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Title: Traditions of Lancashire, Volume 2

Author: John Roby

Release date: April 30, 2008 [eBook #25256]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Hélène de Mink and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRADITIONS OF LANCASHIRE, VOLUME 2 ***




Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Hélène de Mink and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net











     "Time has spared the epitaph on
     Adrian's horse,--confounded that of himself."

     SIR THOMAS BROWNE.




     TRADITIONS

     OF

     LANCASHIRE.


     BY

     JOHN ROBY, M.R.S.L.


     _ILLUSTRATED BY ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL AND WOOD._


     IN TWO VOLUMES.

     VOL. II.

     Fifth Edition.


     LONDON:
     GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS.
     MANCHESTER: L. C. GENT.
     1872.


     PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY
     EDINBURGH AND LONDON

     Transcriber's note: Minors spelling inconsistencies - mainly
     hyphenated words - have been harmonised.

     Obvious printer errors have been corrected, but the original
     regional spelling of "properpty" (in "Clegg Hall") has been
     retained.

     Letters after the sign ^ should be read as superscript. Example
     Edw^d, where the "d" is superscript.

     Some chapters start with illustrations. In the original book
     those illustrations are not named. Here they are named after
     their chapters.

     The Latin numbers (i, ii, etc.) behind some words or expressions
     refer to the transcriber's notes at the end of this e-book.




     CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.


                                       PAGE
     THE FAIRIES' CHAPEL,                 1

     THE LUCK OF MUNCASTER,              24

     THE PEEL OF FOULDREY,               35

     A LEGEND OF BEWSEY,                 69

     THE BLESSING,                       78

     THE DULE UPO' DUN,                  82

     WINDLESHAW ABBEY,                   96

     CLEGG HALL,                        137

     THE MERMAID OF MARTIN MEER,        172

     GEORGE FOX,                        189

     THE DEMON OF THE WELL,             206

     THE SANDS,                         225

     THE RING AND THE CLIFF,            236

     THE DEAD MAN'S HAND,               247

     THE LOST FARM,                     262

     THE MAID'S STRATAGEM,              294

     THE SKULL-HOUSE,                   311

     RIVINGTON PIKE,                    322

     MOTHER RED-CAP,                    345

     THE DEATH-PAINTER,                 389

     THE CRYSTAL GOBLET,                416





     LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


     THE PEEL OF FOULDREY           _To face page_ 35

     BEWSEY, NEAR WARRINGTON                       69

     WINDLESHAW ABBEY                              96

     CLEGG HALL, NEAR ROCHDALE                    137

     PEG O'NELLY'S WELL, NEAR CLITHEROE           206

     ULVERSTONE SANDS                             225

     THE LOST FARM, NEAR SOUTHPORT                262

     RIVINGTON PIKE                               322

     "THE THRUTCH," NEAR ROCHDALE                 349




     THE FAIRIES' CHAPEL.

     "Farewell, rewards and fairies!
       Good housewives now may say;
     For now foule sluts in dairies,
       Doe fare as well as they:
     And though they sweepe their hearths no less
       Than mayds were wont to doe,
     Yet who of late, for cleaneliness,
       Finds sixe-pence in her shoe?"

     --_Percy's Reliques._


     The ancient mansion of Healey Hall was a cumbrous inconvenient
     dwelling of timber; but the spirit of improvement having gone
     forth in the reign of Elizabeth, an ordinary hall-house of stone
     was erected, about the year 1620, by Oliver Chadwick. On the
     south front was a projecting wing and three gables, with a large
     hall-window. The north front had two gables only, with a
     projecting barn. The north entrance, covered by a porch, was a
     thorough passage, answering to the screens of a college, having
     on one side the hall and parlour beyond; on the other were the
     kitchen, buttery, &c. On the river below was a corn-mill; this
     and a huge barn being necessary appendages to the hospitable
     mansions and plentiful boards of our forefathers. Over the front
     door was this inscription--

     C. C. DOC. T: R. C: I. C. A. C: R. B.
               ANO. DOM'I. 1168.

     About the year 1756 the east wall gave way, and a considerable
     fishure appeared on the outside. This event was considered by
     many as the usual foretokening that its owner, Charles Chadwick,
     of Healey and Ridware, would speedily be removed by death from
     the seat of his ancestors; and so it proved, for in the course
     of a few months he died at Lichfield, _aged eighty-two_. His
     great age, though, will be thought the more probable token, the
     surer presage of approaching dissolution.

     On a stone near the top of the building, on the north side, a
     human head was rudely carved in relief, which tradition affirms
     to have been a memorial of one of the workmen, accidentally
     killed while the house was building.

     In 1773, the existing edifice was built, on the ancient site, by
     John Chadwick, grandfather to the present owner.

     In Corry's _Lancashire_ is the following document, furnished by
     the recent possessor, Charles Chadwick, Esq. It relates to the
     foregoing John Chadwick, his father--

     "In 1745, at the rebellion, when the Pretender's son and his
     Highlanders reached Manchester, having obtained a list of the
     loyal subscribers, they began (of course) to enforce the
     payment of the money for their own use. An officer of the
     belted plaid, of the second division, came to the house of Mr
     C., in King Street, whilst the master of it was with his father
     at Ridware, and, on being told that he was from home, and his
     lady ill in bed, he went up-stairs, and opening the
     chamber-door, where she was then lying-in, beckoned her sister
     to come to him on the stairs, where he told her (in a mild but
     decided tone) that the money before mentioned must be paid
     quickly for the use of 'the prince (who lodged at the house in
     Market Street, now called the Palace Inn), or the house would
     be burnt down.' In this dilemma, the man-midwife calling first,
     and afterwards the physician, were both consulted by the
     ladies; when the former (a Tory) advised to send the money
     after them, whilst the latter (a Whig) thought it better to
     keep it till called for; consequently, never being called for
     in their hasty retreat, the money was not paid. It may be
     proper to add, Captain Lachlan MacLachlan, of the first
     division (afterwards one of the proscribed), being quartered in
     the same house, behaved with the greatest civility and
     politeness. On a party of horse coming to the door for
     quarters, he called for a lanthorn, and, though he had a cold
     (for which white wine whey was offered him, which he called
     'varra good stuff'), walked as far as Salford, and there
     quartered them; two of his Highlanders, in the meantime, were
     dancing reels in the kitchen, and in the morning gave each of
     the maids sixpence at parting."

     The name Healey Dene denotes a valley or dale, _convallis_,
     enclosed on both sides with steep hills; _dene_ being a Saxon
     word, signifying a narrow valley, with woods and streams of
     water convenient for the feeding of cattle. Here the river
     Spodden, which now keeps many fulling-mills and engines at
     work, formerly turned one solitary corn-mill only. It was built
     in the narrow dingle below the hall, for the supply of the
     hamlet. The feudal owners of most mansions usually erected
     corn-mills (where practicable) within their own demesnes. After
     the family had removed to the more mild and temperate climate
     of Mavesyn-Ridware, in Staffordshire, about the year 1636,
     Healey Mill was converted into a fulling-mill, so that one of
     the principal features in our story no longer exists.


About two miles north from Rochdale lies the hamlet of Healey, a high
tract of land, as its Saxon derivation seems to imply, hea{~LATIN SMALL LETTER EZH WITH CURL~}e, _high_,
and lea{~LATIN SMALL LETTER EZH WITH CURL~} _a pasture_, signifying the "_high pasture_."

Our Saxon ancestors chiefly occupied their lands for grazing
purposes; hence the many terminations in ley, or lea{~LATIN SMALL LETTER EZH WITH CURL~}. Pasturage is
still called a "ley" for cattle in these parts.

In this remote hamlet dwelt a family, probably of Saxon origin, whose
name, De Heley, from their place of residence, had, in all likelihood,
been assumed soon after the Norman conquest. Their descendants, of the
same name, continued to reside here until the reign of Edward III.,
holding their lands as abbey lands, under the abbot of Stanlaw, soon
after the year 1172, in the reign of Henry II., and subsequently under
the abbot of Whalley, from the year 1296.[1] In 1483, John Chadwyke, or
(_Ceddevyc_, from the common appellation _Cedde_, and _vyc_, a mansion
or vill, signifying Cedde's fort, peel, or fortified mansion) married
Alice, eldest daughter and co-heir of Adam Okeden of Heley; and in her
right settled at the mansion of Heley (or Healey) Hall, then a huge
unsightly structure of wood and plaster, built according to the
fashion of those days. An ancestor of Adam Okeden having married
"_Hawise, heir of Thomas de Heley_," in the reign of Edward III.,
became possessed of this inheritance.

The origin of surnames would be an interesting inquiry. In the present
instance it seems clear that the name and hamlet of Chadwick are
derived from Cedde's vyc, or Chad's vyc. This mansion, situated on the
southern extremity of Spotland, or Spoddenland, bounded on the east by
that stream, and southward by the Roche, was built on a bold eminence
above the river, where Cedde and his descendants dwelt, like the
Jewish patriarchs, occupied in the breeding of sheep and other cattle.

"But though this hamlet had been named _Ceddevic_, from its
subordinate Saxon chief, he himself could not have adopted it for his
own surname; because surnames were then scarcely, if at all, known
here. He must have continued, therefore, to use his simple Saxon name
of _Cedde_ only, and his successors likewise, with the addition of
Saxon _patronymics_ even down to the Norman conquest, when the Norman
fashion of local names or surnames was first introduced into England."

But though the Norman addition of surnames "became general amongst the
barons, knights, and gentry, soon after the Conquest, yet Saxon
patronymics long continued in use amongst the common people, and are
still not unusual here. Thus, instead of John Ashworth and Robert
Butterworth, we hear of Robin o' Ben's and John o'Johnny's,"--meaning
Robert the son of Benjamin, and John the son of John, "similar to the
Norman Fitz, the Welsh Ap', the Scotch Mac, and the Irish O'; and this
ancient mode of describing an individual sometimes includes several
generations, as Thomas O'Dick's, O'Ned's, O'Sam's," &c.

But besides patronymics, nicknames (the Norman soubriquets) have been
used in all ages and by all nations, and are still common here; some
of them coarse and ludicrous enough: the real surname being seldom
noticed, but the nickname sometimes introduced, with an alias, even in
a law instrument. And why are not Poden, Muz, Listing, &c., as good as
"the Bald," "the Fat," "the Simple," &c., of the French kings; or "the
Unready," "the Bastard," "Lackland," "Longshanks," &c., of our own? A
lad named Edmund, some generations back, attended his master's sons to
Rochdale school, who latinised his name into "Edmundus;" then it was
contracted into "Mundus," by which name his descendants are best known
to this day: some probably knowing "Tom Mundus" well who are ignorant
of his real surname. Within late years individuals have been puzzled
on hearing themselves inquired after by their own surname. At
Whitworth you might have asked in vain for the house of "Susannah
Taylor," though any child would have taken you straight to the door of
"Susy O'Yem's, O' Fair-off's at top o' th' rake."[2]

Another derivation of the surname De Heley, not at all improbable, has
been suggested--viz., that Hely Dene may have been an early corruption
of Holy Dene, having formerly belonged to the Church, and possibly, in
remote ages, dedicated to the religious rites of the Druids. A clear
rock-spring, in a gloomy dell below the Hall, is still called "the
Spaw," and often frequented by youths and maidens on May mornings.
Hence some have imagined that this Dene and its Spaw may have given to
the river running through it the name of Spodden, or Spaw-Dene.
Another spring, higher up, is called Robin Hood's Well, from that
celebrated outlaw, who seems to have been the favourite champion of
these parts, and who, according to some authorities, lies buried at
Kirklaw, in the West Riding of York.[3]

Such holy wells were, in more superstitious if not happier ages, the
supposed haunts of elves, fairies, and other such beings, not unaptly
denominated the rabble of mythology.

A warm sequestered dingle here conducts the Spodden through a scene of
wild, woodland, and picturesque beauty. Drayton, in his _Polyolbion_,
has thus immortalised it:--

     "First Roche, a dainty rill, which Spodden from her springs,
     A petty rivulet, as her attendant, brings."

From the mansion of Healey, built on an elevated slope above the dell,
opens out an extensive prospect. Limepark in Cheshire, Cloud End in
Staffordshire, with the Derbyshire hills, may be distinctly seen. Over
the smoke of Manchester, the banks of the Mersey are visible; and upon
the horizon rises up the barn-like ridge of Hellsby Tor,[4] in the
forest of Delamere. Towards the west may be seen, far out, like a vast
barrier, the Welsh mountains, _Moel Famma_ (mother of mountains), with
the vale of Clwyd, like a narrow cleft in the blue hills, which extend
until the chain of Penmaenmawr and the Isle of Anglesey abruptly
terminate in the sea. Few situations, without the toil of a laborious
ascent, show so commanding a prospect; while under the very eye of the
spectator, nature assumes an aspect of more than ordinary beauty.

One wild scene, the subject of our legend, the pencil, not the pen,
must describe. It would be impossible, in any other manner, to convey
an adequate idea of its extreme loveliness and grandeur. It is here
known by its Saxon appellation, "the Thrutch," or Thrust, signifying a
narrow, but deep and rugged channel in the rocks. Through this cleft
the Spodden bursts with great force, forming several picturesque
falls, which, though of mean height, yet, combined with the
surrounding scenery, few behold without an expression of both wonder
and delight.

The ancient corn-mill was here situated, just below the mansion. From
the "Grist Yate," by the main road to Rochdale, a winding horse-way,
paved with stones set on edge, led down the steep bank and pointed to
the sequestered spot where for ages the clack of the hopper and the
plash of the mill-wheel had usurped a noisy and undisputed possession.

In the reign of our fourth Edward--we know not the precise year--an
occurrence, forming the basis of the following legend, is supposed to
have taken place,--when fraud and feud were unredressed; when bigotry
and superstition had their "perfect work;" when barbaric cruelty, and
high and heroic deeds, had their origin in one corrupt and common
source, the passions of man being let loose, in wild uproar,
throughout the land; when the wars of the Roses had almost desolated
the realm, and England's best blood flowed like a torrent. Such was
the aspect of the time to which the following events relate.

It was in the beginning of the year, at the close of an unusually
severe winter. The miller's craft was nigh useless, the current of the
rivulet was almost still. Everything seemed so hard and frost-bound,
that nature looked as though her fetters were rivetted for ever. But
the dark and sterile aspect she displayed was bedizened with such
beauteous frost-work, that light and glory rested upon all, and winter
itself lost half its terrors.

Ralph Miller often looked out from his dusty, dreary tabernacle,
watching the icicles that accumulated on his wheel, and the scanty
current beneath, the hard surface of the brook scarcely dribbling out
a sufficient supply for his daily wants.

Every succeeding morn saw the liquid element becoming less, and the
unhappy miller bethought him that he would shut up the mill
altogether, until the reign of the frozen king should expire.

A seven-weeks' frost was rapidly trenching on the fair proportions of
an eighth of these hebdomadal inconveniences, and still continued the
same hard, ringing sound and appearance, as if the sky itself o'
nights had been frozen too--fixed and impervious--and the darkness had
become already palpable. Yet the moon looked out so calm, so pure and
beautiful, and the stars so spark-like and piercing, that it was a
holy and a heavenly rapture to gaze upon their glorious forms, and to
behold them, fresh and undimmed, as when first launched from the hands
of their Creator.

Want of occupation breeds mischief, idleness being a thriftless carle
that leaves the house empty, and the door open to the next comer--an
opportunity of which the enemy is sure to avail himself. The miller
felt the hours hang heavily, and he became listless and ill-humoured.

"'Tis an ill-natured and cankered disposition this," said he one
night, when sitting by the ingle with his drowsy helpmate, watching
the sputtering billets devoured, one after another, by the ravening
flame: "'Tis an ill-natured disposition that is abroad, I say, that
will neither let a man go about his own business, nor grant him a few
honest junkets these moonlight nights. I might have throttled a hare
or so, or a brace of rabbits; or what dost think, dame, of a couple of
moor-cocks or a cushat for a pie?"

"Thy liquorish tooth will lead thee into some snare, goodman, ere it
ha' done watering. What did Master Chadwyck say, who is to wed
Mistress Alice, our master's daughter, if nought forefend? What did he
promise thee but a week agone, should he catch thee at thy old trade
again?"

"A murrain light on the snivelling bully! Let him stay at his own
homestead, and not take mastership here, to trouble us with his
humours ere the portion be his. His younger brother Oliver is worth a
whole pack of such down-looked, smooth-faced hypocrites. Oliver
Chadwyck is the boy for a snug quarrel. His fingers itch for a
drubbing, and he scents a feud as a crow scents out carrion. The
other--mercy on me!--is fit for nought but to be bed-ridden and
priest-ridden like his father and his mother to boot."

"Hush, Ralph," said the cautious dame; "let thine hard speeches fall
more gently on thy master's son, that is to be. His own parents
too--methinks the son of Jordan and Eleanor Chadwyck should earn a
kinder word and a lighter judgment from thy tongue."

"Whew! my courteous dame. How now! and so because they are become part
of the movables of Holy Church, I trow, they must be handled softly,
forsooth! Tut, tut, beldame, they are--let me see, so it runs; the old
clerk of St Chad's rang the nomine in my ears long enough, and I am
not like to forget it. They be 'Trinitarians,' said he, 'of the house
of St Robert near Knaresborough, admitted by Brother Robert, the
minister of the Holy Trinity, for the redemption of captives
imprisoned by the pagans, for the faith of Jesus Christ.' Gramercy,
what a bead-roll of hard words! They say we are like to have a '_Holy
War_' again, when we have settled our own reckonings; and the blood
and groats of old England are again to be spent for the purchase of
'_Holy Land_.' O' my halidome, wench, but I would let all the priests
and friars fight for it. Cunning rogues! they set us together by the
ears, and then run away with the pudding."

No doubt this profane speech rendered him easier of access to the
tempter, and the powers of evil; who, ever watchful for the slips of
silly mortals, report such unholy words at head-quarters, where Satan
and his crew are assembled in full council.

The dame groaned deeply at this reply from her graceless husband.

"Some time or another," said she, "thou wilt rue these wicked
speeches; and who knows whether these very words of thine may not have
been heard i' the Fairies' Chapel, or whispered away beyond the forest
to the witches' tryst!"

"I care not for all the imps and warlocks i' th' parish, hags and old
women to boot. Let them come face to face. Here am I, honest Ralph the
miller, who never took toll from an empty sack, nor e'er missed the
mouth of a full one. Tol-de-rol."

Here he stood, with arms akimbo, as if daring the whole fellowship of
Satan, with their abettors and allies. This speech, too, was doubtless
reported at the Fairies' Chapel hard by; for the dame vowed ever after
that she heard, as it were, an echo, or a low sooning sound, ending
with an eldritch laugh, amongst the rocks in that direction. This
well-known haunt of the elves and fays, ere they had fled before the
march of science and civilisation, was but a good bowshot from the
mill, and would have terrified many a stouter heart, had not
familiarity lulled their apprehensions, and habit blunted the edge of
their fears. Strangers often wondered that any human being dared to
sojourn so near the haunts of the "good people," and were sure that,
sooner or later, the inhabitants would rue so dangerous a proximity.

A few evenings after this foolhardy challenge Ralph had been
scrambling away, far up the dingle, for a supply of firewood. The same
keen tinkling air was abroad, but the sky, where the sun had thrown
his long coronal of rays, was streaked across with a mottled and hazy
light, probably the forerunner of a change. Ralph was labouring down
the steep with his load, crashing through the boughs, and shaking off
their hoary burdens in his progress. Suddenly he heard the shrill and
well-known shriek of a hare struggling in the toils. At this joyful
and refreshing sound the miller's appetite was wonderfully stimulated;
his darling propensities were immediately called forth; he threw down
his burden, and, rushing through the brake, he saw, or thought he saw,
in the soft twilight, an unfortunate puss in the noose. He threw
himself hastily forward expecting to grasp the prize, when lo! up
started the timid animal, and limping away, as if hurt, kept the
liquorish poacher at her heels, every minute supposing he was sure of
his prey. Rueful was the pilgrimage of the unfortunate hunter. The
hare doubled, and sprang aside whenever he came within striking
distance, then hirpling onward as before. Ralph made a full pause
where a wide gap displayed the scanty waterfall, just glimmering
through the mist below him. The moon, then riding out brightly in the
opposite direction, sparkled on the restless current, tipped with
foam. It was the nearest cut to the "Fairies' Chapel," which lies
behind, and higher towards the source of the waterfall. The unlucky
hare paused too for a moment, as though afraid to leap; but she looked
back at her pursuer so bewitchingly that his heart was in his mouth,
and, fearless of consequences, he rushed towards her; but he slipped,
and fell down the crumbling bank. When sufficiently recovered from the
shock, he saw the animal stealing off, between the edge of the stream
and the low copsewood by the brink, towards the Fairies' Chapel. He
made one desperate effort to lay hold of her before she set foot upon
enchanted ground.

He seized her, luckily as he thought, by the scut; when lo! up started
something black and "uncanny," with glaring eyes, making mouths, and
grinning at him, as though in mockery. He felt stupefied and
bewildered. Fascinated by terror, he could not refrain from following
this horrible appearance, which, as if delighted to have ensnared him,
frisked away with uncouth and fiendish gambols, to the very centre of
the Fairies' Chapel.

Ralph, puissant and valorous upon his own hearthstone, felt his
courage fast oozing out at elbows when he saw the cold moonlight
streaming through the branches above him, and their crawling shadows
on the grotesque rocks at his side.

He was now alone, shivering from cold and fright. He felt as though
undergoing the unpleasant process of being frozen to the spot,
consciously metamorphosing into stone, peradventure a sort of
ornamental fixture for the fairies' apartment. His great hoofs were
already immovable; he felt his hair congealing; his locks hung like
icicles; and his whole body seemed like one solid lump of ice, through
which the blood crept with a gradually decreasing current. Suddenly he
heard a loud yelping, as though the hounds were in full cry. The
sound passed right through the midst of the Fairies' Hall, and almost
close to his ear; but there was no visible sign of their presence,
except a slight movement, and then a shiver amongst the frost-bitten
boughs above the rocks. He had not power to bethink him of his
Paternosters and Ave Marias, which, doubtless, would have dissolved
the impious charm. Ralph had so neglected these ordinances that his
tongue refused to repeat the usual nostrums for protection against
evil spirits. His creed was nigh forgotten, and his "_salve_" was not
heard. Whilst he was pondering on this occurrence, there started
through a crevice a single light, like a glow-worm's lantern. Then a
tiny thing came forth, clad in white, like a miniature of the human
form, and, peeping about cautiously, ran back on beholding the
unfortunate miller bolt upright in the narrow glen.

Ralph now saw plainly that he had been enticed hither by some evil
being for no good. It might be for the malicious purpose of drawing
down upon him the puny but fearful vengeance of those irritable
creatures the fairies; and soon he saw a whole troop of them issuing
out of the crevice. As they came nearer he heard the short sharp tread
of this tiny host. One of them mounted the little pillar called the
"Fairies' Chair," round which multitudes gathered, as if waiting for
the fiat of their king. It was evident that their purpose was to
inflict a signal chastisement on him for his intrusion.

Ralph watched their movements with a deplorable look. Horrible indeed
were his anticipations. The elf on the pillar, a little wrinkled being
with a long nose, bottle-green eyes, and shrivelled yellowish-green
face, in a shrill squeaking tone, addressed him courteously, though
with an ill-suppressed sneer, inquiring his business in these regions.
But Ralph was too terrified to reply.

"How lucky!" said the old fairy: "we have a mortal here, just in the
nick of time. He will do our bidding rarely, for 'tis the stout miller
hard by, who fears neither fiend nor fairy, man nor witch, by his own
confession. We'll put his courage to the proof."

Ralph was now thawing through terror.

"We would have punished this thine impertinent curiosity, had we not
other business for thee, friend," said the malicious little devilkin.
"Place thy fingers on thy thigh, and swear by Hecate, Merlin, and the
Fairies' Hall, that within three days thou wilt fulfil our behest."

Ralph assented, with a hideous grimace, glad upon any terms to escape.

The whole company disappeared, but a faint, sulphur-like flame hovered
for a while over the spot they had left.

Soon he heard the following words, in a voice of ravishing
sweetness:--

     "Mortal I must cease to be,
     If no maiden, honestly,
     Plight her virgin troth to me,
     By yon cold moon's silver shower,
     In the chill and mystic hour,
     When the arrowy moonbeams fall
     In the fairies' festive hall.
     Twice her light shall o'er me pass,
     Then I am what once I was,
     Should no maid, betrothed, but free,
     Plight her virgin vow to me."

The music ceased for a short space; then a voice, like the soft
whisper of the summer winds, chanted the following lines in a sort of
monotonous recitation:--

     "Mortal, take this unstained token,
     Unpledged vows were never broken;
     Lay it where a Byron's hand
     This message finds from fairy-land,--
     Fair Eleanor, the love-sick maid,
     Who sighs unto her own soft shade:--
     Bid her on this tablet write
     What lover's wish would e'er indite;
     Then give it to the faithful stream
     (As bright and pure as love's first dream)
     That murmurs by,--'twill bring to me
     The messenger I give to thee.

     "But the maiden thou must bring
     Hither, to our elfin king,
     Ere three days are come and gone,
     When the moon hath kissed the stone
     By our fairy monarch's throne.
     Shouldst thou fail, or she refuse,
     Death is thine; or thou may'st choose
     With us to chase the moonbeams bright,
     Around the busy world. Good night!"

He now felt something slipped into his hand.

"Remember," said the voice, "when that shadow is on the pillar, thou
must return."

Immediately his bodily organs resumed their office, and the astonished
miller was not long in regaining his own threshold.

But he was a moody and an altered man. The dame could not help
shuddering as she saw his ashen visage, and his eyes fixed and almost
starting from their sockets. His cheeks were sunken, his head was
bare, and his locks covered with rime, and with fragments from the
boughs that intercepted his path.

"Mercy on me!" cried she, lifting up her hands, "what terrible thing
has happened? O Ralph, Ralph, thy silly gostering speeches, I do fear
me, have had a sting in their tail thou hast little dreamed of!"

Here she crossed herself with much fervour and solemnity. She then
turned to gaze on the doomed wretch, who, groaning heavily, seated
himself on the old settle without speaking.

"He has seen the fairies or the black dog!" said the dame in great
terror. "I will not upbraid thee with thy foolish speeches, yet would
I thou hadst not spoken so lightly of the good people. But take
courage, goodman; thou art never the worse yet for thy mishap, I trow;
so tell me what has befallen thee, and ha' done snoring there, like an
owl in a barn riggin'."

A long time elapsed ere the affrighted miller could reveal the nature
and extent of his misfortunes. But woman's wits are more fertile in
expedients, and therefore more adroit for plots and counterplots than
our own. The dame was greatly terrified at the recital, yet not so as
to prevent her from being able to counsel her husband as to the plan
he should pursue.

We now leave our honest miller for a space, while we introduce another
personage of great importance to the further development of our story.

Oliver Chadwyck was the second son of Jordan Chadwyck before-named,
then residing at their fort or peel of the same name, nearly two miles
from Healey. Oliver had, from his youth, been betrothed to Eleanor
Byron, a young and noble dame of great beauty, residing with her
uncle, Sir Nicholas Byron, at his mansion, two or three miles distant.
Oliver was a hot-brained, amorous youth, fitted for all weathers,
ready either for brotherhood or blows, and would have won his "ladye
love" at the lance's point or by onslaught and hard knocks.

Eleanor seemed to suffer his addresses for lack of other occupation.
She looked upon him as her future husband; but she would rather have
been wooed to be won. The agonies of doubt and suspense, the pangs of
jealousy and apprehension, would have been bliss compared to the dull
monotony of the "betrothed." The lazy current would have sparkled if a
few pebbles had been cast into the stream. Her sensitive spirit,
likewise, shrank from contact with this fiery and impetuous youth; her
heart yearned for some deep and hallowed affection. Strongly imbued
with the witcheries of romance, she would rather have been sought by
blandishments than blows, which, from his known prowess in the latter
accomplishment, the youthful aspirant had no necessity to detail in
the ears of his mistress. She liked not the coarse blunt manner of her
gallant, nor the hard gripe and iron tramp for which he was
sufficiently distinguished.

Yet was Oliver Chadwyck reckoned the best-looking cavalier in the
neighbourhood, and, moreover, an adherent to the "Red Rose," under
whose banner he had fought, and, even when very young, had gained
distinction for his bravery--no mean recommendation, truly, in those
days, when courage was reckoned a sure passport to a lady's favour,
the which, it might seem, whoever held out longest and stuck the
hardest was sure to win.

One evening, about the time of the miller's adventure in the Fairies'
Chapel, Eleanor was looking through her casement listlessly, perhaps
unconsciously. She sighed for occupation. The glorious hues of sunset
were gone; the moon was rising, and she watched its course from the
horizon of long dark hills up to the bare boughs of the sycamores by
the banks of the little stream below. Again she sighed, and so heavily
that it seemed to be re-echoed from the walls of her chamber. She
almost expected the grim panels to start aside as she looked round,
half-wishing, half-afraid that she might discover the intruder.

Disappointed, she turned again to the casement, through which the
moonbeams, now partially intercepted by the branches, lay in chequered
light and darkness on the floor.

"I thought thou wert here. Alas! I am unhappy, and I know not why."
While she spoke a tear trembled on her dark eyelashes, and as the
moonlight shone upon it, the reflection glanced back to the eye-ball,
and a radiant form apparently glided through the chamber. But the
spectre vanished as the eyelid passed over, and swept away the
illusion. She leaned her glowing cheek upon a hand white and
exquisitely formed as the purest statuary: an image of more perfect
loveliness never glanced through a lady's lattice. She carelessly
took up her cithern. A few wild chords flew from her touch. She bent
her head towards the instrument, as if wooing its melody--the
vibrations that crept to her heart. She hummed a low and plaintive
descant, mournful and tender as her own thoughts. The tone and feeling
of the ballad we attempt to preserve in the following shape:--

     SONG.

     I.

         "It is the stream,
     Singing to the cold moon with babbling tongue;
     Yet, ah! not half so wildly as the song
         Of my heart's dream.
     Is not my love most beautiful, thou moon?
         Though pale as hope delayed;
     Methought, beneath his feet the wild-flowers played
     Like living hearts in tune.

     2.

         "We stood alone:
     Then, as he drew the dark curls from my sight,
     Through his transparent hand and arm of light,
         The far skies shone.
     List! 'twas the dove.
     It seemed the echo of his own fond tone;
     Sweet as the hymn of seraphs round the throne
         Of hope and love!"

But the moon was not the object of her love. Ladies are little apt to
become enamoured of such a fit emblem of their own fickle and
capricious humours; and yet, somebody she loved, but he was invisible!
Probably her wild and fervid imagination had created a form--pictured
it to the mind, and endowed it with her own notions of excellence and
perfection: precisely the same as love in the ordinary mode, with this
difference only--to wit, the object is a living and breathing
substance, around which these haloes of the imagination are thrown;
whereas, in the case of which we are speaking, the lady's ideal image
was transferred to a being she had never seen.

It was but a short period before the commencement of our narrative
that Eleanor Byron was really in love, and for the first time; for
though her cousin Oliver, as she usually called him, had stormed, and
perchance carried the outworks, yet the citadel was impregnable and
unapproached. But she knew not that it was love. A soft and pleasing
impression stole insensibly upon her, then dejection and melancholy.
Her heart was vacant, and she sighed for an object, and for its
possession. It was a silly wish, but so it was, gentle reader; and
beware thou fall not in love with thine own dreams, for sure enough it
was but a vision, bright, mysterious, and bewitching, that enthralled
her. Love weaves his chains of the gossamer's web, as well as of the
unyielding adamant; and both are alike binding and inextricable. She
saw neither form nor face in her visions, and yet the impalpable and
glowing impression stole upon her senses like an odour, or a strain of
soft and soul-thrilling music. Her heart was wrapped in a delirium of
such voluptuous melody, that she chided the morning when she awoke,
and longed for night and her own forgetfulness. Night after night the
vision was repeated; and when her lover came, it was as though some
chord of feeling had jarred, some tie were broken, some delicious
dream were interrupted, and she turned from him with vexation and
regret. He chided her caprice, which he endured impatiently, and with
little show of forbearance. This did not restore him to her favour,
nor render him more winning and attractive; so that the invisible
gallant, a rival he little dreamt of, was silently occupying the heart
once destined for his own.

One evening, Ralph, in pursuance of the commands he had received,
arrayed in his best doublet, his brown hose, and a huge waist or
undercoat, beneath which lay a heavy and foreboding heart, made his
appearance at the house of Sir Nicholas Byron, an irregular and ugly
structure of lath and plaster, well ribbed with stout timber, situated
in a sheltered nook near the edge of the Beil, a brook running below
Belfield, once an establishment of the renowned knights of St John of
Jerusalem, or Knights Templars.

Ralph was ushered into the lady's chamber; and she, as if expecting
some more distinguished visitant, looked with an eye of disappointment
and impatience upon the intruder as he made his homely salutation.

"Thine errand?" inquired she.

"Verily, a fool's, lady," replied Ralph, "and a thriftless one, I fear
me, into the bargain."

"Stay thy tongue. Yet I bethink me now," said she, looking earnestly
at him, "thou art from my cousin: a messenger from him, I trow."

"Nay," said the ambiguous hind, "'tis from other guess folk, belike;
but--who--I--Like enough that the Lady Eleanor will go a
fortune-hunting with such a simpleton as I am."

"Go with thee?" said the lady in amazement.

"Why, ay--I was bid to bring you to the Fairies' Chapel, beyond the
waterfall in the wood by Healey, and that ere to-morrow night. But I
am a doomed and a dying man, for how should the Lady Eleanor Byron
obey this message?"

Here the unhappy miller began to weep; but the lady was dumb with
astonishment.

"Forgive me, lady, in this matter; but I was in a manner bound to
accomplish mine errand."

"And what if I should accompany thee? Wouldest thou be my champion, my
protector from onslaught and evil?"

Here he opened his huge grey eyes to such an alarming extent that
Eleanor had much ado to refrain from smiling.

"If you will go, lady, I shall be a living man; and you"--a dead
woman, probably he would have said; but the denunciation did not
escape his lips, and the joy and surprise of the wary miller were
beyond utterance.

"But whence thy message, friend?" said the deluded maiden, eyeing him
suspiciously.

"Why; the message was whispered in my ear. A stranger brought it
together with a dismal threat should I not bring you at the time
appointed."

Here the miller again became uneasy and alarmed. A cold shudder crept
over him, and he looked imploringly upon her.

"But they say, my trusty miller, that this chapel of the fairies may
not be visited, forbidden as it is to all catholic and devout
Christians, after nightfall."

At this intimation the peccant miller displayed his broad thumbs, and
looked so dolorous and apprehensive, sprawling out his large ungainly
proportions, that Eleanor, though not prone to the indulgence of
mirth, was mightily moved thereto by the cowardly and dismal aspect he
betrayed.

"Nay, lady, I beseech you," he stammered out. "I am a dead dog--a
piece of useless and unappropriated carrion, if you go not. Ha' pity
on your poor knave, and deliver me from my tormentors!"

"Then to-morrow I will deliver thee," said the maiden, "and break
thine enchantment. But the hour?"

"Ere the moonbeam touches the pillar in the Fairies' Hall."

"Agreed, knave. So begone. Yet--and answer truly for thy life--was no
pledge, no token, sent with this message?"

Ralph unwillingly drew forth the token from his belt. Fearful that it
might divulge more than he wished, the treacherous messenger had kept
back the tablets entrusted to him. He suspected that should she be
aware it was the good people who were a-wanting her, he would have but
a slender chance of success.

She glanced hastily, anxiously, over the page, though with great
surprise.

"How now?" said she, thoughtfully. "Here is a pretty love-billet
truly. The page is fair and unspotted--fit emblem of a lover's
thoughts."

"You are to write thereon, lady, your lover's wish, and throw it into
the brook here, hard by. The stream, a trusty messenger will carry it
back to its owner."

Ralph delivered his message with great reluctance, fearful lest she
might be alarmed and retract her promise.

To his great joy, however, she placed the mystic token in her bosom,
and bade him attend on the morrow.

This he promised faithfully; and with a light heart he returned to his
abode.

Eleanor watched his departure with impatience. She took the tablets
from her bosom. Horror seemed to fold his icy fingers round her heart.
She remembered the injunction. Her mind misgave her, and as she drew
towards the lamp it shot forth a tremulous blaze and expired. Yet with
desperate haste, bent, it might seem, on her own destruction, she
hastily approached the window. The moonbeam shone full upon the page
as she scrawled with great trepidation the word "THINE." To her
unspeakable horror the letters became a track of fire, but as she
gazed a drop of dark blood fell on them and obliterated the writing.

"Must the compact be in blood?" said she, evidently shrinking from
this unhallowed pledge. "Nay then, farewell! Thou art not of yon
bright heaven. My hopes are yet there, whatever be thy doom! If thou
art aught within the pale of mercy I am thine, but not in blood."

Again, but on another page, she wrote the word "THINE." Again the
blood-drop effaced the letters.

"Never, though I love thee! Why urge this compact?" With a trembling
hand she retraced her pledge, and the omen was not repeated. She had
dared much; but her hope of mercy was yet dearer than her heart's deep
and overwhelming passion. With joy she saw the writing was unchanged.

Throwing on her hood and kerchief, she stole forth to the brook, and
in the rivulet, where it was yet dark and unfrozen, she threw the
mystic tablet.

The following night she watched the moon, as it rose above the huge
crags, breaking the long undulating horizon of Blackstone Edge, called
"Robin Hood's Bed," or "Robin Hood's Chair."[5]

One jagged peak, projected upon the moon's limb, looked like some huge
spectre issuing from her bright pavilion. She rose, red and angry,
from her dark couch. Afterwards a thin haze partially obscured her
brightness; her pale, wan beam seemed struggling through a wide and
attenuated veil. The wind, too, began to impart that peculiar chill so
well understood as the forerunner of a change. A loud sough came
shuddering through the frozen bushes, moaning in the grass that
rustled by her path. Muffled and alone, she took her adventurous
journey to the mill, where she arrived in about an hour from her
departure. Ralph was anxiously expecting her, together with his dame.

"Good e'en, lady," said the latter, with great alacrity, as Eleanor
crossed the threshold. She returned the salutation; but her features
were lighted up with a wild and deceptive brightness, and her glowing
eye betrayed the fierce and raging conflict within.

"The shadow will soon point to the hour, and we must be gone," said
the impatient miller.

"Lead on," replied the courageous maiden; and he shrank from her gaze,
conscious of his own treachery and her danger.

The hard and ice-bound waters were dissolving, and might be heard to
gurgle in their deep recesses; drops began to trickle from the trees,
the bushes to relax their hold, and shake off their icy trammels.
Towards the south-west lay a dense range of clouds, their fleecy tops
telling with what message they were charged. Still the moon cast a
subdued and lingering light over the scene, from which she was shortly
destined to be shut out.

Ralph led the way silently and with great caution through the slippery
ravine. The moonlight flickered through the leafless branches on the
heights above them, their path winding through the shadows by the
stream.

"We must hasten," said her guide, "or we may miss the signal. We shall
soon take leave of the moonlight, and perhaps lose our labour
thereby."

They crept onwards until they saw the dark rocks in the Fairies'
Chapel. The miller pointed to a long withered bough that flung out its
giant arms far over the gulph from a great height. The moon threw down
the shadow quite across to the bank on the other side, marking its
rude outline on the crags.

"The signal," said Ralph; "and by your favour, lady, I must depart. I
have redeemed my pledge."

"Stay, I prithee, but within hearing," said Eleanor. "I like not the
aspect of this place. If I call, hasten instantly to my succour."

The miller promised, but with a secret determination not to risk his
carcase again for all the bright-eyed dames in Christendom.

She listened to his departing footsteps, and her heart seemed to lose
its support. An indescribable feeling crept upon her--a consciousness
that another was present in this solitude. She was evidently under the
control of some invisible agent; the very freedom of her thoughts
oppressed and overruled by a power superior to her own. She strove to
escape this thraldom, but in vain. She threw round an apprehensive
glance, but all was still--the dripping boughs alone breaking the
almost insupportable silence that surrounded her. Suddenly she heard a
sigh, and a rustling at her ear; and she felt an icy chillness
breathing on her. Then a voice, musical but sad, whispered--

"Thou hast rejected my suit. Another holds thy pledge."

"Another! Who art thou?" said the maiden, forgetting her fears in the
first emotion of surprise.

"Thou hast been conscious of my presence in thy dreams!" replied the
mysterious visitor. She felt her terrors dissipated, for the being
whom she loved was the guardian of her safety.

"I have loved thee, maiden," said the voice; "I have hovered round
thee when thou slept, and thou hast answered my every thought.
Wherefore hast thou not obeyed? Why not seal thy compact and our
happiness together?"

"Because it was unhallowed," replied she firmly, though her bosom
trembled like the leaf fluttering from its stem.

"Another has taken thy pledge. Yet is it not too late. Renew the
contract, even with thy blood, and I am thine! Refuse, and thou art
his. If this hour pass, I am lost to thee for ever!"

"To whom," inquired Eleanor, "has it been conveyed?"

"To thy first, thy betrothed lover. He found the pledge that I would
not receive."

The maiden hesitated. Her eternal hopes might be compromised by this
compliance. But she dreaded the loss of her insidious destroyer.

"Who art thou? I fear me for the tempter!"

"And what boots it, lady? But, listen. These elves be my slaves; and
yet I am not immortal. My term is nigh run out, though it may be
renewed if, before the last hour be past, a maiden plight her hopes,
her happiness to me! Ere that shadow creeps on the fairy pillar thou
art irrevocably mine, or his whom thou dreadest."

