Chapter 6 of The Lancashire Witches This Librabox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Andy Mentor. The Lancashire Witches A Romance of Pendle Forest By William Harrison Ainsworth Introduction The Last Abbot of Whaley Chapter 6 Tata et Fortis Casa Left alone and unable to pray, the Abbot strove to dissipate his agitation of spirit by walking to and fro within his chamber, and while he was thus occupied he was interrupted by a guard who told him that the priest sent by the Earl of Derby was without, and immediately afterwards the confessor was ushered in. It was the tall monk who had been standing between the beers, and his features were still shrouded by his cow.  The monk offered him no consolation, but waited in silence till he should again look up. At last Paslew took courage and spoke. Who and what are you? he demanded. A brother of the same order as yourself replied the monk in deep and thrilling accents, but without raising his hood. And I am come to hear your confession by command of the Earl of Derby. Are you of this abbey? asked Paslew tremblingly. I was, replied the monk in a stern tone, but the monastery is dissolved and all the brethren ejected. Your name? cried Paslew. I am not come here to answer questions, but to hear a confession. Rejoined the monk, we think you of the awful situation in which you are placed, and that before many hours you must answer for the sins you have committed. You have yet time for repentance if you delay it not. You are right, father, replied the abbot. Be seated, I pray you, and listen to me, for I have much to tell. Thirty and one years ago I was prior of this abbey. Up to that period my life had been blameless, or if not only fear from fault, I had little wherewith to reproach myself. Little to fear from a merciful judge, unless it were that I indulged too strongly the desire of ruling absolutely in the house in which I was then only second. But Satan had laid a snare for me, into which I blindly fell. Among the brethren was one named Borlae Salvatum, a young man of rare attainment and singular skill in the occult sciences. He had risen in favour, and at the time I speak of was elected sub-prior. Go on, said the monk. It began to be whispered about within the abbey, pursued Paslew, that on the death of William Reed, then abbot, Borlae Salvatum would succeed him, and then it was that the bitter feelings of animosity were awakened in my breast against the sub-prior, and after many struggles I resolved upon his destruction. A wicked resolution, cried the monk, but proceed. I pondered over the means of accomplishing my purpose, resumed Paslew, and at last decided upon accusing Alvatum of sorcery and magical practices. The accusation was easy, for the occult studies in which he indulged laid him open to the charge. He occupied a chamber overlooking the cold, and used to break the monastic rules by wandering forth at night upon the hills. When he was absent thus, one night, accompanied by others of the brethren, I visited his chamber, and examined his papers, some of which were covered with mystical figures and cabalistic characters. These papers I seized, and a watch was set to make a prisoner of Alvatum on his return. Before dawn he appeared, and was instantly secured and placed in close confinement. On the next day he was brought before the assembled conclave in the chapter-house, and examined. His defence was unavailing. I charged him with the terrible crime of witchcraft, and he was found guilty. A hollow groan broke from the monk, but he offered no other interruption. He was condemned to die a fearful and lingering death, pursued the abbot, and it devolved upon me to see the sentence carried out. "'And no pity for the innocent moved you?' cried the monk. "'You had no compunction?' "'None,' replied the abbot. "'I rather rejoiced in the successful accomplishment of my scheme. The prey was fairly in my toils, and I would give him no chance of escape. Not to bring scandal upon the abbey, it was decided that Alvatum's punishment should be secret.' "'A wise resolve,' observed the monk. "'And in the thickness of the dormitory walls is contrived a small, singularly formed dungeon,' continued the abbot. It consists of an arched cell, just large enough to hold the body of a captive, and permit him to stretch himself upon a straw-pallet. A narrow staircase mounts upward to a great in aperture in one of the buttresses, to admit air and light. Other opening is there none. "'Tateret Fortist Garcer' is this dungeon-styled in armonastic roles, and it is well described, for it is black and strong enough. "'Food is admitted to the miserable inmate of the cell by means of a revolving stone, but no interchange of speech can be held with those without. A large stone is removed from the wall to admit the prisoner, and once immured the masonry is mortist and made solid as before. The wretched captive does not long survive his doom, or he may be that he lives too long, for death must be a release from such a protected misery. In this dark cell one of the evil-minded brethren who essayed to stab the abbot of Kirkstall in the chapter-house was thrust, and ere a year was over the provisions were untouched, and the man being known to be dead they were stayed. His skeleton was found within the cell when it was opened to admit Bollet-Salvaton. "'Poor captive,' groaned the monk. "'Ey, poor captive,' echoed past you, my eyes have often striven to pierce these stone walls and to see him lying there in that narrow chamber, or forcing his way upwards to catch a glimpse of the blue sky above him. When I have seen the swallows settle on the old buttress, or the thin grass growing between the stones waving there, I have thought of him. "'Go on,' said the monk. "'I scarce can proceed,' rejoined past you. Little time was allowed out of them for preparation. That very night the fearful sentence was carried out. The stone was removed, and a new pallet placed in the cell. At midnight the prisoner was brought to the dormitory, the brethren chanting a dole for him. There he stood amidst them, his tall form towering above the rest and his features pale as death. He protested his innocence, but he exhibited no fear, even when he saw the terrible preparations. When all was ready he was led to the breach, and that awful moment his eye met mine, and I shall never forget the look. I might have saved him if I had spoken, but I would not speak. I turned away, and he was thrust into the breach. A fearful cry then rang in my ears, but it was instantly drowned by the mallets of the masons employed to fasten up the stone. There was a pause for a few moments, broken only by the sobs of the abbot. At length the monk spoke, and the prisoner perished in the cell. He demanded an hollow voice. I thought so till to-night, replied the abbot, but if he escaped it must have been my miracle, or by the aid of those powers with whom he was charged with holding commerce. He did escape, thundered the monk, throwing back his hood. Look up, John Passlew, look up, false abbot, and recognize thy victim. More later over to him, cried the abbot. Is it indeed you? You see, and can you doubt? replied the other.  You shall now learn how I am here to repay the wrong you did me. We have changed places, John Passlew, since the night when I was thrust into the cell, never as you hoped to come forth. You are now the criminal, and I the witness of the punishment. Forgive me, forgive me, Bollay Salvatum, since you are indeed he, cried the abbot, falling on his knees. Arise, John Passlew, cried the other, sternly. Arise, and listen to me. For the damning offenses into which I have been led, I hold you responsible. But for you I might have died free from sin. It is fit you should know the amount of my iniquity. Give ear to me, I say. When first shut within that dungeon, I yielded to the promptings of despair.  But love of life prevailed. On the second day I took the bread and water allotted me, and ate and drank, after which I scaled a narrow staircase, and gazed through the thin barred loophole, at the bright blue sky above, sometimes catching the shadow of a bird as it flew past. Oh, how I yearn for freedom then! Oh, how I wished to break through the stone walls that held me fast! What a weight of despair crushed my heart as I crept back to my narrow bed! The cell seemed like a grave, and indeed it was little better. Horrible thoughts possessed me. What if I should be willfully forgotten? What if no food should be given me, and I should be left to perish by the slow pangs of hunger? At this idea I shrieked aloud. But the walls alone returned the dull echo to my cries. I beat my hands against the stones till the blood flowed from them. But no answer was returned, and at last I desisted from sheer exhaustion. Day after day and night after night passed in this way. My food regularly came, but I became maddened by solitude, and with terrible implications invoked aid from the powers of darkness to set me free. One night, while thus employed, I was startled by a mocking voice which said, Oh, if your heart is needless, last I may to wish for me when I come. It was profoundly dark. I could see nothing but a pair of red orbs glowing like flaming car-bunkles. Now it's diff'ry. Continue the voice. Continue the voice. At this I felt myself grasped by an iron arm, against which all resistance would have been unavailing, even if I had dared to offer it. And in an instant I was dragged up the narrow steps, the stone wall open before my unseen conductor, and in another moment we were upon the roof of the dormitory. By the bright star-beam shooting down from above, I discerned a tall, shadowy figure standing by my side. Thou of mine. He cried, in accents graven forever on my memory. But I am generous master, and will give thee a long-term freedom. Thou shalt be arranged upon my memory, deeply arranged. Grant this, and I am thine, I replied, the spirit of infernal vengeance possessing me, and I knelt before the fiend. But thou must tarry a while. He answered, For thine and in his time you belong on coming, but it will come. I cannot work in immediate harm, but I will lead into a hide from which we will surely fall, and long. Thou must depart from his place, for it is ever worth to be, and if thou stayest here ill, who will be with thee? I will send your wrath to thy dungeon, which shall daily devour the provisions, so that the moment shall come, although thou hast fled. In thirty and one years shall the abode do we accomplish. Two years before that time in our race return, then they come along to Penel Hill on a Friday night, and read the water of the Mothbull on the summit, and I will appear to thee and tell thee more. Nine and twenty years, remember. With these words the shadowy figure melted away, and I found myself standing alone on the mossy roof of the dormitory. The cold stars were shining down upon me, and I heard the howl of the watch-dogs near the gate. The fair abbey slept in beauty around me, and I gnashed my teeth with rage to think that you had made me an outcast from it, and robbed me of a dignity which might have been mine. I was wroth also that my vengeance should be so long delayed, but I could not remain where I was, so I clambered down the buttress and fled away. Can this be? cried the abbot, who had listened in rapt wonderment to the narration. Two