduct."

"I am concerned to hear it," said Alizon, sadly, "because henceforth I

shall be so intimately connected with Mistress Nutter, that this

estrangement, which I hoped arose only from some trivial cause, and

merely required a little explanation to be set aside, may become widened

and lasting. Owing every thing to Mistress Nutter, I must espouse her

cause; and if your sister likes her not, she likes me not in

consequence, and therefore we must continue divided. But surely her

dislike is of very recent date, and cannot have any strong hold upon

her; for when she and Mistress Nutter met this morning, a very different

feeling seemed to animate her."

"So, indeed, it did," replied Richard, visibly embarrassed and

distressed. "And since you have made me acquainted with the new tie and

interests you have formed, I can only regret alluding to the

circumstance."

"That you may not misunderstand me," said Alizon, "I will explain the

extent of my obligations to Mistress Nutter, and then you will perceive

how much I am bounden to her. Childless herself, greatly interested in

me, and feeling for my unfortunate situation, with infinite goodness of

heart she has declared her intention of removing me from all chance of

baneful influence, from the family with whom I have been heretofore

connected, by adopting me as her daughter."

"I should indeed rejoice at this," said Richard, "were it not that--"

And he stopped, gazing anxiously at her.

"Were not what?" cried Alizon, alarmed by his looks. "What do you mean?"

"Do not press me further," he rejoined; "I cannot answer you. Indeed I

have said too much already."

"You have said too much or too little," cried Alizon. "Speak, I implore

you. What mean these dark hints which you throw out, and which like

shadows elude all attempts to grasp them! Do not keep me in this state

of suspense and agitation. Your looks speak more than your words. Oh,

give your thoughts utterance!"

"I cannot," replied Richard. "I do not believe what I have heard, and

therefore will not repeat it. It would only increase the mischief. But

oh! tell me this! Was it, indeed, to remove you from the baneful

influence of Elizabeth Device that Mistress Nutter adopted you?"

"Other motives may have swayed her, and I have said they did so,"

replied Alizon; "but that wish, no doubt, had great weight with her.

Nay, notwithstanding her abhorrence of the family, she has kindly

consented to use her best endeavours to preserve little Jennet from

further ill, as well as to reclaim poor misguided Elizabeth herself."

"Oh! what a weight you have taken from my heart," cried Richard,

joyfully. "I will tell Dorothy what you say, and it will at once remove

all her doubts and suspicions. She will now be the same to you as ever,

and to Mistress Nutter."

"I will not ask you what those doubts and suspicions were, since you so

confidently promise me this, which is all I desire," replied Alizon,

smiling; "but any unfavourable opinions entertained of Mistress Nutter

are wholly undeserved. Poor lady! she has endured many severe trials and

sufferings, and whenever you learn the whole of her history, she will, I

am sure, have your sincere sympathy."

"You have certainly produced a complete revolution in my feelings

towards her," said Richard, "and I shall not be easy till I have made a

like convert of Dorothy."

At this moment a loud clapping of hands was heard, and Nicholas was seen

marching towards the centre of the hall, preceded by the minstrels, who

had descended for the purpose from the gallery, and bearing in his arms

a large red velvet cushion. As soon as the dancers had formed a wide

circle round him, a very lively tune called "Joan Sanderson," from which

the dance about to be executed sometimes received its name, was struck

up, and the squire, after a few preliminary flourishes, set down the

cushion, and gave chase to Dame Tetlow, who, threading her way rapidly

through the ring, contrived to elude him. This chase, accompanied by

music, excited shouts of laughter on all hands, and no one knew which

most to admire, the eagerness of the squire, or the dexterity of the

lissom dame in avoiding him.

Exhausted at length, and baffled in his quest, Nicholas came to a halt

before Tom the Piper, and, taking up the cushion, thus preferred his

complaint:--"This dance it can no further go--no further go."

Whereupon the piper chanted in reply,--"I pray you, good sir, why say

you so--why say you so?"

Amidst general laughter, the squire tenderly and touchingly

responded--"Because Dame Tetlow will not come to--will not come to."

Whereupon Tom the Piper, waxing furious, blew a shrill whistle,

accompanied by an encouraging rattle of the tambarine, and enforcing the

mandate by two or three energetic stamps on the floor, delivered himself

in this fashion:--"She _must_ come to, and she SHALL come to. And she

must come, whether she will or no."

