While elbowing his way through the crowd, Nicholas felt his sleeve

plucked, and turning, perceived Nance Redferne, who signed him to follow

her, and there was something in her manner that left him no alternative

but compliance. Nance passed on rapidly, and entered the doorway of a

building, where it might be supposed they would be free from

interruption.

"What do you want with me, Nance?" asked the squire, somewhat

impatiently. "I must beg to observe that I cannot be troubled further on

your account, and am greatly afraid aspersions may be thrown on my

character, if I am seen talking with you."

"A few words wi' me winna injure your character, squire," rejoined

Nance, "an it's on your account an naw on my own that ey ha' brought you

here. Ey ha' important information to gie ye. What win yo say when ey

tell yo that Jem Device, Elizabeth Device, an' her dowter Jennet are

here--aw breedin mischief agen yo, Ruchot Assheton, and Alizon?"

"The devil!" ejaculated Nicholas.

"Eigh, yo'n find it the devil, ey con promise ye, onless their plans be

frustrated," said Nance.

"That can be easily done," replied Nicholas. "I'll cause them to be

arrested at once."

"Nah, nah--that canna be," rejoined Nance--"Yo mun bide your time."

"What! and allow such miscreants to go at large, and work any malice

they please against me and my friends!" replied Nicholas. "Show me where

they are, Nance, or I must make you a prisoner."

"Nah! yo winna do that, squire," she replied in a tone of good-humoured

defiance. "Ye winna do it for two good reasons: first, becose yo'd be

harming a freend who wants to sarve yo, and _win_ do so, if yo'n let

her; and secondly, becose if yo wur to raise a finger agen me, ey'd

deprive yo of speech an motion. When the reet moment comes yo shan

strike--boh it's nah come yet. The fruit is nah ripe eneugh to gather.

Ey am os anxious os you con be, that the whole o' the Demdike brood

should be swept away--an it shan be, if yo'n leave it to me."

"Well, I commit the matter entirely to you," said Nicholas. "Apparently,

it cannot be in better hands. But are you aware that Christopher Demdike

is a prisoner here in Hoghton Tower? He was taken this morning in the

park."

"Ey knoa it," replied Nance; "an ey knoa also why he went there, an it

wur my intention to ha' revealed his black design to yo. However, it has

bin ordert differently. Boh in respect to t'others, wait till I gie yo

the signal. They are disguised; boh even if ye see 'em, an recognise

'em, dunna let it appear till ey gie the word, or yo'n spoil aw."

"Your injunctions shall be obeyed implicitly, Nance," rejoined,

Nicholas. "I have now perfect reliance upon you. But when shall I see

you again?"

"That depends upon circumstances," she replied. "To-neet, may be--may be

to-morrow neet. My plans maun be guided by those of others. Boh when

next yo see me you win ha' to act."

And, without waiting an answer, she rushed out of the doorway, and,

mingling with the crowd, was instantly lost to view; while Nicholas,

full of the intelligence he had received, betook himself slowly to his

lodgings.

Scarcely were they gone when a door, which had been standing ajar, near

them, was opened wide, and disclosed the keen visage of Master Potts.

"Here's a pretty plot hatching--here's a nice discovery I have made!"

soliloquised the attorney. "The whole Demdike family, with the exception

of the old witch herself, whom I saw burnt on Pendle Hill, are at

Hoghton Tower. This shall be made known to the King. I'll have Nicholas

Assheton arrested at once, and the woman with him, whom I recognise as

Nance Redferne. It will be a wonderful stroke, and will raise me highly

in his Majesty's estimation. Yet stay! Will not this interfere with my

other plans with Jennet? Let me reflect. I must go cautiously to work.

Besides, if I cause Nicholas to be arrested, Nance will escape, and then

I shall have no clue to the others. No--no; I must watch Nicholas

closely, and take upon myself all the credit of the discovery. Perhaps

through Jennet I may be able to detect their disguises. At all events, I

will keep a sharp look-out. Affairs are now drawing to a close, and I

have only, like a wary and experienced fowler, to lay my nets cleverly

to catch the whole covey."

And with these ruminations, he likewise went forth into the base court.

The rest of the day was one round of festivity and enjoyment, in which

all classes participated. There were trials of skill and strength,

running, wrestling, and cudgeling-matches, with an infinite variety of

country games and shows.

Towards five o'clock a rush-cart, decked with flowers and ribbons, and

bestridden by men bearing garlands, was drawn up in front of the central

building of the tower, in an open window of which sat James--a

well-pleased spectator of the different pastimes going forward; and

several lively dances were executed by a troop of male and female

morris-dancers, accompanied by a tabor and pipe. But though this show

was sufficiently attractive, it lacked the spirit of that performed at

Whalley; while the character of Maid Marian, which then found so

charming a representative in Alizon, was now personated by a man--and if

Nicholas Assheton, who was amongst the bystanders, was not deceived,

that man was Jem Device. Enraged by this discovery, the squire was

about to seize the ruffian; but, calling to mind Nance's counsel, he

refrained, and Jem (if it indeed were he) retired with a largess,

bestowed by the royal hand as a reward for his uncouth gambols.

The rush-cart and morris-dancers having disappeared, another drollery

was exhibited, called the "Fool and his Five Sons," the names of the

hopeful offspring of the sapient sire being Pickle Herring, Blue Hose,

Pepper Hose, Ginger Hose, and Jack Allspice. The humour of this piece,

though not particularly refined, seemed to be appreciated by the

audience generally, as well as by the monarch, who laughed heartily at

its coarse buffoonery.

Next followed "The Plough and Sword Dance;" the principal actors being a

number of grotesque figures armed with swords, some of whom were yoked

to a plough, on which sat a piper, playing lustily while dragged along.

The plough was guided by a man clothed in a bear-skin, with a fur cap on

his head, and a long tail, like that of a lion, dangling behind him. In

this hirsute personage, who was intended to represent the wood-demon,

Hobthurst, Nicholas again detected Jem Device, and again was strongly

tempted to disobey Nance's injunctions, and denounce him--the rather

that he recognised in an attendant female, in a fantastic dress, the

ruffian's mother, Elizabeth; but he once more desisted.

As soon as the mummers arrived in front of the King, the dance began.

With their swords held upright, the party took hands and wheeled rapidly

round the plough, keeping time to a merry measure played by the piper,

who still maintained his seat. Suddenly the ring was enlarged to double

its former size, each man extending his sword to his neighbour, who took

hold of the point; after which an hexagonal figure was formed, all the

blades being brought together. The swords were then quickly withdrawn,

flashing like sunbeams, and a four square figure was presented, the

dancers vaulting actively over each other's heads. Other variations

succeeded, not necessary to be specified--and the sport concluded by a

general clashing of swords, intended to represent a melee.

Meanwhile, Nicholas had been joined by Richard Assheton, and the latter

was not long in detecting the two Devices through their disguises. On

making this discovery he mentioned it to the squire, and was surprised

to find him already aware of the circumstance, and not less astonished

when he was advised to let them alone; the squire adding he was unable

at that time to give his reasons for such counsel, but, being good and

conclusive, Richard would be satisfied of their propriety hereafter. The

young man, however, thought otherwise, and, notwithstanding his

relative's attempts to dissuade him, announced his intention of causing

the parties to be arrested at once; and with this design he went in

search of an officer of the guard, that the capture might be effected

without disturbance. But the throng was so close round the dancers that

he could not pierce it, and being compelled to return and take another

course, he got nearer to the mazy ring, and was unceremoniously pushed

aside by the mummers. At this moment both his arms were forcibly

grasped, and a deep voice on the right whispered in his ear--"Meddle not

with us, and we will not meddle with you," while similar counsel was

given him in other equally menacing tones, though in a different key, on

the left. Richard would have shaken off his assailants, and seized them

in his turn, but power to do so was wanting to him. For the moment he

was deprived of speech and motion; but while thus situated he felt that

the sapphire ring given him by the King was snatched from his finger by

the first speaker, whom he knew to be Jem Device, while a fearful spell

was muttered over him by Elizabeth.

As this occurred at the time when the rattling of the swords engaged the

whole attention of the spectators, no one noticed what was going forward

except Nicholas, and, before he could get up to the young man, the two

miscreants were gone, nor could any one tell what had become of them.

"Have the wretches done you a mischief?" asked the squire, in a low

tone, of Richard.

"They have stolen the King's ring, which I meant to use in Alizon's

behalf," replied the young man, who by this time had recovered his

speech.

"That is unlucky, indeed," said Nicholas. "But we can defeat any ill

design they may intend, by acquainting Sir John Finett with the

circumstance."

"Let them be," said a voice in his ear. "The time is not yet come." The

squire did not look round, for he well knew that the caution proceeded

from Nance Redferne.

And, accordingly, he observed to Richard--"Tarry awhile, and you will be

amply avenged."

And with this assurance the young man was fain to be content.