years after your immurement in the cell of food, having been for some time untouched, the wall was opened, and upon the pallet was found a decayed carcass in mouldering monkish vestments. It was a body taken from the channel and placed thereby the demon, replied the monk, of my long wanderings in other lands, and beneath brighter skies I need not tell you, but neither absence nor lapse of years cooled my desire of vengeance, and when the appointed time drew nigh I returned to my own country, and came hither in a lowly garb under the name of Nicholas Demdike. Ha! exclaimed the abbot. I went to Pendle Hill as directed, pursued the monk, and saw the dark shape there as I beheld it on the dormitory roof. All things were then told me, and I learnt how the late rebellion should rise and how it should be crushed. I learnt also how my vengeance should be satisfied. Past you groaned aloud. A brief pause ensued, and deep emotion marked the accents of the wizard as he proceeded. When I came back, all this part of Lancashire resounded with praise of the beauty of Bess Blackburn, a rustic lass who dwelt in Barrowford. She was called the flower of Pendle, and inflamed all the youths with love, and all the maidens with jealousy. But she favoured none except Cuthbert Ashbead, forester to the abbot of Whaley. Her mother would feign have given her to the forester in marriage, but Bess would not be disposed of so easily. I saw her, and became at once enamoured. I thought my heart was seared, but it was not so. The savage beauty of Bess pleased me more than the most refined charms could have done, and her fierce character harmonised with my own. How I won her matters not, but she cast off all thoughts of Ashbead and clung to me. My wildlife suited her, and she roamed the wastes with me, scaled the hills in my company, and shrank not from the weird meetings I attended. Ill repute quickly attended her, and she became branded as a witch.  Bess heeded this little. She was of a nature to repay the world scontumly with like scorn. But when her child was born, the case became different. She wished to save it. Then it was, pursued Demdike vehemently, and regarding the abbot with flashing eyes. Then it was that I was again mortally injured by you. Then your ruthless decree to the clergy went forth. My child was denied baptism, and became subject to the fiend. Alas, alas, exclaimed Paslew. And as if this were not injury enough, thundered Demdike, you have called down a withering and lasting curse upon its innocent head, and though it transfixed its mother's heart.  There was a long, fearful silence. At last Demdike advanced to the abbot, and seizing his arm fixed his eyes upon him as if to search into his soul. Answer me, John Paslew, he cried. Answer me, as you shall speedily answer your maker. Can that malediction be recalled? Dare not to trifle with me, or I will tear forth your black heart and cast it in your face. Can that curse be recalled? Speak! It cannot, replied the abbot, half-dead with terror. Away then, thundered Demdike, casting him from him, to the gallows, to the gallows! And he rushed out of the room. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 of The Lancashire Witches This Librabox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Andy Minter The Lancashire Witches A Romance of Pendle Forest by William Harrison Ainsworth Introduction The Last Abbot of Whaley Chapter 7 The Abbey Mill For a while the abbot remained shattered and stupefied by this terrible interview. At length he arose, and made his way he scarce knew how to the oratory. But it was long before the tumult of his thoughts could be at all a-laid, and he had only just regained something like composure, when he was disturbed by hearing a slight sound in the adjoining chamber. A mortal chill came over him, for he thought it might be Demdike returned. Presently he distinguished a footstep, stealthily approaching him, and almost hoped that the wizard would consummate his vengeance by taking his life. But he was quickly un-deceived, for a hand was placed on his shoulder, and a friendly voice whispered in his ear, Come along we may Lord Abbot, get up quick, quick! Thus addressed the abbot raised his eyes, and beheld a rustic figure standing beside him, divested of his clouted shoes, and armed with a long bare wood-knife. Don't you know me, Lord Abbot? cried the person. I'm a friend. I'll enabse a wizard. You mind, wizard, your own birthplace, Abbot? Don't be afraid, I say. I'm getting a stay clapped to Yon Winder, and you can be down it here, Trice, and along covered way by Riverside at Mill. But the abbot stirred not. Quick, quick! implored Helen Abb's, venturing to pluck the abbot's sleeve. Every minute's precious. Don't be afraid, Abel Croft Miller is below. Poor Guthbert Ashspede would have been there instead of me, if he could have. But that accursed wizard Nick Demdike turned my aunt against him, and drove by again, intending for himself into poor Guthbert's side. They clapped me at her dungeon, but Abel managed to get me out, and I then swore to do what poor Guthbert would have done if he'd been living. So here I am, Lord Abbot. Come to set your prey. Now you know all about it. You can have no more hesitation. Come, time presses, and I'm feared at guard over here in us. I thank you, my good friend, from the bottom of my heart, replied the abbot, rising. But however strong may be the temptation of life and liberty, which you hold out to me, I cannot yield to it. I have pledged my word to the Earl of Derby, to make no attempt to escape. Whether doors thrown open and the guards removed, I should remain where I am. What! exclaimed Helen Abb's in a tone of bitter disappointment. You win the girl, now I was prepared. But, mess but your shun, I asked Nege Guthbert to abel empty-handed. If you're not sworn to stay here, I am sworn to set your prey, and I ask keep my oath. Willy-nilly, your shun, go with me, Lord Abbot, for bear to urge me further, my good Hal. Rejoin past you. I fully appreciate your devotion, and I only regret that you unable croft have exposed yourself to so much peril on my account. Poor Casper Dashbyd, when I beheld his body on the beer, I had a sad feeling that he had died on my behalf. Guthbert meant to rescue your Lord Abbot. Replied Hal, and I had resisted Nick Demdack's attempt to arrest him. Be your devils, he added, brandishing his knife fiercely. Warlock shall our three inches of cold steel twist his ribs. First Darmar come across him. Peace, my son.  Leave the wretched man to the chastisement of heaven, and now farewell all your kindly efforts to induce me to fly our vain. You in a go, cried Hal and Abbots, scratching his head. I cannot, replied the Abbot. Come, we meet at Winder, then, pursued Hal, and tell Abel so. He'll think I've failed else. Winningly, replied the Abbot, and with noiseless footsteps, he followed the other across the chamber. The window was open, and outside it was reared a ladder. You mungore down a few steps, said Hal and Abbots, or else he'll ne'er hear you. The Abbot complied, and partly descended the ladder. I see no one, he said. That's dark, replied Hal and Abbots, who was close behind him. Abel cannot be far off. This I hear him go on. The Abbot was now obliged to comply, though he did so with reluctance. Presently he found himself upon the roof of a building, which he knew to be connected with the mill by a covered passage, running along the south bank of the Calder. Scarcely had he set foot there, then Hal and Abbots jumped after him, and, seizing the ladder, cast it into the stream, thus rendering Paslew's return impossible. Now, Lord Abbot, he cried, with a low, exulting laugh, you and had broken your word and and kept mine, you're free again your will. You have destroyed me by your mistaken zeal, cried the Abbot, reproachfully. Now, to sort, and saved you from destruction, this way, Lord Abbot, this way! And taking Paslew's arm, he led him to a low parapet, overlooking the covered passage before described. Half an hour before it had been bright moonlight, but as if to favour the fugitive, the heavens had become overcast, and a thick mist had arisen from the river. Able! Able! cried Hal and Abbots, leaning over the parapet. Here! replied a voice below. Is all right? Is he with you? Yeah! replied Hal. What have you done with stay? cried Able. Never your mind, returned Hal, boy help Tabot down. Paslew thought it vain to resist further, and with the help of Hal and Abbots and the Miller, and further aided by some irregularities in the wall, he was soon safely landed near the entrance of the passage. Able fell on his knees, and pressed the Abbot's hand to his lips. Oh, blessed lady be praised, your fray! he cried. Donner stand dark in there, Able! interposed Hal and Abbots, who by this time had reached the ground, and who was fearful of some new remonstrance on the Abbot's part. I am feared of pursuit. You needn't to be feared of that, Hal, replied the Miller, to guard the safe enough.  I mean it pleases you to come with me, Lord Abbot. With this he marched along the passage, followed by the others, and presently arrived at the door, against which he tapped. A bolt being withdrawn, it was instantly open to admit the party. After which it was as quickly shut and secured. In answer to a call from the Miller, a light appeared at the top of a steep, ladder-like flight of wooden steps, and up these passed you at the entreaty of Able mounted, and found himself in a large, low chamber, the roof of which was crossed by great beams, covered thickly with cobwebs, whitened by flour, while the floor was strewn with empty sacks and sieves. The person who held the light proved with the Miller's daughter, Dorothy, a blooming lass of eighteen, and at the other end of the chamber, seated on a bench before a turf fire with an infant on her knees, was the Miller's wife. The latter instantly arose on beholding the Abbot, and placing the child on a corn bin, advanced towards him and dropped on her knees, while her daughter imitated her example. The Abbot extended his hands over them, and pronounced a solemn benediction. "'Bring your child also to me, that I may bless it,' he said, when he concluded. "'It's no, my child, Lord Abbot,' replied the Miller's wife, taking up the infant, and bringing it to him, it were brought to me this very neat by Able. I wish it were fair enough, I'm sure, for it's a deformed little urchin. One of the eyes is slow as it, and the other at rate looks up while left looks down.' And as she spoke, she pointed the infant's face, which was disfigured as she had stated, by a strange and unnatural disposition of the eyes, one of which was set much lower in the head than the other. Awaken from sleep, the child uttered a feeble cry, and stretched out its tiny arms to Dorothy. "'You ought to pity it for its deformity, poor little creature, rather than to reproach it, mother,' observed the young damsel. "'Maddie, give out,' cried her mother sharply, the ungetten fine feelings with your learning-foot-good-fathers, Dolly, and I said before I wished the brat were fair enough. You forget it has no mother,' suggested Dorothy kindly. "'And, you know, matter if it doesn't,' returned the Miller's wife, best dem dykes know great loss. "'Is this best dem dykes' child?' cried Pasley, recoiling. "'Yeah,' exclaimed the