Many hours had passed by, and night had come on--a night profoundly
dark. Richard was still lying where he had fallen at the foot of Malkin
Tower; for though he had regained his sensibility, he was so bruised and
shaken as to be wholly unable to move. His limbs, stiffened and
powerless, refused their office, and, after each unsuccessful effort, he
sank back with a groan.
His sole hope was that Mistress Nutter, alarmed by his prolonged
absence, might come to her daughter's assistance, and so discover his
forlorn situation; but as time flew by, and nothing occurred, he gave
himself up for lost.
On a sudden the gloom was dispersed, and a silvery light shed over the
scene. The moon had broken through a rack of clouds, and illumined the
tall mysterious tower, and the dreary waste around it. With the light a
ghostly figure near him became visible to Richard, which under other
circumstances would have excited terror in his breast, but which now
only filled him with wonder. It was that of a Cistertian monk; the
vestments were old and faded, the visage white and corpse-like. Richard
at once recognised the phantom he had seen in the banquet-hall at the
Abbey, and had afterwards so rashly followed to the conventual church.
It touched him with its icy fingers, and a dullness like death shot
through his heart.
"Why dost thou trouble me thus, unhappy spirit?" said the young man.
"Leave me, I adjure thee, and let me die in peace!"
"Thou wilt not die yet, Richard Assheton," returned the phantom; "and my
intention is not to trouble thee, but to serve thee. Without my aid thou
wouldst perish where thou liest, but I will raise thee up, and set thee
on thy way."
"Wilt thou help me to liberate Alizon?" demanded Richard.
"Do not concern thyself further about her," replied the phantom; "she
must pass through an ordeal with which nothing human may interfere. If
she escape it you will meet again. If not, it were better thou shouldst
be in thy grave than see her. Take this phial. Drink thou the liquid it
contains, and thy strength will return to thee."
"How do I know thou art not sent hither by Mother Demdike to tempt
me?" demanded Richard, doubtfully. "I have already fallen into her
snares," he added, with a groan.
[Illustration: THE PHANTOM MONK.]
"I am Mother Demdike's enemy, and the appointed instrument of her
punishment," replied the monk, in a tone that did not admit of question.
"Drink, and fear nothing."
Richard obeyed, and the next moment sprang to his feet.
"Thou hast indeed restored me!" he cried. "I would fain reach the secret
entrance to the tower."
"Attempt it not, I charge thee!" cried the phantom; "but depart
instantly for Pendle Hill."
"Wherefore should I go thither?" demanded Richard.
"Thou wilt learn anon," returned the monk. "I cannot tell thee more now.
Dismount at the foot of the hill, and proceed to the beacon. Thou
know'st it?"
"I do," replied Richard. "There a fire was lighted which was meant to
set all England in a blaze."
"And which led many good men to destruction," said the monk, in a tone
of indescribable sadness. "Alas! for him who kindled it. The offence is
not yet worked out. But depart without more delay; and look not back."
As Richard hastened towards the spot where he had left Merlin, he
fancied he was followed by the phantom; but, obedient to the injunction
he received, he did not turn his head. As he mounted the horse, who
neighed cheerily as he drew near, he found he was right in supposing the
monk to be behind him, for he heard his voice calling out, "Linger not
by the way. To the beacon!--to the beacon!"
Thus exhorted, the young man dashed off, and, to his great surprise,
found Merlin as fresh as if he had undergone no fatigue during the day.