Just then a trumpet was sounded, and a herald stationed on the summit of

the broad flight of steps leading to the great hall, proclaimed in a

loud voice that a tilting-match was about to take place between Archie

Armstrong, jester to his most gracious Majesty, and Davy Droman, who

filled the same honourable office to his Grace the Duke of Buckingham,

and that a pair of gilt-heel'd chopines would be the reward of the

successful combatant. This announcement was received with cheers, and

preparations were instantly made for the mock tourney. A large circle

being formed by the yeomen of the guard, with an alley leading to it on

either side, the two combatants, mounted on gaudy-caparisoned

hobby-horses, rode into the ring. Both were armed to the teeth, each

having a dish-cover braced around him in lieu of a breastplate, a

newly-scoured brass porringer on his head, a large pewter platter

instead of a buckler, and a spit with a bung at the point, to prevent

mischief, in place of a lance. The Duke's jester was an obese little

fellow, and his appearance in this warlike gear was so eminently

ridiculous, that it provoked roars of laughter, while Archie was

scarcely less ridiculous. After curveting round the arena in imitation

of knights of chivalry, and performing "their careers, their prankers,

their false trots, their smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces," the two

champions took up a position opposite each other, with difficulty, as it

seemed, reining in their pawing chargers, and awaiting the signal of

attack to be given by Sir John Finett, the judge of the tournament. This

was not long delayed, and the "laissez aller" being pronounced, the

preux chevaliers started forward with so much fury, and so little

discretion, that meeting half-way with a tremendous shock, and butting

against each other like two rams, both were thrown violently backwards,

exhibiting, amid the shouts of the spectators, their heels, no longer

hidden by the trappings of their steeds, kicking in the air. Encumbered

as they were, some little time elapsed before they could regain their

feet, and their lances having been removed in the mean time, by order of

Sir John Finett, as being weapons of too dangerous a description for

such truculent combatants, they attacked each other with their broad

lathen daggers, dealing sounding blows upon helm, habergeon, and shield,

but doing little personal mischief. The strife raged furiously for some

time, and, as the champions appeared pretty well matched, it was not

easy to say how it would terminate, when chance seemed to decide in

favour of Davy Droman; for, in dealing a heavier blow than usual,

Archie's dagger snapped in twain, leaving him at the mercy of his

opponent. On this the doughty Davy, crowing lustily like chanticleer,

called upon him to yield; but Archie was so wroth at his misadventure,

that, instead of complying, he sprang forward, and with the hilt of his

broken weapon dealt his elated opponent a severe blow on the side of the

head, not only knocking off the porringer, but stretching him on the

ground beside it. The punishment he had received was enough for poor

Davy. He made no attempt to rise, and Archie, crowing in his turn,

trampling upon the body of his prostrate foe, and then capering joyously

round it, was declared the victor, and received the gilt chopines from

the judge, amidst the laughter and acclamations of the beholders.

With this the public sports concluded; and, as evening was drawing on

apace, such of the guests as were not invited to pass the night within

the Tower, took their departure; while shortly afterwards, supper being

served in the banqueting-hall on a scale of profusion and magnificence

quite equal to the earlier repast, the King and the whole of his train

sat down to it.

CHAPTER X.--EVENING ENTERTAINMENTS.

Other amusements were reserved for the evening. While revelry was again

held in the great hall; while the tables groaned, for the third time

since morning, with good cheer, and the ruby wine, which seemed to gush

from inexhaustible fountains, mantled in the silver flagons; while

seneschal, sewer, and pantler, with the yeomen of the buttery and

kitchen, were again actively engaged in their vocations; while of the

three hundred guests more than half, as if insatiate, again vied with

each other in prowess with the trencher and the goblet; while in the

words of old Taylor, the water poet, but who was no water-drinker--and

who thus sang of the hospitality of the men of Manchester, in the early

part of the seventeenth century--they had

"Roast, boil'd, bak'd, too, too much, white, claret, sack.

Nothing they thought too heavy or too hot,

Can follow'd can, and pot succeeded pot."

--during this time preparations were making for fresh entertainments out

of doors.

The gardens at Hoghton Tower, though necessarily confined in space,

owing to their situation on the brow of a hill, were beautifully laid

out, and commanded from their balustred terraces magnificent views of

the surrounding country. Below them lay the well-wooded park, skirted by

the silvery Darwen, with the fair village of Walton-le-Dale immediately

beyond it, the proud town of Preston further on, and the single-coned

Nese Point rising majestically in the distance. The principal garden

constituted a square, and was divided with mathematical precision,

according to the formal taste of the time, into smaller squares, with a

broad well-kept gravel walk at each angle. These plots were arranged in

various figures and devices--such as the cinq-foil, the flower-de-luce,

the trefoil, the lozenge, the fret, the diamond, the crossbow, and the

oval--all very elaborate and intricate in design. Besides these knots,

as they were termed, there were labyrinths, and clipped yew-tree walks,

and that indispensable requisite to a garden at the period, a maze. In

the centre was a grassy eminence, surmounted by a pavilion, in front of

which spread a grass-plot of smoothest turf, ordinarily used as a

bowling-green. At the lower end of this a temporary stage was erected,

for the masque about to be represented before the King. Torches were

kindled, and numerous lamps burned in the branches of the adjoining

trees; but they were scarcely needed, for the moon being at the full,

the glorious effulgence shed by her upon the scene rendered all other

light pale and ineffectual.

After supper, at which the drinking was deeper than at dinner, the whole

of the revellers repaired to the garden, full of frolic and merriment,

and well-disposed for any diversion in store for them. The King was

conducted to the bowling-green by his host, preceded by a crowd of

attendants bearing odoriferous torches; but the royal gait being

somewhat unsteady, the aid of Sir Gilbert Hoghton's arm was required to

keep the monarch from stumbling. The rest of the bacchanalians followed,

and, elated as they were, it will not be wondered that they put very

little restraint upon themselves, but shouted, sang, danced, and

indulged in all kinds of licence.

Opposite the stage prepared for the masquers a platform had been reared,

in front of which was a chair for the King, with seats for the nobles

and principal guests behind it. The sides were hung with curtains of

crimson velvet fringed with gold; the roof decorated like a canopy; so

that it had a very magnificent effect. James lolled back in his chair,

and jested loudly and rather indecorously with the various personages as

they took their places around him. In less than five minutes the whole

of the green was filled with revellers, and great was the pushing and

jostling, the laughing and screaming, that ensued among them. Silence

was then enjoined by Sir John Finett, who had stationed himself on the

steps of the stage, and at this command the assemblage became

comparatively quiet, though now and then a half-suppressed titter or a

smothered scream would break out. Amid this silence the King's voice

could be distinctly heard, and his coarse jests reached the ears of all

the astonished audience, provoking many a severe comment from the

elders, and much secret laughter from the juniors.

The masque began. Two tutelar deities appeared on the stage. They were

followed by a band of foresters clad in Lincoln green, with bows at

their backs. The first deity wore a white linen tunic, with

flesh-coloured hose and red buskins, and had a purple taffeta mantle

over his shoulders. In his hand he held a palm branch, and a garland of

the same leaves was woven round his brow. The second household god was a

big brawny varlet, wild and shaggy in appearance, being clothed in the

skins of beasts, with sandals of untanned cowhide. On his head was a

garland of oak leaves; and from his neck hung a horn. He was armed with

a hunting-spear and wood-knife, and attended by a large Lancashire

mastiff. Advancing to the front of the stage, the foremost personage

thus addressed the Monarch--

"This day--great King for government admired!

Which these thy subjects have so much desired--

Shall be kept holy in their heart's best treasure,

And vow'd to JAMES as is this month to Cæsar.

And now the landlord of this ancient Tower,

Thrice fortunate to see this happy hour,

Whose trembling heart thy presence sets on fire,

Unto this house--the heart of all our shire--

Does bid thee cordial welcome, and would speak it

In higher notes, but extreme joy doth break it.

He makes his guests most welcome, in his eyes

Love tears do sit, not he that shouts and cries.

And we the antique guardians of this place,--

I of this house--he of the fruitful chase,--

Since the bold Hoghtons from this hill took name,

Who with the stiff, unbridled Saxons came,

And so have flourish'd in this fairer clime

Successively from that to this our time,

Still offering up to our immortal powers

Sweet incense, wine, and odoriferous flowers;

While sacred Vesta, in her virgin tire,

With vows and wishes tends the hallow'd fire.

Now seeing that thy Majesty is thus

Greater than household deities like us,

We render up to thy more powerful guard,

This Tower. This knight is thine--he is thy ward,

For by thy helping and auspicious hand,

He and his home shall ever, ever stand

And flourish, in despite of envious fate;

And then live, like Augustus, fortunate.

And long, long mayst thou live!--To which both men

And guardian angels cry--"Amen! amen!"

James, who had demeaned himself critically during the delivery of the

address, observed at its close to Sir Richard Hoghton, who was standing

immediately behind his chair, "We cannot say meikle for the rhymes,

which are but indifferently strung together, but the sentiments are leal

and gude, and that is a' we care for."

On this the second tutelar divinity advanced, and throwing himself into

an attitude, as if bewildered by the august presence in which he stood,

exclaimed--

"Thou greatest of mortals!"--

And then stopped, as if utterly confounded.

The King looked at him for a moment, and then roared out--"Weel,

gudeman, your commencement is pertinent and true enough; and though we

be 'the greatest of mortals,' as ye style us, dinna fash yoursel' about

our grandeur, but go on, as if we were nae better nor wiser than your

ain simple sel'."