Miller's wife, und mistaking the cause of Pasley's emotion. She added triumphantly to her daughter. "'I told to whence Lord Abbott would be a my way of thinking. Child has got which is mark, plain a punner. Look, Lord Abbott, look!' But Pasley heeded her not. But murmured to himself, "'Ever in my path go where I will. It is vain to struggle with my fate. I will go back and surrender myself to the Earl of Derby.' "'Near, near, shall I do that,' replied Helen Abbott, who with the Miller was close beside him. "'Sit down at that stove by the fire, and take a cup of wine to cheer you. And then we'll set out to Pendle Forest, where our Spaniard was a safe hiding-place. And, dany reward, I never ask but service, should be that you on-perform a marriage service for Mayor Dolly one of these days.' And he nudged the damsel's elbow, who turned away, covering with blushes. The Abbott moved mechanically to the fire, and sat down, while the Miller's wife, surrendering the child with a shrug of the shoulders and a grimace to her daughter, went in search of some viens and a flask of wine, which she set before Pasley. The Miller then filled a drinking-horn, and presented it to his guest. Who was about to raise it to his lips, when a loud knocking was heard at the door below. The knocking continued with increased violence, and voices were heard calling upon the Miller to open the door, or it would be broken down. On the first alarm Abel had flown to a small window, whence he could reconnoitre those below, and he now returned with a face white with terror, to say that a party of Aquinasia's with the sheriff at their head were without, and that some of the men were provided with torches. They have discovered my evasion, and are come in search of me, observed the Abbott, rising, but without betraying any anxiety. Do not concern yourselves further for me, my good friends, but open the door, and deliver me to them. No, no, that we winner, cried Helen Nabs. You're not in yet, Father Abbott, and I know where to baffle them. If you let him down in river Abel, I'll manage to get him off. Well, don't, Aunt Nabs, cried the Miller, that's now been my mon-seven year for now, that I know'st where'st at Bleck. Oh, as well as any rotten about it, replied Helen Nabs, good aunt at grinding Roman, and following a triath. And as Abel snatched up the light, and hastily descended the steps with fast view, howl whispered in Dorothy's ears, take care, now no one funds that child, dolly, if they break in I'd it safely, and when they're gone, take it to church, and bless it near Dalton, where no ill can come to it, or thee. My life may on upon it. And as the poor girl, who as well as her mother was almost frightened out of her wits, promised compliance, he hurried down the steps after the others, muttering as the clamor without was redoubled, Hey, roar on tell your horse, you're when I get in yet there while I promise ya. Meanwhile the Abbott had been led to the chief room of the mill. Where all the corn formerly consumed within the monastery had been prepared, and which the size of the chamber itself, together with the vastness of the stones used in the operation of grinding, and connected with the huge water-wheel outside, proved to be by no means inconsiderable. Strong shafts of timber supported the flooring above, and were crossed by other boards placed horizontally, from which various implements in use at the mill depended. Giving the chamber imperfectly lighted, as it now was, by the lamp borne by Abel, a strange and almost mysterious appearance. Three or four of the miller's men armed with pikes had followed their master, and though much alarmed, they vowed to die rather than to give up the Abbott. By this time, Helen Abbs had joined the group, and proceeding towards a raised part of the chamber, where the grinding-stones were set, he knelt down, and, laying hold of a small ring, raised up a trapped door. The fresh air which blew up through the aperture, combined with the rushing sound of water, showed that the caulder flowed immediately beneath, and having made some slight preparation, Hal let himself down into this stream. At this moment a loud crash was heard, and one of the miller's men cried out that the aquiboseers had burst open the door. They on did end lads and let him down! cried Helen Abbs, who had some difficulty in maintaining his footing on the rough stony bottom of the swift stream. Passively yielding, the Abbott suffered the miller and one of the stoutest of his men, to assist him through the trapped door, while a third held down the lamp and showed Helen Abbs up to his middle in the darkling current, and stretching out his arms to receive the burden. The light fell upon the huge black circle of the water-wheel, now stopped, and upon the dripping arches supporting the mill. In another moment the Abbott plunged into the water. The trapped door was replaced and bolted underneath by Hal, who, while guiding his companion along and bidding him catch hold of the woodwork of the wheel, heard a heavy trampling of many feet on the boards above, showing that the pursuers had obtained admittance. Encumbered by his heavy vestments, the Abbott could with difficulty contend against the strong current, and he momentarily expected to be swept away, but he had a stout and active assistant by his side, who soon placed him under shelter of the wheel. The trampling overhead continued for a few minutes, after which all was quiet, and Hal judged that finding their search within ineffectual the enemy would speedily come forth. Nor was he deceived. Shouts were soon heard at the door of the mill, and the glare of torches was cast on the stream. Then it was that Hal dragged his companion into a deep hole, formed by some decay in the masonry behind the wheel, where the water rose nearly to their chins, and where they were completely concealed. Scarcely were they thus ensconced, and two or three armed men, holding torches aloft, were seen wading under the archway. But after looking carefully around, and even approaching close to the water-wheel, these persons could detect nothing, and withdrew, muttering curses of rage and disappointment. By and by the lights almost wholly disappeared, and the shouts becoming fainter and more distant, it was evident that the men had gone lower down the river. Upon this Hal thought that they might venture to quit their retreat, and accordingly grasping the abbot's arm he proceeded to wade up the stream. Binund with cold and half dead with terror, Pasnu needed all his companion's support, for he could do little to help himself, added to which they occasionally encountered some large stone, or stepped into a deep hole, so that it required Hal's utmost exertion and strength to force away on. At last they were out of the arch, and though both banks seemed unguarded, yet, for fear of surprise, Hal deemed it prudent still to keep to the river. Their course was completely sheltered from observation by the mist that enveloped them, and after proceeding in this way for some distance, Hal stopped to listen, and while debating with himself whether he should now quit the river, he fancied he beheld a black object swimming towards him, taking it for an otter with which voracious animal the calder, a stream swarming with trout around it, and knowing the creature would not meddle with them unless first attacked. He paid little attention to it, but he was soon made sensible of his error.  Unable to repress a cry of pain, Hal strove to disengage himself from his assistant, and finding it impossible, flung himself into the water in the hope of drowning him. But as the hound still maintained his hold, he searched for his knife to slay him, but he could not find it, and in his distress applied to Paslew. "'I've got a weapon about you, Lord Abbott,' he cried. "'We rich are come free myself from this accursed hound.' "'Enough, my son,' replied Paslew, and I fear no weapon will prevail against it, for I recognise in the animal a hound of the wizard Demdike. I thought that Dale were in it,' rejoined Hal. "'Believe me to find it out, and do your get bong, and make best of your way to Wezzle, and join you as soon as I can crush this vomit's head against a stone.' "'Ah!' he added joyfully. "'I'll find Twiddle. Go! Go! I'll soon be after you.' Feeling he could sink if he remained where he was, and wholly unable to offer any effectual assistant to his companion, the Abbott turned to the left, where a large oak overhung the stream, and he was climbing the bank, aided by the roots of the tree, when a man, suddenly came from behind it, seized his hand and dragged him up forcibly. At the same moment his captor placed a bugle to his lips, and, winding a few notes, he was instantly answered by shouts, and soon afterwards half a dozen armed men ran up, bearing torches. Not a word passed between the fugitive and his captor, but when the men came up and the torchlight fell upon the features of the latter, the Abbott's worst fears were realized. It was dem dyke. "'False to your king! false to your oath! false to all men!' cried the wizard. "'You seek to escape in vain!' "'I merit all your approaches,' replied the Abbott. "'But it may be some satisfaction to you to learn that I have endured far greater suffering than if I had patiently awaited my doom.' "'I am glad of it,' rejoined dem dyke, with a savage laugh. "'But you have destroyed others beside yourself. Where is the fellow in the water? What-ho, Yorio!' But as no sound reached him, he snatched a torch from one of the aquifersiers and held it to the river's brink, but he could see neither hound nor man. "'Strange!' he cried. "'He cannot have escaped. Oriel is more than a match for any man. Secure the prisoner while I examine the stream.' With this he ran along the bank with great quickness, holding his torch far above the water, so as to reveal anything floating within it. But nothing met his view until he came within a short distance of the mill, when he beheld a black object struggling in the current, and soon found that it was his dog making feeble efforts to gain the bank. "'Ah, Recreant Thou hast let him go!' cried dem dyke furiously.  Dem dyke held down the torch, and then perceived that the hound was quite dead. There was a deep gash in its side, and another in the throat, showing how it had perished. "'Poor Uriel,' he exclaimed, the only true friend I had, and thou art gone, the villain has killed thee, but he shall pay for it with his life.' And hurrying back he dispatched four of the men in quest of the fugitive, while accompanied by two others he conveyed Paslew back to the Abbey, where he was placed in a strong cell, from which there was no possibility of escape, and a guard was set over him. Half-an-hour after this, two of the archivosiers returned with Hala Nabs, whom they had succeeded in capturing after a desperate resistance, about a mile from the Abbey on the road to Whistle. He was taken to the guard-room, which had been appointed in one of the lower chambers of the chapter-house, and Dem dyke was immediately apprised of his arrival. Satisfied by an inspection of the prisoner, whose demeanour was sullen and resolved, Dem dyke proceeded to the great hall, where the Earl of Derby, who had returned thither after the midnight mass, was still sitting with his retainers. An audience was readily obtained by the wizard, and apparently well pleased with the result, he had returned to the guard-room. The prisoner was seated by himself, in one corner of the chamber, with his hands tied behind his back with a leather and thong, and Dem dyke, approaching him, told him that for having aided the escape of a condemned rebel and traitor, and violently assaulting the king's ledges in the execution of their duty, he would be hanged on the morrow, the Earl of Derby, who had the power of life or death in such cases, having so decreed it, and he exhibited the warrant. So you're in town, me, air wizard! cried Helen Abbs, kicking his heels with great apparent indifference. I do, replied Dem dyke, if for nothing else, for slaying my hound. I don't think it, replied Hal. You're naughty, you're man-demon. I'm not prepared to day just yet. Then, perishing your sins, cried Dem dyke, I will not give you an hour's respite. You'll be sorry when it's too late, said Hal.  