Eleanor groaned aloud. She felt a cold hand creeping on her brow. She
screamed involuntarily. On a sudden the boughs bent with a loud crash
above her head, and a form, rushing down the height, stood before her.
This unexpected deliverer was Oliver Chadwyck. Alarmed by the cries of
a female, as he was returning from the chase, he interposed at the
very moment when his mistress was ensnared by the wiles of her
seducer.

"Rash fool, thou hast earned thy doom. The blood be on thine own head.
Thou art the sacrifice!"

This was said in a voice of terrible and fiendish malignity. A loud
tramp, as of a mighty host, was heard passing away, and Oliver now
beheld the form of his betrothed.

"Eleanor! Here! In this unholy place!" cried her lover. But the maiden
was unable to answer.

"There's blood upon my hand!" said he, holding it up in the now clear
and unclouded moonlight. "Art thou wounded, lady?"

"I know not," she replied; "I was alone. Yet I felt as though some
living thing were nigh--some unseen form, of terrible and appalling
attributes! Was it not a dream?"

"Nay," said Oliver, pensively; "methought another was beside thee!"

"I saw him not."

"How camest thou hither?"

"Let us be gone," said she, trembling; "I will tell thee all."

She laid her head on his shoulder. It throbbed heavily. "I am now
free. The accursed links are broken. I feel as though newly wakened
from some horrible dream! Thou hast saved me, Oliver. But if thine own
life is the price!"

"Fear not; I defy their devilish subtilty--in their very den too: and
thus, and thus, I renounce the devil and all his works!"

He spat thrice upon the ground, to show his loathing and contempt.

"Oh! say not so," cried Eleanor, looking round in great alarm.

Oliver bore her in his arms from that fearful spot. He accompanied her
home; and it was near break of day when, exhausted and alone, she
again retired to her chamber. By the way Oliver told her that he had
found a mysterious tablet on the edge of the brook the same morning.
He had luckily hidden it in his bosom, and he felt as though a
talisman or charm had protected him from the spells in the "Fairies'
Chapel."

Springtide was past, and great was the stir and bustle for the
approaching nuptials between Oliver Chadwyck and the Lady Eleanor. All
the yeomanry, inhabitants of the hamlets of Honorsfield, Butterworth,
and Healey, were invited to the wedding. Dancers and mummers were
provided; wrestlers and cudgel-players, with games and pastimes of all
sorts, were appointed. The feasts were to be holden for three days,
and masks, motions, and other rare devices, were expected to surpass
and eclipse every preceding attempt of the like nature.

Eleanor sat in her lonely bower. It was the night before the bridal.
To-morrow would see her depart in pageantry and pomp--an envied bride!
Yet was her heart heavy, and she could not refrain from weeping.

She sought rest; but sleep was denied. The owl hooted at her window;
the bat flapped his leathern wings; the taper burned red and heavily,
and its rays were tinged as though with blood; the fire flung out its
tiny coffin; the wind sobbed aloud at every cranny, and wailed
piteously about the dwelling.

"Would that I might read my destiny," thought she. Her natural
inclination to forbidden practices was too powerful to withstand.

Now there was formerly an ancient superstition, that if, on the night
before marriage, a taper were burned, made from the fat of a young
sow, and anointed with the blood of the inquirer, after sundry
diabolical and cabalistical rites at midnight, a spirit would appear,
and pronounce the good or evil destiny of the querent.

Eleanor had prepared the incantation ere she laid her throbbing head
on the pillow. Whether or not she slept, is more than we can divulge.
Such, in all probability, was the case; dreams being the echo only of
our waking anticipations.

She thought there came a rushing wind. The door flapped to and fro,
the curtains shook, and the pictures glared horribly from the wall.
Suddenly--starting from the panel, with eyes lighted up like
bale-fires, and a malignant scowl on her visage--stalked down one of
the family portraits. It was that of a female--a maiden aunt of the
house of Byron, painted by one of the court artists, whom the king had
brought from France, and patronised at a heavy cost. This venerable
dame appeared to gaze at the spectator from whatsoever situation she
was beholden. The eyes even seemed to follow you when passing across
the chamber. A natural consequence though, and only marvelled at by
the ignorant and illiterate.

This ancient personage now advanced from her hanging-place, and
standing at the foot of the bed, opened out a fiery scroll with these
ominous words:--

     "Maid, wife, and widow, in one day,
     This shall be thy destiny."

Eleanor struggled hard, but was unable to move. She laboured for
utterance, but could not speak. At length, with one desperate effort,
a loud cry escaped her, and the vision disappeared. She slept no more,
but morning disclosed her haggard cheek and sunken eye, intimating
that neither hope nor enjoyment could have been the companion of her
slumbers.

It was a bright morning in June. The sun rode high and clear in the
blue heavens. The birds had "sung their matins blythe" ere the
bridegroom arrived with his attendants. Merrily did the village
choristers acquit themselves in their vocation, while those that were
appointed strewed flowers in the way. The bells of St Chad trolled out
their merry notes when the ceremony was over, and the bride, on her
snow-white palfrey, passed on, escorted by her husband, at the head of
the procession. Gay cavaliers on horseback, and maidens prancing by
their side, made the welkin ring with loud and mirthful discourse. The
elder Byron rode on his charger by the side of Jordan Chadwyck and his
eldest son, with whom rode the vicar, Richard Salley, nothing loath to
contribute his folly to the festival.

As the procession drew nigh to the hall, a messenger rode forward in
great haste, whispering to Byron, who, with angry and disordered
looks, shouted aloud to Oliver--

"Away--away! The cowardly Traffords are at our threshold. They have
skulked out, like traitors as they be, knowing our absence at the
feast. 'Tis an old feud, and a bloody one. Who is for Byron? Down with
the Traffords!"

The old man here put spurs to his horse, and galloped off with his
attendants.

"A Byron--a Byron!" shouted Oliver, as he followed in full cry, first
leaving his wife under a suitable and safe escort. Soon they routed
the enemy, but the prediction was complete; for Eleanor became

     "Maid, wife, and widow, in one day!"

her husband being slain during the battle.

The blood of man was held of little account in those days, if we may
judge by the following award on the occasion:--

"In virtue of a writ of appeal of death, sued out against Sir John
Trafford, Knight, his tenants and servants, the sum of sixty pounds
was deemed to be paid by Trafford to Biroun, to be distributed amongst
the cousins and friends of the late Oliver C., in the parish church of
Manchester, on the award of Sir Thomas Stanley, Knight, _Lord
Stanley_--viz. ten marks at the nativity of John the Baptist, and ten
marks at St Martyn, yearly, until the whole was paid, and all parties
to be fully friends. Dated London, 24th March, 20 Edward IV. 4018."

     [1] Whitaker's _Hist. Whalley_, p. 441.

     [2] Corry's _Lancashire_.

     [3] _Mag. Britan._ York, p. 391.

     [4] Here vulgarly called the Tearn Barn
     (tithe-barn) in Wales; distinctly seen in showery weather, but
     invisible in a settled season.

     [5] On a bleak moor, called Monstone Edge, in this
     hamlet, is a huge moor-stone or outlier, which (though part of
     it was broken off and removed some years ago) still retains the
     name of Monstone. It is said to have been quoited thither by
     Robin Hood, from his bed on the top of Blackstone Edge, about
     six miles off. After striking the mote or mark aimed at, the
     stone bounced off a few hundred yards and settled there. These
     stones, however, in all probability, if not Druidical, were
     landmarks, the ancient boundary of the hamlet of Healey; and,
     as was once customary, the marvellous story of this ancient
     outlaw might be told to the urchins who accompanied the
     perambulators, with the addition, probably, of a few kicks and
     cuffs, to make them remember the spot.


[Illustration: THE LUCK OF MUNCASTER.]




THE LUCK OF MUNCASTER.

     _K. Hen._--"From Scotland am I stolen, even of pure love,
               To greet mine own land with my wishful sight."

     _King Henry VI._

     "It shall bless thy bed, it shall bless thy board,
       They shall prosper by this token;
     In Muncaster Castle good luck shall be,
       Till the charmed cup is broken."


    Gamel de Pennington is the first ancestor of the family of whom
    there is any recorded account; he was a person of great note and
    property at the time of the Conquest, and the family, having
    quitted their original seat of Pennington in Lancashire (where
    the foundation of a square building called the Castle is still
    visible), he fixed his residence at Mealcastre, now called
    Muncaster. It is said that the family originally resided nearer
    the sea, at a place not far from the town of Ravenglass, where
    at present are the ruins of an old Roman castle, called Walls
    Castle. The old tower of the present mansion-house at Muncaster
    was built by the Romans, to guard the ford called St Michael's
    Ford, over the river Esk, when Agricola went to the north, and
    to watch also the great passes into the country over the fells,
    and over Hard Knot, where is the site of another fortress
    constructed by them, apparent from the traces existing to this
    day.

    Muncaster and the manor of Muncaster have long been enjoyed by
    the Penningtons, who appear to have possessed it about forty
    years before the Conquest, and ever since, sometimes
    collaterally, but for the most part in lineal descent by their
    issue male, to this very time.

    There is a room in Muncaster Castle which still goes by the name
    of Henry the Sixth's room, from the circumstance of his having
    been concealed in it at the time he was flying from his enemies
    in 1461, when Sir John Pennington, the then possessor of
    Muncaster, gave him a secret reception.

    The posts of the bed in which he slept, which are of handsome
    carved oak, are also in the same room in good preservation.

    When the period for the king's departure arrived, before he
    proceeded on his journey, he addressed Sir John with many kind
    and courteous acknowledgments for his loyal reception,
    lamenting, at the same time, that he had nothing of more value
    to present him with, as a testimony of his good-will, than the
    cup out of which he crossed himself. He then gave it into the
    hands of Sir John, accompanying the present with the following
    blessing:--"The family shall prosper as long as they preserve it
    unbroken;" which the superstition of those times imagined would
    carry good fortune to his descendants. Hence it is called "_The
    Luck of Muncaster_." It is a curiously-wrought glass cup,
    studded with gold and white enamel spots. The benediction
    attached to its security being then uppermost in the
    recollection of the family, it was considered essential to the
    prosperity of the house at the time of the usurpation that the
    Luck of Muncaster should be deposited in a safe place; it was
    consequently buried till the cessation of hostilities had
    rendered all further care and concealment unnecessary.
    Unfortunately, however, the person commissioned to disinter this
    precious jewel let the box fall in which it was locked up, which
    so alarmed the then existing members of the family, that they
    could not muster courage enough to satisfy their apprehensions.
    It therefore (according to the traditionary story still
    preserved in the family) remained unopened for more than forty
    years, at the expiration of which period a Pennington, more
    hardy or more courageous than his predecessors, unlocked the
    casket, and exultingly proclaimed the safety of the Luck of
    Muncaster.

    When John, Lord Muncaster (the first of the family who obtained
    a peerage), entered into possession of Muncaster Castle, after
    his elevation in 1793, he found it still surrounded with a moat,
    and defended by a strong portcullis. The family having of late
    years entirely resided upon their estate of Wartee in Yorkshire,
    the house was in so very dilapidated a state that Lord Muncaster
    was obliged to rebuild it almost entirely, with the exception of
    Agricola's Tower, the walls of which are nine feet thick. The
    elevation of the new part is in unison with that of the Roman
    tower, and forms altogether a handsome castellated building. The
    situation is eminently striking, and was well chosen for
    commanding the different passes over the mountains. It is
    surrounded with mountain scenery on the north, south, and east;
    while extensive plantations, a rich and cultivated country, with
    the sea in the distance, makes a combination of scenery than
    which it is scarcely possible to imagine anything more
    beautiful or more picturesque.

    We are tempted to conclude this description with the words of
    John, Lord Muncaster, who himself so greatly contributed to its
    renovation. Upon being requested to give an outline of its
    beauties, he replied that it consisted of "wood, park, lawn,
    valley, river, sea, and mountain."

    The reason or excuse we give for introducing within our
    Lancashire series this tradition, of which the occurrences took
    place in a neighbouring county, is, that the family was
    originally native to our own. By the village of Pennington,
    situated about midway between Dalton and Ulverstone, is the
    Castle Hill, the residence of this family before the Conquest.
    The area of the castle-yard appears to have been an octagon or a
    square, with obtuse angles, about forty-five yards in diameter.
    The south and east sides have been defended by a ditch about ten
    yards wide, and by a vallum of earth, still visible. There are
    no vestiges of the ancient building. It stood apparently on the
    verge of a precipice, at the foot of which flows a brook with
    great rapidity. The side commands an extensive view of the
    sea-coast and beacons, and was excellently situated for
    assembling the dependants in cases of emergency. The name is
    diversely written in ancient writings, as Penyngton, Penington,
    Pennington, and in Doomsday Book _Pennegetun_, perhaps from
    _Pennaig_, in British "a prince or great personage," to which
    the Saxon termination _tun_ being added, forms Pennegetun, since
    smoothed into Pennington.


PART FIRST.

     "Come hither, Sir John de Pennington,
       Come hither, and hearken to me;
     Nor silver, nor gold, nor ladye-love,
       Nor broad lands I give unto thee."

     "I care not for silver, I care not for gold,
       Nor for broad lands, nor fair ladye;
     But my honour and troth, and my good broadsword,
       Are the king's eternally."

     "Come hither, Sir John, thou art loyal and brave,"
       Again the monarch spake;
     "In my trouble and thrall, in the hour of pain,
       Thou pity didst on me take.

     "The white rose withers on every bough,
       And the red rose rears its thorn;
     But many a maid our strife shall rue,
       And the babe that is yet unborn.

     "I've charged in the battle with horse and lance,
       But I've doffed the warrior now;
     And never again may helmet of steel
       Bind this burning, aching brow!

     "Oh, had I been born of a simple churl,
       And a serving-wench for my mate,
     I had whistled as blithe as yon knave that sits
       By Muncaster's Castle gate!

     "Would that my crown were a bonnet of blue,
       And my sceptre yon shepherd's crook,
     I would honour, dominion, and power eschew,
       In this holy and quiet nook.

     "For England's crown is a girdle of blood,
       A traitor is every gem;
     And a murderer's eye each jewel that lurks
       In that kingly diadem!

     "Hunt on! hunt on, thou blood-hound keen;
       I'd rather an outcast be,
     Than wade through all that thou hast done,
       To pluck that crown from thee!"

     "Then tarry, my liege," Sir John replied,
       "In Muncaster's Castle gate;
     No foeman shall enter, while sheltered here
       From Edward's pride and hate."

     "I may not tarry, thou trusty knight,
       Nor longer with thee abide;
     Ere to-morrow shall rise on these lordly towers,
       From that gate shall a monarch ride.

     "For a vision came to my lonely bed,
       And that vision bade me flee;
     And I must away, ere break of day,
       O'er the hills to the south countrie.

     "But take this cup,--'tis a hallowed thing,
       Which holy men have blessed;
     In the church of the Holy Sepulchre
       This crystal once did rest;

     "And many a martyr, and many a saint,
       Around its brim have sate;
     No water that e'er its lips have touched
       But is hallowed and consecrate.

     "'Tis thine, Sir John; not an empire's worth,
       Nor wealth of Ind could buy
     The like, for never was jewel seen
       Of such wondrous potency.

     "It shall bless thy bed, it shall bless thy board,
       They shall prosper by this token;
     In Muncaster Castle good luck shall be,
       Till the charmed cup is broken!"

     Sir John he bent him on his knee,
       And the king's word ne'er did err,
     For the cup is called, to this blessed hour,
       "THE LUCK OF MUNCASTER."


PART SECOND.

     "Oh haste, Sir William of Liddislee
       My kinsman good at need,
     Ere the Esk's dark ford thou hast passed by,
       In Muncaster rest thy steed;

     "And say to my love and my lady bright,
       In Carlisle I must stay,
     For the foe is come forth from the misty north,
       And I cannot hence away;

     "But I must keep watch on Carlisle's towers
       With the banner of Cumberland;
     Then bid her beware of the rebel host,
       Lest they come with sword and brand.

     "But bid her, rather than house or land,
       Take heed of that cup of grace,
     Which King Henry gave to our ancestor,
       The 'LUCK' of our noble race.

     "Bid her bury it deep at dead of night,
       That no eye its hiding see.
     Now do mine errand, Sir William,
       As thou wouldst prosperous be!"

     Sir William stayed nor for cloud nor shrine,
       He stayed not for rest nor bait,
     Till he saw the far gleam on Esk's broad stream,
       And Muncaster's Castle gate.

     "From whence art thou in such fearful haste?"
       The warder wondering said;
     "Hast thou 'scaped alone from the bloody fight,
       And the field of the gory dead?"

     "I am not from the bloody fight,
       Nor a craven flight I flee;
     But I am come to my lady's bower,
       Sir William of Liddislee."

     The knight to the lady's bower is gone:
       "A boon I crave from thee,
     Deny me not, thou lady bright,"
       And he bent him on his knee.

     "I grant thee a boon," the lady said,
       "If it from my husband be;"
     "There's a cup of grace," cried the suppliant knight,
       "Which thou must give to me."

     "Now foul befa' thee, fause traitor,
       That with guile would our treasure win;
     For ne'er from Sir John of Pennington
       Had such traitrous message been."

     "I crave your guerdon, fair lady,
       'Twas but your faith to try,
     That we might know if the 'Luck' of this house
       Were safe in such custody.

     "The message was thus, thy husband sent;
       He hath looked out from Carlisle wa',
     And he is aware of John Highlandman
       Come trooping down the snaw;

     "And should this kilted papistry
       Spread hither upon their way,
     They'll carry hence that cup of grace,
       Though thou shouldst say them nay.

     "And thy lord must wait for the traitor foe
       By the walls of merry Carlisle;
     Else he would hie to his lady's help,
       And his lady's fears beguile.

     "Thy lord would rather his house were brent,
       His goods and his cattle harried,
     Than the cup should be broken,--that cup of grace,
       Or from Muncaster's house be carried."

     The kinsman smiled on that fond lady,
       And his traitor suit he plied:
     "Give me the cup," the false knight said,
       "From these foemen fierce to hide."

     The lady of Muncaster oped the box
       Where lay this wondrous thing;
     Sir William saw its beauteous form,
       All bright and glistering.

     The kinsman smiled on that fond lady,
       And he viewed it o'er and o'er.
     "'Tis a jewel of price," said that traitor then,
       "And worthy a prince's dower.

     "We'll bury the treasure where ne'er from the sun
       One ray of gladness shone,
     Where darkness and light, and day and night,
       And summer and spring are one:

     "Beneath the moat we'll bury it straight,
       In its box of the good oak-tree;
     And the cankered carle, John Highlandman,
       Shall never that jewel see."

     The kinsman took the casket up,
       And the lady looked over the wall:
     "If thou break that cup of grace, beware,
       The pride of our house shall fall!"

     The kinsman smiled as he looked above,
       And to the lady cried,
     "I'll show thee where thy luck shall be,
       And the lord of Muncaster's pride."

     The lady watched this kinsman false,
       And he lifted the casket high:
     "Oh! look not so, Sir William,"
       And bitterly she did cry.

     But the traitor knight dashed the casket down
       To the ground, that blessèd token;
     "Lie there," then said that false one now,
       "Proud Muncaster's charm is broken!"

     The lady shrieked, the lady wailed,
       While the false knight fled amain:
     But never durst Muncaster's lord, I trow,
       Ope that blessed shrine again!

PART THIRD.

     The knight of Muncaster went to woo,
       And he rode with the whirlwind's speed,
     For the lady was coy, and the lover was proud,
       And he hotly spurred his steed.

     He stayed not for bog, he stayed not for briar,
       Nor stayed he for flood or fell;
     Nor ever he slackened his courser's rein,
       Till he stood by the Lowthers' well.

     Beside that well was a castle fair,
       In that castle a fair lady;
     In that lady's breast was a heart of stone,
       Nor might it softened be.

     "Now smooth that brow of scorn, fair maid,
       And to my suit give ear;
     There's never a dame in Cumberland,
       Such a look of scorn doth wear."

     "Haste, haste thee back," the lady cried,
       "For a doomed man art thou;
     I wed not the heir of Muncaster,
       Thy '_Luck_' is broken now!"

     "Oh say not so, for on my sire
       Th' unerring doom was spent;
     I heir not his ill-luck, I trow,
       Nor with his dool am shent."

     "The doom is thine, as thou art his,
       And to his curse, the heir;
     But never a luckless babe of mine
       That fearful curse shall bear!"

     A moody man was the lover then;
       But homeward as he hied,
     Beside the well at Lord Lowther's gate,
       An ugly dwarf he spied.

     "Out of my sight, thou fearsome thing;
       Out of my sight, I say:
     Or I will fling thine ugly bones
       To the crows this blessèd day."

     But the elfin dwarf he skipped and ran
       Beside the lover's steed,
     And ever as Muncaster's lord spurred on,
       The dwarf held equal speed.

     The lover he slackened his pace again,
       And to the goblin cried:
     "What ho, Sir Page, what luckless chance
       Hath buckled thee to my side?"

     Up spake then first that shrivelled thing,
       And he shook his locks of grey:
     "Why lowers the cloud on Muncaster's brow,
       And the foam tracks his troubled way?"

     "There's a lady, the fairest in all this land,"
       The haughty chief replied;
     "But that lady's love in vain I've sought,
       And I'll woo none other bride."

     "And is there not beauty in other lands,
       And locks of raven hue,
     That thou must pine for a maiden cold,
       Whose bosom love ne'er knew?"

     "Oh, there is beauty in every land,"
       The sorrowing knight replied;
     "But I'd rather Margaret of Lonsdale wed,
       Than the fairest dame beside."

     "And thou shalt the Lady Margaret wed,"
       Said that loathly dwarf again;
     "There's a key in Muncaster Castle can break
       That maiden's heart in twain!"

     "Oh never, oh never, thou lying elf,
       That maiden's word is spoken:
     The cup of grace left a traitor's hand,
       Proud Muncaster's '_Luck_' is broken."

     Then scornfully grinned that elfin dwarf,
       And aloud he laughed again:
     "There's a key in thy castle, Sir Knight, can break
       That maiden's heart in twain!"

     The knight he turned him on his steed,
       And he looked over hill and stream;
     But he saw not that elfin dwarf again,
       He had vanished as a dream!

     The knight came back to his castle hall,
       And stabled his good grey steed;
     And he is to his chamber gone,
       With wild and angry speed.

     And he saw the oaken casket, where
       Lay hid that cup of grace,
     Since that fearful day, when the traitor foe
       Wrought ruin on his race.

     "Thou cursed thing," he cried in scorn,
       "That ever such 'Luck' should be;
     From Muncaster's house, ill-boding fiend,
       Thou shalt vanish eternally."

     He kicked the casket o'er and o'er
       With rage and contumely;
     When, lo! a tinkling sound was heard--
       Down dropped a glittering key!

     He remembered well the wondrous speech
       Of the spectre dwarf again,
     "There's a key in Muncaster Castle can break
       A maiden's heart in twain!"

     He took the key, and he turned the lock,
       And he opened the casket wide;
     When the cause of all his agony
       The lover now espied.

     The holy cup lay glistering there,
       And he kissed that blessèd token,
     For its matchless form unharmèd lay,
       The "Luck" had ne'er been broken!

     The loud halls rung, and the minstrels sung,
       And glad rolled the Esk's bonny tide,
     When Lonsdale's Lady Margaret
       Was Muncaster's winsome bride!

     Now prosper long that baron bold,
       And that bright and blessèd token:
     For Muncaster's Luck is constant yet,
       And the crystal charm unbroken!


[Illustration: THE PILE OF FOULDREY[i]
_Drawn by G. Pickering._
_Engraved by Edw^d. Finden._]




THE PEEL OF FOULDREY.

     "True, treason never prospers; what's the reason?
     When treason prospers, 'tis no longer treason!"


The ancient castle of Peel of Fouldrey, the island of fowls, stands a
little beyond the southern extremity of the isle of Walney. The castle
and its site belong to the ladies of the liberty of Furness.

The ruins, seen from the heights above Rampside, are beautifully
picturesque. Though the sea has wasted part of the outworks, yet the
remains exhibit a complete specimen of the principles and plan upon
which these ancient defences were usually constructed. It may not be
thought out of place to give the reader some account of its present
appearance. West, in his _Antiquities of Furness_, inserts the
following account of his visit to this delightful spot; and as it is
detailed with a good deal of graphic simplicity, if not elegance of
style, we prefer it to our own record of an expedition to this place.

"Choosing a proper time of the tide," says he, "for our excursion, we
set out from Dalton, early on a pleasant summer's morning, and having
crossed the sands in Walney channel, we followed the eastern shore of
the isle of Walney from the small village of Northscale, by the
chapel, to Bigger. Leaving this hamlet, and crossing over a small neck
of land by a narrow lane winding amongst well-cultivated fields,
smiling with the prospect of a plenteous harvest of excellent grain,
but principally of wheat, which the land in Walney generally produces
of a superior quality, we again came to the shore, and having a pretty
distinct view of several parts of the ruinous fabric which was the
object of our excursion, we took the distant castle for our guide, and
entered upon a trackless sand, which, by the route we pursued, is
about two miles and a half over. It is soft and disagreeable
travelling in many places; but there is no quicksand. Those, however,
who are unacquainted with the road to the Peel of Fouldrey should take
a guide from Bigger.

"About half-way over the sand, the mouldering castle, with its
extensive shattered walls and ruinated towers, makes a solemn,
majestic appearance. Having arrived on the island, which is destitute
of tree or shrub, except a few blasted thorns and briers, we left our
horses at a lonely public-house, situated close by the side of the
eastern shore, and proceeded to inspect the ruins of the castle. The
main tower has been defended by two moats, two walls, and several
small towers. We crossed the exterior fosse or ditch, and entered the
outer bayle or yard, through a ruinous guard-tower, overleaning a
steep precipice formed by the surges of the sea. The ancient pass,
where the drawbridge over the outer ditch was fixed, has been long
washed away. The greater part of the outer wall is also demolished,
for in those places which are out of the reach of the tide the stones
have been removed for various purposes.

"The drawbridge over the exterior ditch of these castles used commonly
to be defended by a fortification consisting of a strong high wall
with turrets, called the barbacan or antemural; the great gate or
entrance into the outer bayle or yard was often fortified by a tower
on each side, and by a room over the intermediate passage; and the
thick folding-doors of oak, by which the entrance was closed, were
often strengthened with iron, and faced by an iron portcullis or
grate, sliding down a groove from the higher part of the building.

"A chapel commonly stood in the outer bayle: accordingly, just at our
entrance into that part we saw the ruins of a building which is said
to have been the chapel belonging to this castle.

"At the inside of the yard we came to the inner fosse, moat, or ditch,
and arriving at the place where the drawbridge had been fixed, we
entered the inner bayle or court by the ancient passage through the
interior wall, the entrance whereof had evidently been secured by a
portcullis, and defended by a room over the passage.

"We now proceeded to the entrance into the main tower or keep; but the
doorway into the porch, which precedes it, being walled up, we were
obliged to creep into the edifice by a narrow aperture. The entrance
has been secured by a portcullis. The main tower has consisted of
three storeys, each divided into three oblong apartments by two
interior side walls being carried from bottom to top.

"The rooms on the ground-floor have been very low, and lighted by long
apertures, extremely narrow, at the outside of the walls, but a
considerable width in the inside, perhaps so constructed for the use
of the bow. The apartments have communicated with each other; and
there has been a winding staircase leading from one of them to the
rooms above, and to the top of the castle. Under the ground-floor of
these ancient castles used commonly to be dark and dismal apartments,
or dungeons, for the reception of prisoners, but nothing of the kind
is known to be here. The porch is called the dungeon.

"The second floor has been on a level with the first landing at the
principal entrance. The rooms have been lofty, and lighted by small
pointed windows, and many of them have had fireplaces. The apartments
on the third floor have been apparently similar to those on the
second. The side apartments have been lighted by several small pointed
windows, but those in the middle have been very dark and gloomy.

"The great door of the castle opens into one of these intermediate
apartments. On the left-hand side of the entrance has been a spiral
staircase, leading to the rooms above and to the top of the castle,
which has had a flat roof, surrounded by a parapet and several
turrets. The walls of this tower are very strong and firm; a deep
buttress is placed at each corner, and one against the middle of each
side wall. A small square tower has stood at the southern corner, but
the greater part of it has been thrown down by the sea. The foundation
of one side wall is also undermined the whole of its length, and as it
in some places overhangs the precipice formed by the waste of the sea,
and as the castle is not situated upon a rock, but upon hard loamy
soil, this side must inevitably fall in a few years.

"Many huge fragments of the wasted walls are scattered upon the shore,
under the cliff from whence they have fallen; and notwithstanding the
concussion they have received in falling from a great height, and the
frequent surges of the sea, they are as firm as ever, and in many
places exhibit the shape of the edifice.

"The corners and doorcases of the guard-towers, the buttresses,
window-frames, and several parts of the main tower, are constructed
with red freestone; but all the other parts of the walls which in
general are about six or seven feet in thickness, are formed of round
stones collected from the adjacent shores. The inside of the walls has
been constructed with small stones, and plenty of fluid mortar to fill
the interstices.

"To this mode of construction, to the excellent binding quality of the
stones, and to the slow drying of the grout-work in the inside, may be
attributed the great tenacity of the walls of this fabric, more than
to any uncommon or unknown method of composing the mortar.

"The roofs of the numerous guard-houses in the surrounding walls of
this castle have apparently been flat. Upon these, and along the
walls, which in most castles were topped by a parapet and a kind of
embrasure called crennels, the defenders of the castle were stationed
during a siege, and from thence discharged arrows, darts, stones, and
every kind of annoyance they could procure, upon their enemies.

"There were often subterraneous passages leading from the lowest part
of the main tower to a great distance; and by these the besieged could
make their escape in time of imminent danger, when the outworks were
carried by storm.

"On the north-east side of the outworks of this castle has been a
large pond or reservoir for supplying the ditches with water in cases
of sudden emergency. There has also been a fish-pond on the north-west
side.

"Though many variations were made in the structure of castles, as the
plan was often modified by the architect according to the site
occupied by the edifice, yet the most perfect and magnificent were
generally constructed with all the different parts we have mentioned.

"The walls contain no decorations of art, and are equally destitute
of all natural embellishments; the rugged outlines of dilapidation,
associating with the appearance of past magnificence, are the
qualities which chiefly interest the imagination, while comparing the
settled tranquillity of the present with the turbulent ages that are
past, and contemplating the view of this mouldering fabric.

"The island of Fouldrey has certainly been much larger at the erection
of the castle than it is at present; but the sea, having reduced it to
its present small compass, has abated the rapid career of its
destruction. It now wastes the western shore of Walney, and forms a
new tract out of the ruins, which proves a barrier to its progress
upon the Peel of Fouldrey, and at some future period may be an
accession to this island, in place of the land which it has lost."

The period when it was reduced to ruins is not well ascertained, but
it is probable that this was one of the fortresses which fell under
the dismantling orders of the Commonwealth.

The port is very large and commodious, and would float a first-rate
ship of war at low water.

In 1789 a body of commissioners and trustees, appointed to improve the
navigation of the river Lune, built a lighthouse on the south-east end
of the isle of Walney. It is an octagonal column, placed upon a
circular foundation of a little more than twenty feet in diameter. At
the plinth, its diameter is eighteen feet, and diminishes gradually
with the elevation through fifty-seven feet to fourteen. The ascent
from the bottom to the lantern is by a staircase, consisting of
ninety-one steps, winding up the inside of the pillar. The whole
height is about sixty-eight feet. At the base of the column there is a
small dwelling for the keeper and his family.

      *       *       *       *       *

It was in the "merry month of May," in the year 1487, scarcely two
years after Richard's overthrow at Bosworth, and Earl Richmond's
usurpation of the English crown by the title of King Henry the
Seventh, that a great armament, landing on the barren island of
Fouldrey, took possession of the castle, a fortress of great strength
commanding the entrance to the bay of Morecambe, and a position of
considerable importance to the invaders. It occupied, with the
outworks and defences, nearly the whole area of the island (a few
acres only), two or three fishermen's huts at that time being
irregularly scattered on the beach below. Built by the monks of
Furness in the first year of Edward III., as a retreat from the
ravages of the Scots, and a formidable barrier against their
approaches by sea, it was now unexpectedly wrested from its owners,
becoming a point of resistance from whence the formidable power of
Henry might be withstood, and in the end successfully opposed.

A royal banner floated from the battlements: the fortress had been
formally taken into possession by the invaders in the name of their
king, previously proclaimed at Dublin by the title of Edward the
Sixth. The youth was crowned there with a diadem taken from an image
of the Virgin, priests and nobles espousing his cause with more than
ordinary enthusiasm; and Henry, in the second year of his reign, was
threatened, from a source as unexpected as it was deemed contemptible,
with the loss of his ill-gotten sovereignty.

Lambert Simnel, according to some historians, was the real name of
this "pretender;" but there be others who scruple not to assert, that
he was in reality the unfortunate Earl of Warwick, son to Clarence,
elder brother of Richard III., and that he had made his escape from
the Tower, where he long suffered an ignominious confinement by the
cruel policy of Henry. The prior claims of this young prince to the
English crown could not be doubted, and Margaret, the "bold" Duchess
of Burgundy, sister to Edward IV., had furnished the invaders with a
body of two thousand chosen Flemish troops, commanded by Martin
Swartz, a brave and experienced officer. With them came the Earl of
Lincoln, related to Edward IV. by intermarriage with Elizabeth, the
king's eldest sister.

This nobleman had long entertained ambitious views towards the crown;
his uncle Richard, it is said, in default of issue to himself, having
expressed the intention of declaring Lincoln his successor. The Lord
Lovel, too, a bitter enemy of the reigning prince, who had fled to the
court of Burgundy beforetime for protection, was entrusted with a
command in the expedition. To these were joined the Earl of Kildare,
the king's deputy for Ireland, with several others of the nobility
from the sister kingdom. The countenance thus unexpectedly given to
the rebellion by persons of the highest rank, and the great accession
of military force from abroad, raised the courage and exultation of
the Irish to such a pitch that they threatened to overrun England,
nothing doubting but their restless and disaffected spirit would be
fully met by a similar disposition on the part of those whom they
invaded. In supposing that the inhabitants in the north of England,
and especially in Lancashire, would immediately join their standard,
they had not calculated wisely. The king, in crushing the hopes of the
Yorkists, had made himself, at that period, too popular in the
county; the reluctance, too, which it may be supposed that Englishmen
would feel in identifying themselves with a troop of foreign
adventurers, as well as their general animosity against the Irish, to
whom the "northerns" never bore any good-will, being too near
neighbours to agree,--these circumstances taken into account, the
ultimate failure of the expedition might have been easily
prognosticated. Sir Thomas Broughton, a gentleman of some note in
Furness, was the only person of weight and influence in the county who
joined their standard, and he soon found himself a loser by his
defection.

This brief preliminary statement we have thought essential to the
right understanding and development of our plot.

The evening was dark and lowering, the sky broken into wild irregular
masses of red and angry clouds. The sun, after throwing one fierce
look over the broad and troubled sea, had sunk behind a hard, huge
battlement of cloud, on the round waving edges of which ran a bright
burning rim, that looked like a train of fire ignited by the glowing
luminary behind.

The beach round the little island of Fouldrey is mostly covered with
pebbles thrown up by the tide, occasionally intermingled with rock and
patches of dark verdure. A few boats may be seen with their
equipments, and two or three straggling nets upon the shore. A distant
sail occasionally glides across the horizon; but the usual aspect is
that of solitude, still and uninterrupted, the abode of sterility and
sadness. Now, the narrow bay by the island was glittering with gallant
streamers. Ships of war, in all their pride and panoply, majestically
reposed upon its bosom. All was bustle and impatience. The
trumpet-note of war brayed fiercely from the battlements. Incessant
was the march of troops in various directions. Tents were pitched
before the castle. Guards were appointed; and this hitherto peaceful
and solitary spot resounded with the din of arms, and the hoarse clang
of preparation for the approaching strife.

Messengers were constantly passing to and from the mainland. The
insignia of royalty were ostentatiously displayed, and the captains
and leaders within the fortress fulfilled the duties of this mimic and
motley court in honour of their anticipated sovereign.

Under a steep cliff, washed by the sea at high water, but of no great
height, and above which the higher walls of the castle or keep might
be discovered, sat two fishermen, the owners, or rather occupiers, of
one of the cottages built under the very walls of the fortress, where
these peaceful inhabitants had placed their little nests, protected
and covered by the wing of their loftier but more exposed and
dangerous neighbour.

The place they had chosen for their conference was secluded from
general observation, and their low and heavy speech was concealed from
the prying sentinels above by the hoarse and impetuous voice of the
retiring waves. Not many paces distant was the inlet to a
subterraneous passage, supposed to lead under the deepest foundations
of the castle; but its termination was now a mystery, at any rate, to
the present occupiers and inhabitants of the place. Many strange and
horrible stories were told and believed, of its uses and destination
in times past. Being burdened with a bad name--"some uncleansed murder
stuck to it"--the place ran little risk of disturbance or intruders.
When the tides ran high this outlet was inaccessible, being partly
flooded by the sea. From neglect and disuse an accumulation of sand
and pebbles, washed by the violence of the waves into the cavity, was
deposited there, so that the entrance, which, according to tradition
was once wide and sufficiently lofty for a person to walk upright, was
now dwindled into a narrow and insignificant-looking hole, scarcely
big enough to admit an urchin.

"Thee hasna seen it thysel', then?" said one of the fishermen to his
companion.

"Nea; I waur it' hoose man when it cam'; but"--the speaker looked
wistfully towards the dark entrance we have named,--"but I'se sure
Dick wouldna seay sae if"----

"Dick's a starin' gowk, and a coward too. I'se warrant there waur
plenty o' room 'twixt his carcase and the wa'. That I'd bin there
i'stead! There shouldn't ha' bin room to cram a herrin' tail atween me
an' the ghost's substance. I would ha' hedged him up thus, an' then
master ghost, taken aback, says, 'Friend, by yere sweet leave I would
pass;' but I make out elbows, and arms this'n, facing till him so.
Help! murder!"

This sudden change in the voice and attitude of the speaker, this
sudden exhalation of his courage, unfortunately arose from the parties
having, in the heat and interest of the discourse, turned their backs
to the haunted entrance, and, so intent was Davy in accommodating the
action to the valiant tenor of his speech, that it was only on
turning round, for the purpose of showing to his companion the way in
which he would have disputed a passage with the ghost, that he was
aware for the first time of the presence of that terrible thing, and
within a very few inches too of his own person. They stayed not for
any further exemplification of this theory of ghost-laying, but in an
instant were beyond observation, bounding over the beach, nor once
looking behind them until safe in their little hut, and the door
fastened against the fearful intruder. Davy, being foremost in the
race, sat down, followed by his companion George, who, maugre his
great apprehensions, could not forbear laughing heartily at the sudden
melting away of the big-mouthed valour of this cowardly boaster.

"Praised be our lady of Furness," said the merry taunter, with many
interruptions from laughter and want of breath; "thy heels are as glib
as thy tongue: for which--oh, oh! I am breathed--blown--dispossessed
of my birthright, free quaffing o' the air. Ha, ha! I cannot laugh.
Oh! what a mouth didst thou make at old blacksleeves. Gaping so, I
wonder he mistook not thy muzzle for one of the vents into his old
quarters. A pretty gull thee be'st, to swallow yon black porpoise."

"I tell thee, messmate," returned the other, gravely, "thou hast
miss'd thy tack. It waur but a slip, maybe a kin' of a sudden start
which took me, as they say, by the nape. I jumped back, I own--a foul
accident, by which he took advantage. He comes behind me, thou sees,
and with a skip 'at would have seated him upo' the topmost perch o'
the castle, he lights whack, thump, fair upo' my shoulders. I ran but
to shake the whoreson black slug fro' my carcase. Saints ha' mercy,
but his legs waur colder than a wet sheet. I soon unshipp'd my cargo,
though--I tumbled him into the sea, made a present of old blacksleeves
to the fishes!"

"Thou lying chub," said George, angrily, "did not I watch thee? Why,
thou cub, thou cormorant, thou maker of long lies and quick legs,
didst not o'ershoot me, ay, by some fathoms? I followed hard i' thy
wake, but I see'd nought of all this bull-scuddering of thine. Faith,
but thou didst ply thy courses with a wet sail!"

"Go to, Geordie--go to; a juggle, I tell thee; sheer malice of the
enemy, fow' an' fause as he be." Here he spat on the floor to show his
detestation and contempt; but George, either too ignorant or too idle
to reply, took down a dried fluke from the chimney, and warming it on
the glowing turf for a few minutes, was soon occupied in disposing of
this dainty and favourite repast. Their hut was of the rudest
construction. The walls were of boulder stones from the beach, loosely
set up with mud and slime, and in several places decidedly deviating
from the perpendicular. The roof was thatched with rushes, and shaped
like unto a fish's back, having a marvellous big hump in the middle,
upon which grew a fair tuft of long lank herbage, while bunches of the
biting yellow stone-crop clung in irregular patches of bright green
verdure about the extremities. The interior was lighted by a single
casement, showing an assemblage of forms the most homely and primitive
in their construction. The floor, paved with blue pebbles; the
fireplace, a huge hearth-flag merely, on which lay a heap of glowing
turf, an iron pot depending from a crook above. The smoke, curling
lazily through a raft of fish drying a few feet above the flame, and
acquiring the requisite flavour, with considerable difficulty reached
a hole in the roof, where the adverse and refractory wind not
unfrequently disputed its passage, and drove it down again, to assist
the colds and rheums by its stimulating propensities. A broken chair,
a three-legged stool, and a table with no greater number of
supporters, a truckle-bed, and an accumulation of nets, oars, and
broken implements of the like nature, were the usual deposits about
the chamber. The two fishermen were partners in their gainful trade,
and not having tasted the bliss of conjugal comforts, enjoyed a sort
of negative good from the absence of evil, and lived a tolerably quiet
and harmonious life in these outskirts of creation.