It would almost seem, from his spirit, that he had partaken of the same
wondrous elixir which had revived his master. Down the hill he plunged,
regardless of the steep descent, and soon entered the thicket where the
storm had fallen upon them, and where so many acts of witchcraft were
performed. Now, neither accident nor obstacle occurred to check the
headlong pace of the animal, though the stones rattled after him as he
struck them with his flying hoof. The moonlight quivered on the branches
of the trees, and on the tender spray, and all looked as tranquil and
beautiful as it had so lately been gloomy and disturbed. The wood was
passed, and the last and steepest descent cleared. The little bridge was
at hand, and beneath was Pendle Water, rushing over its rocky bed, and
glittering like silver in the moon's rays. But here Richard had wellnigh
received a check. A party of armed men, it proved, occupied the road
leading to Rough Lee, about a bow-shot from the bridge, and as soon as
they perceived he was taking the opposite course, with the apparent
intention of avoiding them, they shouted to him to stay. This shout made
Richard aware of their presence, for he had not before observed them,
as they were concealed by the intervention of some small trees; but
though surprised at the circumstance, and not without apprehension that
they might be there with a hostile design to Mistress Nutter, he did not
slacken his pace. A horseman, who appeared to be their leader, rode
after him for a short distance, but finding pursuit futile, he desisted,
pouring forth a volley of oaths and threats, in a voice that proclaimed
him as Sir Thomas Metcalfe. This discovery confirmed Richard in his
supposition that mischief was intended Mistress Nutter; but even this
conviction, strengthened by his antipathy to Metcalfe, was not
sufficiently strong to induce him to stop. Promising himself to return
on the morrow, and settle accounts with the insolent knight, he speeded
on, and, passing the mill, tracked the rocky gorge above it, and began
to mount another hill. Despite the ascent, Merlin never slackened his
pace, but, though his master would have restrained him, held on as
before. But the brow of the hill attained, Richard compelled him to a
brief halt.
By this time the sky was comparatively clear, but small clouds were
sailing across the heavens, and at one moment the moon would be obscured
by them, and the next, burst forth with sudden effulgence. These
alternations produced corresponding effects on the broad, brown, heathy
plain extending below, and fantastic shadows were cast upon it, which it
needed not Richard's heated imagination to liken to evil beings flying
past. The wind, too, lay in the direction of the north end of Pendle
Hill, whither Richard was about to shape his course, and the shadows
consequently trooped off towards that quarter. The vast mass of Pendle
rose in gloomy majesty before him, being thrown into shade, except at
its crown, where a flood of radiance rested.
Like an eagle swooping upon his prey, Richard descended into the valley,
and like a stag pursued by the huntsman he speeded across it. Neither
dyke, morass, nor stone wall checked him, or made him turn aside; and
almost as fast as the clouds hurrying above him, and their shadows
travelling at his feet, did he reach the base of Pendle Hill.
Making up to a shed, which, though empty, luckily contained a wisp or
two of hay, he turned Merlin into it, and commenced the ascent of the
hill on foot. After attaining a considerable elevation, he looked down
from the giddy heights upon the valley he had just traversed. A few
huts, forming the little village of Barley, lay sleeping in the
moonlight beneath him, while further off could be just discerned
Goldshaw, with its embowered church. A line of thin vapour marked the
course of Pendle Water, and thicker mists hovered over the mosses. The
shadows were still passing over the plain.
Pressing on, Richard soon came among the rocks protruding from the
higher part of the hill, and as the path was here not more than a foot
wide, rarely taken except by the sheep and their guardians, it was
necessary to proceed with the utmost caution, as a single false step
would have been fatal. After some toil, and not without considerable
risk, he reached the summit of the hill.
As he bounded over the springy turf, and inhaled the pure air of that
exalted region, his spirits revived, and new elasticity was communicated
to his limbs. He shaped his course near the edge of the hill, so that
the extensive view it commanded was fully displayed. But his eye rested
on the mountainous range on the opposite side of the valley, where
Malkin Tower was situated. Even in broad day the accursed structure
would have been invisible, as it stood on the further side of the hill,
overlooking Barrowford and Colne; but Richard knew its position well,
and while his gaze was fixed upon the point, he saw a star shoot down
from the heavens and apparently alight near the spot. The circumstance
alarmed him, for he could not help thinking it ominous of ill to Alizon.