And then why take it, demanded Hal, especially when you're and lose your child by doing so.  When I undertook this job, I calculated my chances and took precautions aforehund. Your child's a hostage for my safety. Curses on thee and I cunning, cried Dem dyke, but I will not be outwitted by a hind like thee. I will have the child and yet not be balked of my revenge. You'll know I, it except as a breathless corpse, about my consent, rejoined Hal. We shall see, cried Dem dyke, rushing forth, and bidding the guard to look well to the prisoner. But ere long he returned with a gloomy and disappointed expression of countenance, and again approaching the prisoner said, Thou hast spoken the truth. The infant is in the hands of some innocent being over whom I have no power. I told thee so, wizard, replied Hal, laughing, and as I be, I'm a match for thee. Now, mere life against child, wilt thou set me free? Dem dyke deliberated.  Will you swear to deliver the child to me unharmed if I set you free? Asked Dem dyke. It's a bargain, wizard, replied Hal and Abs. I swear, but your mum set me free first, for I wouldn't take your word. Dem dyke turned away disdainfully, and addressing the archibosy has said, You beheld this warrant, guard. The prisoner is now committed to my custody. I will produce him on the morrow, or account for his absence to the Earl of Derby. One of the archibosiers examined the order, and vouching for its correctness, the others signified their assent to the arrangement, upon which Dem dyke motioned the prisoner to follow him, and quitted the chamber. No interruption was offered to Hal's egress, but he stopped within the courtyard where Dem dyke awaited him, and unfastened a leathered thong that bound together his hands.  No, I dare bring it to you myself, rejoined Hal, nor worse better than that. But at church porch in half an hour, an bantlin shall be delivered to you safe and sound. And without waiting for a reply he ran off with great swiftness. At the appointed time Dem dyke sought the church, and as he drew near it there issued from the porch a female, who hastily placing the child wrapped in a mantel in his arms, tarried for no speech from him, but instantly disappeared. Dem dyke, however, recognized in her the miller's daughter, Dorothy Croft. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of The Lancashire Witches The Lancashire Witches, a romance of Pendle Forest, by William Harrison Ainsworth Introduction, The Last Abbot of Whaley Chapter 8 The Executioner Dawn came at last, after a long and weary night, to many within and without the abbey. Everything betokened a dismal day. The atmosphere was damp and depressive to the spirits, while the raw cold sensibly affected the frame. All the stir were filled with gloom and despondency, and secretly breathed a wish that the tragic business of the day were ended. The vast range of Pendle was obscured by clouds, and there long the vapours descended into the valleys, and rain began to fall, at first slightly, but afterwards in heavy, continuous showers. Melancholy was the aspect of the abbey, and it required no stretch of imagination to fancy that the old structure was deploring the fate of its former ruler. To those impressed with the idea, and many of the were who were so, the very stones of the convent church seemed dissolving into tears. The statues of the saints appeared to weep, and the great statue of St. Gregory de Northbury over the porch seemed bowed down with grief. The grotesquely carved heads on the spouts grinned horribly at the abbot's destroyers, and spouted forth cascades of water as if with the intent of drowning them. So deluging and incessant were the showers, that it seemed indeed as if the abbey would be flooded. All the inequalities of ground within the great quadrangle of the cloisters looked like ponds, and the various water spouts from the dormitory, the refectory, and the chapter house, continuing to jet forth streams into the court below, the ambulatories were soon filled ankle deep, and even the lower apartments on which they opened invaded. Surcharged with moisture, the royal banner on the gate drooped and clung to the staff as if it too shared in the general depression, or as if the sovereign authority it represented had given way. The countenances and deportment of the men harmonized with the weather, they moved about gloomily and despondently, their bright accoutrements sullied with the wet, and their buskins clogged with mire. A full-awn sight it was to watch the shivering sentinels on the walls, and yet more full-awn to see the groups of the abbot's old retainers, gathering without, wrapped in their blue wool and cloaks, patiently enduring the drenching showers and awaiting the last awful scene. But the saddest sight of all was on the hill already described, called the whole houses. Here two other lesser gibbits had been erected during the night, worn on either hand of the loftier instrument of justice, and the carpenters were yet employed in finishing their work, having been delayed by the badness of the weather. Half drowned by the torrents that fell upon them, the poor fellows were protected from interference with their disagreeable occupation by half a dozen well-mounted and well-armed troopers, and by as many halberdeers, and this company, completely exposed to the weather, suffered severely from wet and cold. The rain beat against the gallows, ran down its tall naked posts, and collected in pools at its feet. Attracted by some strange instinct, which seemed to give them a knowledge of the object of these terrible preparations, two ravens wheeled screaming around the fatal tree, and at last one of them settled on the cross-beam, and could with difficulty be dislodged by the shouts of the men when it flew away, croaking hoarsely. Up this gentle hill, ordinarily so soft and beautiful, but now abhorrent as a Golgotha, in the eyes of the beholders, groups of rustics and monks had climbed over ground rendered slippery with moisture, and had gathered round the pailing encircling the terrible apparatus, looking the images of despair and woe. Even those within the abbey and sheltered from the storm shared the all-pervading despondency. The refectory looked dull and comfortless, and the logs on the hearth hissed and spluttered and would not burn. Green wood had been brought, instead of dry fuel, by the drowsy henchmen. The viands on the board provoked not the appetite, and the men emptied their cups of ale, yawned and stretched their arms, as if they would faint sleep an hour or two longer. The sense of discomfort was heightened by the entrance of those whose term of watch had been relieved, and who cast their dripping cloaks on the floor, while two or three savage dogs, steaming with moisture, stretched their huge lengths before the sullen fire and disputed all approach to it. Within the great hall were already gathered the retainers of the Earl of Derby, but the nobleman himself had not appeared, having passed the greater part of the night in conference with one person or another, and the abbot's flight having caused him much disquietude, though he did not hear of it till the fugitive was recovered, the Earl would not seek his couch until within an hour of daybreak, and his attendance, considering the state of the weather, and that it yet wanted full two hours till the times appointed for the execution, did not think it needful to disturb him. Braddell and Asherton, however, were up and ready, but despite their firmness of nerve, they yielded like the rest of the depressing influence of the weather, and began to have some misgivings as to their own share in the tragedy about to be enacted. The various gentlemen in attendance paced to and fro within the hall, holding but slight converse together, anxiously counting the minutes, for the time appeared to pass on with unwanted slowness, and ever and anon glancing through the dam and panes of the window at the rain pouring down steadily without, and coming back again hopeless of amendment in the weather. If such were the disheartening influence of the day on those who had nothing to apprehend, what must its effect have been on the poor captives? Woeful indeed! The two monks suffered a complete prostration of spirit. All the resolution, which Father Haydock had displayed in his interview with the Earl of Derby, failed him now, and he yielded to the agonies of despair. Father Eastgate was in little better condition, and gave vent to unavailing lamentations, instead of paying heed to the consolatory discourse of the monk who had been permitted to visit him. The abut was better sustained, though greatly enfeebled by the occurrences of the night, yet in proportion, as his bodily strength decreased, his mental energy rallied. Since the confession of his secret offense, and the conviction he had obtained that his supposed victim still lived, a weight seemed taken from his breast, and he had no longer any dread of death. Rather, he looked to the speedy termination of existence with hopeful pleasure. He prepared himself, as decently as the means afforded him permitted, for his last appearance before the world, but refused all refreshment, except a cup of water, and being left to himself was praying fervently when a man was admitted into his cell. Thinking it might be the executioner come to summon him, he arose, and to his surprise beheld hallow nabs. The countenance of the rustic was pale, but his bearing was determined. You hear, my son? cried past you. I hoped you had escaped. I'm in no danger, Father Abbott, replied Hal, and gotten leaves to visit you for a minute only, so I won't be brief.  How, my son? cried past you. I understand you're not. You've understood me well enough by and by, replied Hal.  