The few simple and primitive inhabitants of the island had been so
bewildered and confounded by the turmoil and disorder consequent upon
the invasion of their hitherto peaceful and quiet resting-place, that
some half-dozen of them, for the first time in their lives, had
quitted their homes; others, secure from their poverty and
insignificance, still remained, though much disturbed with wonder and
silly surmises, and ready to catch at any stray marvels that fell in
their way. The subterraneous and half-concealed passage in the rock,
or rather shale, on which the castle stands, always under the ban of
some vague and silly apprehension, had been reported of late as
manifesting more than equivocal symptoms of supernatural possession.
Dick Empson, or long-nebbed Dick, a sort of shrewd, half-witted
incarnation, it might be, of the goblin or elfin species, a runner of
errands from the abbey of Furness to the castle, and a being whose
pranks and propensities to mischief were well known in the
neighbourhood, had affirmed, but a few hours before, that he saw a
black figure on the previous night issuing from the hole; and that
there was no connection or understanding between this ghostly
appearance and the present occupiers of the castle, was evident from
the mystery and secrecy that attended its movements. This was
doubtless the phantom or goblin that, from time immemorial, had been
the cause of such sinister dispositions towards the "haunted passage."
Davy and his friend had unexpectedly stumbled upon its track, for they
had not calculated on its appearance, at any rate before midnight.

In the Castle, Peel, or Pile of Fouldrey, on that night too, there was
a mighty disturbance, not unaccompanied with vexation and alarm. It
was soon after the first watch. The new-made monarch was asleep in his
chamber--an ill-furnished apartment on the second floor of the main
tower or keep, looking out by a narrow window towards the sea. The
next, or middle chamber, was on a level, and communicating with the
first landing, or principal entrance. The latter apartment, in which
were the guards and others immediately about the king's person, served
the purposes of an ante-room to the presence-chamber.

The room opposite--for there were three divisions on each floor--was
subdivided into several parts, and occupied by the Earl of Lincoln and
his attendants; the rooms above being devoted to Swartz, Lovel, and
Fitzgerald, with their trains. Below were the guard-rooms and offices
assigned to the staff, with the war stores and munitions belonging to
the expedition.

In the same chamber with the king lay his confessor and chief adviser,
one Simon, a wily and ambitious priest, who was the prime agent, if
not mover, in this attempt to overturn the reigning power. No other
individual was suffered to remain through the night in the king's
apartment.

It was about the first watch, as before mentioned, when the guards and
attendants were alarmed by loud cries from the royal chamber. They
hastened to the door, but it was bolted, and their apprehensions for
that time were allayed by the voice of the priest assuring them that
the king was safe, but that an ugly dream had awakened him. Lincoln,
whom this tumult had quickly brought to the spot, retired grumbling at
so unseasonable a disturbance. Scarcely had an hour elapsed ere the
cries were repeated. Unsheathing his sword, the proud Earl of Lincoln
marched angrily to the door, and swore a loud broad oath that he would
see the king or burst open the barrier. With him came others from the
rooms overhead, so that the priest was forced, however unwillingly, to
open the door, and Lincoln, accompanied by his friends, beheld the
young pretender in bed, pale, and with a rueful countenance, still
retaining the traces of some deadly horror.

"What hath disturbed your highness? We would fain know the cause of
this alarm, and punish, ay punish home, the traitor!" said Lincoln,
darting a furious look at the confessor, to whom he bore no good-will.

"Nay, friends, I shall--I shall be well presently. I beseech you be
not disturbed. 'Tis a dream,--a vision that hath troubled me. I
thought I was in the Tower--in my prison chamber--and the tyrant came
and grasped me by the throat. With that I jumped up, and as Heaven is
my witness, I saw a dark figure slip through the floor by yon grim
buttress, behind which is the private staircase to the summit."

Every eye was turned towards the corner of the chamber near the bed,
on the outside of which a winding staircase ran up from below, but
they were ignorant of any communication from these stairs into the
king's chamber. Lincoln examined the buttress with his sword, and
Swartz, the Fleming, with his fingers, but there was no apparent
opening or crevice that could betoken any outlet or concealment. The
floor was examined, and with the same result; so that they were fain
to depart, little doubting that the whole was the effect of some
mental disturbance.

With the morning dawn came Sir Thomas Broughton. A grand council was
appointed for that day, in which the final arrangement of their plans
was to be discussed. A royal banquet was prepared, and the Flemish
gunners were to give a specimen of their craft from the battlements.

The forenoon came on chill and squally, with a low scud driving
rapidly from the west. A drizzling rain was the result, which
increased with the coming tide.

The little island was covered with tents, forming an encampment of no
mean extent and appearance.

Sir Thomas, with a few attendants, after being ferried over the
channel which separates the island of Fouldrey from the mainland, was
conducted through avenues of tents and armed men. The Flemish
soldiers, fierce and almost motionless, looked like an array of grim
statues. The Irish levies, in a state of more lax discipline, were
collected in merry groups, whiling away the time in thriftless and
noisy discourse.

Sir Thomas Broughton, descended from an Anglo-Saxon family of great
antiquity, was by virtue of this hereditary and aboriginal descent, of
a proud and pompous bearing. Being allied to most of the principal
families in these parts, he was won over by solicitation from the
Duchess of Burgundy, as one of the confederates in her attempt to
restore the line of York to the English crown. Fond of show, and
careful as to his own personal appearance, he was clad in a steel coat
of great beauty; this ponderous form of defence having been brought to
great perfection in the preceding reign. His sword-belt was so
disposed that the weapon remained in front, while a dagger was
attached to the right hip. Over his armour he wore a scarlet cloak,
and as he strode proudly up the avenues to the gate, he looked as
though he felt that on his fiat alone depended the very existence of
those he beheld. After he had passed the first drawbridge into the
outer court or bayle, a band of archers, drawn up in full array,
opened their ranks to receive this puissant chieftain. These were the
most efficient of the troops, and partly English, having been brought
from Ireland by the deputy. They were clad in shirts of chain mail,
with wide sleeves, over which was a small vest of red cloth, laced in
front. They had tight hose on their legs, and braces on their left
arms. Behind them, and on each side, were part of the infantry,
consisting of billmen and halberdiers; but the most formidable-looking
soldiers were the Flemish gunners, or harquebusiers, so named from the
barbarous Latin word _arcusbusus_, evidently derived from the Italian
_arcabouza_--_i.e._, a bow with a tube or hole. It was made with a
stock and trigger, in imitation of the crossbow. The match, no longer
applied by the hand to the touchhole, was fixed into a cock, which was
brought down to the pan by the motion of the trigger. This being at
the time a recent invention, excited no little curiosity and
admiration.

At the inner court, and near the main entrance to the keep, Sir Thomas
was received in great state by the Earl of Lincoln, whose high, but
easy and pleasant bearing, bespoke him to have been long the inmate
and follower of courts, while the stiff attitudes and formal demeanour
of Sir Thomas were rendered more apparent by the contrast.

"Welcome, Sir Thomas, to our court in this fair haven. Your presence,
like your fidelity, hath a goodly savour in it, being always before
and better than our expectation or our fears. How faireth our cousin,
and our pretty dames in Furness?"

"My lord, I thank you for your good word. My poor services are repaid
tenfold in their acceptance by the king," said Sir Thomas, bending,
but with an ill grace, by reason of little use in that excellent art.

"Into our council-chamber, Sir Thomas, where you shall render homage
to the king in person."

This council-chamber was none other than the king's bedroom, whither,
with great ceremony, Sir Thomas was conducted. In this mimic court
there was a marvellous show of ceremony, and a great observance of,
and attention to, forms and royal usages--ridiculous enough where a
few acres formed the whole of the monarch's territory, and an ugly
ill-contrived castle his palace. But his followers behaved as though
England's sovereignty were theirs, being well inclined to content
themselves with the shadow, having little hold or enjoyment of the
substance.

Before a long narrow table, near the bed, and on a high-backed oaken
chair, sat the young pretender. He was dressed in a richly-embroidered
gown, the sleeves wide, and hanging down from the wrists like lappets.
On his head was a low cap surmounted by long waving feathers, and his
manners and appearance were not devoid of grace and gentility. He
displayed considerable self-possession, and wore his kingly honours
with great assurance. He was of a fair and sanguine complexion, pale
rather than clear, and his hair clustered in heavy ringlets on his
shoulders. A rapid and somewhat uncertain motion of the eye, and his
mouth not well closed, showed that although he might have been
schooled to the exhibition, and could wear the outward show of
firmness and decision, yet in the hour of emergency, and in the day of
trial, his fortitude would in all likelihood forsake him.

At his right hand sat the priest in a white cassock and scapulary. A
black hood, thrown back upon his shoulders, exhibited the form and
disposition of his head to great advantage. His features were large,
expressive, and commanding. The fire of a brilliant grey eye was
scarcely tempered by his overhanging brows, though at times the spirit
seemed to retire behind their grim shadows, to survey more securely
and unobservedly the aspect and appearances without.

Swartz, the Flemish general, a blunt military chieftain, was at his
side. A black bushy beard, some inches in advance of his honest
good-humoured face, was placed in strong contrast with the wary, pale,
and somewhat dubious aspect of the priest.

Kildare, the Irish deputy, and Lovel, with several of the senior
officers and captains, were assembled round the table.

The room was lofty, lighted by a small pointed window, and contained
the luxury of a fireplace, in which lay some blazing embers; a
grateful and refreshing sight in that chill and ungenial atmosphere.

The needful ceremonies being gone through, Sir Thomas was honoured
with a place at the board near to where it rested against the buttress
before mentioned, the priest addressing him as follows:--

"My Lord Abbot of Furness, Sir Thomas, what news of him? Hath he yet
signified his adherence to our cause? We hope you bring tidings of
such auspicious import."

"He doth yet procrastinate, I hear, until he have news from the
court," replied Sir Thomas; "yet I trust his want of zeal and
obedience will not hinder our march."

"And the proud nobles of Lancashire, how stand they affected towards
our good prospering?"

"Truly, they are, as one may say, neither cold nor hot; but of a
moderate temperature, midway, it would seem"----

"Which is an indication of neither zeal nor obedience," said Swartz,
suddenly cutting short the tedious verbosity of Sir Thomas's intended
harangue. "Open enemies before lukewarm friends!"

"Prithee, general," said the priest, with a placid smile, during which
his eyes seemed to shrink within their dim sockets, "be not
over-hasty. We cannot reasonably hope that they should flock to our
standard almost ere we unfurl it for their gathering."

"Your speech hath a reasonable property in it," replied Sir Thomas,
"and, as we may say, savoureth of great judgment, which, being of an
excellent nature in itself, doth thereby control and exercise, in its
own capacity, the nature and excellence of all others."

This formidable issue of words was delivered with much earnestness of
enunciation; but of its use or meaning, probably, the speaker was
fully as ignorant as his hearers. Even at the fountain-head his ideas
were sufficiently obscure, but when fairly rolling forth from the
spring, they sometimes begat such a froth and turbidity in their
course, that no reasonable discernment could fathom their depth or
bearing.

A short silence was the result, which none, for a while, cared to
disturb, lest he should betray his lack of understanding in dark
sentences.

"We know your loyalty," said the king, "which hath a sufficient
impress on it to pass current without scrutiny. Your example, Sir
Thomas, will be of competent weight, without the casting or imposition
of vain words into the scale. We acknowledge your ready zeal in our
just cause."

"Your highness' grace, my liege," said Lincoln, ere Sir Thomas could
gather words for a fitting reply, "doth honey your confections well.
Men swallow them without wincing or wry faces."

Sir Thomas would not thus be deprived of his right to a reply; and was
just commencing with a suitable attitude for the purpose, when lo! the
trenchant knight, who sat on a small stool beside the corner buttress,
with a loud cry, suddenly disappeared, and a gaping cavity in the
floor sufficiently accounted for the precipitate mode of his
departure. Uprising on the ruins of Sir Thomas, started forth a
grotesque figure from the chasm, clad in coarse attire, a ludicrous
solemnity on his strange and uncouth visage, as, with a shrill and
squeaking tone, he cried--

"Ay, ay, masters; but my master will gi'e me a blessing for the
finding o' this mouse-nest; and a priest's blessin' is worth a king's
curse any time; and so good-morrow, knaves."

"Stay," said Lincoln, seizing the intruder, none other than our
light-witted acquaintance, "lang-nebbit Dick," whose prying
propensities were notorious, and who had taken upon himself, that
morning, the arduous task of exploring the subterraneous passage into
which he had seen the mysterious figure insinuate itself. After many
perils and impediments, he had come to a flight of steps, ascending
which, his progress was interrupted by a trap-door overhead. He soon
discovered a wooden bolt, the unloosing of which led to the
precipitation of Sir Thomas through the aperture. Dick's light was
struck from his hand; escaping himself, however, he left Sir Thomas to
his fate, and emerged, as we have seen, into the council-chamber. They
were much alarmed by this unexpected disturbance, and, looking down,
they beheld a narrow flight of steps, at the bottom of which lay the
unfortunate knight, sore bruised by his fall.

"If the abbot catch ye here," said Dick, with a vacant grin, "he'll
gi'e every one o' ye a taste o' the gyves, and so pray ye gang awa',
and let me gang too. As for that calf beastie, that baas so at the
bottom, gi'e me a groat, and I'll gather him up again sune."

Here Dick held out a paw that would not have disgraced the extremities
of a bruin for size and colour.

"Holloa, guards," cried Lincoln, "take this knave to the dungeon by
the porch, and keep him safe until we have need of him."

The prying vagabond was removed without ceremony, kicking all the way,
and bellowing out threats and vengeance against his enemies, while Sir
Thomas and his bruises were brought to light.

"'Tis the good hand of Providence that hath revealed to us, through
the means of this crack-brained intruder, so dangerous an outlet by
which our sovereign's life might have been brought into jeopardy. To
show unto us that He works not by might nor by strength, does Heaven
employ the feeblest instruments for our ruin or our deliverance." The
priest, after this profane speech, resumed his station at the board,
whence the king, with a proper and becoming dignity, had not arisen.
But the council did not proceed in their deliberations after this
interruption. Contenting themselves with devising precautions against
another surprise, they separated, hoping that to-morrow would bring
them despatches from abroad, for which they began to feel somewhat
anxious and impatient.

The sun was now some hours past meridian. The broad sea and the
breakers were foaming on. A wide and impetuous phalanx of waves
appeared upon the horizon. Gouts of muddy foam were beginning to
froth among the blue pebbles on the beach. The tide was rapidly
filling the channels, and patches of dark sand were vanishing beneath
the waves, when the two fishermen, launching their little boat into a
narrow bay between the rocks, prepared for their daily toil.

"Lords o' the court they be," said David, to some inquiry from his
more ignorant companion, as he generally affected to consider him.
Indeed, with but little wit and less valour, he wished to foist
himself upon one possessing both, as a being of extraordinary wisdom
and fortitude. And truly, if loud words and big lies could have done
this, he would have had no lack either of courage or discretion.

"Didst never see a lord to his shirt?" continued this indomitable
boaster.

"Nea, marry, but I've seen 'em to their shifts, for one of 'em couldna
loup owre t' stones here without help."

"Help thy silly face, thou be'st hardly company fit for they 'at have
seen knowledge, as 't waur, to its verra nakedness. I tell thee I've
looked on lords' flesh; an' no more like thine than thee be'st like
fish."

"Some of 'em will cudgel thy leesing out o' thee, I hope. Thou
could'stna speak truth to save thy neck fro' the rope. Didst get any
o' the crumbs at the dinner to-day? for I ken thou throw'd up thy
greasy cap, and cried out 'Hurrah for the king.' Thy tongue would ever
wag faster at a feast than thy fist at a fray."

"I tell thee, George, 'ware thy gibes an' gallimaufreys. A man can but
bear what he can, thee knows; an' so stop thy din. Let me see, I heard
as I cam' doon that this same ghost 'at frightened thee sae appeared
to the king an' the lords at the feast; an' they waur fain to run for
it, as thee did last night, thee knows, for verra fearsomeness,
an'"----

Here he looked round, as though fearing a visit of the like nature.

"They say he came an' gobbled up more nor his share; an' he sent the
guests a-packing like a bream of short-sized kippers from a creel. We
looked for our share of the victuals, but they told me old
bl--bl"----Again he hesitated, evidently afraid that some "unsonsy"
thing was behind him. His voice sunk down to a tremulous whisper.
"They said that old split-feet brought a whole bevy of little
devilkins with him that cleared decks in the twinkling of a
bowsprit."

"And yet thou durst not say him nay, though thy craw were as empty as
my basket. Come, bear a hand, or we shall lose the tide; it is already
on the rocks."

The invading fleet were still moored in the harbour, yet the fishermen
shot past unheeded by these leviathans of the deep. As they came
nearer to the opposite shore, they saw an individual making signals,
as though he would be taken across. His monkish garb was a passport to
their obedience; and the friar was received on board with great
reverence and respect. With a sullen air he demanded, rather than
requested, to be conveyed to the castle, which the simple fishermen
undertook with great alacrity and good humour. Left to the care of the
guards below the ramparts, he was speedily forwarded through ranks of
iron men, and the barriers flew open at his presence; an embassage
from the abbot of Furness was not to be lightly entreated.

Again was there a summons that the council should assemble, and the
chiefs, already risen from the banquet, prepared to give him audience.
With a proud and firm step he approached the table; and though, from
habit, he repressed the natural feelings and bias of the temper, yet
there was an evident expression of hostility against the intruders,
accompanied with a glance of unequivocal meaning towards their
sovereign.

Simon, rising to receive this ambassador from the abbot, watched his
demeanour with a cautious and keen observance, though betraying little
of that really intense interest with which his presence was regarded.

"Thrice welcome!" he cried; "we hail your presence as an omen of good
import. How fareth my lord abbot, whom we hope to number with our
friends in this glorious cause?"

"The abbot of Furness hath no message of that similitude. He doth ask
by what right, privity, or pretence, ye appear within his castle or
stronghold upon this island? upon whose advice or incitement ye have
thus taken possession? and furthermore, under whose authority ye do
these things?"

This short address, uttered in a firm voice, and in a tone of menace
rather than inquiry, daunted the hearers, who had hoped for a more
propitious message from the abbey of Furness. Simon, however, without
betraying his chagrin, unhesitatingly replied--

"The right by which we hold this fortress is the will of our king, and
our authority is from him."

"I crave your honest regards," returned the monk, looking round with a
glance of conscious power and superiority; "this good inheritance is
ours, and whosoever disporteth himself here must answer for it to the
lord of Furness, whose delegate and representative I am."

Choler was rising in the assembly; but Simon, with that intuitive and
inexplicable control which superior minds possess, almost unknowingly,
over their associates, quelled the outburst of the flame by a single
glance. Another look was directed to the royal pupil at his side, when
the latter spoke as follows:--

"Our presence here, it should seem, is a sufficient answer to the
questions of our lord abbot. Being lawful heir to the English crown,
we might command the allegiance, if not the homage, of your head; but
we would rather win with fair entreaty than command our unwilling
subjects, and to this end have we sent messengers to the superior of
your house, urging his help and submission."

This reply was given with a dignity and an assurance denoting that
either he was the individual he personated, or that he had been well
schooled in his craft.

A murmur of applause was heard through the assembly, but the monk was
unmoved to any show of recognition or even respect. Waiting until he
could be heard, the envoy again inquired--

"And who art thou? and by what pretence claimest thou this right?"

"By hereditary descent. Knowest thou Edward, Earl of Warwick, now thy
king?"

"I have heard of him," continued the monk in the same dubious and
inflexible tone; "but his bodily appearance hath not been vouchsafed
unto me."

"See him here!" said the royal claimant, rising with great majesty and
condescension. But the churchman neither did homage, nor in any way
testified his loyalty to, or apprehension of, so exalted a personage.

"Truly it is a marvellous thing," replied he, "that the Earl of
Warwick should so order his appearance, at one and the same time, both
in London and at our good fortress here in Fouldrey!" A slight curl of
the lip was visible as he spoke.

"The Earl of Warwick," said Simon, "cannot now be abiding where thou
sayest, insomuch as the bodily tabernacle, his dwelling in the flesh,
is before thee."

"But we have a messenger from thence, even with a writing from the
hands of the holy prior of St Alban's, who sendeth us the news, lest
we should be beguiled. Father Anselm hath seen the earl, who was
brought forth from the Tower by command of the king, being conducted
publicly through the principal thoroughfares of the city, that the
people should behold, and not in any wise be led astray through the
evil reports and machinations of the king's enemies."

Here he paused, folding his arms with a haughty and reserved look; but
Simon, no wise disconcerted by this terrible, unexpected, and
apparently fatal exposure of their plot, replied with a smile of the
most intrepid assurance----

"We knew of this, and were prepared for the wiles of the usurper. Know
then, that, through the agency and good offices of that renowned
princess, Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, the king's escape from the
Tower was accomplished; but not by might, nor by human power nor
device, but by faith and prayer, was the work wrought out, which holy
communion her enemies do maliciously report as the practice of sorcery
and the forbidden art. Howbeit the king hath escaped, as thou seest,
the fangs of the executioner. Stay, I perceive what thou wouldest urge
in reply, but listen for a short space. In order to deter them from
pursuit on finding his escape, and with a view likewise to lull them
into vain confidence and carnal security, another was left in his
place, whom they, of necessity, imagine to be their captive; but it is
not a real thing of flesh and blood, though to them it may so appear.
When his time shall be accomplished, the form will vanish, to the
downfall and confusion of the usurper and the utter overthrow of our
enemies."

Here the assembly gave a loud and unanimous token of their exultation
by shouts and exclamations of loyalty and obedience.

After a short reverie, the monk replied--

"We know of a surety that the Princess Margaret, as well as her royal
brother, Edward the Fourth, did use to practise in forbidden arts; but
we must have testimony indisputable to the truth of your claim, ere it
be that we render our belief. Surely the power that wrought thy
deliverance would not, if need were, leave thee without the means of
proving thine identity. How know we that thou art he whom thou hast
represented, and not the impostor Simnel, as thine enemies do not
scruple openly to affirm?"

"We are not without either the means or the power to prove and to
assert our right," said the priest, rising. He drew a phial from his
bosom.

"One drop of this precious elixir," continued he, "if it touch the
form of yon changeling, will dissolve the charm: on the real person of
the king it becomes harmless."

"Truly, 'tis a proof not to be gainsaid; but over-long i' the making,
and too far for the fetching," replied the monk scornfully.

"'Tis bootless to attempt the salvation of those who will not believe:
nevertheless, they shall perish through their own devices, and be
caught in their own snares."

Simon threw a threatening glance at the monk, which he received with a
cool and undaunted aspect.

"Verily, your blood be on your own heads," cried Simon, with a loud
voice, "and your reward in your right hand. Behold, thou scourner, and
tremble; for your destruction cometh as a whirlwind, and he in whom
you trust shall be as the stubble which the fire devoureth."

The enthusiast, as he spoke, struck a heavy blow on the floor with his
foot, when there came a low rumbling sound like the roar of the wind
through some subterraneous abyss, or the distant moan of the sea,
driven on by the rushing tempest. The whole assembly stood aghast,
save the king and the two disputants.

"Shall I strike once more?"

"Do as seemeth to thee good," said the monk deliberately; "but think
not to intimidate me with thy fooleries."

"Then beware. I obey, but it is with awe and reluctance."

It is said that Simon's heart failed him as he gave the blow, or the
effects would have been more terrific. But the castle shook as with an
earthquake; even the incredulous monk looked amazed and confounded.

"Shall I repeat the stroke?" said Simon, when the disturbance had in
some measure subsided. "But remember, I will not answer for the
result. Only in cases of the greatest difficulty and trial it was
that the duchess made me resort to so dangerous a resource."

Most of his hearers besought him to desist. Simon yielded at once to
their entreaties, and the uplifted foot fell softly on the floor. Soft
and noiseless though it was, yet they saw a lurid mist roll upward;
and a form, apparently of gigantic size, was faintly visible in the
dark vapour, as it swept slowly through the apartment. Even Simon and
his royal pupil showed symptoms of agitation and alarm.

The assembly was suddenly dissolved. The proud ambassador of a prouder
prelate was astonished and bewildered, and hastily took his leave to
report these occurrences to his master.

The whole of these proceedings, in all probability, were but the
artful contrivance of an ambitious priest; and yet, connected as they
were with a female whose well-known predilection for the occult
sciences, and herself no mean adept therein, they assumed in those
ages of credulity and superstition more the character of miraculous
events than as happening in the common course and established order of
nature. The alarm of the king, too, evidently at the appearance of the
figure, caused some to say that it was the arch-enemy himself to whom
these conspirators had sold themselves.

In the meantime, Dick, having been delivered over to the tormentors,
was transferred to the prison or dungeon by the porch. He bore his
mishap with wondrous fortitude and equanimity. Many a strange inquiry
and silly speech did he make as he heard the sound of footsteps pass
the door, through which a few chinks admitted a doubtful glimmer into
his cell.

"I seay--hears to me, lad?" shouted he to a gruff Fleming, as he
passed to and fro before the entrance to his prison-house; but the
guard heeded him not. Dick listened; then, repeating his demand,
muttered certain conventional expressions, not over-nice either in
their form or application. He then began to sing, performing a series
of _cantabile_ movements in the most ludicrous manner possible;
sometimes chanting a _Miserere_ or an _Ave_, then breaking into some
wild northern ballad or roundelay of unintelligible import. It was in
the midst of a cadence which he was terminating with great earnestness
and effect that the first deep rumble, the result of Simon's appeal to
the truth and justice of their cause, interrupted Dick's vocal
dispositions for a while; but when the second concussion took place,
shaking the very stones in their sockets and the hard floor under his
feet, Dick ran whooping and bellowing round his den as though he had
been possessed, laughing, amid the wild uproar, like some demon
sporting fearlessly in the fierce turmoil of the troubled elements.
The sentinel ran, terrified, from the door, and the whole camp and
garrison were flying to arms, in fear and consternation. Dick,
drumming with his fist, found the door yield to his efforts, and he
marched forth without let or molestation. His besetting sin was
curiosity, which oftentimes led him into difficulties and mishaps.
Though just now a prisoner, and escaping by means little less than
miraculous, yet, instead of making the best use of this opportunity
for escape, he commenced a sort of prying adventure on his own
account--a temptation he could not resist--by walking, or rather
shuffling, into the guard-room, where his own peculiar crab-like
sinuosities were particularly available. A number of soldiers were
jabbering some unintelligible jargon, too much occupied with their own
clamour to notice Dick's proceedings.

Through a confused jumble of warlike implements, intermingled with
camp-kettles and cooking utensils, some steaming with savoury
preparations for the evening's repast, and others nearly ready for the
service, Dick insinuated himself, until he came to a little door in
the corner, the entrance to a staircase communicating with the leads
above. Through this door marched the incorrigible intruder--the sentry
from the summit having just issued therefrom, fearful lest the castle
should tumble about his ears. Dick's course was therefore unimpeded;
and after sundry gyrations and stoppages, now and then, to peep
through the loopholes, he emerged into broad daylight on the roof of
the tower. Here he paused for some time, entranced with the sudden
change he beheld. The bustle and animation around and below him; the
vessels, with their brave and gallant equipments, anchored in the
bay;--all this amused Dick vastly for a while. But the most
heart-ravishing delights end ultimately in satiety and disgust,
greater, and probably more keenly felt, the more they have been
relished and enjoyed. Dick began to feel listless and tired with his
day's work. He laid his head upon a groove or niche in the
battlements, and fell fast asleep. It seems the sentinel did not
return; for Dick remained undisturbed, and when he awoke it was
completely dark, save that there was a wan gleam from a dull watery
moon, just dipping into a stratum of dark clouds over the sea. His
ideas, not over-lucid in broad daylight, would necessarily be still
more hazy and obscure in his present situation. Unable to extricate
them, he rubbed his eyes and made faces; yawned and groped about for
his usual dormitory, in a little cell behind the kitchen at the abbey.
But the vision of the moon--which, by reason of the confined glen
wherein the abbey was built, rarely blessed the sight of a
night-watcher--was a wondrous and puzzling appearance. He had some
confused recollection that he had mounted a flight of steps, and that,
by contrary motion, descending would be the next consequent movement.
To this end he diligently sought an opening, and, naturally enough,
took the first that presented itself. Creeping round the angle of a
turret, he came to a flight of steps, which he descended. It was not
long ere he perceived a faint light through an aperture or chink in
the wall. He pressed against the side cautiously, when the wall itself
appeared to give way, and he entered, through a narrow door, into a
large room, lighted by a few turf embers, that flickered dimly on the
hearth. A tester bed was near him, whose grim shadow concealed the
objects under its huge canopy. It was the king's chamber; but so
softly and cautiously was the entrance effected that Dick's footsteps
did not awake him. He was heard, nevertheless, by the priest Simon,
who, being concealed by the curtains on the other side, was not seen
by the intruder. Dick stood still, on being addressed in a low and
suppressed voice as follows:--

"Thou art early, Maurice; but thy despatches are ready. They are on
the chair at thy right hand. Thou hast had thy instructions. Be speedy
and discreet. On the third day, ere sunset, we look for thy return."

Dick put out his hand and laid hold of a sealed packet, which he took
with becoming gravity, and luckily in silence.

"The same password, 'Warwick,' will convey thee hence; a boat is in
waiting, and so God speed," said the priest.

Dick returned by the way he came, and descending the turret staircase,
found a sentry standing at the outlet into the guard-chamber. It was
dark, and Dick's person was not recognised. With a sort of blundering
instinct he gave the word and passed on. This magic sound conveyed him
safely through bars, bolts, and all other impediments. The drawbridge
was lowered, and Dick, in a little time, found himself again upon the
beach, where a boat was waiting to carry him to the opposite shore.

"Who goes there?" inquired a gruff voice from the skiff.

"Why Dick--Warwick," cried the blundering knave, nigh mistaking his
cue.

"Hang thee," said the ferryman, "what art' ganging o' this gait for?
If I'd ken'd it waur thee 'at I'd orders to lie by in shore for, thou
might ha' waited a wee for aught 'at I'd ha' brought."

"Hush!" said Dick, full of importance from his newly-acquired
diplomatic functions; "I'm message to the king yonder."

"Ill betides him that has need o' thee," said the boatman,
surlily;--"come, jump in. They'd need of a hawk, marry, to catch a
buzzard."

Just as Dick was preparing to step in, a low, slight-made figure
passed by whom the boatman immediately challenged.

"Warwick!" said he, and would have passed on.

"Nay, nay," said Dick; "I'm Warwick, ma lad; there's no twa on us;
they gied me that name i' the castle yon, just now. I'se butter'd if
thou shall ha't too." Dick was a powerful fellow, and he collared the
other in a twinkling. "Thou'rt a rogue, I tell thee, an' about no
good; an' I've orders from the governor yonder to tak' thee. Bear a
hand, boatie, and in wi' him. There--there."

Spite of his struggles and imprecations, the stranger was impounded in
the boat, and Dick soon forced him to be quiet. They pushed off, and
in a short time gained the other shore. Here Dick, with that almost
instinctive sagacity which sometimes accompanies a disturbed state of
the intellects, would not allow his prisoner either to go back to the
island or remain in the boatman's custody, but secured him to his own
person, setting off at a brisk pace towards the abbey. In vain the
stranger told him that he had business of great moment at the castle;
that he was a page of the court, and on the eve of a secret mission
from the priest, who was now waiting for him with the despatches. Dick
resolved, with his usual cunning it seems, to conceal his possession
of these documents, and, at the same time, to prevent the real
messenger from revealing the deception by his appearance at the
castle.

It was past midnight; yet the abbot and several of the brethren were
still assembled in close council. The importance of the events that
were unfolding, and in which their own line of conduct was to be
firmly marked out and adhered to, necessarily involving much
deliberation and discussion, had kept them beyond their usual hour of
retirement.

A bell rung at the outer gate, and shortly afterwards one of the
brotherhood in waiting announced that two men were without, craving
audience, and that one of them, when asked his name, answered
"Warwick."

"Ah!" said the bewildered abbot, with a sudden gleam of wonder and
gladness on his countenance--"does he come hither? then is our
deliverance nearer than we hoped for, even from the special favour and
interference of Heaven. Admit them instantly."

But in a little while the messenger came back in great dudgeon to say
that the knave who had demanded admittance with such a peremptory
message was none other than Dick Empson, the errand boy to the abbey.
"What can possess him," continued the monk, "I greatly marvel; for he
still persists in demanding audience, saying that he is 'Warwick.' He
refers to some message from the castle with which he is charged, but
he refuses to deliver it save into the hands of the reverend abbot
himself. Furthermore, he has brought a prisoner, he sayeth, and will
have him taken into safe custody."

"Why, bring him hither," said the abbot; "there's little harm can come
by it. He has a shrewd and quick apprehension at times, under that
silly mask, which I have thought he wears but for purposes of knavery
and concealment."

The monk folded his hands and retired. Returning, he was followed by
Dick, who assumed a very grave and solemn demeanour before this august
and reverend assembly.

"Why art thou abroad in these evil times, and at such improper hours
too? To the meanest of our servants it is not permitted. Speak. Thine
errand?"

The abbot looked towards the offender with an air of displeasure; but
Dick, hitching up his hosen with prodigious fervour, gave a loud and
expressive grunt.

"Dick is a fool," said he; "but he ne'er begged benison of an abbot, a
bone from a starved dog, or a tithe-pig from a parson."

"What is the message wherewith thou hast presumed upon our audience?"

"If ye rear your back to a door, see to it that it be greatly tyned,
or ye may get a broken head for trust."

"And is this thy message, sirrah? Hark ye, let this fool be put i' the
stocks, and well whipped."

"And who'll be the fule body then?" said Dick, leering. "I ken ye be
readier wi' a taste o' the gyves than oatmeal bannocks; an' sae I'se
gang awa' to my mither."

"Thou shalt go to the whipping-post first."

"Haud off," shouted Dick, who flung aside the person that would have
seized him with the most consummate ease, at the same time placing
himself in the attitude of defence; "haud off, as ye are true men,"
said he; "I'm cousin to the king, and I charge ye with high treason!"

"Enough," said the abbot; "we may pity his infirmity; but let him be
sent to the mill for punishment. Now to business, which I fear me hath
suffered by this untimely interruption."

"Happen you'll let me be one of the guests," said the incorrigible
Dick, thrusting himself forward, even to the abbot's chair, which so
discomposed his reverence that he cried in a loud and authoritative
tone--

"Will none of ye rid me of this pestilence? By the beard of St
Cuthbert, I will dispose of him, and that presently!"

Seizing him by the shoulder, the abbot would have thrust him forth,
but Dick slipped dexterously aside. Taking out the packet, he broke
open the seals, and immediately began to tumble about the contents,
seating himself at the same time in the vacant chair of the abbot,
with great solemnity, and an air of marvellous profundity in his
demeanour. It was the work of a few moments only; a pause of silent
astonishment ensued, when the abbot's eye, catching, from their
appearance, something of the nature of the documents, he started
forward with great eagerness and surprise. He snatched them from the
hands of their crack-brained possessor, and soon all other matters
were forgotten. The abbot in breathless haste ran through the
contents. The assembly was all eye and ear, and some were absolutely
paralysed with wonder. There was not an indifferent observer but Dick,
who, with a chuckling laugh, rubbed his hands, and fidgeted about in
the chair with a look of almost infantile delight.

"I've done it brawly, ha'n't I? Dick wi' the lang neb! an' I'll hae
two messes o' parritch an' sour milk, an' a barley-cake; I'm waesome
hungry i' the waum here."

The abbot was too deeply involved in the subject before him to heed a
craving appetite. Dick's stomach, however, was not to be silenced by
diplomatic food; not having tasted anything for a considerable time,
his wants immediately assumed the language of inquiry.

"Old dad, ha' ye any bones to pick? I'd like to have a lick at the
trencher."

The abbot made signals that he should not be disturbed; but Dick was
not to be put off or convinced by such unsubstantial arguments, and
they were fain to rid themselves from further annoyance by ordering
him into the kitchen, where he was speedily absorbed in devouring a
pan of browis, left there for morning use--the breakfast of the
labourers about the abbey.

During this interval matters of the deepest importance were discussed,
the contents of the packet having furnished abundant materials for
deliberation. When the bearer was effectually replenished, he was led
into the council-chamber again, where the abbot, in a tone of deep and
serious thought, thus addressed him:--

"Who gave thee these despatches? It is plain they were not meant for
our eyes; but Heaven, by the weakest instrument, often works the
mightiest and most important events. Where and how came they into thy
keeping?"

Dick looked cunningly round the apartment ere he replied, surveying
the floor, the walls, and the ceiling; even the groinings of the roof
did not escape a minute and accurate examination; whether to give time
for the contriving of a suitable reply, or merely to gratify his own
peevish humour, is of little consequence that we should inquire. After
a long and anxious silence on the part of his auditors, he replied--

"I told ye when ye spiered afore." Another pause. The abbot was
fearful that Dick's ideas, if not carefully handled, might get so
entangled and confused that he would be unable to give any
intelligible account of the matter. He therefore addressed him
coaxingly as follows--

"Nay, nay, Dickon, thou hast not; answer me now, and thou shalt have
the fat from the roast to-morrow, and a sop to season it withal."

Dick leered again at this prospective dainty, as he replied--

"I tou'd ye, and ye heeded not, belike; and who's the fool now? Come,
I'll set you my riddle again. If ye set your back to a door, see that
it be tyned, or ye may get a broken head, and then"----

Here he paused, and looked round with a vacant eye; but they wisely
forbore to interrupt the current of his ideas, hoping that ere long
they might trickle into the right channel.

"There was a big room, and a bed in it," he continued, "and a priest,
which the fule body has cheated. A fule's wit is worth more nor a wise
man's folly."

A vague apprehension of the truth crossed the abbot's mind. Being now
on the right scent, he no longer forbore to follow up the chase, but
endeavoured to hasten the development by a gentle stimulating of his
pace in the required direction.

"The priest yonder at the castle gave it thee?" said the abbot
carelessly.

"Well, and if he did," replied Dick sharply, "he didna ken I was
a-peeping into his chamber, as I've done many an unlucky time here in
the abbey, and gotten a good licking for my pains."

"To whom was it sent?"

"Ask the bairn yon', that I ha' brought by th' scut o' th' neck. He
woudna come bout tugging for."

"Was he the messenger?" asked Roger, the abbot's secretary and prime
agent.

"Help thine ignorant face, father!--I was peeping about, you see, in
the dark. The priest thought it waur the laddy yonder, a-comin' for
his bag; so he gied it me, and tou'd me to carry it safe, but forgot
to grease my pate forbye wi' the direction. I ken'd ye could read
aught at the abbey here, and so ye may e'en run wi' it to the right
owner for yere pains."

The cunning knave glossed over his treachery with this excuse; for he
evidently knew better, and had a notion that he should serve his
masters by this piece of diplomatic craft.

"Thou mayest depart, and ere morrow we will give thee a largess for
thy dexterity."

Dick did not care to be long a-snuffing the chill air of the vaults
and passages after his dismissal, but in a warm cell near the kitchen
fire he was soon wrapped in the delights of oblivion. Such, however,
was the importance of the documents he had so strangely intercepted,
that a messenger was immediately despatched to London with a packet
for the Privy Council.

The same morning, with the early dawn, the abbot and his secretary
were together in the cloisters. It was a fitting place and opportunity
either for intrigue or devotion, and many a masterstroke of church
policy has issued from those dim and sepulchral arches in "the Glen of
the deadly Nightshade."

"Craft is needful, yea laudable," said the abbot, "when we would cope
with worldly adversaries, unless we could work miracles for our
deliverance. But since in these degenerate ages of the church they
have, I fear me, ceased, we must e'en employ the means that Heaven has
put into our hands: and if I mistake not, this envoy of ours will be a
skilful craftsman for the purpose. Under that garb of silly speech
there's a cunning and a wary spirit. Thou didst note well his
ready-witted contrivance last night."

"Yea, and the skill too with which he compassed his expedients, and
the ingenuity that prevented the disclosure of his treachery, in
arresting the real messenger, and thus keeping them in the dark at the
castle yonder until we have had time to countervail their plots. Could
he be made to play his part according to our instructions, an agent
like him were worth having. Besides he knows every chink and cranny
about the castle, so that he could jump on them unawares."

"I am not much given to implicit credence in supernatural devices,"
said the abbot, "or visible manifestations of the arch-enemy; yet have
our chronicles not scrupled to give their testimony to the truth of
such appearances; and it is, moreover, plain, from the papers we have
read, that the conspirators themselves believe in the existence of
some supernatural presence amongst them, by which they are holpen."

He drew a billet from his bosom:--"I have kept this writing alone, as
thou knowest," continued the abbot, "for our guidance. Listen again to
the confessions of yonder rebellious and it may be credulous priest:--

"We are sure of success. The noble Margaret hath, by her wondrous art,
together with the exercise of prayer and fasting, fenced us about as
with a triple barrier, that no earthly might shall overcome. A power
attends us that will magnify our cause, and lay our foes prostrate.
'Tis a mystery even to us, but a being appears unexpectedly at times,
and by his counsels we are guided. We know not whence he comes, nor
whither he goes; but his path is with us, and his presence, though
generally invisible, not without terror, even to ourselves."

"'Tis a strange delusion this, if it be one; for it is plain they have
been ably counselled. Whilst they retain the castle their position may
be reckoned as impregnable. It is a powerful support, on which they
have placed the lever of their rebellion."

"And in what way purpose you to entice them from it? Methinks it were
in vain to make the attempt, if guarded and counselled by supernatural
advisers."