Upon this two of the prettiest female morris-dancers, taking each a hand

of the blushing and overheated Dame Tetlow, for she had found the chase

rather warm work, led her forward; while the squire advancing very

gallantly placed the cushion upon the ground before her, and as she

knelt down upon it, bestowed a smacking kiss upon her lips. This

ceremony being performed amidst much tittering and flustering,

accompanied by many knowing looks and some expressed wishes among the

swains, who hoped that their turn might come next, Dame Tetlow arose,

and the squire seizing her hand, they began to whisk round in a sort of

jig, singing merrily as they danced--

"Prinkum prankum is a fine dance,

And we shall go dance it once again!

Once again,

And we shall go dance it once again!"

And they made good the words too; for on coming to a stop, Dame Tetlow

snatched up the cushion, and ran in search of the squire, who retreating

among the surrounding damsels, made sad havoc among them, scarcely

leaving a pretty pair of lips unvisited. Oh Nicholas! Nicholas! I am

thoroughly ashamed of you, and regret becoming your historian. You get

me into an infinitude of scrapes. But there is a rod in pickle for you,

sir, which shall be used with good effect presently. Tired of such an

unprofitable quest, Dame Tetlow came to a sudden halt, addressed the

piper as Nicholas had addressed him, and receiving a like answer,

summoned the delinquent to come forward; but as he knelt down on the

cushion, instead of receiving the anticipated salute, he got a sound box

on the ears, the dame, actuated probably by some feeling of jealousy,

taking advantage of the favourable opportunity afforded her of avenging

herself. No one could refrain from laughing at this unexpected turn in

affairs, and Nicholas, to do him justice, took it in excellent part, and

laughed louder than the rest. Springing to his feet, he snatched the

kiss denied him by the spirited dame, and led her to obtain some

refreshment at the lower table, of which they both stood in need, while

the cushion being appropriated by other couples, other boxes on the ear

and kisses were interchanged, leading to an infinitude of merriment.

Long before this Master Potts had found his way to Jennet, and as he

drew near, affecting to notice her for the first time, he made some

remarks upon her not looking very well.

"'Deed, an ey'm nah varry weel," replied the little girl, "boh ey knoa

who ey han to thonk fo' my ailment."

"Your sister, most probably," suggested the attorney. "It must be very

vexatious to see her so much noticed, and be yourself so much

neglected--very vexatious, indeed--I quite feel for you."

"By dunna want your feelin'," replied Jennet, nettled by the remark;

"boh it wasna my sister os made me ill."

"Who was it then, my little dear," said Potts.

"Dunna 'dear' me," retorted Jennet; "yo're too ceevil by half, os the

lamb said to the wolf. Boh sin ye mun knoa, it wur Mistress Nutter."

"Aha! very good--I mean--very bad," cried Potts. "What did Mistress

Nutter do to you, my little dear? Don't be afraid of telling me. If I

can do any thing for you I shall be very happy. Speak out--and don't be

afraid."

"Nay fo' shure, ey'm nah afeerd," returned Jennet. "Boh whot mays ye so

inqueesitive? Ye want to get summat out'n me, ey con see that plain

enough, an os ye stand there glenting at me wi' your sly little een, ye

look loike an owd fox ready to snap up a chicken o' th' furst

opportunity."

"Your comparison is not very flattering, Jennet," replied Potts; "but I

pass it by for the sake of its cleverness. You are a sharp child,

Jennet--a very sharp child. I remarked that from the first moment I saw

you. But in regard to Mistress Nutter, she seems a very nice lady--and

must be a very kind lady, since she has made up her mind to adopt your

sister. Not that I am surprised at her determination, for really Alizon

is so superior--so unlike--"

"Me, ye wad say," interrupted Jennet. "Dunna be efeerd to speak out,

sir."

"No, no," replied Potts, "on the contrary, there's a very great likeness

between you. I saw you were sisters at once. I don't know which is the

cleverest or prettiest--but perhaps you are the sharpest. Yes, you are

the sharpest, undoubtedly, Jennet. If I wished to adopt any one, which

unfortunately I'm not in a condition to do, having only bachelor's

chambers in Chancery Lane, it should be you. But I can put you in a way

of making your fortune, Jennet, and that's the next best thing to

adopting you. Indeed, it's much better in my case."