Past you would have sought some further explanation, but Hal stepped quickly backwards, and striking his foot against the door, it was instantly opened by the guard, and he went forth. Not long after this, the Earl of Derby entered the great hall, and his first inquiry was as to the safety of the prisoners. When satisfied of this he looked forth, and shuddered at the dismal state of the weather. While he was addressing some remarks on the subject, and on its interference with the tragic exhibition about to take place, an officer entered the hall, followed by several persons of inferior condition, amongst whom was Hal of Nabs, and marched up to the Earl, while the others remained standing at a respectful distance. What news do you bring me, sir? cried the Earl, noticing the officer's evident uneasiness of manner. Nothing has happened to the prisoners, God's death. If it hath, you shall all answer for it with your bodies. Nothing hath happened to them, my lord, said the officer, but but what interrupted the Earl out with it quickly? The executioner from Lancaster and his two aides have fled, replied the officer. Fled, exclaimed the Earl, stamping his foot with rage, now as I live, this is a device to delay the execution till some new attempt at rescue can be made. But it shall fail, if I string up the abut myself. Death can no other hangman be found. Of a surety, my lord, but all have an aversion to the office, and hold it to Probrius especially to put Churchman to death, replied the officer. Probrius or not, it must be done, replied the Earl, see that fitting persons are provided. At this moment Helen Abbs stepped forward. I am willing to undertake the job, my lord, and don't have it without for your reward, he said. I'll best him a grudge, I suppose, good fellow, replied the Earl, laughing at the rustic son-cooth appearance, but how seems to stout fellow, and one not likely to flinch and may discharge the office as well as another. If no better man can be found, let him do it, he added to the officer. Ah, humbly thank your lordship! replied Hal, inwardly rejoicing at the success of his scheme. But his countenance fell when he perceived Demdike advance from behind the others. This man is not to be trusted, my lord, said Demdike, coming forward. He has some mischievous design in making the request. So far from bearing enmity to the abut, it was he who assisted him in his attempt to escape last night. What, exclaimed the Earl, is this a new trick, bring the fellow forward that I may examine him. But Hal was gone, instantly divining Demdike's purpose, and seeing his chance lost, he mingled with the lookers on, who covered his retreat. Nor could he be found when sought for by the guard. See, you provide the substitute quickly, sir, cried the Earl angrily to the officer. It is needless to take further trouble, my lord, replied Demdike. I am come to offer myself as executioner. Well, exclaimed the Earl, I replied the other. When I heard that the men from Lancaster were fled, I instantly knew that some scheme to frustrate the ends of justice was on foot, and I at once resolved to undertake the office myself, rather than delay or risk should occur. What this man's aim was, who hath just offered himself, I partly guess. But it hath failed. And if your lordship will entrust the matter to me, I will answer that no further impediment shall arise, but that the sentence shall be fully carried out, and the law satisfied. Your lordship can trust me. I know it, replied the Earl. Be it as you will. It is now on the stroke of nine. At ten, let all be in readiness to set out for Whistler Hall. The rain may have ceased by that time, but no weather must stay you. Go forth with the new executioner, sir. He added to the officer, and see all necessary preparations made. And as Demdike bowed and departed with the officer, the Earl sat down with his retainers to break his fast. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of The Lancashire Witches This Libra-box recording is in the public domain. Reading by Andy Mentor The Lancashire Witches A Romance of Pendle Forest By William Harrison Ainsworth Introduction The Last Abbot of Whaley Chapter 9 Whistler Hall Shortly before ten o'clock, a numerous courtage consisting of a troop of horse in their full equipments, a band of archers with their bows over their shoulders, and a long train of barefoot monks, who had been permitted to attend, set out from the abbey. Behind them came a violet with a paper miter on his head, and a leathern crozier in his hand, covered with a circote, on which was emblazoned, but torn and reversed, the arms of Paslew, argent, a fess between three mullets, sable, pierced of the field, a crescent for difference. After him came another violet, bearing a banner, on which was painted a grotesque figure in a half-military, half-monastic garb, representing the Earl of Poverty, with this district beneath it, priest and warrior, rich and poor, he shall be hanged at his own door. Next followed a tumbrel, drawn by two horses, in which sat the abbot alone, the other two prisoners being kept back for the present. Then came Dendike, in a leathern jerkin, and a blood-red hose, fitting closely to his sinewy limbs, and wrapped in a hoopland of the same colour as the hose, with a coil of rope round his neck. He walked between two ill-favoured personages, habited in black, whom he had chosen as assistants. A band of halberdeers brought up the rear. The procession moved slowly along, the passing bell tolling each minute, and a muffled drum, sounding hollowly at intervals. Shortly before the procession started, the rain ceased, but the air felt damp and chill, and the roads were inundated. Passing out at the north-eastern gateway, the gloomy train skirted the south side of the convent church, and went on in the direction of the village of Whaley. When near the east end of the Holy Edifice, the abbot beheld two coffins born along, and on inquiry learned that they contained the bodies of Bess Dendike and Cuthbert Ashbead, who were about to be interred in the cemetery. At this moment his eye for the first time encountered that of his implacable foe, and he then discovered that he was to serve as his executioner. At first Passlew felt much trouble at this thought, but the feeling quickly passed away. On reaching Whaley every door was found closed, and every window shut, so that the spectacle was lost upon the inhabitants, and after a brief halt the cavalcade set out for Whiswell Hall. Sprung from an ancient family residing in the neighborhood of Whaley, Abbott Passlew was the second son of Francis Passlew of Whiswell Hall, a great gloomy stone mansion situated at the foot of the southwestern side of Pendle Hill, where his brother Francis still resided. Of a cold and cautious character, Francis Passlew, second of the name, held aloof from the insurrection, and when his brother was arrested he wholly abandoned him. Still the owner of Whiswell had not altogether escaped suspicion, and it was probably as much with the view of degrading him as of adding to the Abbott's punishment that the latter was taken to the hall on the morning of his execution. Be this as it may, the cortege toiled thither through roads bad in the best of seasons, but now he reigned scarcely passable, and it arrived there in about half an hour, and drew up on the broad green lawn. Window and door of the hall were closed, no smoke issued from the heavy pile of chimneys, and to all outward seeming the place was utterly deserted. In answer to inquiries it appeared that Francis Passlew had departed for Northumberland on the previous day, taking all his household with him. In earlier years, a quarrel having occurred between the haughty Abbott and the churlish Francis, the brothers rarely met, went at chance that John Passlew had seldom visited the place of his birth of late, though lying so near to the Abbey, and indeed forming part of its ancient dependencies. It was sad to view it now, and yet the house, gloomy as it was, recalled seasons with which, though they might awake and regret, no guilty associations were connected. Dark was the hall and desolate, but on the fine old trees around it the rooks were settling, and their loud callings pleased him, and excited gentle emotions. For a few moments he grew young again, and forgot why he was there. Francis obeying the house, the terraced garden in which, as a boy he had so often strayed, and the park beyond it, where he had chased the deer. His gaze rose to the cloudy heights of Pendle, springing immediately behind the mansion, and at which he had frequently climbed. The floodgates of memory were opened at once, and a whole tide of long-buried feelings rushed upon his heart. From this half-painful, half- pleasurable retrospect, he was aroused by the loud blast of a trumpet, thrice-blown. A recapitulation of his offenses, together with his sentence, was read by a herald, after which the reverse blazonry was fastened upon the door of the hall, just below a stoneless scutcheon, on which was carved the arms of the family, while the paper-miter was torn and trampled underfoot, the leather and crozier broken in twain, and the scurril banner hacked in pieces. While this degrading act was performed, a man in a miller's white garb, with the hood drawn over his face, forced his way towards the tumbrel, and while the attention of the guard was otherwise engaged, whispered in Paslew's ear, and failed in my scheme's father-rabbit, Boris the sure-dine-avanger. Dendak, shall I, my Sheffield, twiddled in his heart, before he's a day-older? The wizard has a charm against steel, my son, and indeed in proof against all weapons forged by men, replied Paslew, who recognized the voice of Hallor Nabs, and hoped by this assertion to divert him from his purpose. Ah, say yourself, Father Abbott, cried howl. Then I'll reach him with some at-sacred, and he disappeared. At this moment word was given to return, and in half an hour the cavalcade arrived at the Abbey in the same order as it had left it. Though the rain had ceased, heavy clouds still hung overhead, threatening another deluge, and the aspect of the Abbey remained as gloomy as ever. The bell continued to toll, drums were beaten, and trumpets sounded from the outer and inner gateway, and from the three quadrangles. The cavalcade drew up in front of the great northern entrance, and its return being announced within the two other captives were brought forth. Each fastened upon a hurdle, harnessed to a stout horse. They looked dead already, so ghastly was the hue of their cheeks. The Abbott's turn came next. Another hurdle was brought forward, and Demdike advanced to the tumble. But Paslew recoiled from his touch, and sprang to the ground unaided. He was then laid on his back upon the hurdle, and his hands and feet were bound fast with ropes to the twisted timbers. While this painful task was roughly performed by the wizard's two ill-favoured assistants, the crowd of rustics who looked on, murmured, and exhibited such strong tokens of displeasure, that the guard thought it prudent to keep them off with their halberts. But when all was done, Demdike motioned to a man standing behind him to advance, and the person who was wrapped in a russet cloak complied, drew forth an infant, and held it in such a way that the Abbott could see it. Paslew understood what it meant, but he uttered not a word. Demdike then knelt down beside him, as if ascertaining the security of the cords, and whispered in his ear, Recall thy malediction, and my dagger shall save thee from this last indignity. Never, replied Paslew, the curse is irrevocable, but I would not recall it if I could.  