"I believe in no such improbabilities. Listen. We have heard, as thou
knowest, that a strange figure, muffled in close garments, steals
forth, at times, by the southern cliff into the passage there, under
the foundations. This, doubtless, will be the emissary referred to in
the despatch. 'Tis of a surety some person about the camp, concealed,
in all likelihood, even from the leaders themselves; but employed by
yonder ambitious restless woman, to control and direct their
operations by a pretendedly miraculous and supernatural influence. It
is the way in which the vulgar and the superstitious are most easily
led. Fanaticism is a powerful engine wherewith to combine and wield
the scattered energies of the multitude. Besides, their plans are well
laid, as we have seen by the despatches, and many and powerful are the
helps by which they hope to accomplish their designs. Should they
succeed, our destruction is certain. Yet could we draw them forth from
our fortress, we might look to the issue undisturbed. The king will
then dispose of them, and few will dare to interrupt us in the quiet
possession of our privileges."

"How purpose you to entice them forth?" again inquired the secretary.

"If properly tutored, our messenger from the kitchen, Dick Empson,
will doubtless be a fitting agent for this deed. He must be well
furnished with means and appliances against discovery."

"Leave him to my care. I can work with untoward tools, and make them
useful too upon occasion."

"The prisoner, whom he so craftily seized and brought hither, is yet
safe in the dungeon?"

"He is, my lord."

"There he must lie, at any rate, until our plans be accomplished."

"We know not yet unto whom these communications were to have been
conveyed."

"No; but doubtless, from their tenor, to some person of great note. It
may have been to one even about the person of royalty itself, for this
treason hath deep root, and its branches are widely spread throughout
the land."

"Shall we put him to the question?"

"Nay, let present difficulties be brought to issue first; afterwards
we shall be able to inquire, and with more certainty, as to the line
of examination we should pursue."

The speakers separated, one to communicate with Dick Empson, and
prepare him for the important functions he would have to perform; the
other to his lodgings, where he might ruminate undisturbed on the
events then about to transpire, and of which he hoped, finally, to
reap the advantage.

It was past midnight, and the flickering embers threw a doubtful and
uncertain gleam, at intervals, through the royal chamber, as it was
then called, in the Castle of Fouldrey. All around was so still that
the tramp of the sentry sounded like the tread of an armed host;
sounds being magnified to a degree almost terrific, in the absence of
others by which their intensity may be compared. Even the dash of the
waves below the walls was heard in the deep and awful stillness of
that portentous night.

Simon started from the pallet whereon he lay, beside the couch of his
master, at times looking wildly round, as though just rousing from
some unquiet slumber, expecting, yet fearful of alarm. He lay down
again with a deep sigh, muttering an Ave or a Paternoster as he closed
his eyes. Again he raised his head, and a dark figure stood before
him.

"What wouldest thou?" inquired he, with great awe and reverence.

"Ye must depart!" said a voice, deep and sepulchral.

"Depart!" repeated the priest, with an expression of doubt and alarm.

"Yes," said the mysterious figure; "wherefore dost thou inquire?"

"Our only resting-place, our point of support, our sustenance and our
refuge! Are we to leave this, and buffet with the winds and waves of
misfortune, without a haven or a hiding-place? Surely"----

"I have said it, and to-morrow ye must depart!"

"Whither?" inquired the priest; his opinion evidently controlled by
the belief that a being of a superior nature was before him.

"Beyond the Abbey of Furness. Choose a fitting place for your
encampment, and there abide until I come."

"It doth appear to my weak and unassisted sense," said the priest, in
great agony of spirit, arising from his doubt and unbelief, "that it
were the very utmost of madness and folly to give up this strong and
almost impregnable position for one where our little army may be
outflanked, and even surrounded by superior strength and numbers."

"Disobey, and thy life, and all that are with thee, shall be cut off!"

"And to-morrow! Ere we have news from our partisans in the south?
Maurice will be here the third day at the latest."

"I have said it," replied the figure, peremptorily; when suddenly,
and, as it were, formed immediately at his side, appeared another
figure, similar to the first, assuming nearly the same attitude and
manner, save that the latter looked something taller and more
majestic.

"St Mary's grace and the abbot's, there 's twa of us!" cried the first
figure, no less a personage than Dick Empson, who had been daring
enough to adopt this disguise, according to the instructions he had
received at the abbey. He uttered the words in a tone of thrilling and
horrible apprehension, like the last shriek of the victim writhing in
the fangs of his destroyer.

The terrible apparition cried out to his surreptitious
representative--"Nay, miscreant; but one. This thou shalt know, and
feel too. Fool and impostor, thy last hour is come!"

As he spake he seized on the miserable wretch in their presence,
swinging him round by the waist like an infant, and bore him off, up
the turret stairs, to the summit. Ere he disappeared he uttered this
terrible denunciation--

"Your ruin is at hand. Flee! This fool hath betrayed ye, and I return
no more!"

Darting up the staircase, the shrieks of Dick Empson were heard, as if
rapidly ascending to the summit. A wilder and more desperate
struggle--then a heavy plunge, and the waters closed over their prey!

Dick's body was cast up by the waves, but the terrible unknown did not
return; nor was he ever seen or heard of again, save, it is said, that
when the priest received his death-wound, soon afterwards, on the
field of battle, this awful form appeared to rise up before him, and
with scoff and taunt upbraided him as the cause of his own ruin, and
the downfall of his hopes.

The next day, from whatever cause, the troops began to move from their
post. Ere the second evening, they had completely evacuated the castle
and the island, which the wary Abbot of Furness soon turned to his own
advantage, occupying the place with some of his armed vassals. The
rebels, proved to be such by their ill success, took up a tolerably
advantageous position upon Swartz Moor, in the neighbourhood of
Ulverstone, where, waiting in vain for the expected reinforcements,
they found themselves obliged to move forward, or be utterly without
the means either of subsistence or defence. Sir Thomas Broughton, and
a few more of little note, accompanied them to Stokeford, near Newark,
where, engaging the king's forces on the 6th of June 1487, they
maintained an obstinate and bloody engagement, disputed with more
bravery than could have been expected from the inequality of their
forces. The leaders were resolved to conquer or to perish, and their
troops were animated with the same resolution. The Flemings, too,
being veteran and experienced soldiers, kept the event long doubtful;
and even the Irish, though ill-armed and almost defenceless, showed
themselves not deficient in spirit and bravery. The king's victory was
purchased with great loss, but was entirely decisive. Lincoln, Swartz,
and, according to some accounts, Sir Thomas Broughton, perished on the
field of battle, with four thousand of their followers. As Lovel was
never more heard of, he was supposed to have undergone the same fate.
Simnel, apart from his followers, was too contemptible to be an object
either of apprehension or resentment on the part of the king. He was
pardoned, and, it is said, made a scullion in the royal kitchen, from
which menial office he was afterwards advanced to the rank of
falconer.

Thus ended this strange rebellion, which only served to seat Henry
more securely on his throne, extinguishing, finally, the intrigues and
anticipations of the house of York.


[Illustration: BEWSEY, NEAR WARRINGTON.
_Drawn by G. Pickering._
_Engraved by Edw'd. Finden._]




A LEGEND OF BEWSEY.

     "Yestreen I dreamed a doleful dream,
       I fear there will be sorrow!
     I dreamed I pu'd the heather green
       With my true love on Yarrow.

     "She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair,
       She searched his wounds all thorough,
     She kissed them till her lips grew red,
       On the dowie howms of Yarrow."


Warrington is described by Camden as remarkable for its lords,
surnamed Butler, or Boteler, of Bewsey. This name was derived from
their office, Robert le Pincerna having discharged the duties of that
station under Ranulph, Earl of Chester, in 1158, hence taking the
surname. Almeric Butler, his descendant, having married Beatrice,
daughter and co-heir of Matthew Villiers, Lord of Warrington, became
possessed of the barony.

A MS. in the Bodleian Library gives the following statement, which,
though manifestly incorrect in respect of names and particulars, may
yet be relied on with regard to the main facts, corroborated by
tradition, which still preserves the memory of this horrible event.

"Sir John Butler, Knt., was slaine in his bedde by the procurement of
the Lord Standley, Sir Piers Leigh and Mister William Savage joining
with him in that action (corrupting his servants), his porter setting
a light in a window to give knowledge upon the water that was about
his house at Bewsey (where your way to ... comes). They came over the
moate in lether boats, and so to his chamber, where one of his
servants, named Houlcrofte, was slaine, being his chamberlaine; the
other basely betrayed his master;--they payed him a great reward, and
so coming away with him, they hanged him at a tree in Bewsey
Parke;--after this Sir John Butler's lady prosecuted those that slew
her husband, and ... £20 for that suite, but, being married to Lord
Grey, he made her suite voyd, for which reason she parted from her
husband and came into Lancashire, saying, If my lord will not let me
have my will of my husband's enemies, yet shall my body be buried by
him; and she caused a tomb of alabaster to be made, where she lyeth on
the ... hand of her husband, Sir John Butler.

It is further stated in the MS. that the occasion of this murder was
because of a request from Earl Derby that Sir John would make one of
the train which followed him on his going to meet King Henry VII., and
which request was discourteously refused.

The following extract from Froissart may not be deemed uninteresting,
as a record of one of our Lancashire worthies, Sir John Butler of
Bewsey, relating how he was rescued from the hands of those who sought
his life at the siege of Hennebon:--

"The Lord Lewis of Spain came one day into the tent of Lord Charles of
Blois, where were numbers of the French nobility, and requested of him
a boon for all the services done to him, and as a recompense for them
the Lord Charles promised to grant whatever he should ask, as he held
himself under many obligations to him. Upon which the Lord Lewis
desired that the two prisoners, Sir John Boteler and Sir Mw.
Trelawney, who were in prison of the Castle of Faouet, might be sent
for, and delivered up to him, to do with them as should please him
best.

"'This is the boon I ask, for they have discomfited, pursued, and
wounded me; have also slain the Lord Alphonso, my nephew, and I have
no other way to be revenged on them than to have them beheaded in
sight of their friends who are shut up in Hennebon.'

"The Lord Charles was much amazed at this request, and replied, 'I
will certainly give you the prisoners since you have asked for them;
but you will be very cruel, and much to blame, if you put to death two
such valiant men; and our enemies will have an equal right to do the
same to any of our friends whom they may capture, for we are not clear
what may happen to any one of us every day. I therefore entreat, dear
sir and sweet cousin, that you would be better advised.'

"Lord Lewis said that if he did not keep his promise he would quit the
army, and never serve or love him as long as he lived.

"When the Lord Charles saw that he must comply, he sent off messengers
to the Castle of Faouet, who returned with the two prisoners, and
carried them to the tent of Lord Charles.

"Neither tears nor entreaties could prevail on Lord Lewis to desist
from his purpose of having them beheaded after dinner, so much was he
enraged against them.

"All the conversation, and everything that passed between the Lord
Charles and Lord Lewis, relative to these two prisoners, was told to
Sir Walter Manny and Sir Amauri de Clisson, by friends and spies, who
represented the danger in which the two knights were. They bethought
themselves what was best to be done, but after considering schemes,
could fix on none. At last Sir Walter said, 'Gentlemen, it would do us
great honour if we could rescue these two knights. If we should
adventure it and should fail, King Edward would himself be obliged to
us, and all wise men who may hear of it in times to come will thank
us, and say we had done our duty. I will tell you my plan, and you are
able to undertake it, for I think we are bound to risk our lives in
endeavouring to save those of two such gallant knights. I propose,
therefore, if it be agreeable to you, that we arm immediately, and
form ourselves into two divisions,--one shall set off, as soon after
dinner as possible, by this gate, and draw up near the ditch, to
skirmish with and alarm the enemy, who, you may believe, will soon
muster to that part, and, if you please, you, Sir Amauri de Clisson,
shall have the command of it, and shall take with you 1000 good
archers to make those that may come to you retreat back again, and 300
men-at-arms. I will have with me 100 of my companions, and 500
archers, and will sally out at the postern on the opposite side,
privately, and coming behind them will fall upon their camp, which we
shall find unguarded. I will take with me those who are acquainted
with the road to Lord Charles's tent, where the two prisoners are, and
will make for that part of the camp. I can assure you that I and my
companions will do everything in our power to bring back in safety
these two knights, if it please God.'

"This proposal was agreeable to all, and they directly separated to
arm and prepare themselves. About an hour after dinner Sir Amauri and
his party set off; and having had the principal gate of Hennebon
opened for them, which led to the road that went straight to the army
of Lord Charles, they rushed forward, making great cries and noise, to
the tents and huts, which they cut down, and killed all that came in
their way. The enemy was much alarmed, and putting themselves in
motion, got armed as quickly as possible, and advanced towards the
English and Bretons, who received them very warmly. The skirmish was
sharp, and many on each side were slain.

"When Sir Amauri perceived that almost the whole of the army was in
motion and drawn out, he retreated very handsomely, fighting all the
time, to the barriers of the town, when he suddenly halted: then the
archers, who had been posted on each side of the ditch beforehand,
made such good use of their bows that the engagement was very hot, and
all the army of the enemy ran thither except the servants.

"During this time Sir Walter Manny, with his company, issued out
privily by the postern, and, making a circuit, came upon the rear of
the enemy's camp. They were not perceived by any one, for all were
gone to the skirmish upon the ditch. Sir Walter made straight for the
tent of Lord Charles, where he found the two knights, Sir John Boteler
and Sir Mw. Trelawney, whom he immediately mounted on two coursers
which he had ordered to be brought for them, and retiring as fast as
possible, entered Hennebon by the same way as he sallied forth. The
Countess of Montfort came to see them, and received them with great
joy."--_Froissart_, by Col. Johnes, vol. ii. p. 9.

The Butlers continued to occupy Bewsey till the year 1603, when Edward
Butler sold this estate to the Irelands of Hale. It then passed from
the Irelands to the Athertons, and is now enjoyed by Thomas Powis,
Lord Lilford, of Lilford, Northamptonshire, in virtue of the marriage
of his father, in the year 1797, with Henrietta Maria, daughter and
heiress of Robert Vernon Atherton, of Atherton Hall, Esq.--_Vide_
Baines's _Lancashire_.

     Oh listen to my roundelay,
       Oh listen a while to me,
     And I'll tell ye of a deadly feud
       That fell out in the north countrie.

     The summer leaves were fresh and green
       When Earl Derby forth would ride;
     For King Henry and his company
       To Lathom briskly hied.

     A bridge he had builded fair and strong,
       With wondrous cost and pain,
     O'er Mersey's stream, by Warrington,
       For to meet that royal train.[6]

     And lord, and knight, and baron bold,
       That dwelt in this fair countrie,
     With the Derby train a-riding were,
       Save Sir John of proud Bewsey.

     "Now foul befa' that scornfu' knight,"
       Cried Stanley in his pride;
     "For he hath my just and honest suit
       Discourteously denied:

     "Such hatred of our high estate,
       This traitor sore shall rue;
     I'll be avenged, or this good sword
       Shall rot the scabbard through!"

     He swore a furious oath, I trow,
       And clenched his iron hand,
     As he rode forth to meet his son,
       The monarch of merry England.

            *       *       *       *       *

     The summer leaves were over and gone,
        But the ivy and yew were green,
     When to Bewsey hall came a jovial crew
       On the merry Christmas e'en.

     It was mirth and feasting in hall and bower
       On that blessed and holy tide,
     But ere the morning light arose,
       There was darkness on all their pride!

     Dark wonne the night, and the revellers gay
       From the laughing halls are gone;
     The clock from the turret, old and grey,
       With solemn tongue tolled one.

     The blast was moaning down the glen,
       Through the pitch-like gloom it came,
     Like a spirit borne upon demon wings
       To the pit of gnawing flame!

     But Sir John was at rest, with his lady love,
       In a pleasant sleep they lay;
     Nor felt the sooning, shuddering wind
       Round the grim, wide welkin play.

     Their little babe, unconscious now,
       Lay slumbering hard by;
     And he smiled as the loud, loud tempest rocked
       His cradle wondrously.

     There comes a gleam on the billowy moat
       Like a death-light on its wave,
     It streams from the ivied lattice, where
       Sits a grim false-hearted knave.

     He saw it on the soft white snow,
       And across the moat it passed:
     "'Tis well," said that false and grim porter,
       And a fearsome look he cast.

     A look he cast so wild and grim,
       And he uttered a deadly vow;
     "For thy dool and thy doom this light shall be,
       Thy foes are hastening now!

     "Sleep on, sleep on, thou art weary, Sir John;
       Thy last sleep shall it be:
     Sleep on, sleep on, with thy next good sleep
       Thou shalt rest eternally!"

     The traitor watched the waters dance,
       In the taper's treacherous gleam;
     And they hissed, and they rose, by the tempest tossed
       Through that pale and lonely beam.

     What hideous thing comes swift and dark
       Athwart that flickering wave?
     A spectre boat there seems to glide,
       With many an uplift glaive.

     The bolts are unslid by that grim porter,
       And a gladsome man was he,
     When three foemen fierce strode up the stair,
       All trim and cautiously.

     "Now who be ye," cried the chamberlain,
       "That come with stealth and staur?"
     "We come to bid thy lord good den,
       So open to us the door."

     "Ere I will open to thieves like ye,
       My limbs ye shall hew and hack.
     Awake, Sir John! awake and flee;
       These blood-hounds are on thy track!"

     "We'll stop thy crowing, pretty bird!
       Now flutter thy wings again:"
     With that they laid him a ghastly corpse,
       And the red blood ran amain.

     "Oh help!" the lady shrieked aloud;
       "Arise, Sir John, and flee;
     Oh heard you not yon cry of pain
       Like some mortal agony?"

     "I hear it not," Sir John replied,
       For his sleep was wondrous strong;
     "But see yon flashing weapons, sure
       To foemen they belong!"

     The knight from his bed leaped forth to flee,
       But they've pierced his body through;
     And with wicked hands, and weapons keen,
       Him piteously they slew!

     But that porter grim, strict watch he kept,
       Beside the stair sate he;
     When lo! comes tripping down a page,
       With a basket defterly.

     "Now whither away, thou little page,
       Now whither away so fast?"
     "They have slain Sir John," said the little page,
       "And his head in this wicker cast."

     "And whither goest thou with that grisly head?"
       Cried the grim porter again,
     "To Warrington Bridge they bade me run,
       And set it up amain."

     "There may it hang," cried that loathly knave,
       "And grin till its teeth be dry;
     While every day with jeer and taunt
       Will I mock it till I die!"

     The porter opened the wicket straight,
       And the messenger went his way,
     For he little guessed of the head that now
       In that basket of wicker lay.

     "We've killed the bird, but where's the egg?"
       Then cried those ruffians three.
     "Where is thy child?" The lady moaned,
       But never a word spake she.

     But, swift as an arrow, to his bed
       The lady in terror sprung;
     When, oh! a sorrowful dame was she,
       And her hands she madly wrung.

     "The babe is gone! Oh, spare my child,
       And strike my heart in twain!"
     To those ruthless men the lady knelt,
       But her piteous suit was vain.

     "Traitor!" they cried to that grim porter,
       "Whom hast thou suffered forth?
     If thou to us art false, good lack,
       Thy life is little worth!"

     "There's nought gone forth from this wicket yet,"
       Said that grim and grisly knave,
     "But a little foot-page, with his master's head,
       That ye to his charges gave."

     "Thou liest, thou grim and fause traitor!"
       Cried out those murderers three;
     "The head is on his carcase yet,
       As thou mayest plainly see!"

     When the lady heard this angry speech,
       Her heart waxed wondrous fain;
     For she knew the page was a trusty child,
       And her babe in his arms had lain.

     "Where is the gowd?" said that grim porter,
       "The gowd ye sware unto me?"
     "We'll give thee all thine hire," said they;
       "We play not false like thee!"

     They counted down the red, red gold,
       And the porter laughed outright:
     "Now we have paid thy service well,
       For thy master's blood this night;

     "For thy master's blood thou hast betrayed,
       We've paid thee thy desire;
     But for thy treachery unto us,
       Thou hast not had thine hire."

     They've ta'en a cord, both stiff and strong,
       And they sought a goodly tree;
     And from its boughs the traitor swung;--
       So hang all knaves like he!

     But the lady found her pretty babe;--
       Ere the morning light was nigh,
     To the hermit's cell[7] that little page
       Had borne him craftily.

     And the mass was said, and the requiem sung,
       And the priests, with book and stole,
     The body bore to its cold still bed,
       "Gramercy on his soul!"

     [6] "Thomas, first Earl of Derby, as a compliment
     to his royal relative, Henry VII., on his visit to Lathom and
     Knowsley in 1496, built the bridge at Warrington; and by this
     munificent act conferred a benefit upon the two palatine
     counties, the value of which it is not easy to
     estimate."--Baines's _Lancashire_.

     [7] The Butlers, it is conjectured, were patrons of
     the priory of the hermit friars of St Augustine, founded before
     1379, near the bridge. In 32 Henry VIII., this institution was
     dissolved, and its possessions were granted to the great
     monastic grantee, Thomas Holcroft.--_Vide_ Tanner's _Not. Mon._
     About forty years ago the remains of a gateway of the priory
     stood on Friar's Green, and some years after that period a
     stone coffin was dug up near the same place.


[Illustration: THE BLESSING]




THE BLESSING.

     "I had most need of blessing, and amen
     Stuck in my throat."

     --_Macbeth._


We have been unable to identify the spot where the occurrence took
place, the subject of the following ballad. It is in all likelihood
one of those wild and monkish legends that may be fitted or applied to
any situation, according to the whim of the narrator. Many such
legends, though the number is lessening daily, are still preserved,
and an amusing volume might be made of these unappropriated wanderers
that possess neither a local habitation nor a name.

     The chase was done--the feast was begun,
       When the baron sat proudly by;
     And the revelry rode on the clamouring wind,
       That swept through the hurtling sky.

     No lordly guest that feast had blessed,
       No solemn prayer was said;
     But with ravenous hands, unthankfully,
       They brake their daily bread.

     The chase was done--the feast was begun,
       When a palmer sat in that hall;
     Yet his pale dim eye from its rest ne'er rose,
       To gaze on that festival!

     The crackling blaze on his wan cheek plays,
       And athwart his gloomy brow;
     While his hands are spread to the rising flame,
       And his feet to the embers' glow.

     For the blast was chill, o'er the mist-covered hill,
       And the palmer's limbs were old;
     And weary the way his feet had trod,
       Since the matin-bell had tolled.

     The baron spake--"This morsel take,
       And yon pilgrim greet from me;
     Tell him we may not forget to share
       The joys of our revelry!"

     Then thus began that holy man,
       As he lowly bent his knee--
     "I may not taste of the meat unblessed;
       I would 'twere so with thee."

     "Then mumble thy charm o'er the embers warm,"
       That baron proud replied;
     "No boon from my hand shalt thou receive,
       Nor foaming cup from my side."

     The palmer bowed, the giddy crowd,
       With mirth and unseemly jest,
     His meekness taunt, when he answered not,
       The gibe of each courtly guest.

     The minstrel sang, the clarions rang,
       And the baron sat proudly there,
     And louder the revelry rode on the wind,
       That swept through the hurtling air.

     "What tidings for me from the east countrie?
       What news from the Paynim land?"
     As the baron spake, his goblet bright
       He raised in his outstretched hand.

     "There's tidings for thee from the east countrie,"
       The pilgrim straight replied;
     "A mighty chief, at a mighty feast,
       There sat in all his pride."

     "'Twas wondrous well;--and what befell
       This chief at his lordly feast?"
     "A goblet was filled with the red grape's blood,
       And he pledged each rising guest."

     "'Tis gladsome news;--but did they refuse
       The pledge they loved so well?"
     "Oh no; for each cup mantling forth to the brim,
       Did the harp and the clarion tell."

     "And where didst thou such tidings know?"
       "A pilgrim told it me:
     And he sat on the hearth at this unblessed feast,
       Where he shared not the revelry,

     "For ere was quaffed each sparkling draught,
       Or the foam from the ruby wine,
     He dashed the cup from that baron's lip,
       As now I do from thine!"

     And the palmer passed by, as each goblet on high
       Was waved at their chief's command,
     But ere the cup had touched his lip,
       It was dashed from his lifted hand!

     "A boon from thee, on my bended knee,"
       The palmer boldly cried;
     "Seize first with speed yon traitor page
       Who bore the cup to thy side."

     And the page they have bound on the cold, cold ground,
       And his treason he hath confessed;
     He had poisoned the cup with one subtle drop,
       Which he drew from his crimson vest.

     And the palmer grey his treachery
       Had watched, when all beside
     In the feast were gaily revelling,
       Nor danger there espied.

     "Say where didst thou the treason know?"
       The troubled chieftain cried;
     "I had blessed thy bread, I had blessed thy bowl,"
       The hoary man replied.

     "And the blessing was given--the boon from heaven;
       Or this night from thy lordly bed
     Thy spirit had passed with the shuddering blast,
       With the loud, shrill shriek of the dead!

     "Oh! never taste the meat unblessed;
       Remember the palmer grey;
     Though he wander afar from thy castle gate,
       Yet forget not thy feast to-day."

     And the pilgrim is gone from that gate alone,
       When prayer and vow were said;
     And the blessing thenceforth from that house was heard
       Ere they broke their daily bread.


[Illustration: THE DULE UPO' DUN]





THE DULE UPO' DUN.

     "Wae, wae is me, on soul an' body,
         Old Hornie has lifted his paw, man;
     An' the carle will come, an' gallop me hame,
         An' I maun gae pipe in his ha', man!"

     --_Old Ballad._

For the tradition upon which the following tale is founded, the author
is indebted to _The Kaleidoscope_, an interesting weekly miscellany,
published by Messrs Smith and Son at Liverpool.


Barely three miles from Clitheroe, as you enter a small village on the
right of the high road to Gisburne, stands a public-house, having for
its sign the title of our story. On it is depicted his Satanic
majesty, curiously mounted upon a scraggy dun horse, without saddle,
bridle, of any sort of equipments whatsoever--the terrified steed
being off and away at full gallop from the door, where a small
hilarious tailor, with shears and measures, appears to view the
departure of him of the cloven foot with anything but grief or
disapprobation.

The house itself is one of those ancient, gabled, black and white
edifices, now fast disappearing under the giant march of improvement,
which tramples down alike the palace and the cottage, the peasant's
hut and the patrician's dwelling. Many windows, of little
lozenge-shaped panes set in lead, might be seen here in all the
various stages of renovation and decay: some stuffed with clouts,
parti-coloured and various; others, where the work of devastation had
been more complete, were wholly darkened by brick-bats, coble-stones,
and many other ingenious substitutes and expedients to keep out the
weather.

But our tale hath a particular bearing to other and more terrific
days--"the olden time," so fruitful in marvels and extravagances--the
very poetry of the black art; when Satan communed visibly and audibly
with the children of men--thanks to the invokers of relics and the
tellers of beads--and was so familiar and reasonable withal, as to
argue and persuade men touching the propriety of submitting themselves
to him, as rational and intelligent creatures; and even was silly
enough, at times, to suffer himself to be outwitted by the greater
sagacity and address of his intended victims. For proof, we cite the
following veracious narrative, which bears within it every internal
mark of truth, and matter for grave and serious reflection.

"Little Mike," or more properly Michael Waddington, was a merry tailor
of some note in his day, who formerly, that is to say, some eight or
nine score years ago--dwelt in this very tenement, where he followed
his profession, except when enticed by the smell of good liquor to the
village alehouse--the detriment, and even ruin, of many a goodly
piece of raiment, which at times he clipped and shaped in such wise as
redounded but little to the credit of either wearer or artificer. Mike
was more alive to a merry troll and graceless story, in the kitchen of
mine host "at the inn," than to the detail of his own shopboard, with
the implements of his craft about him, making and mending the oddly
assorted adjuncts of the village churls. Such was his liking for
pastime and good company that the greater part of his earnings went
through the tapster's melting pot; and grieved are we, as veritable
chroniclers, to state that it was not until even credit failed him,
that he settled to work for another supply of the elixir vitæ--the
pabulum of his being. It may be supposed that matters went on but
indifferently at home, where want and poverty had left indelible
traces of their presence. Matty Waddington, his spouse, would have had
hard work to make both ends meet had she not been able to scrape
together a few pence and broken victuals by selling firewood, and
helping her neighbours with any extra work that was going forward.
Yet, in general, she bore all her troubles and privations with great
patience and good humour--at any rate in the presence of her husband,
who, though an idler and a spendthrift, was, to say the truth, not
viciously disposed towards her, like many beastly sots, but, on the
contrary, he usually behaved with great deference and kindness to his
unfortunate helpmate in all things but that of yielding to his
besetting sin; having an unquenchable thirst for good liquor, which
all his resolutions and vows of amendment could not withstand.

One evening the little hero of our story was at his usual pastime in
the public-house, but his "cup was run low," and his credit still
lower. In fact, both cash and credit were finished; his liquor was
within a short pull from the bottom; and he sat ruminating on the
doleful emergencies to which he was subject, and the horrible spectres
that would assail him on the morrow, in the shape of sundry riven
doublets and hose, beside rents and repairs innumerable, which had
been accumulating for some weeks, to the no small inconvenience and
exposure of their owners and former occupiers.

"I wish I were the squire's footman, or e'en his errand-boy, and could
get a sup of good liquor without riving and tuggin' for't," thought he
aloud. Scarce were the words uttered, when there came a mighty civil
stranger into the company, consisting of village professors of the
arts, such as the barber, the blacksmith, and the bell-ringer,
together with our knight of the iron thimble. The new-comer was
dressed in a respectable suit of black; a wig of the same colour
adorned his wide and ample head, which was again surmounted by a
peaked hat, having a band and buckle above its brim, and a black rose
in front. He looked an elderly and well-ordered gentleman, mighty
spruce, and full of courtesy; and his cane was black as ebony, with a
yellow knob that glittered like gold. He had a huge beaked nose, and a
little black ferrety eye, which almost pierced what it gazed upon.
Every one made way for the stranger, who sat down, not in the full
glare of the fire to be sure, but rather on one side, so that he might
have a distinct view of the company, without being himself subject to
any scrutinising observances.

"Pleasant night abroad," said the new-comer.

"Pleasanter within though," responded every thought.

"It's moonlight, I reckon," said Mike, who was just meditating over
his last draught, and his consequent departure from this bibacious
paradise.

"Nay, friend," said the black gentleman, "but the stars shine out
rarely; and the snow lies so bright and crisp like, ye may see
everything afore ye as plain as Pendle. Landlord, bring me a cup of
the best; and put a little on the fire to warm, with some sugar, for
it's as cold as a raw turnip to one's stomach."

"Humph!" said mine host, testily; "it's a good-for-nothin' belly
that'll not warm cold ale."

"It's good-for-nothin' ale, Giles, thee means, that'll not warm a cowd
belly," said one of the wits of the party, a jolly young blacksmith,
an especial favourite amongst the lasses and good fellows of the
neighbourhood.

"Nay, the dickens!" said another; "Giles Chatburn's ale would warm the
seat of old cloven-foot himsel';" and with that there were roars of
laughing, in which, however, the stranger did not participate. Mike
wondered that so good a joke should not have its due effect upon him;
and many other notable things were said and done which we have neither
space nor inclination to record, but the stranger still maintained his
grave and unaccountable demeanour. Mike ever and anon cast a glance
towards him, and he always observed that the stranger's eye was fixed
upon his own. A dark, bright, burning eye, such as made the recreant
tailor immediately look aside, for he could not endure its brightness.

Mike began to grow restless and uncomfortable. He changed his place,
but the glance of the stranger followed him. It was like the gaze of a
portrait, which, in whatever situation the beholder may be placed, is
always turned towards him. It may readily be supposed that Michael
Waddington, though not averse to being looked at in the ordinary way,
did not relish this continued and searching sort of disposition on the
part of the gentleman in black. Several times he was on the point of
speaking, but his heart always failed him as the word reached his lip.

His liquor was now done, but he was not loth to depart as beforetime;
for at any rate, he should be quit of the annoyance he had so long
endured. He arose with less regret assuredly than usual; and just as
he was passing the doorway he cast a look round over his shoulder, and
beheld the same fixed, unflinching eye gazing on him. He jumped
hastily over the threshold, and was immediately on his road home. He
had not been gone more than a few minutes when he heard a sharp
footstep on the crisp snow behind him. Turning round, he saw the dark
tall peak of the stranger's hat, looking tenfold darker, almost
preternaturally black, on the white background, as he approached. Mike
felt his hair bristling through terror. His knees, usually bent
somewhat inwards, now fairly smote together, so that he could not
accelerate his pace, and the stranger was quickly at his side.

"Thou art travelling homewards, I trow," said he of the black peak.
Mike made some barely intelligible reply. "I know it," returned the
other. "But why art thou leaving so soon?"

"My money's done, an' credit too, for that matter," tardily replied
the tailor.

"And whose fault's that?" returned his companion. "Thou mayest have
riches, and everything else, if thou wilt be advised by me."

Mike stared, as well he might, at the dark figure by his side. The
idea of wealth without labour was perfectly new to him, and he
ventured to ask how this very desirable object might be accomplished.

"Listen. Thou art a poor miserable wretch, and canst hardly earn a
livelihood with all thy toil. Is't not a pleasant thing and a
desirable, however procured, to obtain wealth at will, and every
happiness and delight that man can enjoy?"

Michael's thirsty lips watered at the prospect, notwithstanding his
dread of the black gentleman at his elbow.

"I was once poor and wretched as thou. But I grew wiser,
and--unlimited wealth is now at my command."

There was an awful pause; the stranger apparently wishful to know the
effect of this mysterious communication. The liquorish tailor listened
greedily, expecting to hear of the means whereby his condition would
be so wonderfully amended.

"Hast thou never heard of those who have been helped by the powers of
darkness to"----

"Save us, merci"----

"Hold!" said the peremptory stranger, seizing Mike rudely by the
wrist. "Another such outcry, and I will leave thee to thy seams and
patches; to starve, or linger on, as best thou mayst."

Michael promised obedience, and his companion continued--

"There is no such great harm or wickedness in it as people suppose.
Quite an ordinary sort of proceeding, I assure thee; and such an one
as thou mayst accomplish in a few minutes, with little trouble or
inconvenience."

"Tell me the wondrous secret," said Michael eagerly, who, in the
glowing prospect thus opened out to him, felt all fear of his
companion giving way.

"Well, then; thou mayst say two aves, the creed, and thy paternoster
backwards thrice, and call upon the invisible demon to appear, when he
will tell thee what thou shalt do."

Michael felt a strange thrill come over him at these fearful words. He
looked at his companion, but saw not anything more notable than the
high-peaked hat, and the huge beaked nose, as before. By this time
they were close upon his own threshold, and Michael was just debating
within himself upon the propriety of asking his companion to enter,
when his deliberations were cut short by the other saying he had
business of importance a little farther; and with that he bade him
good night.

Michael spent the remaining hours of darkness in tossing and
rumination; but in the end the gratifying alternative between wealth
and poverty brought his deliberations to a close. He determined to
follow the advice and directions of the stranger. There could be no
harm in it. He only intended to inquire how such wealth might be
possessed; but if in any way diabolical or wicked, he would not need
to have anything further to do in the matter. Thus reasoning, and thus
predetermined how to act, our self-deluded stitcher of seams bent his
way, on the following forenoon, to a solitary place near the river,
where he intended to perform the mighty incantation. Yet, when he
tried to begin, his stomach felt wondrous heavy and oppressed. He
trembled from head to foot, and sat down for some time to recruit his
courage. The words of the stranger emboldened him.

"'Quite an ordinary business,'" said he; and Mike went to work with
his lesson, which he had been conning as he went. Scarcely was the
last word of this impious incantation uttered, when a roaring clap of
thunder burst above him, and the arch enemy of mankind stood before
the panic-stricken tailor.

"Why hast thou summoned me hither?" said the infernal monarch, in a
voice like the rushing wind or the roar of the coming tempest. But
Michael could not speak before the fiend.

"Answer me--and truly," said the demon. This miserable fraction of a
man now fell on his knees, and in a most piteous accent exclaimed--

"Oh! oh! mercy. I did not--I--want--nothing!"

"Base, audacious slave! Thou art telling me an untruth, and thou
knowest it. Show me thy business instantly, or I will carry thee off
to my dominions without further ado."

At this threat the miserable mortal prostrated himself, a tardy
confession being wrung from him.

"Oh! pardon. Thou knowest my poverty and my distress. I want riches,
and--and"----

"Good!" said the demon, with a horrible smile. "'Tis what ye are ever
hankering after. Every child of Adam doth cry with insatiate thirst,
'Give--give!' But hark thee! 'tis thine own fault if thou art not
rich, and that speedily. I will grant thee _three_ wishes: use them as
thou wilt."

Now the rogue was glad when he heard this gracious speech, and in the
fulness of his joy exclaimed--

"Bodikins! but I know what my first wish will be; and I'se not want
other two."

"How knowest thou that?" said the demon, with a look of contumely and
scorn so wild and withering that Michael started back in great terror.

"Before this favour is granted though," continued the fiend, "there is
a small matter by way of preliminary to be settled."

"What is that?" inquired the trembling novice with increasing
disquietude and alarm.

"A contract must be signed, and delivered too."

"A contract! Dear me; and for what?"

"For form's sake merely; no more, I do assure thee--a slight
acknowledgment for the vast benefits I am bound to confer. To wit,
that at the end of seven years thou wilt bear me company."

"Me!" cried the terrified wretch; "nay, then, keep thy gifts to
thyself; I'll none o' them on this condition."

"Wretched fool!" roared the infuriate fiend; at the sound of which the
culprit fairly tumbled backward. "Sign this contract, or thou shalt
accompany me instantly. Ay, this very minute: for know, that every one
who calls on me is delivered into my power; and think thyself well
dealt with when I offer thee an alternative. Thou hast the chance of
wealth, honour, and prosperity if thou sign this bond. If thou do not,
I will have thee whether or no--that's all. What sayest thou?" and the
apostate angel spread forth his dark wings, and seemed as though ready
to pounce upon his unresisting victim.

In a twinkling, Michael decided that it would be much better to sign
the bond and have the possession of riches, with seven years to enjoy
them in, than be dragged off to the burning pit immediately, without
any previous enjoyment whatsoever. Besides, in that seven years who
knew what might turn up in his favour.

"I consent," said he; and the arch-enemy produced his bond. A drop of
blood, squeezed from the hand of his victim, was the medium of this
fearful transfer; and instantly on its execution another clap of
thunder announced the departure of Satan with the price of another
soul in his grasp.

Michael was now alone. He could hardly persuade himself that he had
not been dreaming. He looked at his finger, where a slight wound was
still visible, from which a drop of blood still hung--a terrible
confirmation of his fears.

Returning home, sad and solitary, he attempted to mount to his usual
place, but even this exertion was more than he could accomplish. One
black and burning thought tormented him, and he sat down by his own
cheerless hearth, more cheerless than he had ever felt before. Matty
was preparing dinner; but it was a meagre and homely fare--a little
oaten bread, and one spare collop which had been given her by a
neighbour. Scanty as was the meal, it was better than the humble
viands which sometimes supplied their board. Matty knew not the real
cause of her husband's dumps, supposing it to be the usual workings of
remorse, if not repentance, to which Mike was subject whenever his
pocket was empty and the burning spark in his throat unquenched. She
invited him to partake, but he could not eat. He sat with eyes
half-shut, fixed on the perishing embers, and replied not to the
remonstrances of his dame.

"Why, Mike, I say," cried the kind-hearted woman, "what ails thee?
Cheer up, man, and finish thy collop. Thou mayest fret about it as
thou likes, but thou cannot undo a bad stitch by wishing. If it will
make thee better for time to come, though, I'll not grumble. Come,
come, goodman, if one collop winna content thee, I wish we'd two,
that's all."

Scarce was the last word from her lips, when lo! a savoury and smoking
rasher was laid on the table by some invisible hand. Michael was
roused from his lethargy by this unlucky wish. Darting a terrified
look on the morsel, he cried out--

"Woman, woman! what hast thou done? I wish thou wert far enough for
thy pains."

Immediately she disappeared--whisked off by the same invisible hands;
but whither he could not tell.

"Oh me--oh me!" cried the afflicted tailor at this double mishap;
"what shall I do now? I shall assuredly starve; and yet I've one wish
left. Humph, I'd better be wary in making it though. Best take time to
consider, lest I throw this needlessly after the rest."

Mike could not make up his mind as to what he would have, nor indeed
could he bend down his thoughts steadfastly to any subject. He was in
a continual flutter. His brain was in a whirl. He looked round for
some relief. The house was in sad disorder, and he thought on his
absent wife.

"Dear me," thought he, as he fetched a scrap of wood to the fire, "I
wish Matty were here;" and his wife was immediately at his side.

Mike, now grown desperate, revealed to her the fearful cause of these
disasters, and the utter failure of any beneficial results from the
three wishes.

"We be just as we were," said he, "save that I've sold mysel', body
and soul, to the Evil One!"

Here he began to weep and lament very sore; and his wife was so much
overcome at the recital that she was nigh speechless through the
anguish she endured.

At length her tears began to lose their bitterness.

"It's no use greetin' at this gait," said she; "hie thee to the
parson, Michael, an' see if he canna quit thee o' this bond."

"Verily," said the poor tailor, with a piteous sigh, "that would be
leapin' out o' t' gutter into t' ditch. I should be burnt for a
he-witch an' a limb o' the de'il. I've yet seven years' respite from
torment, an' that would be to throw even these precious morsels away.
E'en let's tarry as we are, an' make the best on't. This comes of
idleness and drink; but if ever I put foot across Giles's doorstone
again, I wish--nay, it's no use wishing now, I've had enough o' sich
thriftless work for a bit. But I'll be sober an' mind my work, and
spend nothing idly, an' who knows but some plan or another may be hit
on to escape."

Now his disconsolate wife was much rejoiced at this determination, and
could not help saying--

"Who knows? perhaps it was for good, Mike, that this distress happened
thee."