"May my fortune!" cried the little girl, pricking up her ears, "ey

should loike to knoa how ye wad contrive that."

"I'll show you how directly, Jennet," returned Potts. "Pay particular

attention to what I say, and think it over carefully, when you are by

yourself. You are quite aware that there is a great talk about witches

in these parts; and, I may speak it without offence to you, your own

family come under the charge. There is your grandmother Demdike, for

instance, a notorious witch--your mother, Dame Device, suspected--your

brother James suspected."

"Weel, sir," cried Jennet, eyeing him sharply, "what does all this

suspicion tend to?"

"You shall hear, my little dear," returned Potts. "It would not surprise

me, if every one of your family, including yourself, should be arrested,

shut up in Lancaster Castle, and burnt for witches!"

"Alack a day! an this ye ca' makin my fortin," cried Jennet, derisively.

"Much obleeged to ye, sir, boh ey'd leefer be without the luck."

"Listen to me," pursued Potts, chuckling, "and I will point out to you a

way of escaping the general fate of your family--not merely of escaping

it--but of acquiring a large reward. And that is by giving evidence

against them--by telling all you know--you understand--eh!"

"Yeigh, ey think ey _do_ onderstond," replied Jennet, sullenly. "An so

this is your grand scheme, eh, sir?"

"This is my scheme, Jennet," said Potts, "and a notable scheme it is,

my little lass. Think it over. You're an admissible and indeed a

desirable witness; for our sagacious sovereign has expressly observed

that 'bairns,' (I believe you call children 'bairns' in Lancashire,

Jennet; your uncouth dialect very much resembles the Scottish language,

in which our learned monarch writes as well as speaks)--'bairns,' says

he, 'or wives, or never so defamed persons, may of our law serve for

sufficient witnesses and proofs; for who but witches can be proofs, and

so witnesses of the doings of witches.'"

"Boh, ey am neaw witch, ey tell ye, mon," cried Jennet, angrily.

"But you're a witch's bairn, my little lassy," replied Potts, "and

that's just as bad, and you'll grow up to be a witch in due time--that

is, if your career be not cut short. I'm sure you must have witnessed

some strange things when you visited your grandmother at Malkin

Tower--that, if I mistake not, is the name of her abode?--and a fearful

and witch-like name it is;--you must have heard frequent mutterings and

curses, spells, charms, and diabolical incantations--beheld strange and

monstrous visions--listened to threats uttered against people who have

afterwards perished unaccountably."

"Ey've heerd an seen nowt o't sort," replied Jennet; "boh ey' han heerd

my mother threaten yo."

"Ah, indeed," cried Potts, forcing a laugh, but looking rather blank

afterwards; "and how did she threaten me, Jennet, eh?--But no matter.

Let that pass for the moment. As I was saying, you must have seen

mysterious proceedings both at Malkin Tower and your own house. A black

gentleman with a club foot must visit you occasionally, and your mother

must, now and then--say once a week--take a fancy to riding on a

broomstick. Are you quite sure you have never ridden on one yourself,

Jennet, and got whisked up the chimney without being aware of it? It's

the common witch conveyance, and said to be very expeditious and

agreeable--but I can't vouch for it myself--ha! ha! Possibly--though you

are rather young--but possibly, I say, you may have attended a witch's

Sabbath, and seen a huge He-Goat, with four horns on his head, and a

large tail, seated in the midst of a large circle of devoted admirers.

If you have seen this, and can recollect the names and faces of the

assembly, it would be highly important."

"When ey see it, ey shanna forget it," replied Jennet. "Boh ey am nah

quite so familiar wi' Owd Scrat os yo seem to suppose."

"Has it ever occurred to you that Alizon might be addicted to these

practices?" pursued Potts, "and that she obtained her extraordinary and

otherwise unaccountable beauty by some magical process--some charm--some

diabolical unguent prepared, as the Lord Keeper of the Privy Seals, the

singularly learned Lord Bacon, declares, from fat of unbaptised babes,

compounded with henbane, hemlock, mandrake, moonshade, and other

terrible ingredients. She could not be so beautiful without some such

aid."

"That shows how little yo knoaw about it," replied Jennet. "Alizon is os

good as she's protty, and dunna yo think to wheedle me into sayin' out

agen her, fo' yo winna do it. Ey'd dee rayther than harm a hure o' her

heaod."