But, instead of encouraging the dumbfounded deity, this speech

completely upset him. He hastily retreated; and, in trying to screen

himself behind the huntsman, fell back from the stage, and his hound

leapt after him. The incident, whether premeditated or not, amused the

spectators much more than any speech he could have delivered, and the

King joined heartily in the merriment.

Silence being again restored, the first divinity came forward once more,

and spoke thus:--

'Dread lord! thy Majesty hath stricken dumb

His weaker god-head; if to himself he come,

Unto thy service straight he will commend

These foresters, and charge them to attend

Thy pleasure in this park, and show such sport;

To the chief huntsman and thy princely court,

As the small circle of this round affords,

And be more ready than he was in words."[5]

"Weel spoken, and to the purpose, gude fallow," cried James. "And we

take this opportunity of assuring our worthy host, in the presence of

his other guests, that we have never had better sport in park or forest

than we have this day enjoyed--have never eaten better cheer, nor

quaffed better wine than at his board--and, altogether, have never been

more hospitably welcomed."

Sir Richard was overwhelmed by his Majesty's commendation.

"I have done nothing, my gracious liege," he said, "to merit such

acknowledgment on your part, and the delight I experience is only

tempered by my utter unworthiness."

"Hoot-toot! man," replied James, jocularly, "ye merit a vast deal mair

than we hae said to you. But gude folk dinna always get their deserts.

Ye ken that, Sir Richard. And now, hae ye not some ither drolleries in

store for us?"

The baronet replied in the affirmative, and soon afterwards the stage

was occupied by a new class of performers, and a drollery commenced

which kept the audience in one continual roar of laughter so long as it

lasted. And yet none of the parts had been studied, the actors entirely

trusting to their own powers of comedy to carry it out. The principal

character was the Cap Justice, enacted by Sir John Finett, who took

occasion in the course of the performance to lampoon and satirise most

of the eminent legal characters of the day, mimicking the voices and

manner of the three justices--Crooke, Hoghton, and Doddridge--so

admirably, that his hearers were wellnigh convulsed; and the three

learned gentlemen, who sat near the King, though fully conscious of the

ridicule applied to them, were obliged to laugh with the rest. But the

unsparing satirist was not content with this, but went on, with most of

the other attendants upon the King, and being intimately versed in court

scandal, he directed his lash with telling effect. As a contrast to the

malicious pleasantry of the Cap Justice, were the gambols and jests of

Robin Goodfellow--a merry imp, who, if he led people into mischief, was

always ready to get them out of it. Then there was a dance by Bill

Huckler, old Crambo, and Tom o' Bedlam, the half-crazed individual

already mentioned as being among the crowd in the base court. This was

applauded to the echo, and consequently repeated. But the most diverting

scene of all was that in which Jem Tospot and the three Doll Wangos

appeared. Though given in the broadest vernacular of the county, and

scarcely intelligible to the whole of the company, the dialogue of this

part of the piece was so lifelike and natural, that every one recognised

its truth; while the situations, arranged with the slightest effort, and

on the spur of the moment, were extremely ludicrous. The scene was

supposed to take place in a small Lancashire alehouse, where a jovial

pedlar was carousing, and where, being visited by his three

sweethearts--each of whom he privately declared to be the favourite--he

had to reconcile their differences, and keep them all in good-humour.

Familiar with the character in all its aspects, Nicholas played it to

the life; and, to do them justice, Dames Baldwyn, Tetlow, and Nance

Redferne, were but little if at all inferior to him. There was a reality

in their jealous quarrelling that gave infinite zest to the performance.

"Saul o' my body!" exclaimed James, admiringly, "those are three braw

women. Ane of them maun be sax feet if she is an inch, and weel made and

weel favourt too. Zounds! Sir Richard, there's nae standing the spells

o' your Lancashire Witches. High-born and low-born, they are a' alike. I

wad their only witchcraft lay in their een. I should then hae the less

fear of 'em. But have you aught mair? for it is growing late, and ye ken

we hae something to do in that pavilion."

"Only a merry dance, my liege, in which a man will appear in a

dendrological foliage of fronds," replied the baronet.

James laughed at the description, and soon afterwards a party of

mummers, male and female, clad in various grotesque garbs, appeared on

the stage. In the midst of them was the "dendrological man," enclosed in

a framework of green boughs, like that borne by a modern

Jack-in-the-green. A ring was formed by the mummers, and the round

commenced to lively music.

While the mazy measure was proceeding, Nance Redferne, who had quitted

the stage with Nicholas, and now stood close to him among the

spectators, said in a low tone, "Look there!"

The squire glanced in the direction indicated, and to his surprise and

terror, distinguished, among the crowd at a little distance, the figure

of a Cistertian monk.

"He is invisible to every eye except our own," whispered Nance, "and is

come to tell me it is time."

"Time for what?" demanded Nicholas.

"Time for you to seize those two accursed Devices, Jem and his mother,"

replied Nance. "They are both on yon boards. Jem is the man in the tree,

and Elizabeth is the owd crone in the red kirtle and high-crowned hat.

Yo win knoa her feaw feace when yo pluck off her mask."

"The monk is gone," cried Nicholas; "I have kept my eyes steadily fixed

on him, and he has melted into air. What has he to do with the Devices?"

"He is their fate," returned Nance, "an ey ha' acted under his orders.

Boh mount, an seize them. Ey win ge wi' ye."

Forcing his way through the crowd, Nicholas ran up the steps, and,

followed by Nance, sprang upon the stage. His appearance occasioned

considerable surprise; but as he was recognised by the spectators as the

jolly Jem Tospot, who had so recently diverted them, and his companion

as one of the three Doll Wangos, in anticipation of some more fun they

received him with a round of applause. But without stopping to

acknowledge it, or being for a moment diverted from his purpose,

Nicholas seized the old crone, and, consigning her to Nance, caught

hold of the leafy frame in which the man was encased, and pulled him

from under it. But he began to think he had unkennelled the wrong fox,

for the man, though a tall fellow, bore no resemblance to Jem Device;

while, when the crone's mask was plucked off, she was found to be a

comely young woman. Meanwhile, all around was in an uproar, and amidst a

hurricane of hisses, yells, and other indications of displeasure from

the spectators, several of the mummers demanded the meaning of such a

strange and unwarrantable proceeding.

"They are a couple of witches," cried Nicholas; "this is Jem Device and

his mother Elizabeth."

"My name is nother Jem nor Device," cried the man.

"Nor mine Elizabeth," screamed the woman.

"We know the Devices," cried two or three voices, "and these are none of

'em."

Nicholas was perplexed. The storm increased; threats accompanied the

hisses; when luckily he espied a ring on the man's finger. He instantly

seized his hand, and held it up to the general gaze.

"A proof!--a proof!" he cried. "This sapphire ring was given by the King

to my cousin, Richard Assheton, this morning, and stolen from him by Jem

Device."

"Examine their features again," said Nance Redferne, waving her hands

over them. "Yo win aw knoa them now."

The woman's face instantly altered. Many years being added to it in a

breath. The man changed equally. The utmost astonishment was evinced by

all at the transformation, and the bystanders who had spoken before, now

cried out loudly--"We know them perfectly now. They are the two

Devices."

By this time an officer, attended by a party of halberdiers, had mounted

the boards, and the two prisoners were delivered to their custody by

Nicholas.

"Howd!" cried the man; "Ey win no longer deny my name. Ey am Jem Device,

an this is my mother, Elizabeth. Boh a warse offender than either on us

stonds afore yo. This woman is Nance Redferne, grandowter of the owd

hag, Mother Chattox. Ey charge her wi' makin' wax images, an' stickin'

pins in 'em, wi' intent to kill folk. Hoo wad ha' kilt me mysel', wi'

her devilry, if ey hadna bin too strong for her--an' that's why hoo

bears me malice, an' has betrayed me to Squoire Nicholas Assheton. Seize

her, an' ca' me as a witness agen her."

And as Nance was secured, he laughed malignantly.

"Ey care not," replied Nance. "Ey am now revenged on you both."

While this impromptu performance took place, as much to the surprise of

James as of any one else, and while he was desiring Sir Richard Hoghton

to ascertain what it all meant--at the very moment that the two Devices

and Nance removed from the stage, an usher approached the monarch, and

said that Master Potts entreated a moment's audience of his majesty.

"Potts!" exclaimed James, somewhat confused. "Wha is he?--ah, yes! I

recollect--a witch-finder. Weel, let him approach."

Accordingly, the next moment the little attorney, whose face was

evidently charged with some tremendous intelligence, was ushered into

the king's presence.

After a profound reverence, he said, "May it please your Majesty, I have

something for your private ear."

"Aweel, then," replied James, "approach us mair closely. What hae ye got

to say, sir? Aught mair anent these witches?"

"A great deal, sire," said Potts, in an impressive tone. "Something

dreadful has happened--something terrible."

"Eh! what?" exclaimed James, looking alarmed. "What is it, man? Speak!"

"Murder? sire,--murder has been done," said Potts, in low thrilling

accents.

"Murder!" exclaimed James, horror-stricken. "Tell us a' about it, and

without more ado."