He shook his head; but his resolution was made, and he adhered to it
in spite of the sneers and temptations of his former associates, who
often tried to lead him on to the same vicious courses again. He had
received a warning that he never forgot. The memory of it stuck to him
night and day; and he would as soon have thought of thrusting his hand
into the glowing coals as have entered Giles Chatburn's hovel again.
He was truly an altered man, but his wife was the first to feel
benefited by the change. He had plenty of work, and money came in
apace. The house was cleaned and garnished. There was abundance of
victuals, and a jug of their own brewing. He rarely stirred out but to
wait upon his customers, and then he came home as soon as the job was
completed. But there was an appearance of melancholy and dejection
continually about him. He looked wan and dispirited. Time was rapidly
passing by, and the last of the seven years was now ebbing away.

One night, as they were sitting a while after supper, he fetched a
heavy sigh.

"It is but a short time I have to live," said he.

"Nay," said the dame, let's hope that Heaven will not let thee fall a
prey to His enemy and ours. Besides thou hast gotten nothing from him
for thy bargain. It cannot be expected, therefore, that the old
deceiver can claim any recompense."

Mike shook his head, and looked incredulous.

"Sure as there's wind i' Meg's entry he'll come for his own. I've been
considering that I'd best go to the old man that lives in the cave by
Sally. He'll maybe give me some advice how to act when the time
comes."

This suggestion met with his wife's approval; and the next morning
our disconsolate hero was on his way to the "hermit" of the cave. The
holy recluse had been long famed through that region for his kindness
and attention to the wants of those who sought help and counsel; and
Michael thought no harm could come of it, even though he might be
unable to circumvent the designs of the arch-enemy.

His dwelling was by the river-side, in a little hut, the back of
which, the goodman's oratory, was scooped out in a circular form from
the bank.

"Holy father," said the tailor, on entering the cell, "I crave thy
benison."

The anchorite, who was on his knees before a crucifix, did not speak
until he had finished his devotions. He then rose and pronounced the
usual benedictory welcome.

"So far all is well," thought Mike; "I've got one blow at the devil
anyhow."

The holy father was very old, but he was hale and active. His white
silky beard almost touched his girdle, and his sharp though rheumy
eyes peered inquisitively on the person of his guest.

"What is thine errand, my son?" inquired the recluse.

"I have fallen into a grievous temptation, and would crave your
succour and advice."

"Heaven wills it oft, my son, that we fall into divers extremities to
humble us, and to show the folly and weakness of our hearts. What is
thy trouble and thy petition?"

"Alas!" said the other, weeping, "I have been face to face with the
father of lies, and I have suffered much damage therefrom."

"Thou hast not been tampering with forbidden arts, I hope?"

"Truly, that have I, and to my soul's cost, I fear," said the tailor,
with a groan of heartrending despair.

"Thy sin is great, my son; but so likewise is the remedy. Heaven
willeth not a sinner's death, if he turn again to Him with repentance
and contrition of spirit. I trust thou hast not trifled with thy
soul's welfare by taking and using any of the gifts whereby the old
serpent layeth hold on the souls of men?"

"Verily, nay; but he frightened me into the signing of a terrible
bond, wherein I promised, that after seven years were past and gone I
would be his!"

"Thy danger is terrible indeed. But he gave thee some equivalent for
the bargain? thou didst not sell thyself for nought?" said the hermit,
fixing his eye sternly on the trembling penitent; "and now, when thou
hast wasted the price of thy condemnation, thou comest for help; and
thou wouldest even play at cheatery with the devil!"

"Nay, most reverend father," said Michael, wiping his eyes; "never a
gift have I had from the foul fiend, save a bacon collop, and that was
cast out untouched." And with that he told of the manner in which he
was inveigled, and the scurvy trick which the deceiver had played him.

"Verily, there is hope," said the holy man, after musing a while; "yet
is it a perilous case, and only to be overcome by prayer and fasting.
If thou seek help sincerely, I doubt not that a way will be made for
thine escape. Listen;--it is never permitted that the enemy of our
race should reap the full benefit of the advantage which otherwise his
superior duplicity and intelligence would enable him to obtain. There
was never yet bond or bargain made by him, but, in one way or another,
it might be set aside, and the foul fiend discomfited. It may be
difficult, I own; and advice is not easily rendered in this matter:
but trust in the power of the All-powerful, and thou shalt not be
overcome. Wisdom, I doubt not, shall be vouchsafed in this extremity,
if thou apply anxiously and earnestly for it, seeking deliverance, and
repenting of thy great wickedness which thou hast committed."

With these and many other gracious words did the benevolent enthusiast
encourage this doomed mortal; and though heavy and disconsolate
enough, he returned more light-hearted than he came.

The time now drew near. The very week--the day--the hour, was come;
and when the sun should have climbed to the meridian Michael knew that
he would have to face the cunning foe who had beguiled him. His wife
would have tarried; but he peremptorily forbade. He would not be
disturbed in his intercessions. All that morning, without
intermission, he supplicated for wisdom and strength in the ensuing
conflict. He had retired to a little chamber at one end of the house,
and here he secured himself to prevent intrusion.

Noon was scarcely come when, true to the engagement, a loud
thunder-clap announced the approach and presence of this terrific
being.

"I am glad to find," said he, "that thou art ready."

"I am not ready," replied the trembling victim.

"How!" roared the sable chief, with a voice that shook the whole
house, like the passage of an earthquake; "dost thou deny the pledge?
darest thou gainsay this bond?"

"True enough," replied the debtor, "I signed that contract; but it was
won from me by fraud and dishonest pretences."

"Base, equivocating slave! how darest thou mock me thus? Thou hadst
thy wishes; the conditions have been fulfilled, ay, to the letter."

"I fear me," again said the victim, who felt his courage wonderfully
supported, "that thou knewest I should never be a pin the richer or
better for thy gifts; and thine aim was but to flatter and to cheat.
It is not in thy power, I do verily believe, to grant me riches or any
great thing that I might wish; so thou didst prompt, and, in a manner,
force me to those vain wishes, unthinkingly, by which I have been
beguiled."

"Dost thou doubt, then, my ability in this matter? Know that thy most
unbounded wishes would have been accomplished, else I release thee
from this bond."

"I say, and will vouch for 't, that all thy promises are lying cheats,
and that thou couldst not give me a beggarly bodle, if thou wert to
lay down thy two horns for it; so I demand my bond, according to thy
pledge."

"To show thee that I can keep this bond, even conformably to the terms
of my own offer just now, and thy pitiful carcase to boot, I'll e'en
grant thee another wish, that thou mayest be satisfied thou art past
all hope of redemption. Said I not, that if I could not fulfil any
wish of thine, even to the compass of all possible things, and the
riches of this great globe itself, I would release thee from this
bond?"

"Yea," said Michael, with an eager assent.

"Then wish once more; and mind that it be no beggarly desire. Wish to
the very summit of wealth, or the topmost pinnacle of thy ambition,
for it shall be given thee."

"Then," said the tailor hastily, as though fearful the word would not
come forth quick enough from his lips, "I wish thou wert riding back
again to thy quarters on yonder dun horse, and never be able to
plague me again, or any other poor wretch whom thou hast gotten into
thy clutches."

The demon gave a roar loud enough to be heard to the very antipodes,
and away went he, riveted to the back of this very dun horse, which
Michael had seen through the window grazing quietly in the lane,
little suspecting the sort of jockey that was destined to bestride
him. The tailor ran to the door to watch his departure, almost beside
himself for joy at this happy riddance. Dancing and capering into the
kitchen, where his wife was almost dying through terror, he related,
as soon as he was able, the marvellous story of his deliverance.

He relapsed not into his former courses, but lived happily to a good
old age, leaving behind him at his death good store of this world's
gear, which, as he had no children, was divided amongst his poorer
relatives. One of them having purchased the house where the tailor
dwelt, set up the trade of a tapster therein, having for his sign
"_The Dule upo' Dun_;" which to this day attests the truth of our
tradition, and the excellence of "mine host's" cheer.




WINDLESHAW ABBEY.

     "Adieu, fond love; farewell, you wanton powers;
             I'm free again.
     Thou dull disease of bloud and idle hours,
             Bewitching pain,
         Fly to fools that sigh away their time:
         My nobler love to heaven doth climb;
     And there behold beauty still young,
         That time can ne'er corrupt, nor death destroy;
     Immortal sweetness by fair angels sung,
         And honoured by eternity and joy:
     There lies my love, thither my hopes aspire;
     Fond loves decline, this heavenly love grows higher."

     --BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

This ruined chapel--"abbey" it is generally styled--is about a mile
distant from St Helen's. Little remains now but the belfry, with its
luxuriant covering of dark ivy, still preserving it from destruction.
More than half a century ago, some ruffian hand nearly severed the
stem from the root, but happily without material injury, the incision
being incomplete. The burial-ground, formerly open, is now enclosed by
a stone wall; and on the south side is a stone cross with three steps.
The whole area has a reputation of great sanctity; many of those who
die in the Romish faith, even beyond the immediate neighbourhood,
being brought hither for interment.

There are no records, that we can find, of its foundation; but it may
be suspected that the place was dedicated to St Thomas; for close by
is a well of that name, unto which extraordinary virtues are ascribed.

The chapel was but small; not more than twelve yards in length, and
about three in width; the tower scarcely eight yards high. Its
insignificance probably may account for the obscurity in which its
origin is involved.

It fell into disuse after the Dissolution; and its final ruin took
place during the civil wars of Charles I.


Autumn was lingering over the yellow woods. The leaves, fluttering on
their shrivelled stems, seemed ready to fall with every breath. Dark
and heavy was the dull atmosphere--a melancholy stillness that seemed
to pervade and surround every object--a deceitful calm, forerunner of
the wild and wintry storms about to desolate and to destroy even
these flickering emblems of decay. At times a low murmur would break
forth, dying away through the deep woods, like some spirit of past
ages wakening from her slumber, or the breath of hoary Time sighing
through the ruin he had created.

[Illustration: WINDLESHAW ABBEY.
_Drawn by G. Pickering._
_Engraved by Edw^d Finden._]

There is something indescribably solemn and affecting in the first
touches and emblems of the year that has "fallen into the sear and
yellow leaf." Like the eventide of life, it is a season when the gay
and glittering promises of another spring are past; when the fervour
and the maturity of summer are ended; when cold and monotonous days
creep on; and we look with another eye, and other perceptions, on all
that surrounds us. Yet there is a feeling of gladness and of hope
mingling with our regrets in the one case, which cannot exist in the
other. Autumn, though succeeded by the darkness and dreariness of
winter, is but the womb of another spring. That bright season will be
renewed; our own, never!

Perhaps it might be feelings akin to these which arrested the
footsteps of an individual, who, though little past the spring-tide
and youthful ardour of his existence, was yet not disinclined to
anticipate another period characterised by the autumnal tokens of
decay visible on every object around him.

He stood by the deserted chapel of Windleshaw. Time had then but just
begun to show the first traces of his power. The building was yet
uninjured, save the interior, which was completely despoiled, the
walls grey with lichen, and hoary with the damps of age. The ivy was
twining round the belfry, but its thin arms then embraced only a small
portion of the exterior. A single yew-tree threw its dark and gloomy
shade over the adjacent tombs; the long rank herbage bending over
them, and dripping heavily with the moist atmosphere. An ancient cross
stood in the graveyard, of a date probably anterior to that of the
main building. A relic or commemoration, it might be, of some holy man
who had there ministered to the semi-barbarous hordes, aboriginal
converts to the Catholic faith.

It was in the autumn of the year 1644. Wars and tumults were abroad,
and Lancashire drained the cup of bitterness even to the dregs. The
infatuated king was tottering on his throne; even the throne itself
was nigh overturned in the general conflict. A short time before the
date of our story, the Earl of Derby and Prince Rupert, having brought
the siege of Bolton and Liverpool to a satisfactory issue--shortly
after the gallant defence of the Countess at Lathom House--were then
reposing from their toils at that fortress. The prince, remotely
allied to the noble dame, lay there with his train; and was treated
not only with the respect and consideration due to his rank, but
likewise with a feeling of gratitude for his timely succour to the
distressed lady and her brave defenders. After a short stay, the
prince marched to York, which was closely besieged by the Earl of
Manchester and Sir Thomas Fairfax, and as vigorously and obstinately
defended by the Marquis of Newcastle. On the approach of Prince
Rupert, the Parliamentary generals raised the siege, and, drawing off
their forces to Marston Moor, offered battle to the Royalists. Here
the prince, whose martial disposition was not sufficiently tempered
with prudence, unfortunately accepted the enemy's challenge, and
obscured the lustre of his former victories by sustaining a total
overthrow, thereby putting the king's cause into great jeopardy. The
following extract from the "Perfect Diurnall" of the 9th of July 1644,
will show the estimation in which this great victory was held by the
Parliament, and the extent and importance of the results:--

"This day Captain Stewart came from the Leaguer at York with a letter
of the whole state of the late fight and routing of Prince Rupert,
sent by the three generals to the Parliament. The effect whereof was
this:--'That, understanding Prince Rupert was marching against them
with 20,000 men, horse and foot, the whole army arose from the siege,
and marched to Long Marston Moor, four or five miles from York; and
the prince, having notice of it, passed with his army the byway of
Burrow Bridge; that they could not hinder his passage to York,
whereupon our army marched to Todcaster, to prevent his going
southward; but before the van was within a mile of Todcaster, it was
advertised that the prince was in the rear in Marston Moor, with an
addition of 6000 of the Earl of Newcastle's forces, and was possessed
of the best places of advantage both for ground and wind. The right
wing of our horse was commanded by Sir Thomas Fairfax, which consisted
of his whole cavalry and three regiments of the Scots horse; next unto
them was drawn up the right wing of the foot, consisting of the Lord
Fairfax and his foot and two brigades of the Scots foot for a reserve:
and so the whole armies put into a battalia. The battle being begun,
at the first some of our horse were put into disorder; but, rallying
again, we fell on with our whole body, killed and took their chief
officers, and took most part of their standards and colours, 25 pieces
of ordnance, near 130 barrels of powder, 10,000 arms, two waggons of
carbines and pistols, killed 3000, and 1500 prisoners taken.'"

Prince Rupert with great precipitation drew off the remains of his
army, and retired into Lancashire. In a few days York was surrendered
to the Parliamentary forces, and the garrison marched out with all the
honours of war. Fairfax, occupying the city, established his
government through the county, and sent 1000 horse into Lancashire to
join with the Parliamentary forces in that quarter, and attend the
motions of Prince Rupert. The Scottish army marched northwards after
their victory, in order to join the Earl of Calendar, who was
advancing with 10,000 additional forces; and likewise to reduce the
town of Newcastle, which they took by storm. The Earl of Manchester,
with Cromwell,--to whom the fame of this great victory was chiefly
ascribed, and who was wounded in the action,--returned to the eastern
association in order to recruit his army.[8]

Such were some of the fruits of this important victory, and such the
aspect of affairs at the time when our narrative commences;--the
fortunes and persons of the Royalists, or _malignants_ as they were
called by the opposite party, being in great jeopardy, especially in
the northern counties.

The individual before-named was loitering about in the cemetery of the
chapel, where the bodies of many of the faithful who die in the arms
of the mother church are still deposited, under the impression or
expectancy that their clay shall imbibe the odour of sanctity thereby.
The stranger, for such he appeared, was muscular and well-formed. His
height was not above, but rather below, the middle size. A bright full
eye gave an ardour to his look not at all diminished by the general
cast and expression of his features, which betokened a brave and manly
spirit, scorning subterfuge and disguise, and almost disdaining the
temporary concealment he was forced to adopt. A wide cloak was wrapped
about his person, surmounted by a slouched high-crowned hat, with a
rose in front, by way of decoration. His boots, ornamented with huge
projecting tops, were turned down just below the calf of the leg,
above which his breeches terminated in stuffed rolls, or fringes,
after the fashion of the time. A light sword hung loosely from his
belt; and a pair of pistols, beautifully inlaid, were exhibited in
front. Despite of his somewhat grotesque habiliments, there was an air
of dignity, perhaps haughtiness, in his manner, which belied the
character of his present disguise. He walked slowly on, apparently in
deep meditation, till, on turning round the angle of the tower, he was
somewhat startled from his reverie on beholding an open grave, at a
short distance, just about to be completed. Clods of heavy clay were
at short intervals thrown out by the workman, concealed from
observation by the depth to which he had laboured. After a moment's
pause, the cavalier cautiously approached the brink, and beheld a
strange-looking being, with sleeves tucked up to the shoulders, busily
engaged in this interesting and useful avocation.

"Good speed, friend!" said the stranger, addressing the emissary of
death within. The grim official raised his head for a moment, to
observe who it was that accosted him; but without vouchsafing a reply,
he again resumed his work, throwing out the clods with redoubled
energy, to the great annoyance of the inquirer.

"Whose grave is this?" he asked again, perseveringly, determined to
provoke him to an answer.

"The first fool's that asks!" shouted the man from below, without
ceasing from his repulsive toil.

"Nay, friend; ye do not dig for a man ere he be dead in this pitiful
country of thine?"

"And why not? there's many a head on a man's nape to-day that will be
on his knees to-morrow!"

"Then do ye rig folks out with graves here upon trust?"

"Nay," said the malicious-looking replicant, holding up a long lean
phalanx of bony fingers; "pay to-day, trust to-morrow, as t' old lad
at the tavern says."

"What! is thy trade so dainty of subjects? Are men become weary o'
dying of late, that ye must need make tombs for the living? I'll have
thee to the justice, sirrah, for wicked malice aforethought, and
misprision."

Here this hideous ghoul burst forth with a laugh so fearful and
portentous that even the cavalier was startled by its peculiarly
fierce and almost unearthly expression. The mouth drawn to one side,
the wide flat forehead, projecting cheek-bones, and pointed chin,
sufficiently characterised him as labouring under that sort of
imbecility not seldom unmixed with a tact and shrewdness that seem to
be characteristic of this species of disease and deformity. He set one
foot on the mattock, ceasing from his labours whilst he cried out,
winking significantly with half-shut eyes--

     "When the owl hoots, and the crow cries caw,
     I can tell a maiden from a jackdaw."

Here he began whistling and humming by turns, with the most consummate
and provoking indifference. The stranger was evidently disconcerted by
this unexpected mode of address, apparently meditating a retreat, from
where even victory would have been a poor triumph. He was turning
away, when a drop of blood fell on his hand! This disastrous omen,
with the grave yawning before him--the narrow dwelling, which,
according to the prediction of the artificer, was preparing for his
reception--discomposed the cavalier exceedingly, and, in all
likelihood, rendered him the more easily susceptible to subsequent
impressions.

"Art boun' for Knowsley?" inquired the hunchbacked sexton.

"Peradventure I may have an errand thither; but I am a wayfaring man,
and have business with the commissioners in these parts." There was a
tone of conscious evasion in this reply which did not pass unheeded by
the inquirer.

"If thou goest in at the door," said he, "mind thee doesn't come out
feet foremost, good master wayfarer!" He quickly changed his tone to
more of seriousness than before. "Thou art not safe. Hie thee to
Lathom."

"'Tis beleaguered again. The earl being away at his kingdom of Man,
the hornets are buzzing about his nest. There seems now no
resting-place, as aforetime, for unlucky travellers."

"For who?" shouted the sexton, climbing out of his grave with
surprising agility. He fixed his eyes on the cavalier, as though it
were the aspect of recognition. He then hummed the following distich,
a favourite troll amongst the republican party at that period:--

     "The battle was foughten; the prince ran away.
     Did ever ye see sic' a race, well-a-day?"

The stranger, turning from his tormentor, was about to depart; but he
was not destined to rid himself so readily from the intruder.

"And so being shut out from Lathom, thou be'st a cockhorse for
Knowsley. Tush! a blind pedlar, ambling on a nag, might know thee
while he was a-winking."

"Know me!" said the cavalier;--"why--whom thinkest thou that I be?
Truly there be more gowks in our good dukedom of Lancaster than either
goshawks or hen-sparrows. I am one of little note, and my name not
worth the spelling." He assumed an air of great carelessness and
indifference, not unmingled with a haughty glance or two, whilst he
spoke; but the persevering impertinent would not be withstood. Another
laugh escaped him, shrill and portentous as before, and he approached
nearer, inquiring in a half-whisper--

"Where's thine uncle?"

"Whom meanest thou?"

"He waits for thee at Oxford, man; but he may wait while his porridge
cools, I trow: and so good den."

The cunning knave was marching off with his mattock, when the
cavalier, recovering from his surprise, quickly seized him by the
higher shoulder.

"Stay, knave; thou shalt tarry here a while, until thou and I are
better acquainted. Another step, and this muzzle shall help thee on
thine errand."

"And who'll pay the messenger?" said the undaunted and ready-witted
rogue, not in the least intimidated by the threat, and the mouth of a
huge pistol at his breast. "Put it by--put it by, friend, and I'll
answer thee; but while that bull-dog is unmuzzled thou shalt get never
a word from Steenie Ellison."

"Thou knowest of some plot a-hatching," said the stranger, putting
aside the weapon. Another drop fell on his hand.

"I know not," said the sexton, doggedly.

"Thy meaning, then?" returned the stranger, with great vehemence;
"for, o' my life, thou stirrest not until thou hast explained the
nature of these allusions."

With a shrill cry and a fleet footstep the other bounded away from his
interrogator like some swift hound, and was out of sight instantly.
Retreating with some precipitation, the cavalier bent his steps from
the graveyard towards a little hostelrie close by, where it appears he
had taken up his abode for a few days along with a companion, whose
sole use and business on their journey seemed to be that of protecting
a huge pair of saddle-bags and other equipments for their travel,
under a mulberry-coloured cloak of more than ordinary dimensions.
They had journeyed from Preston thitherwards; their intended route
being for Knowsley, and so forward to the coast. Whether their motive
for so long a stay at this obscure and homely tavern could be traced
to the bright eyes and beautiful image of mine host's daughter--a
luminary round which they were fluttering to their own destruction--or
that they merely sought concealment, it were difficult to guess. The
ostensible object of their journey was to take shipping for Ireland,
being bound thither on some commercial enterprise, for the furtherance
of which they expected to pass unmolested, being men of peaceable
pursuits, who left the trade of fighting to those that hoped to thrive
thereby. Such was the general tenor of their converse; but there were
some who suspected that the widely-extolled beauty of Marian might
have some remote connection with the continuance of these guests; and
their long stay at the inn was regarded with a jealous eye. So well
known was the beauteous Marian, "the fair maid of Windleshaw," that
the present residence of the cavaliers, if such they were, was the
worst that could have been chosen for concealment; inasmuch as her
fame drew many customers to the tap who otherwise would have eschewed
so humble a halting-place as that of Nathan Sumner.

Thoughtful, and with a show of vexation upon his features, the
stranger entered the house, where breakfast was already prepared, and
awaiting his return. In the same chamber were the tapster and his
dame; for privacy was not compatible either with "mine host's" means
or inclination.

"We have been watching for thee, Egerton," said his companion. "Didst
thou meet with a bundle of provender in the graveyard that thy stomach
did not warn thee to breakfast?"

"Prithee heed it not," was the reply; "I care little thus early for
thy confections. Besides, I have been beset by a knave, whose vocation
verily remindeth man of his latter end. I've been bandying discourse
with the sexton yonder, as I believe."

"Heh! mercy on us! Ye have seen Steenie, belike," said the dame,
lifting up one hand from her knee, which had been reposing there as a
protection from the fervid advances of a glowing fire before which she
sat.

"Truly, I do suspect this trafficker in ready-made tombs to be none
other," said Egerton.

"An' howkin' at a grave?"

"Ay! and with right good will, too."

"Then look well to your steps, Sir Stranger, that ye fall not into't;
for Stephen never yet made grave that lacked a tenant ere long."

"'Tis strange!" said the cavalier, anxiously. "Do ye dig graves here
by anticipation? or"----

"He scents death like a carrion crow, I tell ye; an' if he but digs a
grave, somebody or other always contrives to tumble in; an' mostly
they 'at first see him busy with the job. He's ca'd here 'the live
man's sexton.'"

The cavalier sat down before a well-covered stool, on which was spread
a homely but plentiful breakfast of eggs, cheese, rashers of bacon, a
flagon of ale, and a huge pile of oat-cake; but he did not fall to
with the appetite or relish of a hungry man.

"Let me reckon," said the host, beginning to muster up his arithmetic.
"There was"----

"Nathan Sumner, I say; thou'rt al'ays out wi' thy motty if a body
speaks. Doesn't the beer want tunning, and thou'rt leesing there o'
thy haunches; at thy whys and thy wise speeches. Let me alone wi' the
gentles, and get thee to the galkeer. Besides, you see that he knoweth
not how to disport himsel' afore people of condition--saving your
presence, masters," said the power predominant, as her husband meekly
retreated from the despotic and iron rule of his helpmate.

"Peradventure he doth himself provide tenants for his own graves,"
said the cavalier, thoughtfully; "but I'll split the knave's chowl, if
he dare"----

"You know not him whom you thus accuse," said a soft musical voice
from an inner chamber. "I know those who would not see him with his
foot in a new-made grave for the best rent-roll in Christendom!"

The speaker, as she came forward, bent a glance of reproof towards the
stranger.

"And wherefore, my bonny maiden?" inquired he.

"Does he not scent the dying like a raven? When once his eye is upon
them they shall not escape. There be some that have seen their last o'
this green earth, and the sky, and yonder bright hills. I trust the
destroying angel will pass by this house!"

"By'r lady," replied the other hastily, "the varlet, when I asked
whose lodging it should be, answered, mine! holding forth his long
skinny paw that I might pay him for the job."

The maiden listened with a look of terror. She grew pale and almost
ghastly; wiping her brow with the corner of her apron, as though in
great agitation and perplexity.

There was usually a warm and healthy blush upon her cheek, but it
waned suddenly into the dim hue of apprehension, as she replied in a
low whisper--

"Ye must not go hence; and yet"----She hesitated, and appeared as
though deeply revolving some secret source of both anxiety and alarm.

The cavalier was silent too, but the result of his deliberations was
of a nature precisely opposite to that of his fair opponent.

"Our beasts being ready, Chisenhall," said he to his companion, "we
will depart while the day holds on favourable. We may have worse
weather, and still worse quarters, should we tarry here till noontide,
as we purposed. But"--and here he looked earnestly at the maiden--"we
shall come again, I trust, when they that seek our lives be laid low."

She put one hand on his arm, speaking not aloud, but with great
earnestness--

"Go not; and your lives peradventure shall be given you for a prey.
There is a godly man hereabout, unto whom I will have recourse; and he
shall guide you in this perplexity."

"We be men having little time to spare, and less inclination--higlers
too, into the bargain," replied he, with a dubious glance toward his
friend Chisenhall, who was just despatching the last visible relics of
a repast in which he had taken a more than equal share of the duty;
"we are not careful to tarry, or to resort unto such ghostly counsel.
We would rather listen to the lips of those whose least word we covet
more than the preaching of either priest or Puritan; but the time is
now come when we must eschew even such blessed and holy"----

"There's a time for all things," said Chisenhall hastily, and as soon
as his mouth was at rest from the solid contents with which he had
been successfully, and almost uninterruptedly, occupied for the last
half-hour; wishful, also, to abate the impression which his
companion's indiscreet intimation of dislike to psalm-singers and
Puritans might have produced. "There is a time to buy and to sell, and
to get gain; a time to marry, and a time to be merry and be glad:"
here he used a sort of whining snuffle, which frustrated his attempts
at neutralising the sarcasms of his friend. "Being in haste," he
continued, "we may not profit by thy discourse; but commend ourselves
to his prayers until our return, which, God willing, we may safely
accomplish in a se'nnight at the farthest."

"If ye depart, I will not answer for your safe keeping."

"And if we stay, my pretty maiden, I am fearful we _shall_ be in safe
keeping." An ambiguous smile curled his lip, which she fully
understood. Indeed, her manner and appearance were so much superior to
her station, that no lady of the best and gentlest blood might have
comported herself more excellently before these gay, though disguised
cavaliers. There was a natural expression of dignity and high feeling
in her demeanour, as if rank and noble breeding were enclosed in so
humble a shrine, visible indeed, but still through the medium of a
homely but bewitching grace and simplicity. This, in part, might be
the consequence of an early residence at Lathom, where, in a few
years, she had risen, from a station among the lower domestics to a
confidential place about the person of the countess. Here she excited
no small share of admiration; and it was partly to avoid the fervid
advances of some vivacious gallants that she resolved on quitting so
exposed and dangerous a position; the more especially as the lowering
aspect of the times, and the uncertain termination of the coming
struggle, might have left her without a protector, and at the mercy of
the lawless ruffians who were not wanting on either side. Retiring
home without regret, she had imbibed, from the ministrations of a
zealous and conscientious advocate of the republican party, a relish
for the doctrines and self-denying exercises of the Puritans, with
whom she usually associated in their religious assemblies.

"Do ye purpose, then, for Knowsley to-day?" she inquired, after a
short silence.

"Yea; unless our present dilemma, and the obstruction thereby, turn
aside the current of our intent."

"Pray Heaven it may!" said the maiden, with great fervour; "for I do
fear me that some who are not of a godly sort are abiding there--even
they with whom righteous and well-ordered men should not consort
withal."

"Heed not. Being of them who are not righteous overmuch, we can bear
unharmed the scoffs of prelatists and self-seekers."

"There be others," replied she; but the appearance of the dame, who
had been overlooking the operations of her helpmate, interrupted the
communication. The horses, too, were at the door, led forth by a
lubberly serving-lad; and they seemed eager to depart, pawing, as
though scarcely enduring a momentary restraint. The cavalier, after
giving some order about the beasts, would have bidden farewell to the
maiden in private; but she had departed unperceived. He was evidently
chagrined, lingering long in the house, in hopes of her reappearance,
but in vain. He was forced to depart without the anticipated
interview.

Out of sight and hearing, the cavaliers began to converse more freely.

"Right fain I am," said Egerton, "of our escape from yonder house; for
I began to fear me we were known, or, at any rate, suspected by one,
if not more, of our good friends behind."

"By one fair friend, peradventure," said Chisenhall drily; "but, on
the word of a soldier, I may be known, and little care I, save that it
may be dangerous to be found in my company. In the last siege yonder,
at Lathom, I have beaten off more rogues than flies from my trencher;
and I would we had but had room and fair play at York; we would have
given your"----

"Hold; no names; remember that I am plain Master Egerton: there may be
lurkers in these tall hedges; so, both in-doors and out, I am--what
mine appearance doth betoken."

"Well, Master Egerton, good wot, though a better man than myself,
which few be now-a-days, for these strait-haired Roundheads do thin us
like coppice-trees, and leave but here and there one to shoot at. I
would the noble lord had been within his good fortress yonder, I think
it would have been too hot to handle, with cold fingers, by the host
of Old Nick, or Parliament, I care not which."

"It was partly at my suggesting that he retired to his island of Man.
There were heart-burnings and jealousies amongst the courtiers on his
account, which were but too readily given ear unto by the king."

"Grant it may not be for our hurt as well as his own. I had no notion
that these wasps would have been so soon again at the honeycomb. Could
we and our bands have made entry, we would have shown them some of the
old match-work, and given them a psalm to sing that they would not
readily have forgotten. As it is, we are just wanderers and vagabonds,
without e'er a house or a homestead to hide us in, should our friends
be driven from Knowsley, and our way be blocked up to the coast. What
is worse, too, our supplies are nigh exhausted, and our exchequer as
empty as the king's. I would we had not tarried here so long, waiting
for advices, as thou didst say, Master Egerton; but which advices, I
do verily think, were from a lady's lip; and the next tall fellow,
with a long face and a fusee, may tuck us under his sleeve, and carry
us to his quarters, like a brace of springed woodcocks."

"Fear not, Chisenhall. We will make directly for the coast, and
to-morrow, if we have luck, be under weigh for Ireland. If, as I do
trust, we get our levies thence, down with the Rump and the
Roundheads, say I, and so"----

"We are not bound for Knowsley, then?"

"No, believe me, I have a better nose than to thrust it into the trap,
after the foretokenings we have had. The knave who elbowed me i' the
graveyard, as well as the maiden yonder, warned us of some danger at
Knowsley, where, I do verily suspect, the rogues are in ambush,
waiting for us; but we will give them the slip, and away for bonny
Waterford."

The morning was yet raw and misty. A dense fog was coming on, which
every minute became more heavy and impervious to the sight. Objects
might be heard, long ere they were seen. The rime hung like a
frost-work from branch and spray, showing many a fantastic festoon,
wreathed by powers and contrivances more wonderful than those by which
our vain and presumptuous race are endowed. The little birds looked
out from their covers, and chirped merrily on, to while away the hours
till bedtime. The rooks cawed from their citadel--to venture abroad
was out of the question, lest the rogues should be surprised in some
act of depredation, and suffer damage thereby. So chill and searching
was the atmosphere that the travellers wrapped their cloaks closely
about their haunches, to defend themselves from its attacks. They were
scarcely a mile or two on their road when, passing slowly between the
high coppice on either hand, Egerton stayed his horse, listening;
whilst thus engaged, another blood-drop fell on his hand.

"There be foes behind us," said he, softly. His practised and
ever-watchful ear had detected the coming footsteps before his friend.

"'Tis a fortunate screen this same quiet mist, and so let us away to
cover." Without more ado he leaped through a gap in the fence,
followed by his companion; and they lay concealed effectually from the
view of any one who might be passing on the road. They were not so far
from the main path but that the footsteps of their pursuers could be
heard, and voices too, in loud and earnest discourse. The latter kept
their horses at a very deliberate pace, as if passing forward at some
uncertainty.

"I say again, heed it as we may, this mist will be the salvation of
our runaways. After having dogged them to such good purpose from
Lathom, it will be a sorry deed should they escape under this unlucky
envelope."

"Tush, faint heart--thinkest thou these enemies of the faith shall
triumph, and our own devices come to nought? Nay, verily, for the
wicked are as stubble, and the ungodly as they whom the fire
devoureth."

"But I would rather have a brisk wind than all thy vapours, thy
quiddities, and quotations. Yet am I glad they have not ta'en the turn
to Knowsley."

"Which way soever they turn, either to the right hand or to the left,
we have them in the net, and snares and pitfalls shall devour them."

The remainder of this comfortable assurance was inaudible, and the
cavaliers congratulated themselves on their providential escape.

"How stand ye for Knowsley now, Sir Captain?" said Chisenhall.

"Why, of a surety, friend, there be many reasons why we may pray for a
safe passport from this unhappy land; but it seemeth as though our
purposes were to be for ever crossed. Towards Knowsley, now, it doth
appear that we must proceed, our haven and hiding-place; these rogues
having got wind that we did not intend to pass by thither, we must
countermine the enemy, or rather double upon their route."

"But how shall we be enabled to proceed?"

"Forward to the right," said Egerton, "and we shall be sure to hit our
mark, if I mistake not the bearing. 'Tis, I believe, scarcely two
miles hence; and under this friendly cover we cannot be observed,
though we should mistake our way."

Changing their course, they now attempted, at all hazards, a running
chase along and across hedges and enclosures, in the supposed
direction of their retreat. After a somewhat perilous journey for at
least an hour in this thick mist, without discovering any object by
which they could ascertain their relative situation, Chisenhall at
length espied something like a dark square tower before them.

"Plague, pestilence, and all the saints! why if yonder be not that
same old ugly grim tower dodging us!" He rubbed his eyes, hardly
satisfied that his morning indulgences were ended.

"We are fairly on our way for the grave again, sure enough," said
Egerton; "or it may be as thou sayest, the graveyard itself is
following us." He tried to rally into a smile, but was unable to
disport himself in this wise, and it became needful that some way
should be hit upon for their extrication, and that speedily. Occupied
in earnest discourse, they were not aware of the presence of a third
person until a thin squeaking voice accosted them from behind.

"Back again so soon?--wi' the de'il at your crupper too!"

"Foul fa' thee, thou screech-owl," said Egerton, starting back at that
ill-omened sound; "we shall ne'er be rid o' this pestilence!" He
attempted to spring aside from the object of his abhorrence; but in a
moment his horse was holden by the bridle with almost more than human
strength; and the malicious creature set up an exulting and triumphant
laugh that was anything but agreeable in their present evil condition.

"Let go--or, by thy master's hoofs, I will send thee to him in the
twinkling of a trigger!" said Egerton, drawing forth his pistol.

"Hoo, hoo!" shouted his tormentor, mocking and making faces, with an
expression of fiendish delight--"thee 'ill be first though, nunky."

Egerton pointed the weapon; but his horse, goaded in all probability
by the strange being beside him, made a sudden spring, and, as
ill-luck would have it, stumbled and fell, both horse and rider
sprawling in the dust. The cause of this foul accident scampered off
with great activity: Chisenhall dismounted, extricating his friend
from the trappings. He was bleeding profusely from the nostrils, and
appeared insensible. Judging it the wisest plan, though at the risk of
their captivity, to procure help, he galloped away to the tavern for
assistance.

Much to the surprise of the family was Chisenhall's reappearance, but
no time was lost in useless explanations; the host and his daughter
immediately proceeded to the spot, with means and appliances for
Egerton's removal and recovery; but to their astonishment and dismay
the body was removed. His horse was grazing quietly on the herbage,
yet there was no trace of Egerton's disappearance. Chisenhall was
almost beside himself with distress and consternation; but Marian,
though much concerned, seemed to possess some clue to this enigma.

"Steenie, thou sayest, was the cause of this untoward disaster?"

"Ay; that cursed fiend. I wish all his"----

"Nay, nay, friend, thou speakest like to the foolish ones, vain and
impious men, whose mouths are full of cursing and bitterness. We had
best return; I will think on this matter, and ere the morrow we may
have tidings of thy friend; but"----Here she looked significantly
aside as she spoke, but not in her father's hearing. "Keep snug here
in thy quarters, friend; for since ye left there came divers of the
people to inquire, and as He would have it, from me only. Ye be sons
of Belial, they said, and cavaliers withal. But ye have eaten and
drunken in our dwelling, and though red with the blood of the saints,
I cannot deliver you into the hand of your pursuers."

Chisenhall reluctantly complied, having no other resource, and judging
it best not to stir abroad, as it might be compromising the safety of
both parties, without leading to any beneficial result.

The horses were unharnessed and turned out to graze, whilst Chisenhall
was disposed of in an upper chamber above one of the outhouses. His
anxiety for his friend allowed him but little rest, and often he was
on the point of issuing forth in quest of intelligence; but happily
prudence prevented him from sacrificing his own and another's life to
a vain and fruitless impatience.

During Chisenhall's concealment Marian was by no means in the same
state of idleness and inactivity. She threw on her hood and kerchief;
and a clean white apron, girt about her waist, fully displayed the
symmetry of her form. Her cloak was adjusted but with little regard to
outward show; and an hour was scarcely past ere she sallied forth, as
she was often wont, to the dwelling of Gilgal Snape, a person of great
note as a preacher and leader of the faithful in these parts. He was,
in truth, a worthy and zealous man, sincerely devoted to the cause he
espoused, and the service of his Maker--one widely distinguished from
the hypocrites and fanatics of that turbulent era, which, like our
own, produced, though in a more exaggerated form, from the stimulus
then abroad, the same rank and noxious weeds of hypocrisy and
superstition; for man, like a mathematical problem, circumstances and
conditions being the same, brings out, invariably, the same results.
No form of worship, however ludicrous or revolting, but hath its
advocates and supporters; and there is nothing which the proud mind
and unsubdued heart of man will not put forth, when that heart is made
the hot-bed of unholy and unsanctified feelings--all monstrous and
polluted things ripening, even beneath the warm and blessed sun that
revives and beautifies all else by its splendour.

Gilgal had, however, his figments and his fancies, inseparable
perchance from the times and dispositions by which they were
engendered. When men, awaking as from a dream, shaking off the deep
slumber of bigotry, but not intolerance, through the medium of their
yet unpractised sense saw "men as trees walking," regarding trivial
and unimportant objects as paramount and essential, while others,
whose nature was vital and supreme, were hardly discerned, or at best
but slightly noticed or understood;--when minds long tinctured by
superstition brought the whole of their previous habits and instincts
to bear upon the newly-awakened energies that were heaving and
convulsing the moral fabric of society, and the ground of preconceived
notions and opinions on which they stood, they could hardly be
persuaded that the kingdom of heaven "cometh not by observation;" that
special miracles, and visible manifestations of divine favour, were
not again to be vouchsafed to the "elect;" and that their faith and
prayers were not sufficient to remove mountains, and to conquer and
subdue every obstacle. There was more pride in these expectations than
they were willing to allow, or even to suspect; and in many it was
the very pride and "naughtiness of their hearts;" whilst in others it
was but the operation of remaining ignorance, unsubdued lusts, and
unsanctified affections.

Gilgal was famous in his day for dealing with "spiritual wickedness in
high places." The "prince of the power of the air" was subject unto
him. In other words, it was said of him that he had cast out devils
and healed the possessed. When others failed, Gilgal had wrestled and
prevailed. One of the first-fruits of this outpouring of his soul was
"Steenie Ellison," who, from his childhood, was subject to periodical
and violent affections of the body--contortions that gave him, in the
eyes of many, an appearance of one possessed. Stephen had a
considerable share of cunning, a sort of knavish sagacity and ready
impertinence, peculiar to most of his kind. He was an orphan, early
left to the care of chance or charity, and being a follower of
bell-ringers, grave-diggers, and the like, assumed a sort of
semi-official attitude at all funerals, weddings, and merry-makings in
the neighbourhood. He was generally suspected of holding intercourse
with the powers of evil, and when suffering from disease, the unclean
spirit whom he had offended was supposed to be afflicting him, having
entered into his body to buffet and torment him for his contumacy and
disobedience. So partial was he to the art and occupation of
grave-making, that he was observed at times to hew out a habitation
for the dead ere a tenant was provided. It was always remarked,
nevertheless, that the narrow house failed not ere long to receive an
inhabitant; and this apprehension considerably heightened the terror
with which he was regarded, and rendered him celebrated throughout the
country by the name of "the live man's sexton."