Hell's torment sees thee, cried the wizard furiously. Nay, thou hast done thy worst to me, rejoin Paslew meekly. Thou canst not harm me beyond the grave. Look to thyself, for even as thou speakest thy child is taken from thee. And so it was, while Demdike knelt beside Paslew, a hand was put forth, and before the man who had custody of the infant could prevent it, his little charge was snatched from him. This the Abbott saw, though the wizard perceived it not. The latter instantly sprang to his feet. Where is the child? he demanded of the fellow in the russet cloak. It was taken from me by young tall man who is disappearing through the gateway. Replied the other in great trepidation. He here, exclaimed Demdike, regarding the dark figure with a look of despair, it is gone from me for ever. Aye, for ever, echoed the Abbott solemnly. But revenge is still left me. Revenge, cried Demdike, with an infuriated gesture. Then glad thyself with it speedily, replied the Abbott, for thy time here is short. I care not if it be, replied Demdike. I shall live long enough if I survive thee. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of The Lancashire Witches This Librabox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Andy Minter The Lancashire Witches A Romance of Pendle Forest By William Harrison Ainsworth Introduction The Last Abbott of Whaley Chapter 10 The Whole Houses At this moment the blast of a trumpet resounded from the gateway, and the Earl of Derby, with the sheriff on his right hand and Asherton on the left, and mounted on a richly comparison charger, rode forth. He was preceded by four javelinmen, and followed by two heralds in their tabards. To doleful tolling of bells, to solemn music, to plaintive hymn, chanted by monks, to roll of muffled drum at intervals, the sad cortege set forth. Loud cries from the bystanders marked its departure, and some of them followed it, but many turned away, unable to endure the sight of horror about to ensue. Among those who went on was Hallor Nabs, but he took care to keep out of the way of the guard, though he was little likely to be recognized owing to his disguise. Despite the miserable state of the weather, a great multitude was assembled at the place of execution, and they watched the approaching cavalcade with moody curiosity. To prevent disturbance, archibosiers were stationed in parties here and there, and a clear course for the cortege was preserved by two lines of halberdeers with crossed pikes. But not withstanding this, much difficulty was experienced in mounting the hill. Rendered slippery by the wet, and yet more so by the trampling of the crowd, the road was so bad in places that the horses could scarcely drag the hurdles up it, and more than one delay occurred. The stoppages were always denounced by groans, yells, and hootings from the mob, and these, neither the menaces of the Earl of Derby nor the active measures of the guard, could repress. At length, however, the cavalcade reached its destination. Then the crowd struggled forward and settled into a dense compact ring round the circular railing enclosing the place of execution, within which were drawn up the Earl of Derby, the sheriff, Ascherton, and the principal gentleman, together with Demdike and his assistants, the guard forming a circle three deep round them. Pasnew was first unleashed, and when he stood up he found Father Smith, the late prior beside him, and tenderly embraced him. "'Be of good courage, Father Abbott,' said the prior, "'a few moments, and you will be numbered with the just.' "'My hope is in the infinite mercy of heaven, Father,' replied Pasnew, sighing deeply, "'pray for me at the last.' "'Doubt it not,' returned the prior fervently, "'I will pray for you now and ever.' Meanwhile the bonds of the two other captives were unfarced, but they were found wholly unable to stand without support. A lofty ladder had been placed against the central scaffold, and up this, Demdike, having cast off his hoopland, mounted and adjusted the rope.  His appearance was greeted by the mob with a perfect hurricane of indignant outcries and yells. He heeded them not, but calmly pursued his task. Above him wheeled the two ravens, who had never quitted the place since daybreak, uttering their discordant cries.  "'I am, my lord,' replied the abbot, and embracing the prayer for the last time,' he added. "'It is the king's pleasure that you say not a word in your justification to the mob, Pasnew,' observed the Earl. "'I had no such intention, my lord,' replied the abbot. "'Then tarry no longer,' said the Earl. "'If you need aid, you shall have it.' "'I require none,' replied Pasnew, resolutely. With this he mounted the ladder, with as much firmness and dignity as if ascending the steps of a tribune. Either to nothing but yells and angry outcries had stunned the ears of the lookers on, and several missiles had been hurled at Demdike, some of which took effect, though without occasioning him in discomforture. But when the abbot appeared above the heads of the guard, the tumult instantly subsided and profound silence ensued. Not a breath was drawn by the spectators. The ravens alone continued their ominous croaking. Alan Abbs, who stood on the outskirts of the ring, saw thus far, but he had bear it no longer, and rushed down the hill. Just as he reached the level ground, a culverine was fired from the gateway, and the next moment a loud wailing cry, bursting from the mob, told that the abbot was launched into eternity. Howe would not look back, but went slowly on, and presently afterwards other horrid sounds dined in his ears, telling that all was over with the two other sufferers. Sickened and faint, he lent against a wall for support. How long he continued, thus he knew not, but he heard the cavalcade coming down the hill, and saw the Earl of Derby and his attendance ride past. Glancing towards the place of execution, Howe then perceived that the abbot had been cut down, and rousing himself he joined the crowd, now rushing towards the gate, and ascertained that the body of Paslew was to be taken to the Convent Church, and deposited there till orders were to be given respecting its internment. He learned also that the removal of the corpse was entrusted to Demdike. Fired by this intelligence, and suddenly conceiving a wild project of vengeance, founded upon what he had heard from the abbot of the wizard being proof against weapons forged by men, he hurried to the church, entered it, the door being thrown open, and rushing up to the gallery, contrived to get out through a window upon the top of the porch, where he secreted himself behind the great stone statue of St. Gregory. The information he had obtained proved correct, ere long a mournful train approached the church, and a beer was set down before the porch. A black hood covered the face of the dead, but the vestments showed that it was the body of Paslew. At the head of the bearers was Demdike, and when the body was set down he advanced towards it, and removing the hood gazed at the livid and distorted features. At length I am fully avenged, he said. And Abba Paslew also cried a voice above him. Demdike looked up, but the look was his last, for the ponderous statue of St. Gregory de Northbury, launched from its pedestal, fell upon his head and crushed him to the ground. A mangled and breathless mass was taken from beneath the image, and the hands and visage of Paslew were found spotted with blood dashed from the gory carcass. The author of the wizard's destruction was suspected, but never found. Nor was it positively known who had done the deed till years after, when Helen Abbs, who meanwhile had married Britty Dorothy Croft, and had been blessed by numerous offspring in the union, made his last confession, and then he exhibited no remarkable or becoming penitence for the act, neither was he refused absolution. Thus it came to pass that the Abbot and his enemy perished together. The mutilated remains of the wizard were placed in a shell and hurried away into the grave where his wife had that morning been laid, but no prayer was said over him. And the superstitious believed that the body was carried off that very night by the fiend, and taken to a witch's sabbath in the ruined tower on Rimmington Moor. Certain it was that the unhallowed grave was disturbed. The body of Paslew was decently interred in the north aisle of the parish church of Whaley, beneath a stone with a gothic cross sculptured upon it, and bearing the piteous inscription, Miserere May. But in the belief of the vulgar, the Abbot did not rest tranquilly. For many years afterwards a white-robed monastic figure was seen to flit along the cloisters, pass out at the gate, and disappear with a wailing cry over the whole houses. And the same ghostly figure was often seen to glide through the corridor in the Abbot's lodging, and vanish at the door of the chamber leading to the little oratory. Thus Whaley Abbey was supposed to be haunted, and few liked to wander through its deserted cloisters or ruined church after dark. The Abbot's tragical end was thus recorded. Yohannes Paslew capitali affectus supplicia. 12th Mences Martiff 1537 As to the infant, upon whom the Abbot's malediction fell, it was reserved for the dark destinies shadowed forth in the dread anathema he had uttered, to the development of which the tragic drama about to follow is devoted, and to which the fate of Abbot Paslew forms a necessary and a fitting prologue. Thus far the veil of the future may be drawn aside. That infant, and her progeny, became the Lancashire Witches. End of Chapter 10 and of The Introduction Book 1 Chapter 1 of The Lancashire Witches This LibriBox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Andy Minter The Lancashire Witches A Romance of Pendle Forest by William Harrison Ainsworth Book 1 Allison Device Chapter 1 The May Queen On a May Day in the early part of the seventeenth century, and the most lovely May Day too, admirably adapted to usher in the merriest month of the year, and seemingly made expressly for the occasion, a wake was held at Whaley, to which all the neighbouring countryfolk resorted, and indeed many of the gentry as well, for in the good old times, when England was still merry England, a wake had attractions for all classes alike, and especially in Lancashire, for with pride I speak it, there were no lads who, in running, vaulting, wrestling, dancing, or in any other manly exercise, could compare with the Lancashire lads. In archery above all, none could match them, for were not their ancestors the stout Bowman and Billman, whose cloth-yard shafts and trenchant weapons won the day at Flodden? And were they not true sons of their fathers? And then, I speak it with yet greater pride, there were few, if any, lasses who could compare in comeliness with the rosy cheeked, dark-haired, bright-eyed lasses of Lancashire. Assemblages of this kind, therefore, where the best specimens of either sex were to be met with, were sure to be well attended, and in spite of an enactment, passed in the preceding reign of Elizabeth, prohibiting piping, playing, bare-baiting, and bull-baiting on the Sabbath days, or on any other days, and also superstitious ringing of bells, wakes, and other common feasts. They were not only not interfered with, but rather encouraged by the higher orders. Indeed, it was well known that the reigning monarch, James I, inclined the other way, and desirous of checking the growing spirit of puritanism throughout the kingdom, had openly expressed himself in favor of honest recreation after evening prayers and upon holidays, and furthermore had declared that he liked well the spirit of his good subjects in Lancashire, and would