But Potts was still circumspect. With an air of deepest mystery, he

approached his head as near as he dared to that of the monarch, and

whispered in his ear.

"Can this be true?" cried James. "If sae--it's very shocking--very

sad."

"It is too true, as your Majesty will find on investigation," replied

Potts. "The little girl I told you of, Jennet Device, saw it done."

"Weel, weel, there is nae accounting for human frailty and wickedness,"

said James. "Let a' necessary steps be taken at once. We will consider

what to do. But--d'ye hear, sir?--dinna let the bairn Jennet go. Haud

her fast. D'ye mind that? Now go, and cause the guilty party to be put

under arrest."

And on receiving this command Master Potts departed.

Scarcely was he gone than Nicholas Assheton came up to the railing of

the platform, and, imploring his Majesty's forgiveness for the

disturbance he had occasioned, explained that it had been owing to the

seizure of the two Devices, who, for some wicked but unexplained

purpose, had contrived to introduce themselves, under various disguises,

into the Tower.

"Ye did right to arrest the miscreants, sir," said James. "But hae ye

heard what has happened?"

"No, my liege," replied Nicholas, alarmed by the King's manner; "what is

it?"

"Come nearer, and ye shall learn," replied James; "for we wadna hae it

bruited abroad, though if true, as we canna doubt, it will be known soon

enough."

And as the squire bent forward, he imparted some intelligence to him,

which instantly changed the expression of the latter to one of mingled

horror and rage.

"It is false, sire!" he cried. "I will answer for her innocence with my

life. She could not do it. Your Majesty's patience is abused. It is

Jennet who has done it--not she. But I will unravel the terrible

mystery. You have the other two wretches prisoners, and can enforce the

truth from them."

"We will essay to do so," replied James; "but we have also another

prisoner."

"Christopher Demdike?" said Nicholas.

"Ay, Christopher Demdike," rejoined James. "But another besides

him--Mistress Nutter. You stare, sir; but it is true. She is in yonder

pavilion. We ken fu' weel wha assisted her flight, and wha concealed

her. Maister Potts has told us a'. It is weel for you that your puir

kinsman, Richard Assheton, did us sic gude service at the boar-hunt

to-day. We shall not now be unmindful of it, even though he cannot send

us the ring we gave him."

"It is here, sire," replied Nicholas. "It was stolen from him by the

villain, Jem Device. The poor youth meant to use it for Alizon. I now

deliver it to your Majesty as coming from him in her behalf."

"And we sae receive it," replied the monarch, brushing away the moisture

that gathered thickly in his eyes.

At this moment a tall personage, wrapped in a cloak, who appeared to be

an officer of the guard, approached the railing.

"I am come to inform your Majesty that Christopher Demdike has just died

of his wounds," said this personage.

"And sae he has had a strae death, after a'!" rejoined James. "Weel, we

are sorry for it."

"His portion will be eternal bale," observed the officer.

"How know you that, sir?" demanded the King, sharply. "You are not his

judge."

"I witnessed his end, sire," replied the officer; "and no man who died

as he died can be saved. The Fiend was beside him at the death-throes."

"Save us!" exclaimed James. "Ye dinna say so? God's santie! man, but

this is grewsome, and gars the flesh creep on one's banes. Let his foul

carcase be taen awa', and hangit on a gibbet on the hill where Malkin

Tower aince stood, as a warning to a' sic heinous offenders."

As the King ceased speaking, Master Potts appeared out of breath, and

greatly excited.

"She has escaped, sire!" he cried.

"Wha! Jennet!" exclaimed James. "If sae, we will tang you in her stead."

"No, sire--Alizon," replied Potts. "I can nowhere find her; nor--" and

he hesitated.

"Weel--weel--it is nae great matter," replied James, as if relieved,

and with a glance of satisfaction at Nicholas.

"I know where Alizon is, sire," said the officer.

"Indeed!" exclaimed James. "This fellow is strangely officious," he

muttered to himself. "And where may she be, sir?" he added, aloud.

"I will produce her within a quarter of an hour in yonder pavilion,"

replied the officer, "and all that Master Potts has been unable to

find."

"Your Majesty may trust him," observed Nicholas, who had attentively

regarded the officer. "Depend upon it he will make good his words."

"You think so?" cried the King. "Then we will put him to the test. You

will engage to confront Alizon with her mother?" he added, to the

officer.

"I will, sire," replied the other. "But I shall require the assistance

of a dozen men."

"Tak twenty, if you will," replied the King,--"I am impatient to see

what you can do."

"In a quarter of a minute all shall be ready within the pavilion, sire,"

replied the officer. "You have seen one masque to-night;--but you shall

now behold a different one--the masque of death."

And he disappeared.

Nicholas felt sure he would accomplish his task, for he had recognised

in him the Cistertian monk.

"Where is Sir Richard Assheton of Middleton?" inquired the King.

"He left the Tower with his daughter Dorothy, immediately after the

banquet," replied Nicholas.

"I am glad of it--right glad," replied the monarch; "the terrible

intelligence can be the better broken to them. If it had come upon them

suddenly, it might have been fatal--especially to the puir lassie. Let

Sir Ralph Assheton of Whalley come to me--and Master Roger Nowell of

Read."

"Your Majesty shall be obeyed," replied Sir Richard Hoghton.

The King then gave some instructions respecting the prisoners, and bade

Master Potts have Jennet in readiness.

And now to see what terrible thing had happened.

CHAPTER XI.--FATALITY.

Along the eastern terrace a youth and maiden were pacing slowly. They

had stolen forth unperceived from the revel, and, passing through a door

standing invitingly open, had entered the garden. Though overjoyed in

each other's presence, the solemn beauty of the night, so powerful in

its contrast to the riotous scene they had just quitted, profoundly

impressed them. Above, were the deep serene heavens, lighted up by the

starry host and their radiant queen--below, the immemorial woods,

steeped in silvery mists arising from the stream flowing past them. All

nature was hushed in holy rest. In opposition to the flood of soft light

emanating from the lovely planet overhead, and which turned all it fell

on, whether tree, or tower, or stream, to beauty, was the artificial

glare caused by the torches near the pavilion; while the discordant

sounds occasioned by the minstrels tuning their instruments, disturbed

the repose. As they went on, however, these sounds were lost in the

distance, and the glare of the torches was excluded by intervening

trees. Then the moon looked down lovingly upon them, and the only music

that reached their ears arose from the nightingales. After a pause, they

walked on again, hand-in-hand, gazing at each other, at the glorious

heavens, and drinking in the thrilling melody of the songsters of the

grove.

At the angle of the terrace was a small arbour placed in the midst of a

bosquet, and they sat down within it. Then, and not till then, did their

thoughts find vent in words. Forgetting the sorrows they had endured,

and the perils by which they were environed, they found in their deep

mutual love a shield against the sharpest arrows of fate. In low gentle

accents they breathed their passion, solemnly plighting their faith

before all-seeing Heaven.

Poor souls! they were happy then--intensely happy. Alas! that their

happiness should be so short; for those few moments of bliss, stolen

from a waste of tears, were all that were allowed them. Inexorable fate

still dogged their footsteps.

Amidst the bosquet stood a listener to their converse--a little girl

with high shoulders and sharp features, on which diabolical malice was

stamped. Two yellow eyes glistened through the leaves beside her,

marking the presence of a cat. As the lovers breathed their vows, and

indulged in hopes never to be realised, the wicked child grinned,

clenched her hands, and, grudging them their short-lived happiness,

seemed inclined to interrupt it. Some stronger motive, however, kept her

quiet.

What are the pair talking of now?--She hears her own name mentioned by

the maiden, who speaks of her with pity, almost with affection--pardons

her for the mischief she has done her, and hopes Heaven will pardon her

likewise. But she knows not the full extent of the girl's malignity, or

even her gentle heart must have been roused to resentment.

The little girl, however, feels no compunction. Infernal malice has

taken possession of her heart, and crushed every kindly feeling within

it. She hates all those that compassionate her, and returns evil for

good.

What are the lovers talking of now? Of their first meeting at Whalley

Abbey, when one was May Queen, and by her beauty and simplicity won the

other's heart, losing her own at the same time. A bright unclouded

career seemed to lie before them then. Wofully had it darkened since.

Alas! Alas!

The little girl smiles. She hopes they will go on. She likes to hear

them talk thus. Past happiness is ever remembered with a pang by the

wretched, and they _were_ happy then. Go on--go on!

But they are silent for awhile, for they wish to dwell on that hopeful,

that blissful season. And a nightingale, alighting on a bough above

them, pours forth its sweet plaint, as if in response to their tender

emotions. They praise the bird's song, and it suddenly ceases.

For the little girl, full of malevolence, stretches forth her hand, and

it drops to the ground, as if stricken by a dart.

"Is thy heart broken, poor bird?" exclaimed the young man, taking up the

hapless songster, yet warm and palpitating. "To die in the midst of thy

song--'tis hard."

"Very hard!" replied the maiden, tearfully. "Its fate seems a type of

our own."

The little girl laughed, but in a low tone, and to herself.