But the worthy minister being much moved with compassion towards this
child of Satan, his bowels yearned for him, that he might cast out the
unclean spirit, and deliver him from his spiritual bondage. He
accordingly girded himself to the work, and a great name did he get
throughout the land by this mighty achievement, for the possessed
became docile as a little child before him, and was subsequently a
sort of erratic follower of the party unto which Gilgal was allied;
but he would at times forsake the assemblies of the faithful, when, it
is said, the dark spirit of divination again came over him, and he
would wander among the tombs, showing symptoms of a disordered
intellect, though not of the same violent character as before.

Towards the dwelling of Gilgal Snape did Marian direct her steps; it
was but a short mile from her own. Often had she been a visitant to
the house, where she imbibed the doctrines and instructions of this
sincere and zealous confessor of the faith. She frequently mingled in
the devotions that were there offered up; but her piety was of a more
moderate and amiable cast--less violent and ascetic, not unmixed with
love and pity for her enemies and the persecutors of the truth.

Her object in this visit was not so much to partake of the crumbs from
the good man's spiritual banquet, as to gain some intelligence through
him respecting Egerton's disappearance. She recognised the individuals
who were in pursuit of him to be scouts from the republican leaders,
with whom the divine was in constant communication. Of the real rank
of Egerton she was still ignorant; but she more than suspected his
disguise, and scarcely hesitated to conclude, from the anxiety shown
for his apprehension, that he was of no little importance in the
estimation of his opponents.

Musing and much troubled, by reason of many conflicting emotions, she
took no note of the lapse of time until her arrival at the habitation
of this devout minister of the word. It was built in a sequestered
glen, by a narrow brook near to a couple of black, shapeless, scraggy
firs, whose long lean arms were extended over the roof. A low porch
guarded the door, in which dairy utensils and implements of husbandry
were usually placed. The short casement windows were rendered still
more gloomy, and in places screened from light, by the creeping
woodbine throwing its luxuriant and unrestricted foliage about their
deep recesses. A little wicket admitted the visitor into the court, on
each side of which was a homely garden, where nothing ornamental was
suffered to intrude or encroach upon the space devoted to objects of
usefulness rather than indulgence.

Marian lifted up the latch, entering upon the precincts of this
hallowed abode. She passed on, through the large cold cheerless
apartment generally called the house; turning thence towards a little
chamber, used as an oratory, she heard a loud voice within. She tapped
first upon the door, which she slowly opened, and beheld the good man
with the sacred volume spread out before him. He raised his eyes for
a moment as she entered, but refrained not from his exercise, nor
altered in the least the strenuous tone of his orisons.

"And Ehud put forth his left hand, and took the dagger from his right
thigh, and smote Eglon, the King of Moab, so that he died. Thus perish
the ungodly and the oppressor, even as Abimelech, the son of
Jerubbaal, on whom the Almighty rendered the curse of Jotham his
brother, and all his wickedness that he had committed, and all the
evil of the men of Shechem did God return upon their own heads." Here
he raised his eyes, closing the book with a devout aspiration of
compliance to the will of Heaven. "I have sought counsel," he
continued, "and been much comforted thereby. The wicked shall be
utterly cut off, and the ungodly man shall fall by the sword. We may
not spare, nor have pity, as Saul spared Agag, whom Samuel hewed in
pieces; for the land is cursed for their sakes!"

"Hath Steenie yet returned from vain idols, and the abominations he
hath committed?" inquired the maiden.

"He doth yet hunger after the flesh-pots of Egypt; but my bowels yearn
towards him, even as my first-born. I do sorrow lest he be finally
entangled in the snares of the evil one."

"Knowest thou where he abideth, or if he doth attend the outpouring of
the word hereabout?"

"Verily, nay," said the divine; "but I have heard from Sarah and
Reuben Heathcote that he hath been seen in the house of ungodly
self-seekers, and notorious Papists and malignants, even with our
enemies at Garswood. He hath likewise been found resorting unto that
high place of papistry, Windleshaw, of late; despising--yea,
reviling--the warnings and godly exhortations of the Reverend Master
Haydock, who did purpose within himself to win, peradventure it might
be to afflict with stripes, this lost one from the fold, that he might
bring him back. But he hath sorely buffeted and evil-entreated this
diligent shepherd with many grievous indignities; such as tying him
unto a gate, and vexing him with sundry of Satan's devices. Yet we
would fain hope that he is a chosen vessel, though now defiled by the
adversary. He will return, peradventure, as heretofore, when the day
of his visitation is past." The good man did, indeed, yearn over this
erring sinner, and lifting up his voice he wept aloud.

"There came two men to our habitation, where they abode certain days,"
said Marian.

"And they departed this morning," said the minister, sharply; "knowest
thou that these be enemies of our faith, and contemners of the word?"

"I knew them not," she replied, "save that I suspected them as such,
ere they departed."

"Thou wouldest not have them taken with thee in the house, and in that
thou judgedst wisely; for I care not that a maiden's thoughts were so
soon disposed for deeds like these, which be fitter for iron hearts
and brazen hands. Though Jael, the wife of Heber the Kenite, slew
Sisera in her tent, and Rahab the harlot received the spies in peace;
yet thou didst, I doubt not, point out the way by which they went to
the spies sent by the council of the holy state, to follow after these
sons of Belial, and deliver them into their hands."

"I know not the path they took," said Marian, evasively.

"Heed not, for the men shall be delivered unto us; even now are they
pursued, and, I doubt not, overtaken. Which way soever they turn,
their steps are holden, and a snare is laid for their feet; for they
shall surely die!" The preacher lifted up his eyes in righteous
indignation. They have made themselves drunk with the blood of the
saints."

"Will not their lives be given them for a prey?" inquired Marian,
apparently in great alarm.

"I have sought counsel, I tell thee; and the Philistine and the
Canaanite shall be destroyed utterly from the land."

"I fear me they be other than I had imagined," returned the maiden
weeping; "yet still, and I trust I shall be forgiven, I could not
betray them who have abided with us, and eaten of our bread."

"Thou knowest them not, wench," said Gilgal; "and 'tis perhaps well
thou shouldest not." Here he looked fiercely from under his brows, as
though he would have pierced the very inmost recesses of her soul.
"Beware," continued he, "for thou art comely, and these men do use
devilish and subtle devices to allure and to betray."

Marian was silent. A swollen tear, the overflowing of an overwhelmed
and oppressed heart, slowly wandered down her cheek. It was the very
crisis of the conflict; and the old man forbore to break the bruised
reed. She seemed uneasy and anxious to depart; but he hindered her
for a space.

"Wilt thou not, as thou art wont, approach with me to the footstool of
Him who doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men?"

Marian felt the rebuke, though it was so finely tempered, and
administered so tenderly. She was one of his earlier converts, and his
love for her was that of a spiritual parent. Bending the knee, she
covered her burning cheeks, and poured out her heart with him in
fervour and sincerity. Whether both of them had precisely the same
object in view as the end of their supplications, or whether the
maiden's fears and inclinations might not lead her to offer up a
sincere petition for the safety of others besides those of the
household, we will not take upon ourselves to determine; but on
leaving the dwelling of Gilgal Snape a suppressed sigh and an
involuntary whisper escaped her--"He may yet be spared." She raised
her eyes in thankfulness, and a gleam of hope, but not of happiness,
irradiated her heart; for she now felt that a great gulf separated
them for ever.

She had ascertained by her converse with the Puritan, who was well
informed in all matters connected with his party, that they were yet
unacquainted as to the ulterior proceedings of the strangers; and it
seemed probable, from this circumstance alone, that at any rate
Egerton had not fallen into their hands. Her next object was to find
out "Steenie," and to elicit from him the knowledge of the stranger's
fate; for unless this mischievous personage had in some wild erratic
freak or another conveyed him off, she could not tell what mishap
could have befallen him. Despite of her prejudices and the true bent
of her disposition, which, though it partook not of the furious and
headlong intolerance of the times, was yet sufficiently imbued with
the spirit of her sect, the cavalier had won so unsuspectingly upon
her kindness that she started as though she would have escaped from
her own thoughts, when she felt the deep and agonising shudder which
crossed her at the bare possibility that he might fall into the hands
of the avenger of blood. At a glance she saw the fearful involutions
and the almost inextricable toils by which the fugitives were
encompassed. Unaided, she was well aware that their attempts would be
fruitless. She knew not the intentions of the crazy sexton on this
point. The wayward and apparently capricious movements of this strange
compound of Puritanism and Papistry were too dangerous and uncertain
to allow any hope for ultimate safety under his management. Whether or
not he had a hand in Egerton's removal was still a matter of
conjecture. She felt, in addition to this uncertainty, no slight
degree of awe and apprehension in her approaches to this solitary
being; and a sort of undefined notion that, however modified and
controlled by circumstances, yet his communications with the world of
spirits were still in operation, imparting to his converse and
communion with his fellow-men a strange and dubious character, which
even strangers did not fail to perceive, and to shrink from contact
with a being of such doubtful qualities. His predictions and dark
sayings were often quoted, and much more importance was attached to
them than their real and obvious meaning should have warranted. They
derived greater credence, perhaps, from their usually vague and
ambiguous character suiting any accident and condition, according to
the fancy of the hearer, however remotely allied in their meaning and
application. Whatsoever might be the event, there was little
difficulty in shaping out an appropriate or equivalent prediction; and
it did seem at times sufficiently marvellous that few occurrences
should take place which could not be traced to some dark foretokening
enveloped in one or other of these mystical revelations. Events happen
to ourselves that do occasionally, and not unfrequently, rush back
upon our minds with unaccountable and almost appalling force, as
though, however novel in reality, they were but facts and feelings
with which we had long ago been familiar, yet in what manner we are
unable to determine. It might seem that they had suddenly, and for a
moment, started forth from the Lethe which divides our present
existence from some past state of being; that a sudden light had
flashed from the portals of oblivion, too rapid or too dazzling,
perhaps, to be apprehended or defined.

As she returned the shadows of evening were coming on dim and softly
over the quiet glades and dewy meadows. The noisy rooks, having lately
ventured forth, were cawing cheerily on their homeward flight,
"beguiling the way with pleasant intercourse." The lesser birds were
flitting towards the bushes; and through the lingering mist-wreath,
floating still and tranquilly on the moist meadows, came forth at
times a solitary twitter, as though the lark had alighted softly and
joyously on her nest. The glow and the brightness of evening were gone
when Marian passed the threshold of her home, uncertain yet as to the
fate of Egerton and the course she should pursue. She allayed, as well
as she was able, the fretfulness and impatience of Chisenhall,
entreating that he would remain quiet until the morrow, after which it
was possible that something would transpire with regard to his friend.
The irresistible conclusion, that by venturing forth he would
compromise the safety of all parties, alone rendered him tractable,
and prevented the consequences of any rash exposure.

Too much occupied in resolves and plans for to-morrow's enterprise,
the maiden on retiring to her chamber felt no inclination for repose,
and her little couch was left vacant. It was a low room within the
thatch, into which a narrow window, projecting from the roof, admitted
the clear mellow radiance of the moon, now shining uninterruptedly
from above. So lovely and inviting was the aspect of the night, that,
after a long and anxious train of thought, she resolved to enjoy the
calm and delicious atmosphere, free and unconfined, hoping to feel its
invigorating effects upon her exhausted spirits.

It might be within a short half-hour of midnight when she tripped
lightly down the stairs, and was soon across the stile which led to
the deserted chapel of Windleshaw. Attracted by the beauty and the
reviving freshness of all around her, fearing no evil and conscious of
no alarm, she proceeded, wandering without aim or purpose into the
quiet cemetery.

In the dark shadow of the building she walked on, fearless and alone.
Her bosom had been hitherto the abode of happiness and peace. To the
stranger's appearance might be attributed the source of her present
disquiet. She would have breathed after communion with heavenly
things, but earthly objects mingled in her aspirations; charity,
peradventure, for those of another creed, and anxiety for another's
fate. But she was not satisfied that this was the sole cause of her
unhappiness; and the pang of separation, too, came like a barbed arrow
into her soul. She felt alarmed, amazed at the sudden change. She
feared that her weak and wandering heart was going back to the world,
and resting for support on its frail and perishing interests. Tossed
and buffeted with temptation, she still passed on; when, turning the
angle of the grey tower, she emerged again into the clear, unbroken
moonlight--the little hillocks and upright gravestones alone
disturbing the broad and level beam. She was startled from her reverie
by dull and heavy sounds near her, as though a pickaxe were employed
by invisible hands in disturbing the ground close to where she stood.
She paused a moment and listened; the blows were still falling, and
she felt the ground vibrating beneath her feet. A sudden thought
crossed her--it might be "Steenie," even at this untimely hour, plying
his accustomed vocation. He had been retarded probably by the
accidents of the day; and the occasion being urgent, according to his
own anticipations, had led him to labour so late for its completion.
It was doubtless the grave which had been so mysteriously assigned to
the lot of Egerton. A cold tremor crept upon her; she remembered the
denunciation and the uncertain fate of the victim. Even now he might
be hastening to his final account, and this horrid _ghoul_ might be
scenting the dissolution of the body that he was preparing to entomb.

"Graciously forbid it, Heaven!" she inwardly ejaculated, approaching
the grave; but so softly, that her footsteps were not heard by the
invisible workman, who was deep in the abyss of his own creating. The
blows had ceased, and the mattock was now in requisition. Shovelfuls
of earth were thrown out; thick and heavy clods were hurled forth in
rapid succession. The scene would have driven back many a timid girl;
and even some stout hearts and fierce stomachs would have shrunk from
the trial. She was within range, and almost within the grasp, of a
being whose evil dispositions were known and acknowledged--a being
whose mysterious connection with intelligences of an unfriendly nature
was universally admitted. A grave, dug in secret, peradventure during
some baneful and preternatural process, yawned before her. Midnight,
too, was nigh; and she was not devoid of apprehension--that inherent
dread of the invisible things of darkness universally bound up with
our feeble and fallen nature. Since the day of his first estrangement,
man never, even in imagination or apprehension, approaches the dark
and shadowy threshold of a world unseen without terror, lest some
supernatural communication should break forth; it seems a feeling
coeval with the curse on our first parents, when they heard "the voice
of the Lord God walking in the garden, and were afraid." This
apprehension still clings to us; but, though surrounded in light, as
well as in darkness, by a world of disembodied spirits, whose
attributes and capacities are inconceivably superior to our own, our
nature is so material, and our very essence so engrossed and
identified with earth, that it is only when the startling realities of
their existence become manifest in those visible emblems of their
nature--darkness and death--that we shrink back in horror, lest our
very being should suffer contact with spiritual and eternal things.

Concealed from view, Marian stood still at a very short distance from
the grave. Steenie was humming a plaintive ditty, or rather dirge; for
it partook of a double character, something between an alehouse
roundelay and a funeral chant.

She soon perceived that each spadeful, as it was thrown out, was
accompanied by a separate distich, the meaning of which she could
distinctly gather from some uncouth and barbarous rhymes--the
remnants, probably, of a more superstitious age--almost cabalistic in
their form and acceptation. The following may serve as a specimen,
though we have taken the precaution to render them a little more
intelligible:--

     "Howk, hack, and dig spade;
     Tenant ne'er grumbled that grave was ill made."

Then came a heavy spadeful of earth again from the narrow house.
Another shovelful produced the following doggerel:--

     "Housen, and castles, and kings decay;
     But the biggins we big last till doomus-day."

Some more coarse and less intelligible jargon followed, which it is
not needful that we repeat. Again he threw forth a burden of more than
ordinary bulk, resting from his labours during the following more
elaborate ditty:--

     "Dark and dreary though it be,
     Thou shalt all its terrors dree:
     Dungeon dark, where none complain,
     Nor 'scape to tell its woe and pain."

Again he bent him to his task, and again the earth went rolling forth,
accompanied by something like the following verse:--

     "Though I dig for him that be living yet,
     O'er this narrow gulf he shall never get;
     The mouth gapes wide that 'Enough' ne'er cries;
     Each clod that I fling on his bosom lies;
     In darkness and coldness it rests on thee,
     With the last stroke that falls thy doom shall be!"

With increasing energy did he work on, as though to accelerate the
fate of his victim. Marian felt herself on the brink of the tomb, and
its icy touch was perceptible through every part of her frame.

The mystic chant was again audible, and more distinct than before--

     "The charm is wound, and this stroke shall be
     The last, when it falls, of his destiny;
     Save he sell to another his birthright here,
     Then the buyer shall buy both grave and bier."

Uttering this malediction, he scrambled out of the grave, and suddenly
stood before the astonished maiden, who shuddered as she beheld the
unshapely outline of a form which she instantly recognised.

He did not seem a whit surprised or startled, though he could not have
been aware previously that a listener was nigh.

"What ho, wench!" said he; "art watching for a husband?" His sharp
shrill voice grated on her ear like the cry of the screech-owl.

"I came to meet thee!" said she firmly. He broke forth into a loud
laugh at this reply, more terrible than the most violent expression of
hate or malignity. No wonder, in those ages, that it was supposed to
be the operation of some demon, animate in his form, controlling and
exercising the bodily functions to his own malignant designs.

"Where is he whom I seek?" inquired the maiden.

"Ask the clods of the valley, and the dust unto which man departs!" he
replied, pointing significantly to the gulf at his feet.

"Nay," said Marian, apparently to humour the fantastical turn of his
ideas; "thou knowest if he sell that grave to another, he shall
escape, and the doom shall be foregone."

"Ay, lassie; but there be no fools now-a-days, I wot, to buy a man's
grave over his head for the sake of a bargain!"

"I warrant thee now, Steenie, but thou hast hidden him hereabout." She
said this in as careless and indifferent a tone as she could well
assume.

"I am but a-keeping of him safe till his time comes. Neither priest
nor Presbyterian shall cheat me out of him. He's mine as sure as that
grave gives not back its prey."

"He is living, I trow?"

"Good wot, I reckon so; but living men may die; and this pick never,
for man or woman, opened a mouth that was left to gape long without
victuals."

"Thou wouldst not harm him?"

"I'd not hurt the hair on a midge-tail, though it stung me. But his
doom was shown me yesternight," said he, lowering his voice to a
whisper; "and I would have him laid here in consecration, that the
devil get not his bones to pick, for neither priest nor Puritan can
bless the ground now-a-days like unto this."

Whether the cause of his anxiety was really a wish to provide a
hallowed resting-place for the cavalier, or this pretence was merely
to cover some ulterior purposes of his own, the maiden was left
without a clue to form any plausible conjecture. She had heard
sufficient, however, to ascertain that he was in some way or another
accessory to the disappearance of Egerton, and that in all likelihood
he knew the retreat of the unfortunate captive.

A woman's wits are proverbially sharpened by exigencies, and Marian
was not slow in obeying their impulse.

"Where art thou abiding? I would fain speak with thee to-morrow
touching thy condition, for thou hast been much estranged from us of
late."

He pointed to the ivied belfry, where a grated loophole formed a dark
cross on the wall.

"A man may sleep if the wind will let him; but such fearsome visions I
have had of late, that I ha' been just nigh 'reft o' my wits. Wilt be
a queen or a queen-mother, Marian? Something spake to me after this
fashion; but I was weary with watching. The spirit passed from me, and
I comprehended him not."

She was silent, apprehensive that his wits were at present too
bewildered for her purpose, being always subject to aberration under
any peculiar excitement of either mind or body.

"I will visit thee yonder to-morrow," said Marian.

"Me!" he shouted, in a tone of surprise. "Bless thy pretty face,
Marian, I have bolted him in. He is but waiting for his dismissal."

"Whither?"

Again he pointed to the grave.

"Tush," said Marian; "he will not, maybe, get his passport thither so
soon, unless, indeed, thou shouldst starve him to death."

"Starve him! Nay, by"----He stopped just as he was on the point of
uttering some well-remembered but long quiescent oath.

"I thought not of that before, Marian: he will want some food. Ay--ay,
bless thy little heart, I did not think on 't. But for thee, Marian, I
should ha' kept him there, and he might ha' starved outright; though
he will not need it long, I trow, poor fool!" said he, with a sigh,
ludicrous enough under other circumstances, but now invested with all
the solemnity of a supernatural disclosure.

"I will away for victuals," said Marian: "stay here until I return." A
short time only elapsed ere she came again, laden with provisions and
other restoratives, judging that the captive stood in need of some
refreshment.

Stephen was waiting for her in a deep and solemn fit of abstraction
before the low door leading to a staircase at the foot of the tower.
He spoke not until she stood beside him.

"My brain, Marian--Oh! my brain. Here, here!" Seizing her hand, he
pressed it hurriedly over his brow, which was hot, almost scorching.
The blood beat rapidly through his throbbing temples. Fearful lest the
approaching hallucination might prevent her benevolent designs, she
soothed and coaxed him to lead the way, which had the desired effect;
muttering as he went on, at times unintelligibly, at others speaking
with peculiar emphasis and vehemence.

"The foul fiend came again, though he was cast out; and I--I yielded.
He promised me gold, if I would dig for 't. And I digg'd, and digg'd;
but it always shaped itself into a grave--another's grave--and I never
found any. Yea, once. Look thee, wench," said he, pulling out a bright
Jacobus from his belt, and holding it in the beam that shot through a
loophole of the ascent. "Yes; this--this! the devil brought it that
tempted me. No, no; I sold my own grave for 't. Would it were mine
again: I had been where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary
are at rest. Nay; there will be no rest for me. I am an apostate--a
castaway--the devil that seduced me hath said it again and again--for
whom is reserved the blackness of darkness, and the noisome pit for
ever! But as long, look thee, as I keep this gold, I die not. No!
though twice ten thousand were on my track; for I sold my grave to a
doomed one; nor, till I buy another with the same piece of gold, shall
death and hell prevail against me. So sayeth the fiend."

Marian felt actually as though in the presence of the Evil One, so
completely had the frenzy of this poor deluded idiot developed itself
in this short interval. Some violent paroxysm was evidently
approaching; and her object was, if possible, to procure the
liberation of Egerton before her guide should be rendered either
unwilling or incapable. He suddenly assumed a more calm and consistent
demeanour, while, to her great joy, she heard him climbing the stair.
She followed as closely as the darkness would permit, and heard him
pause after ascending a few steps. Then a bolt was withdrawn, her hand
was seized, and she was led hastily through the aperture. It was the
entrance to a small chamber in the tower, lighted by the grating
before named, through which the moonlight came softly, like a wizard
stream, into the apartment.

By this light she saw something coiled up in a corner, like a human
form in the attitude of repose. It was the prisoner Egerton, fast
asleep. Nature, worn out with suffering, was unconsciously enjoying
for a season the bliss of oblivion. He heard not the intruders, until
Marian gently touched him, when, starting up, he cried--

"Is mine hour come? so soon! I thought"--

"Here be victuals; thy grave's not ready yet," said the maniac.

Soon the soft voice of the maiden fell calmly and quietly on his
bosom: and in that hour Egerton felt how noble, how self-denying, was
the spirit guiding the hand that ministered to him in the hour of
danger and distress. Her disinterestedness was now manifest. Of
another creed, and fully aware, perhaps, that he had been one of the
most zealous persecutors of those who aforetime were hunted like the
wild roe upon the mountains; he found that she had knowledge of him,
generally, as belonging to the Royalist party, though not individually
as to his rank and character.

If she had set herself to win his favour by draughts and
love-philtres, she could not have compassed her design more
effectually. His impetuous nature was alike impatient of restraint
either in love or in war; but in the latter instance the flame had
burnt so rapidly that it was nigh extinguished. This maiden being
renowned through the whole neighbourhood for her beauty, as well as
the natural and engaging simplicity and gentleness of her manners,
appertaining to one of high birth, nurtured in courts, rather than in
so humble a station, the cavalier had beforetime looked on her with a
favourable glance, but not with eyes at which the god Hymen would have
lighted his torch. Now, so strange and wayward is that capricious
passion which men call love, that when beset with dangers, his life in
jeopardy, and threatened with death on every hand, he seemed to cling
even to this lowly one as though his soul were bound to hers. Love,
that mighty leveller, for a season threw down every barrier--the pride
of birth, and the rank and sphere which were his birthright--nor did a
licentious thought find a resting-place in his bosom. Young and
ardent, he had spoken to her beforetime, though not explicitly, on the
subject; and Marian, knowing none other but that he was a wayfaring
man, of little note--so he represented himself--regarded his handsome
person, his kindness, and his attentions, with still less appearance
of disfavour.

"Thou shouldest be mine, Marian," said he, "were I"----

"Never!" she replied, interrupting him; but a sudden heaving of the
breast showed the anguish that one hopeless word cost her.

Stephen was in the chamber, still hurrying to and fro, too fully
absorbed in his own abstractions to understand or attend to what was
passing.

"And wherefore?" inquired the cavalier, with some surprise.

"Wherefore? Ask your own nature and condition; your pride of station,
which I have but lately known; your better reason, why; and see if it
were either wise or fitting that one like yourself--though of your
precise condition I am yet ignorant--should wive with the daughter of
a poor but honest tapster. Suffer this plainness; I might be your
bauble to-day, and your chain to-morrow."

"Thou dost wrong me!" said the cavalier; and he took her hand
tenderly, almost unresistingly, for a moment. "I would wear thee as my
heart's best jewel, and inlay thee in its shrine. It is but fitting
that the life thou hast preserved should be rendered unto thee."

"Nay, sir," said she, withdrawing her hand, "my pride forbids it; ay,
pride! equal, if not superior to your own. I would not be the wife of
a prince on these terms; nor on any other. 'Be not unequally yoked.'
Will not this wholesome precept hold even in a carnal and worldly
sense? I would not endure the feeling of inferiority, even from a
husband. 'Twould but be servitude the more galling, because I could
neither persuade myself into an equality, nor rid me of the chain."

"Thou dost reason wondrously, maiden. 'Tis an easy conquest, when
neither passion nor affection oppose our judgment; when the feelings
are too cold to kindle even at the spark which the Deity himself hath
lighted for our solace and our blessing in this valley of tears."

"Mine!--Oh! say not they are too cold, too slow to kindle. They are
too easily roused, too ardent, too soon bent before an earthly idol;
but"--here she laid her hand on his arm--"but the right hand must be
cut off, the right eye plucked out. I would not again be their slave,
under the tyranny and dominion of these elements of our fallen nature,
for all the pomps and vanities which they would purchase. There be
mightier obstacles than those of expediency, as thou dost well
imagine, to thy suit; but these are neither coldness nor
indifference." Here her voice faltered with emotion, and her heart
rose, rebelling against her own inflexible purpose, in that keen, that
overwhelming anguish of the spirit. She soon regained her composure,
as she uttered firmly: "They are--my altar and my faith!"

Egerton felt as though a sudden stroke had separated them for ever--as
though it were the last look of some beloved thing just wrenched from
his grasp. This very feeling, had none other prompted, made him more
anxious for its recovery; and he would have urged his suit with all
the energy of a reckless desperation, but the maiden firmly resisted.

"Urge me not again: not all the inducements I trust that even thou
couldest offer would make me forget my fealty! No more--I hear thee
not. The tempter I know hath too many allies within the
citadel--worldly vanities and unsubdued affections--to suffer me to
parley with the traitors and listen to their unholy suggestions. Again
I say, I hear thee not."

Finding it was in vain, he forbore to persecute her further; and after
having merely tasted of the cordial, and partaken of a slight
refreshment, he listlessly inquired if the term of his imprisonment
would soon expire.

"Tarry here for a season, until the heat and energy of the pursuit be
overpast, or at least abated. We could not find a more fitting place
of concealment."

"Being straitened for moneys until we can obtain succour from our
friends, I cannot reward your hospitality as I would desire; but if we
are brought forth and delivered safely from this thrall, thy father's
house shall not be forgotten."

"We will not touch the least of all thy gifts," said the maiden:
"forbid that we sold our succour to the distressed, though it were to
the most cruel and bitter of our enemies!"

A sudden thought excited this noble-hearted female. She cautiously
approached her companion, who, having discontinued his perambulations,
had seated himself in a corner, awaiting the termination of their
interview. Knowing that he had generally a hoard of moneys about his
person--for covetousness was ever his besetting sin--she ventured to
solicit a loan, either for herself or the stranger, judging that
Egerton's escape would be much impeded, if, as he had just confessed,
his finances were hardly sufficient for his ordinary expenditure.

"And so I must give my blood and my groats to nourish thy sweethearts,
wench," said the surly money-lender. "I have saved this prelatist and
malignant from his adversaries, and now"----He considered a while,
muttering his thoughts and arguments to himself with a most confused
and volatile impetuosity of ratiocination. In a short time he seemed
to arrive at some satisfactory conclusion through all this obscurity,
and drew out a handful of coin, of some low denomination, apparently
by the sound, and placed it in the hands of his fair suitor.

"There--there--one, two, three. Never mind, wench; I could have
counted 'em once with the best clerkman i' the parish; and for the
matter of that, I've told 'em oft enough, though,--but the count
always seems to slip from me. It is all I have, save the price of my
life; and I would not part with that for a world's worth; for what
should it profit me, when with it I had bought my grave?"

Marian immediately transferred the long-hoarded treasure into the
hands of the cavalier.

"Thanks; yea, better than these, for they were a poor recompense, my
peerless maiden. I scruple not to receive this loan at thine hands,
because it is part of the means thou dost employ for my escape. Yet
doubt not of my willingness and ability to repay thee tenfold. Thou
wilt not deny me this silly suit."

As he said this, he, with the greatest gallantry and devotedness,
kissed the hand held forth to supply his exigency. He was accompanying
the movement with some fair and courtly speech when a loud and
terrible cry startled him. It was more like the howl of some ravenous
beast than any sound which human organs ever uttered. Curses
followed--horrible, untold--the suggestion of fiends in their
bitterness and malignity. Then came the cry, or rather shriek--

"Lost! lost!" at irregular intervals.

The cavalier and his companion were much alarmed by this unexpected
occurrence. They doubted not that the foul fiend was before them,
bodily, in the form of this poor maniac. After a short interval of
silence, he cried, approaching them fiercely--

"Ye have sold me, soul and body, to the wicked one. May curses long
and heavy light on ye! The coin! the coin! Oh, that accursed thing! I
have bought thy grave, stranger; and my day of hope is past!"

The latter part of the speech was uttered in a tone of such deep and
heartrending misery that pity arose in place of terror in the bosom
of his auditors. Marian ventured to address him, hoping she might
assuage or dissipate the fearful hallucination under which he
laboured.

"There is yet hope for the repenting sinner. The hour of life is the
hour of grace: for that, and that only, is life prolonged. Turn to Him
from whom thou hast backslidden, nor add unto thy crime by wilfully
rejecting the free offers of His mercy."

"Mercy!--Life!" Here he laughed outright. "Hearest thou not my
tormentor?--Life!--I am dead, wench; and my grave is waiting for me,
dug by these accursed fingers. That grave I digged for thee is now
mine. Unwittingly have I bought it, and the coin is in thy purse!"

It seems the poor maniac, in replacing the mysterious coin to which,
from some cause or other, he attached such importance, had
unthinkingly added it to the common hoard, and in this manner conveyed
it to the stranger, whose grave he persisted he had bought by this
transfer; and nothing could shake his belief in so marvellous a
conclusion.

The cavalier attempted to comfort him; and in order to make the
delusion subservient to the removal of its terrors, he offered to
restore the coin, or even the whole of what he had received, that the
simple gravedigger might be certain he had it in possession.

"'Tis needless; the token, once from my grasp and in the fingers of
another whose grave I have digged, would never change my doom by its
return. Keep what thou hast; and may it serve thee more faithfully
than it hath served me! But remember--let me say it while my senses
hold together, for I feel the blast coming that shall scatter them to
the four winds--remember, if thou part therefrom, as I have done, to
some doomed one, thou shalt go to the grave in his stead. But a
charmed life is thine as long as it is in thy possession. Away--leave
me--the master will be here presently for his own. Leave me, I say;
for when the fiend cometh, he'll not tarry. But be sure you make fast
the door, lest I escape, and mischief happen, should I get abroad."

"Stephen!" said Marian, "slight not the mercy of thy God, nor
dishonour His name, by hearkening to the suggestions of the enemy. His
arm is not shortened, nor His ear heavy."

"I know it; but when the fiend came, and found the house swept and
garnished, did he not take unto himself seven other spirits more
wicked than himself, and was not the latter end of that man worse than
the first?"

"Yet," said Marian, "would he have been delivered if he had cried out
to the strong man armed."

"But he would hear no refutation, persisting in the thought that his
crime was unpardonable, since he had relapsed after the devil was cast
out." During the present paroxysm, it was in vain to thwart him
further; indeed their stay was attended with some hazard, of which, it
seems, he felt aware, inasmuch as he drove them forth without
ceremony. Availing themselves of his suggestion they bolted the door
on the outside, thus preventing any further mischief. Here was a
perplexing and unforeseen dilemma; and how to dispose of the cavalier
was a question of no slight importance. At present the only
alternative was to convey him to his fellow-traveller, Chisenhall,
who, comfortably established in his narrow loft, was quite unconscious
of the events that were passing so near him.

As they left the cemetery they heard the groans and cries of the
unfortunate victim, suffering, as he imagined, from the resistless
power of his tormentor.

Early, with the early dawn, Marian again sought the dwelling of Gilgal
Snape. She earnestly entreated him that he would make all speed to the
chapel--again exercising his peculiar gift in "binding the strong man
armed," or, in other words, dispossessing the demoniac.

The benevolent divine instantly accompanied her, and forthwith
proceeded to the relief of the possessed. Howls and shrieks accosted
him as he ascended the stair.

"I must be alone," said he; "no earthly witness may be nigh. Strong in
faith, by the grace that is given me, I doubt not that this also thou
wilt vouchsafe to thine unworthy dust,"--he raised his eyes toward
Heaven;--"yet should I fail, He will not let me be overcome, nor fall
into the snare of the wicked one; for I know, and am assured, that
this trial shall turn out to the furtherance of His glory!"

Marian left him at the entrance. But, with the minister's appearance
in the chamber, the agony of the deluded sufferer seemed to quicken,
as if the sight of him who was the herald of mercy only added fresh
fuel to his torments. Marian was fain to depart; her ears almost
stunned with the cries and howlings of the demoniac. She withdrew in
great agitation, her knees almost sinking under their burden. Hardly
conscious of the removal, she reached her own chamber, where, covering
her face with both hands, she wept bitterly. This outburst of tears
relieved her; though she still suffered from the recent excitement.
Her former resolutions were strengthened by the terrible example she
had just witnessed; and the backsliding impenitent she looked upon as
a watchlight to warn her from the rocks whereon he had made shipwreck.

Some hours passed on, but no tidings came from the "abbey." She often
looked out across the path, and towards the stile which led to the
ruins; but all was undisturbed. The sun shining down, bright and
unclouded, all was harmony and peace--"all, save the spirit of man,
was divine"--all fulfilling their Maker's ordinances, and his behest.

The sun was creeping down towards the dark low tower of the chapel;
and Marian was still at the door, gazing out anxiously for
intelligence. She saw a figure mounting the stile. It was--she could
not be mistaken--it was the reverend and easily-recognised form of
Gilgal Snape. She ran down the path to meet him; and she could not
help noticing that he looked more sedate than usual, appearing
harassed and disquieted, betraying more obviously the approach of age
and infirmities.

"Have you wrestled with the adversary and prevailed?" inquired she,
anxiously.

"I have had a fearful and a perilous struggle. The fight was long;
but, by the sword of the Spirit, I _have_ prevailed."

"Has the backslider been brought again to the fold?"

"He hath, I trust, been found of the Good Shepherd; and he now
sleepeth in Abraham's bosom!"

"Dead! Hath the grave so soon demanded its prey?"

"I left him not until the spirit was rendered unto Him who gave it. He
entreated me sore that I would not leave him until I had watched his
dismissal from the body."

"Then do I know of a surety that the evil spirit was cast out, and the
lost one restored."

"There was joy in heaven over a repentant sinner this day. When the
dark foe was vanquished, his spirit came again as a little child, and
the leprosy of his sin was healed. Verily, the evil one, ere he was
overthrown, did utter many strange words touching things to come, and
our present perplexities. There seemed to be a spirit of divination
within him which did prophesy. Marian," continued the divine, with a
scrutinising look, "he did tell of thy dealing with our enemies, and
that thou dost even now nourish and conceal those of whom we are in
search."

"If thine enemy hunger"----But Marian was hastily interrupted in her
plea.

"But of the secrets which, by virtue of mine office and godly
vocation, men do entrust to my safe keeping, I may not use, even to
the hurt of our enemies and the welfare of the Church, yet buffeted by
Satan in the wilderness. Nevertheless, I was sore troubled that thou,
even thou, shouldest harbour and abet these wicked men, who have
broken the covenant and plucked up the seed of the kingdom. Truly, I
wot not where the afflicted Church shall find succour when her foes be
they of her own household."

"I knew not that they were enemies when first they sought our
habitation. They had eaten and drunken at our board, and the"----

"These sons of Belial found favour in thy sight, even the chief
captain of the king's host. I would not accuse or blame thee rashly;
but verily thou hast not judged wisely in this matter, for now must
they depart, inasmuch as I cannot use, even to the advantage of our
just cause, the knowledge I have gained; nor wilt thou render them up,
I trow; but mark me, the avenger of blood is behind them, and though
the city of refuge be nigh, they shall not escape!----Yet there be
other marvels this wicked one did set forth," said the minister, with
a searching eye directed to the maiden. "One of these uncircumcised
Philistines did woo thee for his bride. What answer gavest thou?"

"Such answer as becometh one who seeketh not fellowship with the works
of darkness."

"'Tis well. Now lead me to this Joab the son of Zeruiah, this captain
of the king's host; for I have a message unto him also."

Following the astonished and trembling maiden, the divine, fraught
with some weighty commission, was admitted into the temporary
concealment of the fugitives. It was a narrow and inconvenient loft
above one of the outbuildings--the roof so low that it was only in
some places the upright figure of the minister might be sustained. The
light penetrated through an aperture in the roof, showing the guests
within seated, and enjoying a frugal, but sufficient repast.

"I am one of few words," said the divine, "and so much the rather as
that I now stand in the presence of mine enemies. What sayest thou,
Prince Rupert, the persecutor of God's heritage, who didst not stay
thine hand from the slaughter even of them that were taken captive?
What sayest thou that the word should not go forth to kill and slay,
even as thou didst smite and not spare, but didst destroy utterly them
who, when beleaguered by thine armies in Bolton, were delivered into
thine hand?"

"Ha!" said the Prince; "thou--a cockatrice to betray me!"

"She hath not betrayed thee. Yonder poor and afflicted sinner, when in
bondage unto Satan, led captive by him at his will, did reveal it by
the spirit of prophecy that was in him. But we take not advantage of
this to thine hurt; we may not use the devil's works for the building
up and welfare of the Church, even though she were mightily holpen
thereby. But listen: thou hast wooed this maiden to be the wife of thy
bosom. In the dark roll of destiny it is written--so spake the unclean
spirit--that if thou shouldest wed, a son springing from thy loins
shall sit upon the throne of this unhappy realm. He shall govern the
people righteously, every one under his own vine and his own fig-tree,
none daring to make them afraid. Surely it would not be a vain and an
evil thing should the maiden be----Yet--this is my temptation. Get
thee behind me, Satan. May the thought and the folly of my heart be
forgiven me! No! proud and cruel persecutor, this maiden is a pearl of
rare price which thou shalt not win--a chosen one who hath had grace
given unto her above measure, even above that vouchsafed unto me. I do
loathe and abhor myself for the iniquity of my heart, and the
unsubdued carnality of my spirit."

"Your Highness had need of great meekness and patience to endure this
grievous outpouring," said Chisenhall to the silent and bewildered
Prince. "Shall I thrust him through, and make sure of his fidelity?"

"Hurt him not," said his Highness to this effectual admonisher unto
secrecy. "And what if I should not wed?" continued he, addressing the
divine, and at the same time looking tenderly on the damsel.

"To this point too was the prophecy accordant. The sceptre shall
nevertheless be given to one of thy race; thy sister's son shall carry
down the line of kings to this people; and the Lord's work shall still
prosper. Now, daughter of many prayers--for I have yearned over thee
with more than a father's love--choose thee without constraint this
day. Thou hearest the words of this prophecy: wilt thou be the mother
of kings, or the lowly and despised follower of God's heritage?"

"I will not grasp the bubble of ambition. It bursts--a hollow vapour
when possessed. Let me choose rather to suffer affliction with the
people of God than obtain all the treasures of Egypt. But tempt me not
again, for my soul cleaveth to the dust--flesh and blood shrink from
the trial!"

She sobbed aloud, and threw herself on the old man's neck, who
scarcely refrained from joining in her tears.

"Thou hast come forth as gold from the furnace--thou hast kept the
faith, and holden fast thy profession," said the divine, with a glance
of triumph. Marian held out her hand to the Prince, who grasped it
with fervour. She seemed more like to some holy and heavenward thing
than a denizen of this polluted earth--more like a type of the
confessors and martyrs of the primitive church than a disciple of our
own, nurtured in the lap of carnal security, with little show of
either zeal or devotion.

"Your Highness must depart--but whither?" said she, with an anxious
and inquiring glance directed to the minister.

"Take no thought for their safety; thy constancy hath earned their
deliverance. My safe-conduct will carry them unharmed beyond the reach
of their enemies; but let them not return. It is at their own peril if
they be found again harboured in this vicinage, and their blood be on
their own heads!"

They departed, and the subsequent history of the gallant Rupert is
well known. He joined the king at Oxford, and helped him to retrieve
his defeat at Newbury, bringing off his artillery left at Dunnington
Castle in the very face of the enemy. At the decisive Battle of Naseby
we find him performing feats of extraordinary valour; but, as before,
his headlong and precipitate fury led him into the usual error; and
though the loss of the battle was not to be attributed entirely to his
imprudence, yet a little more caution would have altered materially
the results of that memorable conflict. Harassed and dispirited, he
threw himself with the remainder of his troops into Bristol, intending
to defend it to the last extremity; but even here his constitutional
fortitude and valour seemed to forsake him: a poorer defence was not
made by any town during the whole war, and the general expectations
were extremely disappointed. No sooner had the Parliamentary forces
entered the lines by storm, than the Prince capitulated, and
surrendered the place to General Fairfax. A few days before, he had
written a letter to the King, in which he undertook to defend it for
four months, if no mutiny obliged him to surrender it. Charles, who
was forming schemes and collecting forces for the relief of the city,
was astonished at so unexpected an event, which was little less fatal
to his cause than the defeat at Naseby. Full of indignation, he
instantly recalled all Prince Rupert's commissions, and sent him a
pass to go beyond sea.