not see them punished for indulging in lawful exercises, but that ere long he would pay them a visit in one of his progresses, and judge for himself, and would grant them still further license. Meanwhile, this expression of the royal opinion removed every restriction, and old dances with rush-bearings, bell-ringings, wakes, and feasts were as much practiced as before the passing of the obnoxious enactment of Elizabeth. The puritans and precisions, discounted as them, it is true, as much as ever, and would have put them down, if they could, as savouring of papistry and idolatry, and some rigid divines thundered against them from the pulpit. But with the king and the authorities in their favor, the people little-heeded these denunciations against them, and abstained not from any honest recreation whenever a holiday occurred. If Lancashire were famous for wakes, the wakes of Whaley were famous even in Lancashire. The men of the district were, in general, a hardy, handsome race, of the genuine Saxon breed, and passionately fond of all kinds of pastimes, and the women had their full share of the beauty indigenous to the soil. Besides, it was a secluded spot in the height of a wild mountainous region, than though occasionally visited by travellers journeying northward, or by others coming from the opposite direction, retained a primitive simplicity of manners, and a great partiality for old customs and habits. The natural beauties of the place, contrasted with the dreary region around it, and heightened by the picturesque ruins of the ancient Abbey, part of which, namely the old Abbott's lodgings, had been converted into a residence by the Ashtons, and was now occupied by Sir Ralph Ashton, while the other was left to the ravages of time, made it always an object of attraction to those residing near it. But when, on the May Day in question, there was not only to be awake, but a maple set on the green, and a rush bearing with Morris dancers besides, together with wits and ale at the Abbey, crowds flocked away, from whistle, cold coats and clither-o, from ribchester and blackburn, from paddium and pendle, and even from places more remote. Not only was John Laws of the dragon full, but the checkers and the swan also, and the roadside ale house to boot. Sir Ralph Ashton had several guests at the Abbey, and others were expected in the course of the day, while Dr. Ormerod had friends staying with him at the vicarage. Soon after midnight, on the morning of the festival, many young persons of the village, of both sexes, had arisen, and to the sound of horn, had repaired to the neighbouring woods, and there gathered a vast stock of green boughs, and flowering branches of the sweetly perfumed hawthorn, wild roses and honeysuckle, with baskets of violets, caustlips, frim roses, bluebells and other wild flowers, and returning in the same order they went forth, fashioned the branches into green boughs within the churchyard, all round about the maple set up on the green, and decorated them afterwards with garlands and crowns of flowers. This morning ceremonial ought to have been performed without wetting the feet, but though some pains were taken in the matter, few could achieve the difficult task, except those carried over the dewy grass by their lustrous wanes. On the day before, the rushes had been gathered, and the rush cart piled, shaped and trimmed and adorned by those experienced in the task, and it was one requiring both taste and skill, as will be seen when the cart itself shall come forth. While others had borrowed for its adornment, from the Abbey and elsewhere, silver tankards, drinking cups, spoons, ladles, brooches, watches, chains and bracelets, so as to make an imposing show. They was ushered in by a merry peal of bells from the tower of the Old Parish Church, and the ringers practised all kinds of joyous changes during the morning, and fired many a clanging volley. The whole village was earlier stir, and as these were times when good hours were kept, and as early rising is a famous sharpener of the appetite, especially when attended with exercise, so an hour before noon the rustics one and all sat down to dinner, the strangers being entertained by their friends, and if they had no friends, throwing themselves upon the general hospitality. The ale-houses were reserved for tippling at a later hour, for it was then customary for both gentlemen and commoner, male as well as female, as will be more fully shown hereafter, to take their meals at home, and repair afterwards to houses of public entertainment, for wine or other liquours. Private chambers were, of course, reserved for the gentry, but not unfrequently the squire and his friends would take their bottle with the other guests. Such was the invariable practice in the northern counties, in the reign of James I. Soon after midday, and when the bells began to peal merrily again, for even ringers must recruit themselves, at a small cottage in the outskirts of the village, and close to the caulder, whose waters swept past the trimly kept garden attached to it, two young girls were employed in attiring a third, who was to represent made Marian, or Queen of the May, in the pageant there about to ensue. And certainly by sovereign and prescriptive right of beauty, no one better deserved the high title and distinction conferred upon her than this fair girl. Lovely are maiden in the whole county, and however high her degree than this rustic damsel it was impossible to find. And though the becoming and fanciful costume in which she was decked could not heighten her natural charms, it certainly displayed them to advantage. Upon her smooth and beautiful brow sat a gilt crown, while her dark and luxuriant hair covered behind with a scarlet quaff embroidered with gold and tied with yellow, white, and crimson ribbons, but otherwise wholly unconfined, swept down almost to the ground. Slight and fragile, her figure was of such just proportion that every movement and gesture had an indescribable charm. The most courtly day might have envied her fine and taper fingers, and fancied she could improve these by protecting them against the sun, or by rendering them snowy white with paste or cosmetic. But this was questionable. Nothing certainly could improve the small foot and finely turned ankle so well displayed in the red hose and smart little yellow buskin fringed with gold. A stomacher of scarlet cloth braided with yellow lace in crossbars confined her slender waist. Her robe was of carnation-coloured silk with wide sleeves, and the gold-fringed skirt descended only a little below the knee, like the dress of a modern Swiss peasant, so as to reveal the exquisite symmetry of her limbs. Overall she wore a circuit of azure silk, lined with white, and edged with gold. In her left hand she held a red pink as an emblem of the season. So enchanting was her appearance altogether, so fresh the character of her beauty, so bright the bloom that dyed her lovely cheeks, that she might have been taken for a personification of May herself. She was indeed in the very May of life, the mingling of spring and summer in womanhood, and the tender blue eyes, bright and clear as diamonds of purest water, the soft, regular features, and the merry mouth, whose ruddy, parted lips, ever and anon displayed two rows of pearls, completed the similitude to the attributes of the jock and month. Her handmaidens, both of whom were simple girls, and though not destitute of some pretensions to beauty themselves, in no wise to be compared with her, were at the moment employed in knotting the ribbons in her hair, and adjusting the azure circuit. Attentively watching these proceedings sat on a stool placed in a corner, a little girl, some nine or ten years old, with a basket of flowers on her knee. The child was very diminutive, even for her age, and her smallest was increased by personal deformity, occasioned by contraction of the chest and spinal curvature, which raised her back above her shoulders. But her features were sharp and cunning, almost malignant, and there was a singular and unpleasant look about the eyes, which were not placed evenly in the head. Altogether she had a strange old-fashioned look, and from her habitual bitterness of speech, as well as from her vindictive character, which, young as she was, had been displayed with some effect on more than one occasion, she was no great favourite with anyone. It was curious now to watch the eager and envious interest she took in the progress of her sister's adornment. For such was the degree of relationship in which she stood to the May Queen, and when the circuit was finally adjusted, and the last ribbon tied, she broke forth, having hitherto preserved a sullen silence. Well, Sister Allison, you may have fallen to May Queen, I won't say. She observed spitefully. But to my mind, I had a sulky worsley or lancy old here, but they looked prettier. Oh, no, that way, shouldn't I? rejoined one of the damsels referred to. There's no less in Lancashire told a condol near Allison's device. Firepun you for an ill-fiven minx, Janet, cried Nancy Holt.  I'm jealous, cried Janet Redding. Why, therefore, shall I be jealous, eh, yourself, you jade? When I grow old, I'll make a profit of May Queen than any of you, and sure the lads are tell me. And so you will, Janet," said Allison, device, checking by a gentle look the jeering laugh in which Nancy had seemed disposed to indulge.  May Appasana live till then," rejoined Janet, peevishly, and when I am dead and gone and led into the cold churchyard, you and they will be sorry for having wedded me so. I have never intentionally vexed you, Janet Love," said Allison, and I'm sure these two girls love you dearly. Eh, we make allowances for a few tempers," observed Susan wordsly, for we know that ailments and deformities are sure to make fault, fretful. Eh, and there it is, cried Janet sharply. My eyes, shoulders, and my small sails are always thrown in my face, but I grow tall at time and get straight, ah, straighter than you, Suki, with your broad back and short neck, but if I don't know what matters it, I shall be feared at any rate. Ah, feared winches by your both.  "'What's that you don't say, Suki?' cried Janet, whose quick ears had caught the words. "'Take care what you do to offend me, lass,' she added, shaking her thin fingers, armed with talon-like claws threateningly at her. "'Oh, I'll ask my grandam, Mother Dendak, to quieten you.'" At the mention of this name, a sudden shade came over Susan's countenance. Changing colour and slightly trembling, she turned away from the child, who, noticing the effect of her threat, could not repress her triumph. But again, Alison interposed. "'Do not be alarmed, Susan,' she said. "'My grandmother will never harm you, I'm sure. Indeed, she will never harm any one. And do not heed what little Janet says, for she is not aware of the effect of her own words, or of the injury they might do to our grandmother, if repeated. I don't wish to repeat them, or to think of a—' Sobbed Susan. "'That's good, that's kind of you, Susan,' replied Alison, taking her hand. "'Do not be cross any more, Janet. You see, you have made her weep. I'm glad on it,' rejoined the little girl, laughing. "'Let her cry on, it'll do her good, and take her to mend her manners, and ne'er bend me again.' "'I didn't mean to offend you, Janet.' Sobbed Susan. "'But you're so ridden and marred, nobody can or speak to please you.' "'Well, if you confess your fault, I'm satisfied,' said the little girl. "'Well, let it be a lesson to you, Sookie, to keep guarding your dungy future.' "'It shall, I promise you,' replied Susan. Drying her eyes. At this moment, a door opened, and a woman entered from an inner room, having a high-crowned conical-shaped hat on her head, and broad white pinners over her cheeks. Her dress was of dark red camlet, with high-heeled shoes.  