The pair then grew sad. This slight incident had touched them deeply,

and their conversation took a melancholy turn. They spoke of the blights

that had nipped their love in the bud--of the canker that had eaten into

its heart--of the destiny that so relentlessly pursued them, threatening

to separate them for ever.

The little girl laughed merrily.

Then they spoke of the grave--and of hope beyond the grave; and they

spoke cheerfully.

The little girl could laugh no longer, for with her all beyond the grave

was despair.

After that they spoke of the terrible power that Satan had lately

obtained in that unhappy district, of the arts he had employed, and of

the votaries he had won. Both prayed fervently that his snares might be

circumvented, and his rule destroyed.

During this part of the discourse the cat swelled to the size of a

tiger, and his eyes glowed like fiery coals. He made a motion as if he

would spring forward, but the voice of prayer arrested him, and he

shrank back to his former size.

"Poor Jennet is ensnared by the Fiend," murmured the maiden, "and will

perish eternally. Would I could save her!"

"It cannot be," replied the young man. "She is beyond redemption."

The little girl gnashed her teeth with rage.

"But my mother--I do not now despair of her," said Alizon. "She has

broken the bondage by which she was enchained, and, if she resists

temptation to the last, I am assured will be saved."

"Heaven aid her!" exclaimed Richard.

Scarcely were the words uttered, than the cat disappeared.

"Why, Tib!--where are yo, Tib? Ey want yo!" cried the little girl in a

low tone.

But the familiar did not respond to the call.

"Where con he ha' gone?" cried Jennet; "Tib! Tib!"

Still the cat came not.

"Then ey mun do the wark without him," pursued the little girl; "an ey

win no longer delay it."

And with this she crept stealthily round the arbour, and, approaching

the side where Richard sat, watched an opportunity of touching him

unperceived.

As her finger came in contact with his frame, a pang like death shot

through his heart, and he fell upon Alizon's shoulder.

"Are you ill?" she exclaimed, gazing at his pallid features, rendered

ghastly white by the moonlight.

Richard could make no reply, and Alizon, becoming dreadfully alarmed,

was about to fly for assistance, but the young man, by a great effort,

detained her.

"Ey mun now run an tell Mester Potts, so that hoo may be found wi' him,"

muttered Jennet, creeping away.

Just then Richard recovered his speech, but his words were faintly

uttered, and with difficulty.

"Alizon," he said, "I will not attempt to disguise my condition from

you. I am dying. And my death will be attributed to you--for evil-minded

persons have persuaded the King that you have bewitched me, and he will

believe the charge now. Oh! if you would ease the pangs of death for

me--if you would console my latest moments--leave me, and quit this

place, before it be too late."

"Oh! Richard," she cried distractedly; "you ask more than I can perform.

If you are indeed in such imminent danger, I will stay with you--will

die with you."

"No! live for me--live--save yourself, Alizon," implored the young man.

"Your danger is greater than mine. A dreadful death awaits you at the

stake! Oh! mercy, mercy, heaven! Spare her--in pity spare her!--Have we

not suffered enough? I can no more. Farewell for ever, Alizon--one

kiss--the last."

And as their lips met, his strength utterly forsook him, and he fell

backwards.

"One grave!" he murmured; "one grave, Alizon!"--And so, without a groan,

he expired.

Alizon neither screamed nor swooned, but remained in a state of

stupefaction, gazing at the body. As the moon fell upon the placid

features, they looked as if locked in slumber.

There he lay--the young, the brave, the beautiful, the loving, the

beloved. Fate had triumphed. Death had done his work; but he had only

performed half his task.

"One grave--one grave--it was his last wish--it shall be so!" she cried,

in frenzied tones, "I shall thus escape my enemies, and avoid the

horrible and shameful death to which they would doom me."

And she snatched the dagger from the ill-fated youth's side.

"Now, fate, I defy thee!" she cried, with a fearful laugh.

One last look at that calm beautiful face--one kiss of the cold lips,

which can no more return the endearment--and the dagger is pointed at

her breast.

But she is withheld by an arm of iron, and the weapon falls from her

grasp. She looks up. A tall figure, clothed in the mouldering

habiliments of a Cistertian monk, stands beside her. She knows the

vestments at once, for she has seen them before, hanging up in the

closet adjoining her mother's chamber at Whalley Abbey--and the features

of the ghostly monk seem familiar to her.

"Raise not thy hand against thyself," said the phantom, in a tone of

awful reproof. "It is the Fiend prompts thee to do it. He would take

advantage of thy misery to destroy thee."

"I took thee for the Fiend," replied Alizon, gazing at him with wonder

rather than with terror. "Who art thou?"

"The enemy of thy enemies, and therefore thy friend," replied the monk.

"I would have saved thy lover if I could, but his destiny was not to be

averted. But, rest content, I will avenge him."

"I do not want vengeance--I want to be with him," she replied,

frantically embracing the body.

"Thou wilt soon be with him," said the phantom, in tones of deep

significance. "Arise, and come with me. Thy mother needs thy

assistance."

"My mother!" exclaimed Alizon, clearing the blinding tresses from her

brow. "Where is she?"

"Follow me, and I will bring thee to her," said the monk.

"And leave him? I cannot!" cried Alizon, gazing wildly at the body.

"You must. A soul is at stake, and will perish if you come not," said

the monk. "He is at rest, and you will speedily rejoin him."

"With that assurance I will go," replied Alizon, with a last look at the

object of her love. "One grave--lay us in one grave!"

"It shall be done according to your wish," said the monk.

And he glided on with noiseless footsteps.

Alizon followed him along the terrace.

Presently they came to a dark yew-tree walk, leading to a labyrinth, and

tracking it swiftly, as well as the overarched and intricate path to

which it conducted, they entered a grotto, whence a flight of steps

descended to a subterranean passage, hewn out of the rock. Along this

passage, which was of some extent, the monk proceeded, and Alizon

followed him.

At last they came to another flight of steps, and here the monk stopped.

"We are now beneath the pavilion, where you will find your mother," he

said. "Mount! the way is clear before you. I have other work to do."

Alizon obeyed; and, as she advanced, was surprised to find the monk

gone. He had neither passed her nor ascended the steps, and must,

therefore, have sunk into the earth.

CHAPTER XII.--THE LAST HOUR.

Within the pavilion sat Alice Nutter. She was clad in deep mourning, but

her dress seemed disordered as if by hasty travel. Her looks were full

of anguish and terror; her blanched tresses, once so dark and beautiful,

hung dishevelled over her shoulders; and her thin hands were clasped in

supplication. Her cheeks were ashy pale, but on her brow was a bright

red mark, as if traced by a finger dipped in blood.

A lamp was burning on the table beside her. Near it was a skull, and

near this emblem of mortality an hourglass, running fast.

The windows and doors of the building were closed, and it would seem the

unhappy lady was a prisoner.

She had been brought there secretly that night, with what intent she

knew not; but she felt sure it was with no friendly design towards

herself. Early in the day three horsemen had arrived at her retreat in

Pendle Forest, and without making any charge against her, or explaining

whither they meant to take her, or indeed answering any inquiry, had

brought her off with them, and, proceeding across the country, had

arrived at a forester's hut on the outskirts of Hoghton Park. Here they

tarried till evening, placing her in a room by herself, and keeping

strict watch over her; and when the shadows of night fell, they conveyed

her through the woods, and by a private entrance to the gardens of the

Tower, and with equal secresy to the pavilion, where, setting a lamp

before her, they left her to her meditations. All refused to answer her

inquiries, but one of them, with a sinister smile, placed the hourglass

and skull beside her.

Left alone, the wretched lady vainly sought some solution of the

enigma--why she had been brought thither. She could not solve it; but

she determined, if her capture had been made by any lawful authorities,

to confess her guilt and submit to condign punishment.

Though the windows and doors were closed as before mentioned, sounds

from without reached her, and she heard confused and tumultuous noises

as if from a large assemblage. For what purpose were they met? Could it

be for her execution? No--there were strains of music, and bursts of

laughter. And yet she had heard that the burning of a witch was a

spectacle in which the populace delighted--that they looked upon it as a

show, like any other; and why should they not laugh, and have music at

it? But could she be executed without trial, without judgment? She knew

not. All she knew was she was guilty, and deserved to die. But when this

idea took possession of her, the laughter sounded in her ears like the

yells of demons, and the strains like the fearful harmonies she had

heard at weird sabbaths.

All at once she recollected with indescribable terror, that on this very

night the compact she had entered into with the Fiend expired. That at

midnight, unless by her penitence and prayers she had worked out her

salvation, he could claim her. She recollected also, and with increased

uneasiness, that the man who had set the hourglass on the table, and who

had regarded her with a sinister smile as he did so, had said it was

eleven o'clock! Her last hour then had arrived--nay, was partly spent,

and the moments were passing swiftly by.

The agony she endured at this thought was intense. She felt as if reason

were forsaking her, and, but for her determined efforts to resist it,

such a crisis might have occurred. But she knew that her eternal welfare

depended upon the preservation of her mental balance, and she strove to

maintain it, and in the end succeeded.

Her gaze was fixed intently on the hourglass. She saw the sand trickling

silently but swiftly down, like a current of life-blood, which, when it

ceased, life would cease with it. She saw the shining grains above

insensibly diminishing in quantity, and, as if she could arrest her

destiny by the act, she seized the glass, and would have turned it, but

the folly of the proceeding arrested her, and she set it down again.