Several years afterwards we find him in command of a squadron of
ships, entrusted to him by Charles II, when an exile in Normandy.
Admiral Blake received orders from the Parliament to pursue him.
Rupert, being much inferior in force, took shelter in Kinsale, and
escaping thence, fled toward the coast of Portugal. Blake pursued and
chased him into the Tagus, where he intended to attack him; but the
King of Portugal, moved by the favour which throughout Europe attended
the royal cause, refused Blake admission, and aided the Prince in
making his escape. Having lost the greater part of his fleet off the
coast of Spain, he made sail towards the West Indies; but his brother,
Prince Maurice, was there shipwrecked in a hurricane. Everywhere his
squadron subsisted by privateering, sometimes on English, sometimes on
Spanish, vessels. Rupert at last returned to France, where he disposed
of the remnants of his fleet, together with his prizes.

He was never married; peradventure the remembrance of the noble and
heroic maiden marred his wiving; he cared not for the presence of
those courtly dames by whom he was surrounded, though a soldier, and a
brave one. By one of his race the crown of these realms was inherited;
and the same line is yet perpetuated in the person of our gracious
monarch, whom God preserve! The sister of Rupert, Princess Sophia, by
marriage with the Elector of Hanover, became the mother of George I.;
and thus was that singular prediction of the supposed demoniac
strangely and happily verified. Of Marian little remains to be told;
the lives of the virtuous and well-doing furnish little matter for the
historian; their deeds are not of this world; the bright page of their
history is unfolded only in the next.

     [8] Hume.

     [9] Clarendon.

     [10] Hume.


[Illustration: CLEGG HALL, NEAR ROCHDALE.
_Drawn by G. Pickering._
_Engraved by Edw^d Finden._]




CLEGG HALL.

       "Is there no exorcist
     Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes?
     Is't real that I see?"
                      --SHAKESPEARE.

Clegg Hall, about two miles N.E. from Rochdale, is still celebrated
for the freaks and visitations of a supernatural guest, called
"Clegg-Hall Boggart."

So desultory and various are the accounts we have heard, and many of
them so vague and unintelligible, that it has been a work of much
difficulty to weave them into one continuous narrative, and to shape
them into a plot sufficiently interesting for our purpose. The name
and character of "Noman" are still the subject of many an absurd and
marvellous story among the country chroniclers in that region.

Dr Whitaker says it is "the only estate within the parish which still
continues in the local family name." On this site was the old house
built by Bernulf de Clegg and Quenilda his wife as early as the reign
of Stephen. Not a vestige of it remains. The present comparatively
modern erection was built by Theophilus Ashton of Rochdale, a lawyer,
and one of the Ashtons of Little Clegg, about the year 1620.

Stubley Hall, mentioned in our tale, was built by Robert Holt in the
reign of Henry VIII. The decay of our native woods had then occasioned
a pretty general disuse of timber for the framework of dwelling-houses
belonging to this class of our domestic architecture. Dr Whitaker
says--"It is the first specimen in the parish of a stone or brick
hall-house of the second order--that is, with a centre and two wings
only. Long before the Holts, appear at this place a Nicholas and a
John de Stubley, in the years 1322 and 1332; then follow in succession
John, Geoffrey, Robert, and Christopher Holt; from whom descended,
though not in a direct line, Robert Holt of Castleton and Stubley,
whose daughter, Dorothy, married in the year 1649, John Entwisle of
Foxholes. Robert, who built Stubley, and who was grandson of
Christopher Holt before mentioned, was a justice of the peace in the
year 1528. In an old visitation of Lancashire by Thomas Tong, Norroy,
30 Hen. VIII., is this singular entry:--"Robarde Holte of Stubley,
hase mar. an ould woman, by whom he hase none issewe, and therefore he
wolde not have her name entryed." Yet it appears he had a daughter,
Mary, who married Charles Holt, her cousin, descended from the first
Robert. Her grandson was the Robert Holt, father to Dorothy Entwisle
before-named, at whose marriage the events took place which, if the
following tradition is to be credited, were the forerunners of a more
strange and unexpected development.

In the year 1640, nine years before the date of our story, Robert Holt
abandoned Stubley for the warmer and more fertile situation of
Castleton, about a mile south from Rochdale. It was so named from the
_castellum de Recedham_, wherein dwelt Gamel, the Saxon Thane; which
place and personage are described in our first series of _Traditions_.
Castleton was principally abbey-land belonging to the house of
Stanlaw. Part of this township, the hamlet of Marland or Mereland,
was, at the dissolution of monasteries, granted to the Radcliffs of
Langley, and sold by Henry Radcliff to Charles Holt, who married his
cousin, Mary Holt of Stubley, and was grandfather to Robert, who left
Stubley for this place, which we have noticed above.

Stubley, with its neighbourhood, was always noted for good ale. From
its situation, exposed to all the rigours of that hilly region, the
climate was reckoned so cold as to require that their daily beverage
should be of sufficient strength to counteract its effects. That
habits of intemperance would be contracted from the constant use of
such stimuli may easily be inferred. The following letter from
Nicholas Stratford, Bishop of Chester, to James Holt of Castleton, son
of Robert Holt before-named, is but too melancholy a confirmation of
this inference.

The original is in the possession of the Rev. J. Clowes of Broughton
Hall:--


     "SIR,--Your request in behalf of Mr Halliwell was easily
     granted; for I am myself inclined to give the best encouragement
     I can to the poor curates, as long as they continue diligent in
     the discharge of their duty. But I have now, Sir, a request to
     make to you, which I heartily pray you may as readily grant me;
     and that is, that you will for the future abandon and abhor the
     sottish vice of drunkenness, which (if common fame be not a
     great liar) you are much addicted to. I beseech you, Sir,
     frequently and seriously to consider the many dismal fruits and
     consequences of this sin, even in this world--how destructive it
     is to all your most valuable concerns and interests; how it
     blasts your reputation, destroys your health, and will (if
     continued) bring you to a speedy and untimely death: and, which
     is infinitely more dreadful, will exclude you from the kingdom
     of heaven, and expose you to that everlasting fire where you
     will not be able to obtain so much as one drop of water to cool
     your tongue. I have not leisure to proceed in this argum^t, nor
     is it needful that I should, because you yourself can enlarge
     upon it without my ... I assure you, S^r, this advice now given
     you proceeds from sincere love and my earnest desire to promote
     your happiness both in this world and the next; and I hope you
     will be pleased so to accept from,


     "S^r,
     "Your affectionate friend
     "and humble servant,
     "N. CESTRIENS.

     "CHESTER, _Nov. 1699_."





Clegg Hall, after many changes of occupants, is now in part used as a
country alehouse; other portions are inhabited by the labouring
classes who find employment in that populous and manufacturing
district. It is the properpty of Joseph Fenton, Esq., of Bamford Hall,
by purchase from John Entwisle, Esq., the present possessor of
Foxholes, in that neighbourhood.


To Clegg Hall, or rather what was once the site of that ancient house,
tradition points through the dim vista of past ages as the scene of an
unnatural and cruel tragedy. Not that this picturesque and stately
pile, with its gable and zigzag terminations, the subject of our
present engraving, was the very place where the murder was
perpetrated; but a low, dark, and wooden-walled tenement, such as our
forefathers were wont to construct in times anterior to the Tudor
ages. The present building, with its little porch, quaint and
grotesque, its balustrade and balcony above, and the points and
pediments on the four sides, are evidently the coinage of some more
modern brain--peradventure in King James's days. Not unlike the
character of that learned monarch and of his times, half-classical,
half-barbarous, it combines the puerilities of each, without the power
and grandeur of the one, or the rich and chivalric magnificence of the
other; and might remind the beholder of some gaunt warrior of the
Middle Ages, with lance, and armour, and "ladye-love," stalking forth,
clad in the Roman toga or the stately garb of the senator. The
building, the subject of our tale, has neither the gorgeous
extravagance of the Gothic nor the severe and stern utility of the
Roman architecture. Little bits of columns, dwarf-like, and frittered
down into mere extremities, give the porch very much the appearance of
a child's plaything, or a Dutch toy stuck to its side.

It has the very air and attitude--the pedantic formalities--of the
time when it was built. Not so the house on whose ruins it was
erected; the square, low, dark mansion, constructed of wood, heavy and
gigantic, shaped like the hull of some great ship, the ribs and
timbers being first fixed, and the interstices afterwards filled with
a compost of clay and chopped straw, to keep out the weather. Of such
rude and primitive architecture were the dwellings of the English
gentry in former ages: such was the house built by Bernulf and
Quenilda Clegg, in the reign of Stephen, the supposed scene of that
horrible deed which gave rise to the stories yet extant relating to
"Clegg-Hall Boggart." Popular story is not precise, generally, as to
facts and dates. The exact time when this occurrence took place we
know not; but it is more than probable that some dark transaction of
this nature was here perpetrated. The prevailing tradition warrants
our belief. However fanciful and extravagant the filling up of the
picture, common rumour still preserves untouched the general outline.
It is said that, sometime about the thirteenth or fourteenth century,
a wicked uncle destroyed the lawful heirs of this goodly
possession--two orphan children that were left to his care--by
throwing them over a balcony into the moat, that he might seize on the
inheritance. Such is the story which, to this day, retains its hold on
the popular mind; and ever after, it is said, the house was the
reputed haunt of a troubled and angry spirit, until means were taken
for its removal, or rather its expulsion. But upon the inhuman deed
itself we shall not dilate, inasmuch as the period is too remote, and
the events are too vague, for our purpose.

The house built by Bernulf Clegg had passed, with many alterations and
renewals, into the possession of the Ashtons of Little Clegg. About
the year 1620 the present edifice was built by Theophilus Ashton; and
thirty years had scarcely elapsed from its erection to the date of our
story. Though the original dwelling had, with one or two exceptions,
been pulled down, yet symptoms of "the boggart" were still manifest in
the occasional visitations and annoyances to which the inmates were
subject.

The hues of evening were spread out, like a rich tapestry, above and
behind the long unpicturesque line of hills, the lower acclivities of
Blackstonedge, opposite to the stately mansion of Clegg Hall. The
square squat tower of Rochdale Church peered out from the dark trees,
high on its dim eyrie, in the distance, towards the south-west, below
which a wan hazy smoke indicated the site of that thriving and
populous town. To the right, the heavy blue ridge of mountains,
bearing the appropriate name of Blackstonedge, had not yet put on its
cold, grey, neutral tint; but the mass appeared to rise abruptly from
the green enclosures stretching to its base, in strong and beautiful
contrast of colour, such as painters love to express on the mimic
canvas. It was a lovely evening in October; one of Nature's parting
smiles, ere she envelops herself in the horrors and the gloom of
winter. So soft and balmy was the season that the wild flowers
lingered longer than usual in the woods and copses where they dwelt.
In the gardens some of the spring blossoms had already unfolded. The
wallflowers and polyanthuses had looked out again, unhesitatingly, on
the genial sky--deprived, by sophistication and culture, of the
instincts necessary to their preservation: the wild untutored denizens
of the field and the quiet woods rarely betray such lack of
presentiment. But such are everywhere the results of civilisation;
which, however beneficial to society in the aggregate, gives its
objects altogether an artificial character, and, by depriving them of
their natural and proper instincts, renders them helpless when single
and unaided; while it makes them more dependent upon each other, and
on the factitious wants, the offspring of those very habits and
conditions into which they are thrown.

On the hollow trunk of a decrepit ash the ivy was blossoming
profusely, gathering its support from the frail prop which it was
fated to destroy. The insects were humming and frolicking about on
their tiny wings, taking their last enjoyment of their little day, ere
they gave place to the ephemera of the next.

"How merry and jocund every life-gifted thing looks forth on this our
festival. It might be Nature holding high jubilee in honour of Holt's
daughter on her wedding-night!"

Thus spake Nicholas Haworth to his sister Alice, as they stepped forth
from the hall porch, and stayed for a moment by this aged trunk to
admire the scene that was fast losing its glory and its brightness.
They were bidden to the marriage-supper at Stubley, where a masqued
ball was to be given after the nuptials of Dorothy Holt, the daughter
of its possessor, with Entwisle, the heir of Foxholes.[11]

"It may be holiday and gladness too; but I feel it not," said Alice
pensively, as she leaned on her brother's arm, while they turned into
a narrow lane overarched by irregular groups of beech and sycamore
trees.

"Heed not such idle fancies," said her brother. "And so, because,
forsooth, an impudent beggar-man predicts some strange event that must
shortly befall thee, the apprehension doth cast its shadow ere it
come, and thou art ready to conjure up some grim spectre in the gloom
it hath created. But, in good sooth, here comes the wizard himself who
hath raised these melancholic and evil humours."

"I never pass him without a shudder," said she, at the same time
cringing closely to her protector.

This awful personage was one of an ancient class, now probably
extinct; a sort of privileged order, supplying, or rather usurping,
the place of the mendicant friars of former days. Their vocation was
not of an unprofitable kind, inasmuch as alms were commonly rendered,
though more from fear than favour. Woe betide the unlucky housewife
who withheld her dole, her modicum of meal or money to these sturdy
applicants! Mischief from some invisible hand was sure to follow, and
the cause was laid to her lack of charity.

The being, the subject of these remarks, had been for many months a
periodical visitor at the Hall, where he went by the name of "Noman."
It is not a little remarkable that tradition should here point out an
adventure something analogous to that of Ulysses with the Cyclop as
once happening to this obscure individual, and that his escape was
owing to the same absurd equivoque by which the Grecian chief escaped
from his tormentor. Our tale, however, hath reference to weightier
matters, and the brief space we possess permits no further digression.
This aged but hale and sturdy beggar wore a grey frieze coat or cloak
loosely about his person. Long blue stocking gaiters, well patched and
darned, came over his knee, while his doublet and hosen, or body-gear,
were fastened together by the primitive attachment of wooden
skewers--a contrivance now obsolete, being superseded by others more
elegant and seemly. A woollen cap or bonnet, of unparalleled form and
dimensions, was disposed upon his head, hiding the upper part of his
face, and almost covering a pair of bushy grey eyebrows, that, in
their turn, crouched over a quick and vagrant eye, little the worse
for the wear of probably some sixty years. A grizzled reddish beard
hung upon his breast; and his aspect altogether was forbidding, almost
ferocious. A well-plenished satchel was on his shoulder; and he walked
slowly and erect, as though little disposed to make way for his
betters in the narrow path, where they must inevitably meet. When they
came nearer he stood still in the middle of the road, as though
inclined to dispute their passage. His tall and well-proportioned
figure, apparent even beneath these grotesque habiliments, stood out
before them in bold relief against the red and burning sky, where an
opening in the lane admitted all the glow and fervour of the western
sunset. His strange, wayward, and even mysterious character was no bar
to his admittance into the mansions of the gentry through a wide
circuit of country, where his familiarities were tolerated, or perhaps
connived at, even by many whose gifts he received more as a right than
as an obligation.

He looked steadfastly on them as they approached, but without the
slightest show either of respect or good-will.

"Prithee, stand a little on one side, that we may pass by without fear
of offence," said Nicholas Haworth, good-humouredly.

"And whither away, young master and my dainty miss?" was the reply, in
his usual easy and familiar address, such as might have suited one of
rank and condition.

Haworth, little disturbed thereat, said with a careless
smile,--"Troth, thou hast not been so long away but thou mightest have
heard of the wedding-feast to-night, and, peradventure, been foremost
for the crumbs of the banquet."

"I know well there's mumming and foolery a-going on yonder; and I
suppose ye join the merry-making, as they call it?"

"Ay, that do we; and so, prithee, begone."

"And your masks will ne'er be the wiser for't, I trow," said the
beggar, looking curiously upon them from beneath his penthouse lids.

"But that I could laugh at his impertinence, Alice, I would even now
chide him soundly, and send his pitiful carcase to the stocks for this
presumption. Hark thee, I do offer good counsel when I warn thee to
shift thyself, and that speedily, ere I use the readiest means for thy
removal."

"Gramercy, brave ruffler; but I must e'en gi'e ye the path; an' so
pass on to the masking, my Lord Essex and his maiden queen."

He said this with a cunning look and a chuckle of self-gratulation at
the knowledge he had somehow or other acquired of the parts they were
intended to enact.

"Foul fa' thy busy tongue, where foundest thou this news? I've a
month's mind to change my part, Alice, but that there's neither
leisure nor opportunity, and they lack our presence at the nuptials."

"How came he by this knowledge, and the fashion of our masks?"
inquired Alice from her brother. "Truly, I could join belief with
those who say that he obtained it not through the ordinary channels
open to our frail and fallible intellects."

Mistress Alice, "the gentle Alice," was reckoned fair and
well-favoured. Strongly tinctured with romance, her superstition was
continually fed by the stories then current in relation to her own
dwelling, and by the generally-received opinions about witches and
other supernatural things which yet lingered, loth to depart from
these remote limits of civilisation.

"Clegg-Hall Boggart" was the type of a notion too general to be
disbelieved; yet were the inmates, in all probability, less intimately
acquainted with the freaks and disturbances attendant thereon than
every gossip in the neighbourhood; for, as it frequently happens,
tales and marvels, for the most part originating through roguery, and
the pranks of servants and retainers, were less likely to come to the
ears of the master and his family than those of persons less
interested, but more likely to assist in their propagation. The
vagrant and erratic movements of "Noman" were, somehow or another,
connected with the marvellous adventures and appearances in the
"boggart chamber." At the Hall, this discarded room, being part of the
old house yet remaining, was the one which he was permitted to occupy
during his stay; and his appearance was generally the signal of a
visit from their supernatural guest. To be sure, the strange sights he
beheld rested on his testimony alone; but his word was never
questioned, and his coming was of equal potency with the magician's
wand in raising the ghost.

"We shall have some news from our troublesome guest, I suppose, in the
morning," said Alice to her brother, as they went slowly on: "I know
not the cause; but yonder vagrant seems to waken our ancient companion
from his slumbers, either by sympathy or antipathy, I trow."

"For the most part they be idle tales," said he; "though I doubt not,
in former days, the place was infested by some unquiet spirit. But
this good house of ours hath modern stuff too strong upon it. The
smell of antiquity alone hath a savour delicate enough for your musty
ghost."

Alice pressed his arm slightly as an admonition, at the same time
gently chiding his unbelief. Thus beguiling the way with pleasant
discourse, they drew nigh to the old house at Stubley, little more
than a mile distant from their own dwelling.

Though now resident in his more modern, sheltered, and convenient
mansion of Castleton, Holt determined that his daughter's wedding
should be solemnised in the ancient halls, where Robert Bath, vicar of
Rochdale, who was presented to the living on his marriage with a niece
of Archbishop Laud, was invited to perform the ceremony;--"A man,"
says Dr Whitaker, "of very different principles from his patron; for
he complied with all changes but the last, and retained his benefice
till August 24, 1662, when he went out on the Bartholomew Act, and
retired to a small house at Deepleach Hill, near Rochdale, where he
frequently preached to a crowded auditory."[12]

As they came nigh, lights were already glancing between the mullions
of the great hall window, then richly ornamented with painted glass.
The guests were loitering about the walks and terraces in the little
garden-plots, which in that bleak and chilly region were scantily
furnished. In the hall, fitted up with flowers and green holly-wreaths
for the occasion, the father of the bride and his intended son-in-law
were pacing to and fro in loving discourse; the latter pranked out in
a costly pair of "petticoat breeches," pink and white, of the newest
fashion, reaching only to the knee. These were ornamented with ribands
and laces at the two extremities, below which silk stockings,
glistering like silver, and immense pink shoe-roses, completed his
nether costume. A silken doublet and waistcoat of rich embroidery,
over which was a turned-down shirt-collar of point-lace, surmounted
the whole.

His friends and officials were busily employed in arranging matters
for the occasion, distributing the wedding-favours, and preparing for
the entertainments and festivities that were to follow.

Holt and his son-in-law were exempt from duty, save that of welcoming
those that were bidden, upon their arrival.

Before an oaken screen, beautifully carved with arabesque ornaments
and armorial bearings,[13] there was a narrow table, covered with a
white cloth, and on it the prayer-book, open at the marriage
formulary. Four stools were placed for those more immediately
interested in the ceremony. Rosemary and bay-leaves, gilt and dipped
in scented water, were scattered about the marriage-altar in
love-knots and many fanciful and ingenious devices. A bride-cup rested
upon it, in which lay a sprig of gilded rosemary--a relic or semblance
of the ancient hymeneal torch. Huge tables, groaning with garniture
for the approaching feast, were laid round the apartment--room being
left in the central floor for all who chose to mingle in the games and
dances that were expected after supper.

The company were now assembled, and the ceremony about to commence.
The bride, clothed in white, with a veil of costly workmanship thrown
over her, was led in by her maidens and a train of friends. The
bridegroom taking her hand, they stood before the altar, and the brief
but indissoluble knot was tied. The kiss being given, the happy
husband led away his partner into the parlour or guest chamber,
followed by many of those who had witnessed the ceremony. Alice and
her brother were amongst them; and the bride, perceiving their
entrance, drew the hand of the maiden within hers, and retained her
for a short season by her side.

The feast was begun; those who were for the mask took but a hasty
refreshment, being anxious to proceed into the 'tiring rooms, there to
array for the more interesting part of the night's revel. In due time
issued forth from their crowded bowers lords and ladies gay, buffoons,
morris-dancers, and the like; gypsies, fortune-tellers, and a medley
of giddy mummers, into the hall, where the more sedate or more sensual
were still carousing after the feast.

"Room for the masks!" was the general cry; and the musicians, each
after his kind, did pierce and vex the air with such a medley of
disquieting sounds that the talkers were fain to cease, and the
dancers to fall to in good earnest. Alice and her brother were
disguised as the cunning beggar had predicted--to wit, as the virgin
queen and her unfortunate lover. Masks were often dropping in, so that
the hall and adjoining chambers were fully occupied, resounding in
wild echoes with noise and revelry.

Loud and long was the merriment, increasing even until the roofs rung
with the din, and the revellers themselves grew weary of the tumult.

Alice was standing by the oaken screen during a temporary cessation on
her part from the labours incident to royalty, when there came from
behind it a tawny Moor, wearing a rich shawl turban, with a beard of
comely aspect. His arms were bare and hung with massive bracelets, and
he wore a tight jacket of crimson and gold. His figure was tall and
commanding; but his face was concealed by a visor of black crape,
which hindered not his speech from being clearly apprehended, though
the sound came forth in a muffled tone, as if feigned for the
occasion. Immediately there followed an Arabic or Turkish doctor,
clad in a long dark robe, and his head surmounted by a four-cornered
fur cap. In one hand he held a glass phial, and a box under his left
arm. Of an erect and majestic stature, he stood for a moment
apparently surveying the scene ere he mingled in the busy crowd. His
face also was covered with black crape, and through the "eyelet-holes"
a bright and burning glance shot forth, hardly repressed by the shadow
from his disguise. Alice, being unattended, shunned these unknown
intruders, and mingled again with a merry group who were pelting one
another with comfits and candied almonds. The stately Elizabeth
beckoned to her maidens; but they merely curtsied to their royal
mistress, without discontinuing their boisterous hilarity. Indeed, the
mumming hitherto had been more in dress than manners, so little
restraint had their outward disguise occasioned, or their behaviour
been altered thereby. The two late comers, however, produced a change.
It appeared that their business was to enact a play or cunning device
for the amusement of the company who, regarding them with a curious
eye, one by one left off their several sports to gaze upon the
strangers.

The rest were generally known to each other; but whispers and
inquiries now went round, from which it appeared that the new
visitants were strictly concealed, and their presence unexpected.

"Now, o' my faith," said Harry Cheetham, whose skill in dancing and
drollery had been conspicuous throughout the evening, "yon barbarians
be come from the Grand Turk, with his kerchief, recruiting for the
seraglio."

"Out upon thee!" said a jingling Morisco, enacted by young Hellawell
of Pike House; "the Grand Signior loveth not maidens such as ours for
his pavilion. They be too frosty to melt, even in Afric's sunny
clime." This was said with a malicious glance at Alice, whose
queen-like dignity and haughty bearing had kept many an ardent admirer
at bay through the evening.

"Sure the master of the feast hath withheld this precious delectation
until now," said Essex; "for they, doubtless, be of his providing."

"And give promise of more novel but less savoury entertainment," said
Hamer of Hamer. But Holt either knew them not, or his look of
surprise, not unmixed with curiosity and expectation, showed that he
was playing the masker too, without other disguise than his own proper
features--the kind hospitable face of an honest north-country squire,
ruddy with health and conviviality.

At the farther end of the hall the bride and her bride-maidens were
standing, with the bridegroom at her side, whispering soft gallantries
in her ear. The strangers, on their entrance, rendered neither token
nor obeisance, as courtesy required, to the bride and her train, but
followed Alice, who had joined her brother in the merry crowd, now
watching the motions of these unexpected visitants. They approached
with stately and solemn steps; and, without once deigning to notice
the rest of the company, the gaudy Moor bowed himself in a most
dignified _salaam_ before the queen. Alice, apparently with some
trepidation at being thus singled out from the rest, clung to her
brother, she hardly knew why.

"My sublime master, emperor of the world, lord of the sun, and ruler
of the seven celestial configurations, sendeth his slave unto the most
high and mighty Queen--whose beauty, as a girdle, doth encompass the
whole earth--with greeting."

"And who is he?" said Alice, timidly enough.

"The Sultan Ibrahim, lord of the seven golden towers, the emerald
islands, and ruler over an hundred nations. He bade his slave kiss the
hem of his mistress's garment, and beseech her to put her foot on the
neck of his bondsman, her slave's slave, and accept his gift."

"And who is this thy companion?" said Alice, growing bolder, while the
company were gradually gathering round them.

"This, whom your unworthy slave hath brought, most gracious Queen, is
the renowned Doctor Aboulfahrez, high conjuror to the Khan of Tartary,
and physician to the Great Mogul. He doth drive hence all pains and
diseases whatsoever, and will cure your great majesty of any disorder
of the spirit, by reason of charms or love-philtres heretofore
administered."

With a slight bend of his illustrious person, as though the high
conjuror to the Khan of Tartary, and physician to the Great Mogul,
thought himself too nearly on an equality with her "high mightinesse"
the Queen, the learned doctor for the first time broke silence--

"Will it please the Queen's grace to command an ensample of mine art?"

"We must first be assured unto what purpose. Hast thou not heard,"
said Alice, with increasing confidence, "that it is treason to put
forth strange or unlawful devices before the Queen?"

The stranger bowed. "But your grace hath traitors in those fair eyes
which do prompt treason if they practise none."

This gallant speech was much applauded by the company, and relieved
Alice from the necessity of a speedy and suitable answer; for she
began to be somewhat perplexed by the address of these bold admirers.

"Look at this precious phial, the incomparable elixir, the pabulum of
life, the grand arcanum, the supernaculum, the mother and regenerator
of nature, the source and the womb of all existence, past, present,
and to come!" The learned doctor paused, more from want of breath than
from scarcity of epithets wherewith to blazon forth the great virtues
of his discovery. Soon, however, he breathed again through the
mouth-slit in his mask, and blew on the phial, when lo! a vapour
issued from within, curling in long-drawn wreaths down the side, in a
manner most wonderful to behold.

This trick roused the admiration of his audience, but he made a sign
that they should be still, as their breath and acclamations might
disturb the process. He now thrust one finger into the vapour, when it
appeared to wind round his hand; then, letting the bottle drop, it
fell, suspended from the finger by this novel and extraordinary
chain--the vapour seeming to be the link by which it hung. This
unexpected feat repressed the noisy burst of applause which might have
been the result of a less wonderful device. Every one looked anxiously
and uneasily at his neighbour, and at the renowned Doctor Aboulfahrez,
not feeling comfortable, perhaps, or even safe, in the presence of so
exalted a personage. But new wonders were at hand. The mysterious
visitor uttered some cabalistic words, and lo! flames burst forth from
the magic phial, to the additional wonder and dismay of the beholders.

"When the Queen's grace doth will it, this box shall be opened; but it
will behove her to be discreet in what may follow, lest the charm be
evaded."

The Moorish slave was silent during this procedure, standing with
arms folded, as though he had been one of the mutes of his master's
harem, rather than ambassador to his "ladye love." With the assent of
Alice, the Doctor took in one hand the casket, which he cautiously
unlocked. The lid flew open by a secret spring, and a peacock of
surprising beauty and glittering plumage rose out of the box,
imitating the motions of the real bird to admiration. The mimic thing,
being placed on the floor, flapped its wings, and unfolded its tail
with all the pride and precision of the original.

"Beshrew me!" said Holt, approaching nearer to the performer, "but
thou hast been bred to the black art, I think. Some o' ye have catered
excellently for our pastime." But who it was none could ascertain,
each giving his neighbour credit secretly for the construction of
these dainty devices. Yet new wonders were about to follow, when the
bride and bridegroom, though wedded to each other's company, came
forward to see the spectacle. Not a guest was missing. Even those most
pleasantly occupied at the tables left their sack and canary, their
spices and confections. The musicians, too, and the menials, seemed to
have forgotten their several duties, and stood gaping and marvelling
at the show. Suddenly there flew open a little door in the breast of
the automaton bird, and out jumped a fair white pigeon, which, after
having performed many surprising feats, in its turn became the parent
of another progeny--to wit, a beautiful singing bird, or nightingale,
which warbled so sweetly, fluttering its wings with all the ecstacy of
that divine creature, that the listeners were nearly beside themselves
with ravishment and admiration. The nightingale now opened, and a
little humming-bird of most surprising brilliancy hopped forth, and
jumping up to the Queen, held out its beak, having a label therein,
apparently beseeching her to accept the offering. She stooped down to
receive the billet, which she hastily unfolded. What effect was
visible on her countenance we cannot pretend to say, inasmuch as the
mask precluded observation; but there was an evident tremor in her
frame. She seemed to be overpowered with surprise, and held out the
note as though for the moment incapable of deciding whether to accept
it or no. Then with a sudden effort she crumpled it together, and
thrust it behind her stomacher. Wonder sat silent and watchful on the
face of every beholder. The actors in this strange drama had replaced
the automata in the box again, closing its lid. The Moor had made his
_salaam_, the Doctor his obeisance, disappearing behind the screen
from which they had so mysteriously come forth. But at their departure
a train of fire followed upon their track, and a lambent flame played
curiously upon the wooden crockets for a few seconds, and then
disappeared.

Now was there a Babel of tongues unloosed, at first by sudden impulses
and whispers, then breaking forth by degrees into a loud and
continuous din of voices, all at once seeking to satisfy their
inquiries touching this strange and unexpected visit. Their host was
mightily pestered and besieged with questions and congratulations on
the subject, which he has promptly and peremptorily disclaimed,
attempting to fix the hatching of the plot upon the astonished
bridegroom. But even he would not father the conceit; and, in the end,
it began to be surmised that these were indeed what their appearance
betokened, or something worse, which cast a sudden gloom on the whole
assembly. Some sallied out of the door to watch, and others blamed the
master for not seizing and detaining these emissaries of Satan. Alice
was closely questioned as to the communication she had received; but
she replied, evasively perhaps, that it was only one of the usual
stale conceits appropriate to the masque.

Nothing more was heard or seen of them; and it was now high time they
should accompany the bridegroom to his own dwelling at Foxholes--a
goodly house situate on a pretty knoll near the town of Rochdale, and
about two miles distant from Stubley.

Now was there mustering and hurrying to depart. An unwieldy coach was
drawn up, into which the bride and her female attendants were
forthwith introduced, the bridegroom and his company going on foot. On
arriving at Foxholes, the needful ceremonies were performed. Throwing
the stocking, a custom then universally practised, was not omitted;
which agreeable ceremony was performed as follows:--

The female friends and relations conducted the bride to her chamber,
and the men the bridegroom. The latter then took the bride's
stockings, and the females those of the bridegroom. Sitting at the
bottom of the bed, the stockings were thrown over their heads. When
one of the "hurlers" hit the owner, it was deemed an omen that the
party would shortly be married. Meanwhile the posset was got ready,
and given to the newly-married couple.[14]

It was past midnight, yet Alice sat, solitary and watchful, at her
little casement. One fair white arm supported her cheek, and she was
gazing listlessly on the silver clouds as they floated in liquid
brightness across the full round disc of the moon, then high in the
meridian. Her thoughts were not on the scene she beheld. The mellow
sound of the waterfalls, the murmur from the river, came on with the
breeze, rising and falling like the deep pathos of some wild and
mysterious music. Memory, that busy enchanter, was at work; and the
scenes she had lately witnessed, so full of disquietude and mystery,
mingled with the returning tide of past and almost forgotten emotions.
We have said that the prevailing bent or bias of her disposition was
that of romance; and this idol of the imagination, this love of
strange and enervating excitement, had not been repressed by the
occurrences of the last few hours; on the contrary, she felt as though
some wondrous event was impending--some adventure which she alone
should achieve--some power that her own arm should contend with and
subdue.

She took the billet from her bosom; the moonlight alone fell upon it;
but the words were so indeliby fixed upon her imagination that she
fancied she could trace every word on that mystic tablet.

     "To-morrow, at midnight, in the haunted chamber! If thou hast
     courage, tarry there a while. Its occupant will protect
     thee."--['Wherefore am I so bent on this adventure? To visit
     the beggar in his lair!' thought she; and again she threw her
     eyes on the billet.] "Peril threatens thine house, which thy
     coming can alone prevent. Shouldest thou reveal but one word of
     this warning, thy life, and those dear to thee, will be the
     forfeit. From thine unknown monitor,

     "THESE."

The guest in the boggart-chamber was Noman, to whom it had been
allotted, and though he told of terrible sights and harrowing
disclosures, he seemed to brave them all with unflinching hardihood,
and even exulted in their repetition. To remain an hour or two with
such a companion was in itself a sufficiently novel adventure; but
that harm could come from such a source scarcely entered her
imagination. A feeling of irrepressible curiosity stimulated her, and
prevailed over every other consideration. It was not like spending the
time alone; this certainly would have been a formidable condition to
have annexed. Besides, would it not be a wicked and a wanton thing to
shrink from difficulty or danger when the welfare and even life of one
so dear as her brother, peradventure, depended on her compliance.
Another feeling, too, more complicated, and a little more selfish it
might be, was the hidden cause to which her inclinations might be
traced.

"Mine unknown monitor!" she repeated the words, and a thousand strange
and wayward fancies rose to her recollection. Often had she seen, when
least expecting it, a stranger, who, in whatsoever place they met,
preserved a silence respectful but mysterious. She had seen him in the
places of public resort, in the solitary woods, and in the highways;
but his reserve and secrecy were unbroken. When she inquired, not an
individual knew him; and though his form and features were indelibly
traced on her memory, she could never recall them without an effort,
which, whether it was attended with more of pain than of pleasure, we
will not venture to declare. Once or twice she had fancied, when
awaking in the dead stillness of the night, that an invisible
something was near and gazing upon her; but this feeling was soon
forgotten, though often revived whenever she was more than usually
sensitive or excited. The figure of the Moor was wonderfully similar
to the form of the mysterious unknown. But the secret was now, at any
rate, to be divulged; and a few hours would put her into possession of
the key to unlock this curious cabinet. So thought Alice, and her own
secret chambers of imagery were strangely distempered thereby. Was she
beloved by one of a higher order of beings, a denizen of the invisible
world, who tracked her every footstep, and hovered about her unseen?
She had heard that such things were, and that they held intercourse
with some favoured mortals--unlimited duration, and a nature more
exalted, subject to no change, being vouchsafed to the chosen ones.
The exploits at Stubley seemed to favour this hypothesis, and Alice
fell into a delicious reverie, as we have seen, well prepared for the
belief and reception of any stray marvels that might fall out by the
way.

Looking upon the moat which lay stagnant and unruffled beneath the
quiet gaze of the moon, she thought that a living form emerged from
the bushes on the opposite bank;--she could not be mistaken, it was
her unknown lover. Breathless she awaited the result; but the shadows
again closed around him, and she saw him not again. Bewildered,
agitated, and alarmed, the day was springing faintly in the dim east
when her eyelids lay heavy in the dew of their repose.

Morning was high and far risen in the clear blue atmosphere, but its
first and balmy freshness was passed when Alice left her chamber. She
looked paler and more languid than she was wont, and her brother
rallied her playfully on the consequences of last night's dissipation;
but her thoughts were otherwise engrossed, and she replied carelessly
and with an air of abstraction far different from her usual playful
and unrestrained spirit. The mind was absorbed, restricted to one sole
avenue of thought: all other impressions ceased to communicate their
impulse. Her brother departed soon afterwards to his morning
avocations; but Alice sat in the porch. She looked out on the hills
with a vacant, but not unwistful eye. Their slopes were dotted with
many a fair white dwelling, but the rigour of cultivation had not
extended so far up their barren heathery sides as now; yet many a
bright paddock, green amid the dark waste, and the little homestead,
the nucleus of some subsequent and valuable inheritance, proclaimed
the unceasing toil, the primeval curse, and the sweat of the brow,
that was here also.

To enjoy the warmth and freshness of the morning, Alice had removed
her spinning-wheel into the porch. Here she was engaged in the
primitive and good old fashion of preparing yarn for the wants of the
household--an occupation not then perfected into the system to which
it is now degraded. The wives and daughters of the wealthiest would
not then disdain to fabricate material for the household linen,
carrying us far back into simpler, if not happier times, when Homer
sung, and kings' daughters found a similar employment.

Alice was humming in unison with her wheel, her thoughts more free
from the very circumstance that her body was the subject of this
mechanical exercise.

"Good morrow, Mistress Alice!" said a sonorous voice at the entrance.
Turning suddenly, she espied the athletic beggar standing erect, with
his staff and satchel, on one side of the porch.

"Ha' ye an awmous to-day, lady?" He doffed his cap and held it forth,
more with the air of one bestowing a favour than soliciting one.

"Thou hast been i' the kitchen, I warrant," said Alice, "by the
breadth of thy satchel."

"An' what the worse are ye for that?" replied the saucy mendicant;
"your hounds and puppies would lick up the leavings, if I did not."

"Go to," said Alice, impatiently; "thou dost presume too far to escape
correction. Begone!"

"This air, I reckon--ay, this blessed air--is as free unto my use as
thine," said Noman, sullenly, and without showing any symptoms of
obedience.

"My brother shall know of thine insolence, and the menials shall drive
thee forth."

"Thy brother!--tell him, pretty maiden, that though he is a lawyer,
and his uncle, he who built this house to boot, he hath little left in
this misgoverned realm but to deal out injustice. Other folks' money
sticks i' their skirts that have precious little o' their own, I wis."

"I know not the nature of thine allusions, nor care I to bandy weapons
with such an adversary."

"Hark ye, lady! it was to solder down as pretty a piece of roguery as
one would wish to leave to one's heirs that Theophilus Ashton, thine
uncle, thy mother's brother, now deceased, went to London when he had
builded this house."

"Roguery!--mine uncle Ashton! Darest thou?"----

"Ay, the same. The spoils of my patrimony built this goodly dwelling,
and the battle of Marston Moor gave thy brother wherewith to buy the
remainder of the inheritance. I was made a beggar by my loyalty, he a
rich man by his treason."

"What means this foul charge?" said Alice, astounded by the audacity
of this accusation.

"But fear not. Had it not been for thee and another--whose well-being
is bound up in thine own--long ago would this goodly heritage have
been spoiled; for--revenge is sweeter even than possession; so
good-morrow, Mistress Alice."

"What, then, is thy business with me?"

"Wentest thou not from the masque with thy pretty love-billet behind
thy stomacher?"

"Insolent vagrant, this folly shall not go unpunished!"

"Hold, wench! provoke not an"----he paused for one second, but in that
brief space there came a change over his spirit, which in a moment was
subdued as though by some over-mastering effort--"an impotent old
man." His voice softened, and there was a touch even of pathos in the
expression. "To-night--fail not--I, ay even _I_, will protect thee.
Fear not; thy welfare hangs on that issue!"

Saying this, with an air of dignity far superior to his usual
bluntness and even rudeness of address, he slowly departed. Thoughts
crowded, like a honey swarm, to this hive of mystery, nor could she
throw off the impression which clung to her. She had been warned
against revealing this communication, but at one time she felt
resolved to make her brother acquainted with the whole, and to claim
his protection; but then came the warning, or rather threat, of some
hidden mischief that must inevitably follow the disclosure. "Surely,
in her own home, she might venture to walk unattended. The beggar she
had known for some time in his periodical visits; and though she felt
an unaccountable timidity in his presence, yet she certainly was
minded to make an experiment of the adventure; but"----And in this
happy state of doubt and fluctuation she remained until eventide, when
a calm bright moon, as it again rose over the hill, saw Alice at the
casement of her own chamber, looking thoughtfully, anxiously, down
where the dark surface of the stagnant moat wore a bright star on its
bosom. The scene, the soft and tender influence which it
possessed--the hour, soothing and elevating the mind, freed from the
harassing and petty cares of existence--to a romantic and imaginative
disposition these were all favourable to its effects--the development
of that ethereal spirit of our nature, that enchanter whose wand
conjures up the busy world within, creating all things according to
his own pleasure, and investing them with every attribute at his will.
She felt her fears give way, and her resolution was taken: the die was
cast, and she committed herself to the result. What share the
handsome, dark, and melancholy-looking stranger had in this decision
she did not pause to inquire, nor indeed could she have much if any
suspicion of the secret influence he excited. There was danger, and
this danger could only be averted by her interference: what might be
curiosity was at any rate her duty; and she, feeling mightily like
some devoted heroine, would not shrink from the trial. When once
brought to a decision she felt a load taken from her breast; she
breathed more freely, and her tread was more vigorous and elastic. She
left her chamber with a lofty mien, and the gentle Alice felt more
like the proud mistress of an empire than the inhabitant of a little
country dwelling when she re-entered the parlour: yet there was a
restless glance from her eye which ever and anon would start aside
from visible objects and wander about, apparently without aim or
discrimination. Her brother was busied, happily, with domestic duties,
too much engaged to notice any unusual disturbance in her demeanour,
and Alice employed her time to little profit until she heard the
appointed signal for rest. As they bade the usual "good-night," her
heart smote her: she looked on the unconscious, unsuspecting aspect of
her brother, and the whole secret of her heart was on her tongue: it
did not escape her lips; but the tear stood in her eye; and as she
closed the door it sounded like the signal of some long separation--as
though the portal had for ever closed upon her.