"Very praiseworthy, indeed, my little dear," replied Potts, ironically.

"I honour you for your sisterly affection; but, notwithstanding all

this, I cannot help thinking she has bewitched Mistress Nutter."

"Licker, Mistress Nutter has bewitched her," replied Jennet.

"Then you think Mistress Nutter is a witch, eh?" cried Potts, eagerly.

"Ey'st neaw tell ye what ey think, mon," rejoined Jennet, doggedly.

"But hear me," cried Potts, "I have my own suspicions, also, nay, more

than suspicions."

"If ye're shure, yo dunna want me," said Jennet.

"But I want a witness," pursued Potts, "and if you'll serve as one--"

"Whot'll ye gi' me?" said Jennet.

"Whatever you like," rejoined Potts. "Only name the sum. So you can

prove the practice of witchcraft against Mistress Nutter--eh?"

Jennet nodded. "Wad ye loike to knoa why brother Jem is gone to Pendle

to-neet?" she said.

"Very much, indeed," replied Potts, drawing still nearer to her. "Very

much, indeed."

The little girl was about to speak, but on a sudden a sharp convulsion

agitated her frame; her utterance totally failed her; and she fell back

in the seat insensible.

Very much startled, Potts flew in search of some restorative, and on

doing so, he perceived Mistress Nutter moving away from this part of the

hall.

"She has done it," he cried. "A piece of witchcraft before my very eyes.

Has she killed the child? No; she breathes, and her pulse beats, though

faintly. She is only in a swoon, but a deep and deathlike one. It would

be useless to attempt to revive her; she must come to in her own way, or

at the pleasure of the wicked woman who has thrown her into this

condition. I have now an assured witness in this girl. But I must keep

watch upon Mistress Nutter's further movements."

And he walked cautiously after her.

As Richard had anticipated, his explanation was perfectly satisfactory

to Dorothy; and the young lady, who had suffered greatly from the

restraint she had imposed upon herself, flew to Alizon, and poured

forth excuses, which were as readily accepted as they were freely made.

They were instantly as great friends as before, and their brief

estrangement only seemed to make them dearer to each other. Dorothy

could not forgive herself, and Alizon assured her there was nothing to

be forgiven, and so they took hands upon it, and promised to forget all

that had passed. Richard stood by, delighted with the change, and

wrapped in the contemplation of the object of his love, who, thus

engaged, seemed to him more beautiful than he had ever beheld her.

Towards the close of the evening, while all three were still together.

Nicholas came up and took Richard aside. The squire looked flushed; and

there was an undefined expression of alarm in his countenance.

"What is the matter?" inquired Richard, dreading to hear of some new

calamity.

"Have you not noticed it, Dick?" said Nicholas, in a hollow tone. "The

portrait is gone."

"What portrait?" exclaimed Richard, forgetting the previous

circumstances.

"The portrait of Isole de Heton," returned Nicholas, becoming more

sepulchral in his accents as he proceeded; "it has vanished from the

wall. See and believe."

"Who has taken it down?" cried Richard, remarking that the picture had

certainly disappeared.

"No mortal hand," replied Nicholas. "It has come down of itself. I knew

what would happen, Dick. I told you the fair votaress gave me the _clin

d'oeil_--the wink. You would not believe me then--and now you see your

mistake."

"I see nothing but the bare wall," said Richard.

"But you will see something anon, Dick," rejoined Nicholas, with a

hollow laugh, and in a dismally deep tone. "You will see Isole herself.

I was foolhardy enough to invite her to dance the brawl with me. She

smiled her assent, and winked at me thus--very significantly, I protest

to you--and she will be as good as her word."

"Absurd!" exclaimed Richard.

"Absurd, sayest thou--thou art an infidel, and believest nothing, Dick,"

cried Nicholas. "Dost thou not see that the picture is gone? She will be

here presently. Ha! the brawl is called for--the very dance I invited

her to. She must be in the room now. I will go in search of her. Look

out, Dick. Thou wilt behold a sight presently shall make thine hair

stand on end."

And he moved away with a rapid but uncertain step.

"The potent wine has confused his brain," said Richard. "I must see that

no mischance befalls him."

And, waving his hand to his sister, he followed the squire, who moved