Then horrible thoughts came upon her, crushing her and overwhelming her,

and she felt by anticipation all the torments she would speedily have to

endure. Oceans of fire, in which miserable souls were for ever tossing,

rolled before her. Yells, such as no human anguish can produce, smote

her ears. Monsters of frightful form yawned to devour her. Fiends, armed

with terrible implements of torture, such as the wildest imagination

cannot paint, menaced her. All hell, and its horrors, was there, its

dreadful gulf, its roaring furnaces, its rivers of molten metal, ever

burning, yet never consuming its victims. A hot sulphureous atmosphere

oppressed her, and a film of blood dimmed her sight.

She endeavoured to pray, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.

She looked about for her Bible, but it had been left behind when she was

taken from her retreat. She had no safeguard--none.

Still the sand ran on.

New agonies assailed her. Hell was before her again, but in a new form,

and with new torments. She closed her eyes. She shut her ears. But she

saw it still, and heard its terrific yells.

Again she consults the hourglass. The sand is running on--ever

diminishing.

New torments assail her. She thinks of all she loves most on earth--of

her daughter! Oh! if Alizon were near her, she might pray for her--might

scare away these frightful visions--might save her. She calls to

her--but she answers not. No, she is utterly abandoned of God and man,

and must perish eternally.

Again she consults the hourglass. One quarter of an hour is all that

remains to her. Oh! that she could employ it in prayer! Oh! that she

could kneel--or even weep!

A large mirror hangs against the wall, and she is drawn towards it by an

irresistible impulse. She sees a figure within it--but she does not know

herself. Can that cadaverous object, with the white hair, that seems

newly-arisen from the grave, be she? It must be a phantom. No--she

touches her cheek, and finds it is real. But, ah! what is this red brand

upon her brow? It must be the seal of the demon. She tries to efface

it--but it will not come out. On the contrary, it becomes redder and

deeper.

Again she consults the glass. The sand is still running on. How many

minutes remain to her?

"Ten!" cried a voice, replying to her mental inquiry.--"Ten!"

And, turning, she perceived her familiar standing beside her.

"Thy time is wellnigh out, Alice Nutter," he said. "In ten minutes my

lord will claim thee."

"My compact with thy master is broken," she replied, summoning up all

her resolution. "I have long ceased to use the power bestowed upon me;

but, even if I had wished it, thou hast refused to serve me."

"I have refused to serve you, madam, because you have disobeyed the

express injunctions of my master," replied the familiar; "but your

apostasy does not free you from bondage. You have merely lost advantages

which you might have enjoyed. If you chose to dismiss me I could not

help it. Neither I nor my lord have been to blame. We have performed our

part of the contract."

"Why am I brought hither?" demanded Mistress Nutter.

"I will tell you," replied the familiar. "You were brought here by order

of the King. Your retreat was revealed to him by Master Potts, who

learnt it from Jennet Device. The sapient sovereign intended to confront

you with your daughter Alizon, who, like yourself, is accused of

witchcraft; but he will be disappointed--for when he comes for you, you

will be out of his reach--ha! ha!"

And he rubbed his hands at the jest.

"Alizon accused of witchcraft--say'st thou?" cried Mistress Nutter.

"Ay," replied the familiar. "She is suspected of bewitching Richard

Assheton, who has been done to death by Jennet Device. For one so young,

the little girl has certainly a rare turn for mischief. But no one will

know the real author of the crime, and Alizon will suffer for it."

"Heaven will not suffer such iniquity," said the lady.

"As you have nothing to do with heaven, madam, it is needless to refer

to it," said the familiar. "But it certainly is rather hard that one so

young as Alizon should perish."

"Can you save her?" asked Mistress Nutter.

"Oh! yes, I _could_ save her, but she will not let me," replied the

familiar, with a grin.

"No--no--it is impossible," cried the wretched woman. "And I cannot help

her."

"Perhaps you might," observed the tempter. "My master, whom you accuse

of harshness, is ever willing to oblige you. You have a few minutes

left--do you wish him to aid her? Command me, and I will obey you."

"This is some snare," thought Mistress Nutter; "I will resist it."

"You cannot be worse off than you are," remarked the familiar.

"I know not that," replied the lady. "What would'st thou do?"

"Whatever you command me, madam. I can, do nothing of my own accord.

Shall I bring your daughter here? Say so, and it shall be done."

"No--thou would'st ensnare me," she replied. "I well know thou hast no

power over her. Thou would'st place some phantasm before me. I would see

her, but not through thy agency."

"She is here," cried Alizon, opening the door of a closet, and rushing

towards her mother, who instantly locked her in her arms.

"Pray for me, my child," cried Mistress Nutter, mastering her emotion,

"or I shall be snatched from you for ever. My moments are numbered.

Pray--pray!"

Alizon fell on her knees, and prayed fervently.

"You waste your breath," cried the familiar, in a mocking tone. "Never

till the brand shall disappear from her brow, and the writing, traced in

her blood, shall vanish from this parchment, can she be saved. She is

mine."

"Pray, Alizon, pray!" shrieked Mistress Nutter.

"I will tear her in pieces if she does not cease," cried the familiar,

assuming a terrible shape, and menacing her with claws like those of a

wild beast.

"Pray thou, mother!" cried Alizon.

"I cannot," replied the lady.

"I will kill her if she but makes the attempt," howled the demon.

"But try, mother, try!" cried Alizon.

The poor lady dropped on her knees, and raised her hands in humble

supplication--"Heaven forgive me!" she exclaimed.

The demon seized the hourglass.

"The sand is out--her term has expired--she is mine!" he cried.

"Clasp thy arms tightly round me, my child. He cannot take me from

thee," shrieked the agonised woman.

"Release her, Alizon, or I will slay thee likewise," roared the demon.

"Never," she replied; "thou canst not overcome me. Ha!" she added

joyfully, "the brand has disappeared from her brow."

"And the writing from the parchment," howled the demon; "but I will have

her notwithstanding."

And he plunged his claws into Alice Nutter's flesh. But her daughter

held her fast.

"Oh! hold me, my child--hold me, or I am lost!" shrieked the lady.

"Be warned, and let her go, or thy life shall pay for her's," cried the

demon.

"My life for her's, willingly," replied Alizon.

"Then take thy fate," rejoined the evil spirit.

And placing his hand upon her heart, it instantly ceased to beat.

"Mother, thou art saved--saved!" exclaimed Alizon, throwing out her

arms.

And gazing at her for an instant with a seraphic look, she fell

backwards, and expired.

"Thou art mine," roared the demon, seizing Mistress Nutter by the hair,

and dragging her from her daughter's body, to which she clung

desperately.

"Help!--help!" she cried.

"Thou mayst call, but thy cries will be unheeded," rejoined the familiar

with mocking laughter.

"Thou liest, false fiend!" said Mistress Nutter. "Heaven will help me

now."

And, as she spoke, the Cistertian monk stood before them.

"Hence!" he cried with an imperious gesture to the demon. "She is no

longer in thy power. Hence!"

And with a howl of rage and disappointment the familiar vanished.

"Alice Nutter," continued the monk, "thy safety has been purchased at

the price of thy daughter's life. But it is of little moment, for she

could not live long. Her gentle heart was broken, and, when the demon

stopped it for ever, he performed unintentionally a merciful act. She

must rest in the same grave with him she loved so well during life. This

tell to those who will come to thee anon. Thou art delivered from the

yoke of Satan. Full expiation has been made. But earthly justice must be

satisfied. Thou must pay the penalty for crimes committed in the flesh,

but what thou sufferest here shall avail thee hereafter."

"I am content," she replied.

"Pass the rest of thy life in penitence and prayer," pursued the monk,

"and let nothing divert thee from it; for, though free now, thou wilt be

subject to evil influence and temptations to the last. Remember this."

"I will--I will," she rejoined.

"And now," he said, "kneel beside thy daughter's body and pray. I will

return to thee ere many minutes be passed. One task more, and then my

mission is ended."

CHAPTER XIII.--THE MASQUE OF DEATH.

Short time as he had to await, James was unable to control his

impatience. At last he arose, and, completely sobered by the recent

strange events, descended the steps of the platform, and walked on

without assistance.

"Let the yeomen of the guard keep back the crowd," he said to an

officer, "and let none follow me but Sir Ralph Assheton, Master Nicholas

Assheton, and Master Roger Nowell. When I call, let the prisoners be

brought forward."

"Your Majesty shall be obeyed," replied the baronet, giving the

necessary directions.

James then moved slowly forward in the direction of the pavilion; and,

as he went, called Nicholas Assheton to him.

"Wha was that officer?" he asked.

"Your pardon, my liege, but I cannot answer the question," replied

Nicholas.

"And why not, sir?" demanded the monarch, sharply.

"For reasons I will hereafter render to your Majesty, and which I am

persuaded you will find satisfactory," rejoined the squire.

"Weel, weel, I dare say you are right," said the King. "But do you think

he will keep his word?"

"I am sure of it," returned Nicholas.

"The time is come, then!" exclaimed James impatiently, and looking up at

the pavilion.