In age she might be between forty and fifty, but she looked much older, and her features were not at all pre-possessing, from a hooked nose and chin, while her sinister effect was increased by a formation of the eyes, similar to that in Janet, only more strongly noticeable in her case. This woman was Elizabeth Device, widow of John Device, about whose death there was a mystery to be inquired into hereafter, and mother of Alison and Janet, though how she came to have a daughter so unlike herself in all respects as the former, no one could conceive. But so it was.  Your brother Jem has just run up to say that Rushgard has set out, and that Robin Hood and his merry men are coming for their queen, and their queen is quite ready for them, replied Alison, moving towards the door. Nay, let's have a look at your first wench, cried Elizabeth, staying her. Fine fitters, may fine birds. Ah, worried me now, you're getting these, mate.   Nothing more, replied Alison. Oh, if I were a queen in right earnest, or even a great lady. What would you do? demanded Elizabeth Device, sourly. I'd make you rich, mother, and build you a grand house to live in. Much grander than Brown's home, or Downham, or Middleton. Ah, pretty and air-green, then, Alison, replied Elizabeth, relaxing her harsh features into a wintry smile. What would you do for me, Alison, if you're a queen? Asked little Janet, looking up at her. Let me see. I'd indulge every one of your whims and wishes. You should only need ask to have. Oh, you'd never content her, observed Elizabeth, testily. It's now your way to try and content me, mother, even when you might, rejoined Janet. Oh, if she loved few people, loved her mother least of all, and never lost an opportunity of testifying her dislike to her.  No deserved note, but what that doesn't get off enough, a good whipping. Yeah, you hadn't told us what you'd do for yourself, if you were a great lady, Alison, interposed Susan. Oh, I hadn't thought about myself, replied the other, laughing. I can tell you what she'd do, Sookie, replied little Janet knowingly. She'd marry Master Richard Asherton of Middleton. Janet, exclaimed Alison, blushing crimson. It's true, replied the little girl. You know you would, Alison. Look at her face, she added, with a screaming laugh.  Janet dealt her mother a bitterly vindictive look, but she neither uttered cry nor made remark. In the momentary silence, then shewed, the blithe jingling of bells was heard, accompanied by the merry sound of table and pipe. Ah, here come the rush-cart and the Morris dancers, cried Alison, rushing joyously to the window, which, being left partly opened, admitted the scent of the wood-buy in an egg-lentine, by which it was overgrown, as well as the humming sound of the bees, by which the flowers were invaded. Almost immediately afterwards, a frolic troop, like a band of maskers, approached the cottage, and, drawing up before it, while the jingling of bells ceasing at the same moment, told that the rush-cart had stopped likewise. Chief among the party was Robin Hood, clad in a suit of Lincoln green, with a sheaf of arrows at his back, a bugle dangling from his baldrick, a bow in his hand, and a broad-leaved green hat on his head, looped up on one side, and decorated with a heron's feather. The hero of Sherwood was personated by a tall, well-limbed fellow, to whom, being really a forester of Boland, the character was natural. Beside him stood a very different figure, a jovial friar, with shaven crown, rubicant cheeks, bull-throat, and a mighty paunch, covered by a russet habit, and girded in by a red cord, decorated with golden twist and tassel. He wore red hose and sandal shoes, and carried in his girdle a wallet, to contain a roast capon, a neat's tongue, or any other dainty given him. Friar Tuck, for such he was, found his representative in Ned Huddleston, porter at the Abbey, who was the largest and stoutest man in the village, was chosen on that account to the part.  With baublin hand and blue cock's comb hood adorned with long white ass's ears upon his head, with jerkin of green, striped with yellow, hose of different colors, the left leg being yellow with the red pantoult, and the right blue, terminated with the yellow shoe, with bells hung upon various parts of his motley attire, so that he could not move without producing a jingling sound. Jack Roby looked wonderful indeed, and was constantly dancing about and dealing a blow with his bauble. Next came Will Scarlett, Stucley, and Little John, all proper men and tall, attired in Lincoln Green like Robin Hood, and similarly equipped. Like him, too, they were all foresters of Boland, owing service to the bow-bearer, Mr. Parker of Browseholm Hall, and the representative of Little John, who was six feet and a half high and stout in proportion, was Lawrence Blackrod, Mr. Parker's head-keeper. After the foresters came Tom the Piper, a wandering minstrel, habited for the occasion in a blue doublet. With sleeves of the same color turned up with yellow, red hose and brown buskins, red bonnet and green sir-coat lined with yellow. Beside the Piper was another minstrel, similarly attired, and provided with the table. Lastly came one of the main features of the pageant, and which, together with the fool, contributed most materially to the amusement of the spectators. This was the hobby-horse. The hue of this spirited charge was a pinkish white, and his housings were of crimson cloth hanging to the ground, so as to conceal the rider's real legs, though a pair of sham ones dangled at the side. His bit was of gold, and his bridle, red marocco leather, while his rider was sumptuously arrayed in a purple mantle bordered with gold, with a rich cap of the same regal hue on his head, encircled with gold, and having a red feather stuck in it. The hobby-horse had a plume of nodding feathers on his head, and careered from side to side, now rearing in front, now kicking behind, now prancing, now gently ambling, and in short indulging in playful fancies and vagaries, such as horse never indulged in before, to the imminent danger, it seemed, of his rider, and to the huge delight of the beholders. Nor must it be admitted, as it was a matter of great wonderment to the lookers-on, that by some leisure de mancan-trivance the rider of the hobby-horse had a couple of daggers stuck in his cheeks, while from his steed's bridle hung a silver ladle, which he held now and then to the crowd, and in which, when he did so, a few coins were sure to rattle. After the hobby-horse came the may-pole, not the tall pole, so called, and which was already planted in the green, but a stout staff, elevated some six feet above the head of the bearer, with coronel of flowers atop, and four long garlands hanging down, each held by a morris-dancer. Then came the may-queen's gentlemanusher, a fantastic personage in her billaments of blue guarded with white, and holding a long willow wand in his hand. After the usher came the main troupe of morris-dancers, the men attired in a graceful costume, which set off their light-active figures to advantage. Consisting of a slashed jerkin of black and white velvet, with cut sleeves left open so as to reveal the snowy shirt beneath, white hose, and shoes of black Spanish leather with large roses. Ribbons were everywhere in their dresses. Ribbons and tinsel adorned their caps. Ribbons crossed their hose, and ribbons were tied round their arms. In either hand they held a long white handkerchief knotted with ribbons. The female morris-dancers were habited in white, decorated like the dresses of the men. They had ribbons and wreaths of flowers round their heads, bows in their hair, and in their hands long white knotted kerchiefs. In the rear of the performers in the pageant came the rush-cart, drawn by a team of eight stout horses, with their mains and tails tied with ribbons, their collars fringed with red and yellow-wustered and hung with bells, which jingled blightly at every movement, and their heads decked with flowers. The cart itself consisted of an enormous pile of rushes, banded and twisted together, rising to a considerable height, and terminated in a sharp ridge, like the point of a Gothic window. The sides and top were decorated with flowers and ribbons, and there were eaves in front and at the back, and on the space within them, which was covered with white paper, were strings of gaudy flowers embedded in moss, amongst which were suspended all the ornaments and finery that could be collected for the occasion, to weird flagans of silver, swoons, ladles, chains, watches and bracelets, so as to make a brave and resplendent show. The wonder was how articles of so much value would be trusted forth on such an occasion, but nothing was ever lost. On the top of the rush cart, and bestriding its sharp ridges, sat half a dozen men, habited somewhat like the Morris dancers, in garments bedecked with tinsel and ribbons, holding garlands formed by hoops decorated with flowers, and attached to poles ornamented with silver paper, cut into various figures and devices, and diminishing gradually in size as they rose to a point where they were crowned with wreaths of daffodils. A large crowd of rustics of all ages accompanied the Morris dancers and rush cart. This gay troupe, having come to a halt as described before the cottage, the gentleman Usher entered it, and tapping against the inner door with his wand, took off his cap as soon as it was opened, and bowing deferentially to the ground, said he was come to invite the Queen of May to join the pageant, and that it only awaited her presence to proceed to the green. Having delivered this speech in as good set phrase as he could command, and being the parish clerk and schoolmaster to boot, Samson harropped by name, he was somewhat more polished than the rest of the Hines, and having moreover received a gracious response from the May Queen, who condescendingly replied that she was quite ready to accompany him, he took her hand, and led her ceremoniously to the door, wither they were followed by the others. Loud was the shout that greeted Alison's appearance, and tremendous was the pushing to obtain the sight of her, and so much was she abashed by the enthusiastic greeting, which was wholly unexpected on her part, that she would have drawn back again, if it had been possible. But the Usher led her forward, and Robin Hood and the Foresters, having bent the knee before her, the hobby-horse began to curve it anew among the spectators, and tread on their toes, the fool to wrap their knuckles with his baubles, the Piper to play, the Taber at a beat his tambourine, and the Morrist dancers to toss their kerchiefs over their heads. Thus the pageant being put in motion, the rush cart began to roll on, its horse's bells jingling merrily, and the spectators cheering lustily. End of Chapter 1