Nothing, however, followed to increase his misgivings, and erelong he
came in sight of the beacon. The ground had been gradually rising, and
if he had proceeded a few hundred yards further, a vast panorama would
have opened upon him, comprising a large part of Lancashire on the one
hand, and on the other an equally extensive portion of Yorkshire. Forest
and fell, black moor and bright stream, old castle and stately hall,
would have then been laid before him as in a map. But other thoughts
engrossed him, and he went straight on. As far as he could discern he
was alone on the hill top; and the silence and solitude, coupled with
the ill report of the place, which at this hour was said to be often
visited by foul hags, for the performance of their unhallowed rites,
awakened superstitious fears in his breast.
He was soon by the side of the beacon. The stones were still standing as
they had been reared by Paslew, and on looking at them he was astonished
to find the hollow within them filled with dry furze, brushwood, and
fagots, as if in readiness for another signal. In passing round the
circle, his surprise was still further increased by discovering a torch,
and not far from it, in one of the interstices of the stones, a dark
lantern, in which, on removing the shade, he found a candle burning. It
was now clear the beacon was to be kindled that night, though for what
end he could not conjecture, and equally clear that he was brought
thither to fire it. He put back the lantern into its place, took up the
torch, and held himself in readiness.
Half an hour elapsed, and nothing occurred. During this interval it had
become dark. A curtain of clouds was drawn over the moon and stars.
Suddenly, a hurtling noise was heard in the air, and it seemed to the
watcher as if a troop of witches were alighting at a distance from him.
A loud hubbub of voices ensued--then there was a trampling of feet,
accompanied by discordant strains of music--after which a momentary
silence ensued, and a harsh voice asked--
"Why are we brought hither?"
"It is not for a sabbath," shouted another voice, "for there is neither
fire nor caldron."
"Mother Demdike would not summon us without good reason," cried a third.
"We shall learn presently what we have to do."
"The more mischief the better," rejoined another voice.
"Ay, mischief! mischief! mischief!" echoed the rest of the crew.
"You shall have enough of it to content you," rejoined Mother Demdike.
"I have called you hither to be present at a sacrifice."
Hideous screams of laughter followed this announcement, and the voice
that had spoken first asked--
"A sacrifice of whom?"
"An unbaptised babe, stolen from its sleeping mother's breast," rejoined
another. "Mother Demdike has often played that trick before--ho! ho!"
"Peace!" thundered the hag--"It is no babe I am about to kill, but a
full-grown maid--ay, and one of rarest beauty, too. What think ye of
Alizon Device?"
"Thy grand-daughter!" cried several voices, in surprise.
"Alice Nutter's daughter--for such she is," rejoined the hag. "I have
held her captive in Malkin Tower, and have subjected her to every trial
and temptation I could devise, but I have failed in shaking her courage,
or in winning her over to our master. All the horrors of the vault have
been tried upon her in vain. Even the last terrible ordeal, which no one
has hitherto sustained, proved ineffectual. She went through it
unmoved."
"Heaven be praised!" murmured Richard.
"It seems I have no power over her soul" pursued the hag; "but I have
over her body, and she shall die here, and by my hand. But mind me, not
a drop of blood must fall to the ground."
"Have no fear," cried several voices, "we will catch it in our palms and
quaff it."
"Hast thou thy knife, Mould-heels?" asked Mother Demdike.
"Ay," replied the other, "it is long and sharp, and will do thy business
well. Thy grandson, Jem Device, notched it by killing swine, and my
goodman ground it only yesterday. Take it."
"I will plunge it to her heart!" cried Mother Demdike, with an infernal
laugh. "And now I will tell you why we have neither fire nor caldron. On
questioning the ebon image in the vault as to the place where the
sacrifice should be made, I received for answer that it must be here,
and in darkness. No human eye but our own must behold it. We are safe on
this score, for no one is likely to come hither at this hour. No fire
must be kindled, or the sacrifice will result in destruction to us all.
Ye have heard, and understand?"
"We do," replied several husky voices.
"And so do I," said Richard, taking hold of the dark lantern.
"And now for the girl," cried Mother Demdike.