"The time is come!" echoed a sepulchral voice.

"Did you speak?" inquired the monarch.

"No, sire," replied Nicholas; "but some one seemed to give you

intimation that all is ready. Will it please you to go on?"

"Enter!" cried the voice.

"Wha speaks?" demanded the King. And, as no answer was returned, he

continued--"I will not set foot in the structure. It may be a snare of

Satan."

At this moment, the shutters of the windows flew open, showing that the

pavilion was lighted up by many tapers within, while solemn strains of

music issued from it.

"Enter!" repeated the voice.

"Have no fear, sire," said Nicholas.

"That canna be the wark o' the deil," cried James. "He does not delight

in holy hymns and sweet music."

"That is a solemn dirge for the dead," observed Nicholas, as melodious

voices mingled with the music.

"Weel, weel, I will go on at a' hazards," said James.

The doors flew open as the King and his attendants approached, and, as

soon as they had passed through them, the valves swung back to their

places.

A strange sad spectacle met their gaze. In the midst of the chamber

stood a bier, covered with a velvet pall, and on it the bodies of a

youth and maiden were deposited. Pale and beautiful were they as

sculptured marble, and a smile sat upon their features. Side by side

they were lying, with their arms enfolded, as if they had died in each

other's embrace. A wreath of yew and cypress was placed above their

heads, and flowers were scattered round them.

They were Richard and Alizon.

It was a deeply touching sight, and for some time none spake. The solemn

dirge continued, interrupted only by the stifled sobs of the listeners.

"Both gone!" exclaimed Nicholas, in accents broken by emotion; "and so

young--so good--so beautiful! Alas! alas!"

"She could not have bewitched him," said the King.

"Alizon was all purity and goodness," cried Nicholas, "and is now

numbered with the angels."

"The guilty one is in thy hands, O King!" said the voice. "It is for

thee to punish."

"And I will not hold my hand," said James. "The Devices shall assuredly

perish. When I go from this chamber, I will have them conveyed under a

strong escort to Lancaster Castle. They shall die by the hands of the

common executioner."

"My mission, then, is complete," replied the voice. "I can rest in

peace.".

"Who art thou?" demanded the King.

"One who sinned deeply, but is now pardoned," replied the voice.

The King was for a moment lost in reflection, and then turned to depart.

At this moment a kneeling figure, whom no one had hitherto noticed,

arose from behind the bier. It was a lady, robed in mourning. So ghastly

pale were her features, and so skeleton-like her attenuated frame, that

James thought he beheld a spectre, and recoiled in terror. The figure

advanced slowly towards him.

"Who, and what art thou, in Heaven's name?" he exclaimed.

"I am Alice Nutter, sire," replied the lady, prostrating herself before

him.

"Alice Nutter, the witch!" cried the King. "Why--ay, I recollect thou

wert here. I sent for thee, but recent terrible events had put thee

clean out of my head. But expect no grace from me, evil woman. I will

show thee none."

"I ask none, sire," replied the penitent. "I came to place myself in

your hands, that justice may be done upon me."

"Ah!" exclaimed James. "Dost thou, indeed, repent thee of thy

iniquities? Dost thou abjure the devil and all his works?"

"I do," replied the lady, fervently. "My compact with the Evil One has

been broken by the prayers of my devoted daughter, who sacrificed

herself for me, and thereby saved my soul alive. But human justice

requires an expiation, and I am anxious to make it."

"Arise, ill-fated woman," said the king, much moved. "You must go to

Lancaster, but, in consideration of your penitence, no indignity shall

be shown you. You must be strictly guarded, but you shall not be taken

with the other prisoners."

"I humbly thank your Majesty," replied the lady. "May I take a last

farewell of my child?"

"Do so," replied James.

Alice Nutter then approached the bier, and, after gazing for a moment

with deepest fondness upon the features of her daughter, imprinted a

kiss upon her marble brow. In doing this her tears fell fast.

"You can weep, I see," observed the King. "You are a witch no longer."

"Ay, Heaven be praised! I can weep," she replied; "and so ease my

over-burthened heart. Oh! sire, none but those who have experienced it

can tell the agony of being denied this relief of nature. Farewell for

ever, my blessed child!" she exclaimed, kissing her brow again; "and

you, too, her beloved. Nicholas Assheton--it was her wish to be buried

in the same grave with Richard. You will see it done, Nicholas?"

"I will--I will!" replied the squire, in a voice of deepest emotion.

"And I likewise promise it," said Sir Ralph Assheton. "They shall rest

together in Whalley churchyard. It is well that Sir Richard and Dorothy

are gone," he observed to Nicholas.

"It is indeed," said the squire, "or we should have had another funeral

to perform. Pray Heaven it be not so now!"

"Have you any other request to prefer?" demanded the King.

"None whatever, sire," replied the lady, "except that I wish to make

full restitution of all the land I have robbed him of, to Master Roger

Nowell; and, as some compensation, I would fain add certain lands

adjoining, which have been conveyed over to Sir Ralph and Nicholas

Assheton, only annexing the condition that a small sum annually be given

in dole to the poor of the parish, that I may be remembered in their

prayers."

"We will see it done," said Sir Ralph and Nicholas.

"And I will see my part fulfilled," said Nowell. "For any wrong you have

done me I now freely and fully forgive you, and may Heaven in its

infinite mercy forgive you likewise!"

"Amen!" ejaculated the monarch. And all the others joined in the

ejaculation.

The King then moved to the door, which was opened for him by the two

Asshetons. At the foot of the steps stood Master Potts, attended by an

officer of the guard and a party of halberdiers. In the midst of them,

with their hands tied behind their backs, were Jem Device, his mother,

Jennet, and poor Nance Redferne. Jem looked dogged and sullen, Elizabeth

downcast, but Jennet retained her accustomed malignant expression. Poor

Nance was the only one who excited any sympathy. Jennet's malice seemed

now directed against Master Potts, whom she charged with having betrayed

and deceived her.

"If Tib had na deserted me he should tear thee i' pieces, thou

ill-favourt little monster," she cried.

"Monster in your own face, you hideous little wretch," exclaimed the

indignant attorney. "If you use such opprobrious epithets I will have

you gagged. You will be taken to Lancaster Castle, and hanged."

"Yo are os bad as ey am, and warse," replied Jennet, "and deserve

hanging os weel, and the King shan knoa of your tricks," she

vociferated, as James appeared at the door of the pavilion. "Yo wished

to ensnare Alizon. Yo wished me to kill her. Ey was only your

instrument."

"Stop her mouth--gag her!" cried Potts.

"Nah, nah!--they shanna stap my mouth--they shanna gag me," cried

Jennet. "Ey win speak out. The King shan hear me. You are as bad os me."

"All malice, your Majesty--all malice," cried the attorney.

"Malice, nae doubt, in great pairt," replied James; "but some truth as

weel, I fear, sir. And in any case it will prevent my doing any thing

for you."

"There, you have ruined my hopes, you little wretch!" cried Potts,

furiously.

"Ey'm reet glad on't," said Jennet. "Yo may tay me to Lonkester Castle,

boh yo conna hong me. Ey knoa that fu' weel. Ey shan get out, and then

look to yersel, lad; for, os sure os ey'm Mother Demdike's grandowter,

ey'n plague the life out o' ye."

"Take the prisoners away, and let them be conveyed under a strict escort

to Lancaster Castle," said James.

"And, as the assizes commence next week, quick work will be made with

them, your Majesty," observed Potts. "Their guilt can be incontestably

proved, so they are sure to be found guilty, sure to be hanged, sire."

As the prisoners were removed, Nance Redferne looked round her, and,

catching the eye of Nicholas, made a slight motion with her head, as if

bidding him farewell.

The squire returned the mute valediction.

"Poor Nance!" he exclaimed, compassionately, "I sincerely pity her.

Would there was any means of saving her!"

"There is none," observed Sir Ralph Assheton. "And you may be thankful

you are not brought in as her accomplice."

As Jennet was taken away, she continued to hurl threats and imprecations

against Potts.

Another officer of the guard was then summoned, and when he came, James

said, "One other prisoner remains within the pavilion. She likewise must

be conveyed to Lancaster Castle but in a litter, and not with the other

prisoners."

Attended by Sir Richard Hoghton, the monarch then proceeded to his

lodgings in the Tower.

CHAPTER XIV.--"ONE GRAVE."

Notwithstanding the sad occurrences above detailed, James remained for

two more days the guest of Sir Richard Hoghton, enjoying his princely

hospitality, hunting in the park, carousing in the great hall, and

witnessing all kinds of sports.

Nothing, indeed, was left to remind him of the sad events that had

occurred. The prisoners were taken that night to Lancaster Castle, and

Master Potts accompanied the escort, to be ready for the assizes. The

three judges proceeded thither at the end of the week. The attendance of

Roger Nowell, Nicholas, and Sir Ralph Assheton, was also required as

witnesses at the trial of the witches.

Sir Richard Assheton and Dorothy had returned, as already stated, to

Middleton; and, though the intelligence of the death of Richard and

Alizon was communicated to them with infinite caution, the shock to both

was very great, especially to Dorothy, who was long--very long--in

recovering from it.

Nicholas's vivacity of temperament made him feel the loss of his cousin

at first very keenly, but it soon wore off. He vowed amendment and

reformation on the model of John Bruen, whose life offered so striking a

contrast to his own, that it has very properly been placed in opposition

by a reverend moralist; but I regret to say that he did not carry out

his praiseworthy intentions. He was apt to make a joke of John Bruen,

instead of imitating his example. He professed to devote himself to his

excellent wife--but his old habits would break out; and, I am sorry to

say, he was often to be found in the alehouse, and was just as fond of

horse-racing, cock-fighting, hunting, fishing, and all other sports, as

ever. Occasionally he occupied a leisure or a rainy day with a

Journal,[6] parts of which have been preserved; but he set down in it

few of the terrible events here related, probably because they were of

too painful a nature to be recorded. He died in 1625--at the early age

of thirty-five.

But to go back. A few days after the tragical events at Hoghton Tower,

the whole village of Whalley was astir. But it was no festive

occasion--no merry-making--that called forth the inhabitants, for grief

sat upon every countenance. The day, too, was gloomy. The feathered

summits of Whalley Nab were wreathed in mist, and a fine rain descended

in the valley. The Calder looked dull and discoloured as it flowed past

the walls of the ancient Abbey. The church bell tolled mournfully, and a

large concourse was gathered in the churchyard. Not far from one of the

three crosses of Paulinus, which stood nearest the church porch, a grave

had been digged, and almost every one looked into it. The grave, it was

said, was intended to hold two coffins. Soon after this, a train of

mourners issued from the ancient Abbey gateway, and sure enough there

were two coffins on the shoulders of the bearers; They were met at the

gate by Doctor Ormerod, who was so deeply affected as scarcely to be

able to perform the needful offices for the dead. The principal mourners

were Sir Richard Assheton of Middleton, Sir Ralph Assheton, and

Nicholas. Amid the tears and sobs of all the bystanders, the bodies of

Richard and Alizon were committed to the earth--laid together in one

grave.

Thus was their latest wish fulfilled. Flowers grew upon the turf that

covered them, and there was the earliest primrose seen, and the latest

violet. Many a fond youth and trusting maiden have visited their lowly

tomb, and many a tear, fresh from the heart, has dropped upon the sod

covering the ill-fated lovers.

CHAPTER XV.--LANCASTER CASTLE.

Behold the grim and giant fabric, rebuilt and strengthened by

"Old John of Gaunt, time-honour'd Lancaster!"

Within one of its turrets called John of Gaunt's Chair, and at eventide,

stands a lady under the care of a jailer. It is the last sunset she will

ever see--the last time she will look upon the beauties of earth; for

she is a prisoner, condemned to die an ignominious and terrible death,

and her execution will take place on the morrow. Leaving her alone

within the turret, the jailer locks the door and stands outside it. The

lady casts a long, lingering look around. All nature seems so

beautiful--so attractive. The sunset upon the broad watery sands of

Morecambe Bay is exquisite in varied tints. The fells of Furness look

black and bold, and the windings of the Lune are clearly traced out. But

she casts a wistful glance towards the mountainous ridges of Lancashire,

and fancies she can detect amongst the heights the rounded summit of

Pendle Hill. Then her gaze settles upon the grey old town beneath her,

and, as her glance wanders over it, certain terrible objects arrest it.

In the area before the Castle she sees a ring of tall stakes. She knows

well their purpose, and counts them. They are thirteen in number.

Thirteen wretched beings are to be burned on the morrow. Not far from

the stakes are an enormous pile of fagots. All is prepared. Fascinated

by the sight, she remains gazing at the place of execution for some

time, and when she turns, she beholds a tall dark man standing beside

her. At first she thinks it is the jailer, and is about to tell the man

she is ready to descend to her cell, when she recognises him, and

recoils in terror.

"Thou here--again!" she cried.

"I can save thee from the stake, if thou wilt, Alice Nutter," he said.

"Hence!" she exclaimed. "Thou temptest me in vain. Hence!"

And with a howl of rage the demon disappeared.

Conveyed back to her cell, situated within the dread Dungeon Tower,

Alice Nutter passed the whole of that night in prayer. Towards four

o'clock, wearied out, she dropped into a slumber; and when the

clergyman, from whom she had received spiritual consolation, came to her

cell, he found her still sleeping, but with a sweet smile upon her

lips--the first he had ever beheld there.

Unwilling to disturb her, he knelt down and prayed by her side. At

length the jailer came, and the executioner's aids. The divine then laid

his hand upon her shoulder, and she instantly arose.

"I am ready," she said, cheerfully.

"You have had a happy dream, daughter," he observed.

"A blessed dream, reverend sir," she replied. "I thought I saw my

children, Richard and Alizon, in a fair garden--oh! how angelic they

looked--and they told me I should be with them soon."

"And I doubt not the vision will be realised," replied the clergyman.

"Your redemption is fully worked out, and your salvation, I trust,

secured. And now you must prepare for your last trial."

"I am fully prepared," she replied; "but will you not go to the others?"

"Alas! my dear daughter," he replied, "they all, excepting Nance

Redferne, refuse my services, and will perish in their iniquities."

"Then go to her, sir, I entreat of you," she said; "she may yet be

saved. But what of Jennet? Is she, too, to die?"

"No," replied the divine; "being evidence against her relatives, her

life is spared."

"Heaven grant she do no more mischief!" exclaimed Alice Nutter.

She then submitted herself to the executioner's assistants, and was led

forth. On issuing into the open air a change came over her, and such an

exceeding faintness that she had to be supported. She was led towards

the stake in this state; but she grew fainter and fainter, and at last

fell back in the arms of the men that supported her. Still they carried

her on. When the executioner put out his hand to receive her from his

aids, she was found to be quite dead. Nevertheless, he tied her to the

stake, and her body was consumed. Hundreds of spectators beheld those

terrible fires, and exulted in the torments of the miserable sufferers.

Their shrieks and blasphemies were terrific, and the place resembled a

hell upon earth.

Jennet escaped, to the dismay of Master Potts, who feared she would

wreak her threatened vengeance upon him. And, indeed, he did suffer from

aches and cramps, which he attributed to her; but which were more

reasonably supposed to be owing to rheum caught in the marshes of Pendle

Forest. He had, however, the pleasure of assisting at her execution,

when some years afterwards retributive justice overtook her.

Jennet was the last of the Lancashire Witches. Ever since then

witchcraft has taken a new form with the ladies of the county--though

their fascination and spells are as potent as ever. Few can now escape

them,--few desire to do so. But to all who are afraid of a bright eye

and a blooming cheek, and who desire to adhere to a bachelor's

condition--to such I should say, "BEWARE OF THE LANCASHIRE WITCHES!"

THE END.

M'CORQUODALE AND CO., PRINTERS, LONDON--WORKS, NEWTON.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: A similar eruption occurred at Pendle Hill in August, 1669,

and has been described by Mr. Charles Townley, in a letter cited by Dr.

Whitaker in his excellent "History of Whalley." Other and more

formidable eruptions had taken place previously, occasioning much damage

to the country. The cause of the phenomenon is thus explained by Mr.

Townley: "The colour of the water, its coming down to the place where it

breaks forth between the rock and the earth, with that other particular

of its bringing nothing along but stones and earth, are evident signs

that it hath not its origin from the very bowels of the mountain; but

that it is only rain water coloured first in the moss-pits, of which the

top of the hill, being a great and considerable plain, is full, shrunk

down into some receptacle fit to contain it, until at last by its

weight, or some other cause, it finds a passage to the sides of the

hill, and then away between the rock and swarth, until it break the

latter and violently rush out."]

[Footnote 2: Locus Benedictus de Whalley.]

[Footnote 3: This speech is in substance the monarch's actual

Declaration concerning Lawful Sports, promulgated in 1618, in a little

Tractate, generally known as the "Book of Sports;" by which he would

have conferred a great boon on the lower orders, if his kindly purpose

had not been misapprehended by some, and ultimately defeated by bigots

and fanatics. King James deserves to be remembered with gratitude, if

only for this manifestation of sympathy with the enjoyments of the

people. He had himself discovered that the restrictions imposed upon

them had "setup filthy tipplings and drunkenness, and bred a number of

idle and discontented speeches in the alehouses."]

[Footnote 4: "There is a laughable tradition," says Nichols, "still

generally current in Lancashire, that our knight-making monarch knighted

at the banquet in Hoghton Tower a loin of beef; the part ever since

called the sir-loin." And it is added by the same authority, "If the

King did not give the sir-loin its name, he might, notwithstanding, have

indulged in a pun on the already coined word, the etymology of which was

then, as now, as little regarded as the thing signified is well

approved."--_Nichols's Progresses of James I._, vol. iii.]

[Footnote 5: These speeches, given by _Nichols_ as derived from the

family records of Sir Henry Philip Hoghton, Bart., were actually

delivered at a masque represented on occasion of King James's visit to

Hoghton Tower.]

[Footnote 6: Published by the Chetham Society, and admirably edited,

with notes, exhibiting an extraordinary amount of research and

information, by the Rev. F.R. Raines, M.A., F.S.A., of Milnrow

Parsonage, near Rochdale.]