Wrapped in a dark mantle, with cap and hood, the maiden stepped forth
from her little closet about midnight. She bore a silver lamp that
waved softly in the night-wind as she went with a noiseless, timid
step through the passages to the haunted chamber. The room wherein the
beggar slept was somewhat detached from the rest of the dormitories. A
low gallery led by a narrow corridor to a flight of some two or three
steps into this room, now used for the stowage of lumber. It was said
to have been one of the apartments in the old house, forming a sort of
peduncle to the new, not then removed, like a remnant of the shell
sticking to the skirts of the new-fledged bird. This adjunct, the
beggar's dwelling, is now gone. An ancient doorcase with a grotesque
carving disclosed the entrance. She paused before it, not without a
secret apprehension of what might be going on within. For the first
time she felt the novelty, not to say imprudence, of her situation,
and the unfeminine nature of her exploit. She was just hesitating
whether or not to return when she heard the door slowly open; a tall,
gaunt, figure looked out, which she immediately recognised to be that
of the mendicant. Somewhat reassured, and her courage strengthened by
his appearance, she did not attempt to retreat, but stood silent for a
space, and seemingly not a little abashed; yet the purity of her
motives, as far as known to herself, soon recurred to her aid, and her
proud and somewhat haughty spirit immediately roused its energies when
she had to cope with difficulty and danger.

"I come to thy den, old man, that I may unriddle thy dark sayings."

"Or rather," replied he, slowly and emphatically, "that thou mayest
unriddle that pretty love-billet thou hast read."

"I am here in my brother's house, and surely I have both the right and
the power to walk forth unquestioned or unsuspected of an intrigue or
assignation," replied she, quick and tender on the point whereon her
own suspicions were disagreeably awakened.

"Come in, lady," said he, "and thou shall be safe from any suspicions
but thine own."

Alice entered, and the door was closed and bolted. Her feelings were
those of uneasiness, not unmixed with alarm. Before her stood the
athletic form of the mendicant; she was at some distance from the rest
of the family--none caring to have their biding-place in the immediate
vicinity of the haunted chamber--in the power, it might be, of this
strange and anomalous being. A miserable pallet lay on the floor in
one corner, and the room was nearly filled with useless lumber and the
remains of ancient materials from the old apartments. Probably it was
from this circumstance that the ghosts had their fancies for this
room, haunting the relics of the past, and lingering around their
former reminiscences. The light she held gleamed athwart the face of
her companion, and his features were strangely significant of some
concealed purpose.

"Whom do we meet in this place?" she inquired.

"Prithee, wait; thou wilt see anon. But let me counsel thee to remain
silent; what thou seest note, but make no reply. Be not afraid, for no
harm shall befall thee. But let me warn thee, maiden, that thou shrink
not from the trial."

He now slowly retired, and she watched his receding figure until it
was hidden behind a huge oaken bedstead in the corner. But he returned
not, and Alice felt terrified at being so unexpectedly left alone. She
called out to him, but there was no answer; she sought for some
outlet, but no trace was visible whereby he could have departed from
the chamber. As she was stooping down, suddenly the light was blown
out, and she felt herself seized by invisible hands.

"Be silent for thy life," said a strange whisper in her ear. She was
hurried on through vaults and passages; the cold damp air struck
chilly on her, and she felt as though descending into some unknown
depths, beneath the very foundations of her own dwelling. Darkness was
still about their steps; but she was borne along, at a swift pace, by
persons evidently accustomed to this subterraneous line of
communication.

"No harm shall happen thee," said the same whisper in her ear as
before. Suddenly a vivid light flashed out from an aperture or window,
and she heard a groaning or rumbling and the clank of chains; but this
was passed, and a pale dull light showed a low vaulted chamber, into
which Alice was conveyed. An iron lamp hung from the ceiling in what
seemed to have been one of the cellars of the old house, though she
was unaware beforetime of such a dangerous proximity. The door was
closed upon her, and again she was left alone. So confused and
agitated was she for a while that she felt unable to survey the
objects that encompassed her. By degrees, however, she regained
sufficient fortitude to make the examination. Her astonishment was
extreme when she beheld, ranged round the vault, coffers full of
coin--heaps of surprising magnitude exposed, the least of which would
have been a king's ransom; fair and glistering too, apparently fresh
from the hands of some cunning artificer. Her curiosity in some
measure getting the better of her fears, she ventured to touch one of
these tempting heaps--not being sure but that her night visions were
answerable for the illusion. She laid her hand on a hoard of bright
nobles. Another and another succeeded, yet each coffer held some fresh
denomination of coin. There were moneys of various nations, even to
the Spanish pistole and Turkish bezant. Such exhaustless wealth it had
never yet entered into her imagination to conceive--the very idea was
too boundless even for fancy to present. "Surely," thought she, "I am
in some fairy palace, where the combined wealth of every clime is
accumulated; and the king of the genii, or some old and ugly ogre, has
certes fallen in love with me, and means to present it for my dowry."
Smiling at this thought, even in the midst of her apprehensions--for
the blow which severed her from her friends was too stunning to be
felt immediately in all its rigour--she stood as one almost
transported with admiration and surprise. Yet her situation was far
from being either enviable or pleasant, though in the midst of a
treasure-house of wealth that would have made an emperor the richest
of his race. No solution that she could invent would at all solve the
problem--no key of interpretation would fit these intricate movements.
Here she stood, a prisoner perhaps, with the other treasures in the
vault; and assuredly the miser, whosoever he might be, had shown great
taste and judgment too in the selection. But the crisis was at hand.
The door opened, and she heard a footstep behind her. A form stood
before her whom she immediately recognised and perhaps expected. The
mysterious stranger was in her presence. With a respectful obeisance
he folded his hands on his bosom, but he spoke not.

"What wouldst thou? and why this outrage?" inquired she.

The intruder pointed to the surrounding treasures, then to himself: by
which she understood (so quickly interpretated is the mute eloquence
of passion) that he was in love with her, and devoted them all
exclusively to her service. But what answer she gave, permit me,
gentle reader, for a season to detain; for truly it is an event of so
marvellous a nature whereon our tradition now disporteth itself, that,
like an epicure hindering the final disposal of some delicate
mouthful, of which, when gulped, he feeleth no more the savour, so we
would, in like manner, courteous reader, do thee this excellent
service, in order that the sweetness of expectation may be prolonged
thereby; and the solution, like a kernal in the shell, not be crushed
by being too suddenly cracked.

Turn we now to the inmates at the hall, where, as may easily be
understood, there was a mighty stir and commotion when morning brought
the appointed hour, and Mistress Alice came not to the breakfast meal.
Her brother was at his wits' end when the forenoon passed, and still
there were no tidings. Messengers were sent far and near, and no place
was left untried where it was thought intelligence might be gained.
She was not to be found, nor any trace discovered of her departure.

Nicholas was returning from Foxholes, Stubley, and Pike House.
Passing, in a disconsolate mood, through the gate leading from the
lane to his own porch, he met Noman, apparently departing. The beggar,
seeing his approach, assumed his usual stiff and inflexible attitude,
pausing ere he passed. A vague surmise, for which he could not
account, prompted the suspicions of Nicholas Haworth towards this
unimportant personage.

"What is thy business to-day abroad?" he inquired hastily.

"A word in thine ear, master," said the beggar.

"Say on, then; and grant that it may have an inkling of my sister!"

"She hath departed."

"That I know. But whither?"

"Ask the little devilkins I saw yesternight. I have told ye oft o' the
sights and terrible things that have visited me i' the boggart
chamber, and that the ghost begged hard for a victim."

"What! thou dost not surely suppose he hath borne away my sister?"

"I have said it!" replied the mendicant, with an air of mystery.

"We'll have the place exorcised, and the spirit laid; and thou"--said
Nicholas, pausing--"have a care that we hale thee not before the
justice for practising with forbidden and devilish devices."

"I cry thee mercy, Master Haworth; but for what good deed am I to
suffer? I have brought luck to thine house hitherto, and what mischief
yon ghost hath wrought is none o' my doing. If thou wilt, I can rid
thee of his presence, and that speedily, even if 'twere Beelzebub
himself."

"But will thy conjurations bring back my sister?" said the wondering,
yet half-credulous squire.

"That is more than I can tell. But, to prove that I am not in league
with thine enemy, I will cast him out."

"Hath Alice been strangled, or in anywise hurt, by this wicked
spirit?"

"Nay," said the beggar solemnly, "I guess not; but I heard him pass
by, and the chains did rattle fearfully through mine ears, until I
heard them at her bed-chamber. He may have spirited her away to
fairy-land for aught I know; and yet she lives!"

"Save us, merciful Disposer of our lot!" said Nicholas, much moved to
sorrow at this strange recital, yet in somewise comforted by the
assurance it contained. "We are none of us safe from his visitations,
now they are extended hitherto. I dreamt not of danger beforetime,
though I have heard sounds, and seen unaccountable things; yet I
imagined that in the old chamber only he had power to work mischief;
and, even there, I did disbelieve much of thy story, as it respected
his freaks and the nature and manner of his visits. The rumblings that
I fancied at times in the dead of night were in the end disregarded
and almost forgotten."

"I too have heard the like, but I knew it was the spirit, and"----

"Beware, old man; for I do verily suspect thee as an abettor of these
unlawful practices."

"And so the reward for my testimony is like to end in a lying
accusation and a prison!"

"Canst thou win her back by driving from me this evil spirit?"

"I can lay the ghost, I tell thee, if thou wilt; but as for the other,
peradventure it lieth not within the compass or power of mortal man to
accomplish."

"What thou canst, let it be done without delay, for I would fain
behold a sight so wonderful; yet will I first take precaution to put
thee in durance until it be accomplished; perchance it may quicken
thee to this good work; and I do bethink me too, thou knowest more
than thou wouldest fain acknowledge of this evil dealing toward my
sister."

The beggar sought not to escape; he knew it would be in vain, for the
menials had surrounded them; and he was conveyed to the kitchen until
he should be ready for the important duties he had to perform.
To-morrow was appointed for the trial, but fearful was the night that
intervened--rattling of chains, falling of heavy weights, loud
rumblings, as though a coach-and-six were driving about the premises;
these, intermingled with shrieks and howlings, were not confined to
the old room, where the beggar lodged as heretofore, but were heard
and felt through the whole house. It seemed as though his presence had
hitherto confined them to the locality we have named, and that they
had burst their bounds on his departure. Little rest had the household
on that fearful night, and the morning was welcome to many who had
been terrified so that they scarcely expected to see the light of
another sun.

With the earliest dawn Nicholas Haworth hied him to the kitchen, where
the beggar, a close prisoner, was comfortably nestled on his couch.

"What ho!" said the squire, "thou canst sleep when others be waking.
Thy friends have been seeking thee through the night, mayhap. There
have been more shaking limbs than hungry stomachs, I trow."

"I know of naught that should keep me waking; my conscience made no
echo to the knocking without; and so good-morrow, Master Nicholas."

There came one at this moment running in almost breathless, to say
that the cart-horses were all harnessed and yoked ready in the stable
by invisible hands, and that no one durst take them from their stalls.
On the heels of this messenger came another, who shouted out that the
bull, a lusty and well-thriven brute, was quietly perched, in most
bull-like gravity, upon the hay-mow. It being impossible, or contrary
to the ordinary law of gravitation, that he could have thus
transported himself, what other than demon hands could or durst have
lifted so ponderous and obstinate a beast into the place? In short,
such were the strange and out-of-the-way frolics that had been
committed, that Satan and all his company seemed to have been let
loose upon the household on this memorable night.

"Thou shalt rid us of these pests, or by the head of St Nicholas,"
said his namesake, "the hangman shall singe thy beard for a
fumigation."

"Let me go, and the spirit shall not trouble thee."

"Nay, gaffer, thou dost not escape me thus; my sister, we have yet no
tidings of her, and, it may be, those followers or familiars of thine
can help me to that knowledge."

"I tell thee I'll lay the ghost while the holly's green, or mire in
Dearnly Clough, should it so please thee, Master Nicholas; but I must
first be locked up for a space in the haunted chamber alone. Keep
watch at both door and loophole, if thou see fit; but I gi'e thee my
word that I'll not escape."

"Agreed," said Haworth; "but it shall not avail thee, thou crafty fox,
for we will watch, and that right diligently; unless the de'il fly
away with thee, thou shalt not escape us."

The bargain was made, and Noman was speedily conducted to the chamber.
Sentinels were posted at the door, and round the outside, to prevent
either entrance or exit.

A long hour had nigh elapsed, and the watchers were grown weary. Some
thought he had gone off in a chariot of smoke through the roof, or in
a whirlwind of infernal brimstone; while others, not a few, were out
of doors gazing steadfastly up towards the chimneys, expecting to see
him perched there, like a daw or starling, ready for flight. But when
the hour was fulfilled, the beggar lifted up the latch, and walked
forth alone, without let or molestation.

"Whither away, Sir Grey-back?" said Nicholas, "and wherefore in such
haste? We have a word or so ere thou depart. Art thou prepared?"

"Ay, if it so please thee."

"And when dost thou begin thine exorcism?"

"Now, if so be that thou have courage. But I warn thee of danger
therefrom. If thou persist, verily in this chamber shall it be done."

"Then return, we will follow--as many as have courage, that is," said
Nicholas Haworth, looking round and observing that his attendants,
with pale faces and mewling stomachs, did manifest a wondrous
inquietude, and a sudden eagerness to depart. Yet were there some
whose curiosity got the better of their fears, and who followed, or
rather hung upon their master's skirts, into the chamber, which, even
in the broad and cheerful daylight, looked a gloomy and comfortless
and unhallowed place. Noman commanded that silence should be kept,
that not even a whisper should breathe from other lips than his own.
He drew a line with his crutch upon the floor, and forbade that any
should attempt to pass this imaginary demarcation. The auditors were
all agape, and but that the door was fastened, some would doubtless
have gone back, repenting of their temerity.

After several unmeaning mummeries and incantations, the chamber
appeared to grow darker, and a low rumbling noise was heard, as from
some subterraneous explosion.

"_Dominus vobiscum_," said the necromancer; and a train of fire leapt
suddenly across the room. A groan of irrepressible terror ran through
the company; but the exorcist, with a look of reprehension for their
disobedience, betook himself again to his ejaculations. Retiring
backwards a few paces to a corner of the room, he gave three audible
knocks upon the floor, which, to the astonishment and dismay of the
assembly, were distinctly repeated, apparently from beneath. Thrice
was this ceremony gone through, and thrice three times was the same
answer returned.

"Restless spirit," said the conjuror, solemnly, and in a voice and
manner little accordant with those of an obscure and unlearned beggar;
"why art thou disquieted, and what is the price of thy departure?"

No answer was given, though the question was repeated. The adjurer
appeared, for one moment, fairly at a nonplus.

"By thine everlasting doom, I conjure thee, answer me!" Still there
was no reply. "Thou shalt not evade me thus," said he, indignant at
the slight which was put upon his spells. He drew a little ebony box
from his bosom, and on opening it smoke issued therefrom, like the
smell of frankincense. With this fumigation he used many uncouth and
horrible words, hard names, and so forth, which probably had no
existence save in the teeming issue of his own brain. During this
operation groans were heard, at first low and indistinct, then loud
and vehement; soon they broke into a yell, so shrill and piercing that
several of the hearers absolutely tried, through horror and
desperation, to burst the door; but this was secure, and their egress
prevented thereby.

"Now answer me what thou wouldst have, and tell me the terms of thy
departure hence."

A low murmur was heard. The beggar listened with great attention.

"This wandering ghost avoucheth," said he, after all was silent, "that
there be two of them, and that they rest not until they have taken
possession of this house, and driven the inhabitants therefrom."

"Hard law this," said Nicholas Haworth; "but, for all their racket, I
shan't budge."

"Then must they have a sacrifice for the wrong done when they were i'
the body; being slain, as they say, by their guardian, a wicked uncle,
that he might possess the inheritance."

Again he made question, looking all the while as though talking to
something that was present and visible before him.

"What would ye for your sacrifice, evil and hateful things? for I
know, in very deed, that ye are not the innocent and heavenly babes
whose spirits are now in glory, but devilish creatures who have been
permitted to walk here unmolested, for the wickedness that hath been
done. Again, I say that your unwillingness sufficeth not, for ye shall
be driven hence this blessed day."

Another shriek announced their apprehension at this threat, and again
there was a murmuring as before.

"He sayeth," cried the exorcist, after listening a while, "they must
have a living body sacrificed, and in four quarters it must be laid;
then shall these wicked spirits not return hither until what is
severed be joined together. With this hard condition we must be
content."

"Then, by 'r lady's grace, if none else there be, thou shalt be the
holocaust for thy pains," said Nicholas, "for I think we need not any
other. What say ye, shall not this wizard be the sacrifice, and we
then rid the world of a batch of evil things at once?" He looked with
a cruel eye upon the mendicant; for he judged that his sister had, in
some way or another, fallen a victim to his devilish plots; and he
would have thought it little harm to have poured out his blood on the
spot. The beggar seemed aware of his danger, but with a loud and
peremptory tone he cried--

"There needeth not so costly an oblation. Bring hither the first brute
animal ye behold, any one of you, on crossing the threshold of the
porch."

A messenger was accordingly sent, who returned with a barn-door fowl
in his hand, a well-fed chanticleer, whose crow that morning had
awakened his cackling dames for the last time.

With great solemnity the conjuror went forth from the chamber, and in
the courtyard the fowl was named "John;" sponsors standing in due
form, as at an ordinary baptism. Then the bird was dismembered, or
rather divided into four parts, according to the directions they had
received. These were afterwards disposed of as follows:--one was
buried at Little Clegg, in a field close by, another under one of the
hearth-flags in the hall, another at the Beil Bridge, by the river
which runs past Belfield, and the remaining quarter under the
barn-floor. Nicholas continued to look on with a curious eye until the
ceremony was concluded, when, after a brief pause, he inquired--

"Have there been no tidings yet from Alice? Can thine art not disclose
to me whither she be gone?"

"The maiden lives," said the beggar doggedly.

"Thou knowest of her hiding, then?" said her brother sharply, and with
a cunning glance directed towards the speaker.

"The spirit said so," replied Noman, as though wishful to evade or to
shrink from the question.

"And what else?" inquired the other; "for by my halidome thou stirrest
not hence until she be forthcoming, alive or dead! I verily
suspect--nay, more, I charge thee with forcibly detaining her against
her own privity or consent."

The beggar looked steadily upon him, not a whit either moved or
abashed at this bold accusation.

"Peradventure thou speakest without heed and unadvisedly. I tell thee
again, thou wouldest have been driven hence ere now had it not been
for others whom that spirit must obey."

"Who art thou?" said the perplexed inquirer; "for thou art either
worse or better than thou seemest."

"Once the rightful heir, now a beggar, in these domains, wrested from
me by rapine and the harpy fangs of injustice misnamed law. Theophilus
Ashton, from whom ye took your share of the inheritance when death
dislodged it from his gripe, won it himself most foully from my
ancestors;--and have I not a right to hate thee?"

"And so thy vengeance hath fallen upon a defenceless woman?"

"Nay, I said not so; but if I had so minded I might have been glutted
with vengeance, ay, to my heart's core. Hark thee. Secrets I have
learned that will bind the hidden things of darkness, and bow them to
my behest. The unseen powers and operations of nature have been open
to my gaze. Long ago my converse and companionship were with the
learned doctors and sages of the East. In Spain I have walked in the
palace of the Moorish kings, the Alhambra at Grenada; and in Arabia I
have learned the mystic cabala, and worshipped in the temple of the
holy prophet!"

"And yet thou comest a beggar to my door! Truly thy spells have
profited thee little."

The beggar smiled scornfully. "Riches inexhaustible, unlimited are
mine; while nature is unveiled at my command."

"Thou speakest riddles, old man; or thou dost hug the very spectres of
thy brain, which men call madness."

"I am not mad; save it be madness that I have not hurled thee from
this thy misgotten heritage. A power of mighty and all prevading
energy hath hindered me, and, it may be, rescued thee from
destruction."

"Unto what unknown intercessor do I owe this forbearance?"

"Love!" said the mendicant, with an expression of withering and
baneful scorn; "a silly hankering for a puling girl."

"Thee!--in love?"

"And is it so strange, so hard and incapable of belief, that in a
frosty but vigorous age, the sap should be fresh though the outward
trunk look withered and without verdure?"

Nicholas shuddered. A harrowing suspicion crossed him that his beloved
sister had fallen a victim to the lawless passions of this hoary
delinquent.

"Thou dost judge wrongfully," said the beggar; "she appertaineth not
to me. 'Tis long since I have drunk of that maddening cup, a woman's
love. Would that another had not taken its intoxicating draught."

"Thou but triflest with me," said Haworth; "let the maiden go, or
beware my vengeance."

"Thy vengeance! Weak, impotent man! what canst thou do? Thy threats I
hold lighter than the breath that makes them; thy cajolments I value
less than these; and thy rewards--why, the uttermost wealth that thou
couldst boast would weigh but as a feather against the riches at my
disposal."

"Then give her back at my request."

"I tell thee she is not mine, nor in my charge."

"But thou knowest of her detention, and where she is concealed."

"What if I do? will that help thee to the discovery?"

"Point out the place, or conduct me thither, and"----

The mendicant here burst forth into a laugh so tantalising and
malicious that Nicholas, though silent, grew pale with choler.

"Am I a fool?" said the exorcist; "an everyday fool? a simpleton of
such a dastardly condition that thou shouldest think to whine me from
my purpose? Never."

Scarcely was the word spoken when a loud and awful explosion shook the
building to its foundations. Horror and consternation were seen upon
the hitherto composed features of the beggar. He grasped his crutch,
and with a yell of unutterable anguish he cried, "Ruined--betrayed!
May the fiends follow ye for this mischance!"

He threw himself almost headlong down the steps, and ran with rapid
strides through the yard, followed by Nicholas, who seemed in a stupor
of astonishment at these mysterious events.

Passing round to the other side of the house, he saw a smoke rising in
a dense unbroken column from an outbuilding beyond the moat, towards
which Noman was speedily advancing. Suddenly he slackened his pace. He
paused, seemingly undecided whither to proceed. He then turned sharply
round and made his way into the kitchen, passing up a staircase into
the haunted chamber, still followed by Nicholas Haworth, and not a few
who were lookers-on, hoping to ascertain the cause of this alarm.

To their great surprise the beggar hastily displaced some lumber, and,
raising a trap-door, quickly disappeared down a flight of steps. With
little hesitation the master followed, and keeping the footsteps of
his leader within hearing, he cautiously went forward, convinced that
in some way or another this opportune but inexplicable event would
lead to the discovery of his sister.

Suddenly he heard a shriek. He felt certain it was the voice of Alice.
He rushed on; but some unseen barrier opposed his progress. He heard
noises and hasty footsteps beyond, evidently in hurry and confusion.
The door was immediately opened, and he beheld Noman bearing out the
half-lifeless form of Alice. Smoke, and even flame, followed hard upon
their flight; but she was conveyed upwards to a place of safety.

"There," said the mendicant, when he had laid down his burden, "at the
peril of all I possess, and of life too, I have rescued her. My hopes
are gone--my schemes for ever blasted--and I am a ruined, wretched old
man, without a home or a morsel of bread."

He walked out through the porch, Nicholas being too busily engaged in
attending to the restoration of Alice to heed his escape. Two other
men, strangers, had before emerged from the avenue. In the confusion
of the moment their flight was effected, and they were seen no more.

When Alice was sufficiently recovered, Nicholas, to his utter surprise
and dismay, learned that she had been doomed to be imprisoned, even in
her own house, until she consented to be the wife of one whom, however
he might have won upon her regard by fair and honest courtship, she
hated and repulsed for this traitorous and forcible detention. Yet
they had not dared to let her go, lest the secrets of her prison-house
should be told. The false beggar, whose real name was Clegg, having
become an adept in the art of coining, acquired during his residence
abroad, and likewise having arrived at the knowledge of many chemical
secrets long hidden from the vulgar and uninitiated, had leagued
himself with one of the like sort, together with his own son, a
handsome well-favoured youth (whose mother he had rescued from a
Spanish convent), for the purpose of carrying on a most extensive
manufacture and issue of counterfeit money of several descriptions.
His former knowledge, when young, of his ancestors' mansion at Clegg
Hall suggested the fitness of this spot for their establishment. Its
situation was sequestered; and the ancient vaults, though nearly
filled with rubbish, might yet be made available for their purpose.
The secret entrance, and, above all, the currently-believed story of
the ghost, might afford facilities for frightening away those who were
disposed to be curious; and any noises unavoidable in the course of
their operations might be attributed to this fruitful source of
imposture. By a little dexterity, possession of the haunted chamber
was obtained, the feigned beggar being a periodical visitant; thence a
ready entrance was contrived, and all materials were introduced that
were needful for their fraudulent proceedings. Many months their
traffic was carried on without discovery; and in the beggar's wallet
counterfeit money to a considerable amount was conveyed, and
distributed by other agents into general circulation. Well might he
say that boundless wealth was at their command; the means employed in
disposing of the proceeds of their ingenuity were well calculated for
the purpose. They had proposed, by machinations and alarms, to drive
away utterly the present inhabitants and possessors of the Hall. The
reign of terror was about to commence, plans being already matured for
this purpose, had not the younger Clegg seen Alice Haworth; and love,
that mighty controller of human affairs and devices, most
inopportunely frustrated their intentions. The elder Clegg, too, was
induced to aid the design, hoping that, should a union take place, the
inheritance might revert into the old channel. We have seen the
result: the wilfulness and obduracy of Alice, and the infatuation of
the lover, who had thought to dazzle her with the riches he purposely
spread before her, prevented the success of their schemes. She
peremptorily refused and repulsed him, accusing him of a gross and
wanton outrage. What might have been the end of this contention we
know not, seeing that an unforeseen accident caused the explosion
which led to her escape and the flight of her captors.

What remained of the old house was pulled down. The vaults and
cellars, which were found to extend for a considerable distance even
beyond the moat, were walled up, and every vestige that was left,
together with an immense hoard of counterfeit money, was completely
destroyed.

     [11] Her marriage-gift was £500, nineteen cows,
     and a bull,--a magnificent portion in those days.

     [12] We are sorry that this remark should come
     from the historian of Whalley; but our respect for the author
     even will not suffer us to let it pass unnoticed. The passage,
     indeed, refutes itself, and we need refer to none other than
     the very terms of the accusation. The circumstance of Bath
     "going out under the Bartholomew Act," that master-movement of
     spiritual tyranny, issued by an ill-advised and sensual
     monarch, when two thousand and upwards of conscientious
     clergymen were driven from their flocks and deprived of their
     benefices in one day, is a sufficient denial of what the
     learned doctor has insinuated, as it respects complying "with
     all changes" from mere self-interest and worldly lucre. For
     what could have hindered this conscientious and self-denying
     minister from conforming to the terms of the act, and securing
     his goodly benefice thereby, if it were not a zealous and
     honest regard to the vows he had taken, and the future welfare
     of his flock; which the very fact of his subsequent preaching
     to crowded auditories at his own house sufficiently
     corroborates. We know the persecutions, the malice, and the
     poverty, which would assail this unlicensed administration of
     ordinances; and nothing but a reverential awe for the sacred
     and responsible functions he had undertaken could have
     stimulated him to "endure the cross and despise the shame,"
     when a very different line of conduct would have left him in
     the undisturbed possession of both wealth and patronage. But,
     we are afraid, the unpardonable offence of preaching in the
     church under the authority and protection of the Commonwealth,
     and his leaving her pale and preaching to "crowded auditories,"
     when the wicked decree of St Bartholomew went forth, is
     ungrateful to the spirit of many, who ought not to stigmatise
     as sectaries and malignants all who have dared to think for
     themselves, and at anytime to oppose "spiritual wickedness" in
     "high places." The very principles which made Bath an outcast
     for conscience' sake are those which originated and led on the
     work of our Protestant Reformation, and placed the historian of
     Whalley where his sacred functions should have led him to
     respect the rights and consciences even of those from whom he
     might differ, and not hold them up to unmerited obloquy and
     reprehension.

     [13] This interesting and curious relic is now in
     the possession of the Rev. J. Clowes of Broughton, whose
     ancestor, Samuel Clowes, Esq., about the year 1690, married
     Mary Cheetham, a descendant of Humphrey Cheetham, founder of
     the Manchester Blue Coat School. In 1713, after the death of
     James Holt, whose faithful rebuke from the Bishop of Chester we
     have noticed in the introduction, Castleton came into
     possession of the Cheethams until the death of Edward Cheetham,
     in 1769.

     The screen is now made into a side-board, and is most
     fancifully and beautifully wrought with crests, ciphers, and
     cognisances, belonging to the Holts and many of the
     neighbouring families.

     [14] Brand's _Popular Antiquities_, ii. 86-96.


[Illustration: THE MERMAID OF MARTIN MEER]




THE MERMAID OF MARTIN MEER.


     "Now the dancing sunbeams play
     O'er the green and glassy sea:
     Come with me, and we will go
     Where the rocks of coral grow."



     Little needs to be said by way of introduction or explanation
     of the following tale. Martin Meer is now in process of
     cultivation; the plough and the harrow leave more enduring
     furrows on its bosom. It is a fact, curious enough in
     connection with our story, that some years ago, in digging and
     draining, a canoe was found here. How far this may confirm our
     tradition, we leave the reader to determine. It is scarcely two
     miles from Southport; and the botanist, as well as the
     entomologist, would find themselves amply repaid by a visit.


Martin Meer, the scene of the following story, we have described in
our first series of _Traditions_, where Sir Tarquin, a carnivorous
giant, is slain by Sir Lancelot of the Lake. These circumstances, and
more of the like purport on this subject, we therefore omit, as being
too trite and familiar to bear repetition. We do not suppose the
reader to be quite so familiar with the names and fortunes of Captain
Harrington and Sir Ralph Molyneux, though they had the good fortune to
be born eleven hundred years later, and to have seen the world, in
consequence, eleven hundred years older--we wish we could say wiser
and better tempered, less selfish and less disposed to return hard
knocks, and to be corrupted with evil communications. But man is the
same in all ages. The external habits and usages of society change his
mode of action--clothe the person and passions in a different garb;
but their form and substance, like the frame they inhabit, are
unchanged, and will continue until this great mass of intelligence,
this mischievous compound of good and evil, this round rolling earth,
shall cease to swing through time and space--a mighty pendulum, whose
last stroke shall announce the end of time, the beginning of eternity!

Our story gets on indifferently the while; but a willing steed is none
the worse for halting. Harrington and his friend Sir Ralph were spruce
and well-caparisoned cavaliers, living often about court towards the
latter end of Charles the Second's reign. What should now require
their presence in these extreme regions of the earth, far from society
and civilisation, it is not our business to inquire. It sufficeth for
our story that they were here, mounted, and proceeding at a shuffling
trot along the flat, bare, sandy region we have described.

"How sweetly and silently that round sun sinks into the water!" said
Harrington.

"But doubtless," returned his companion, "if he were fire, as thou
sayest, the liquid would not bear his approach so meekly; why, it
would boil if he were but chin-deep in yon great seething-pot."

"Thou art quicker at a jest than a moral, Molyneux," said the other
and graver personage; "thou canst not even let the elements escape thy
gibes. I marvel how far we are from our cousin Ireland's at Lydiate.
My fears mislead me, or we have missed our way. This flat bosom of
desolation hath no vantage-ground whence we may discern our path; and
we have been winding about this interminable lake these two hours."

"Without so much as a blade of grass or a tree to say 'Good neighbour'
to," said Molyneux, interrupting his companion's audible reverie.
"Crows and horses must fare sumptuously in these parts."

"This lake, I verily think, follows us; or we are stuck to its side
like a lady's bauble."

"And no living thing to say 'Good-bye,' were it fish or woman."

"Or mermaid, which is both." Scarcely were the words uttered when
Harrington pointed to the water.

"Something dark comes upon that burning track left on the surface by
the sun's chariot wheels."

"A fishmonger's skiff belike," said Sir Ralph.

They plunged through the deep sandy drifts towards the brink,
hastening to greet the first appearance of life which they had found
in this region of solitude. At a distance they saw a female floating
securely, and apparently without effort, upon the rippling current.
Her form was raised half-way above the water, and her long hair hung
far below her shoulders. This she threw back at times from her
forehead, smoothing it down with great dexterity. She seemed to glide
on slowly, and without support; yet the distance prevented any very
minute observation.

"A bold swimmer, o' my troth!" said Molyneux; "her body tapers to a
fish's tail, no doubt, or my senses have lost their use."

Harrington was silent, looking thoughtful and mysterious.

"I'll speak to yon sea-wench."

"For mercy's sake, hold thy tongue. If, as I suspect--and there be
such things, 'tis said, in God's creation--thou wilt"----

But the tongue of this errant knight would not be stayed; and his loud
musical voice swept over the waters, evidently attracting her notice,
and for the first time. She drew back her dark hair, gazing on them
for a moment, when she suddenly disappeared. Harrington was sure she
had sunk; but a jutting peninsula of sand was near enough to have
deceived him, especially through the twilight, which now drew on
rapidly.

"And thou hast spoken to her!" said he gravely; "then be the answer
thine!"

"A woman's answer were easier parried than a sword-thrust, methinks;
and that I have hitherto escaped."

"Let us be gone speedily. I like not yon angry star spying out our
path through these wilds."

"Thou didst use to laugh at my superstitions; but thine own, I guess,
are too chary to be meddled with."

"Laugh at me an' thou wilt," said Harrington: "when Master Lilly cast
my horoscope he bade me ever to eschew travel when Mars comes to his
southing, conjunct with the Pleiades, at midnight--the hour of my
birth. Last night, as I looked out from where I lay at Preston,
methought the red warrior shot his spear athwart their soft
scintillating light; and as I gazed, his ray seemed to ride half-way
across the heavens. Again he is rising yonder."

"And his meridian will happen at midnight?"

"Even so," replied Harrington.

"Then gallop on. I'd rather make my supper with the fair dames at
Lydiate than in a mermaid's hall."

But their progress was a work of no slight difficulty, and even
danger. Occasionally plunging to the knees in a deep bog, then wading
to the girth in a hillock of sand and prickly bent grass (the _Arundo
arenaria_, so plentiful on these coasts), the horses were scarcely
able to keep their footing--yet were they still urged on. Every step
was expected to bring them within sight of some habitation.

"What is yonder glimmer to the left?" said Molyneux. "If it be that
hideous water again, it is verily pursuing us. I think I shall be
afraid of water as long as I live."

"As sure as Mahomet was a liar, and the Pope has excommunicated him
from Paradise, 'tis the same still, torpid, dead-like sea we ought to
have long since passed."

"Then have our demonstrations been in a circle, in place of a right
line, and we are fairly on our way back again."

Sure enough there was the same broad, still surface of the Meer,
though on the contrary side, mocking day's last glimmer in the west.
The bewildered travellers came to a full pause. They took counsel
together while they rested their beasts and their spur-rowels; but the
result was by no means satisfactory. One by one came out the glorious
throng above them, until the heavens grew light with living hosts, and
the stars seemed to pierce the sight, so vivid was their brightness.

"Yonder is a light, thank Heaven!" cried Harrington.

"And it is approaching, thank your stars!" said his companion. "I
durst not stir to meet it, through these perilous paths, if our
night's lodging depended on it."

The bearer of this welcome discovery was a kind-hearted fisherman, who
carried a blazing splinter of antediluvian firewood dug from the
neighbouring bog; a useful substitute for more expensive materials.

It appeared they were at a considerable distance from the right path,
or indeed from any path that could be travelled with safety, except by
daylight. He invited them to a lodging in a lone hut on the borders of
the lake, where he and his wife subsisted by eel-catching and other
precarious pursuits. The simplicity and openness of his manner
disarmed suspicion. The offer was accepted, and the benighted heroes
found themselves breathing fish-odours and turf-smoke for the night,
under a shed of the humblest construction. His family consisted of a
wife and one child only; but the strangers preferred a bed by the
turf-embers to the couch that was kindly offered them.

The cabin was built of the most simple and homely materials. The walls
were pebble-stones from the sea-beach, cemented with clay. The
roof-tree was the wreck of some unfortunate vessel stranded on the
coast. The whole was thatched with star-grass or sea-reed, blackened
with smoke and moisture.

"You are but scantily peopled hereabouts," said Harrington, for lack
of other converse.

"Why, ay," returned the peasant; "but it matters nought; our living is
mostly on the water."

"And it might be with more chance of company than on shore; we saw a
woman swimming or diving there not long ago."

"Have ye seen her?" inquired both man and dame with great alacrity.

"Seen whom?" returned the guest.

"The Meer-woman, as we call her."

"We saw a being, but of what nature we are ignorant, float and
disappear as suddenly as though she were an inhabitant of yon world of
waters."

"Thank mercy! Then she will be here anon."

Curiosity was roused, though it failed in procuring the desired
intelligence. She might be half-woman half-fish for aught they knew.
She always came from the water, and was very kind to them and the
babe. Such was the sum of the information; yet when they spoke of the
child there was evidently a sort of mystery and alarm, calculated to
awaken suspicion.

Harrington looked on the infant. It was on the woman's lap asleep,
smiling as it lay; and an image of more perfect loveliness and repose
he had never beheld. It might be about a twelvemonth old; but its
dress did not correspond with the squalid poverty by which it was
surrounded.

"Surely this poor innocent has not been stolen," thought he. The child
threw its little hands towards him as it awoke; and he could have
wept. Its short feeble wail had smitten him to the heart.

Suddenly they heard a low murmuring noise at the window.

"She is there," said the woman; "but she likes not the presence of
strangers. Get thee out to her, Martin, and persuade her to come in."

The man was absent for a short time. When he entered, his face
displayed as much astonishment as it was possible to cram into a
countenance so vacant.

"She says our lives were just now in danger; and that the child's
enemies are again in search; but she has put them on the wrong scent.
We must not tarry here any longer; we must remove, and that speedily.
But she would fain be told what is your business in these parts, if ye
are so disposed."

"Why truly," said Harrington, "our names and occupation need little
secrecy. We are idlers at present, and having kindred in the
neighbourhood, are on our way to the Irelands at Lydiate, as we before
told thee. Verily, there is but little of either favour or profit to
be had about court now-a-days. Nought better than to loiter in hall
and bower, and fling our swords in a lady's lap. But why does the
woman ask? Hath she some warning to us? or is there already a spy upon
our track?"

"I know not," said Martin; "but she seems mightily afeard o' the
child."

"If she will entrust the babe to our care," said Harrington, after a
long pause, "I will protect it. The shield of the Harringtons shall be
its safeguard."

The fisherman went out with this message; and on his return it was
agreed that, as greater safety would be the result, the child should
immediately be given to Harrington. A solemn pledge was required by
the unseen visitant that the trust should be surrendered whenever, and
by whomsoever, demanded; likewise a vow of inviolable secrecy was
exacted from the parties that were present. Harrington drew a signet
from his finger; whoever returned it was to receive back the child. He
saw not the mysterious being to whom it was sent; but the idea of the
Meer-woman, the lake, and the untold mysteries beneath its quiet
bosom, came vividly and painfully on his recollection.

Long after she had departed, the strange events of the evening kept
them awake. Inquiries were now answered without hesitation. Harrington
learned that the "Meer-woman's" first appearance was on a cold wintry
day, a few months before. She did not crave protection from the
dwellers in the hut, but seemed rather to command it. Leaving the
infant with them, and promising to return shortly, she seemed to
vanish upon the lake, or rather, she seemed to glide away on its
surface so swiftly that she soon disappeared. Since then she had
visited them thrice, supplying them with a little money and other
necessaries; but they durst not question her, she looked so strange
and forbidding.

In the morning they were conducted to Lydiate by the fisherman, who
also carried the babe. Here they told a pitiable story of their having
found the infant exposed, the evening before, by some unfeeling
mother; and, strange to say, the truth was never divulged until the
time arrived when Harrington should render up his trust.

Years passed on. Harrington saw the pretty foundling expand through
every successive stage from infancy to childhood--lovelier as each
year unfolded some hidden grace, and the bloom brightened as it grew.
He had married in the interval, but was yet childless. His lady was
passionately fond of her charge, and Grace Harrington was the pet and
darling of the family. No wonder their love to the little stranger was
growing deeper, and was gradually acquiring a stronger hold on their
affections. But Harrington remembered his vow: it haunted him like a
spectre. It seemed as though written with a sunbeam on his memory; but
the finger of death pointed to its accomplishment. It will not be
fulfilled without blood, was the foreboding that assailed him. His
lady knew not of his grief, ignorant happily of its existence, and of
its source.

Their mansion stood on a rising ground but a few miles distant from
the lake. He thus seemed to hover instinctively on its precincts;
though, in observance of his vow, he refrained from visiting that
lonely hut, or inquiring about its inhabitants. Its broad smooth bosom
was ever in his sight; and when the sun went down upon its wide brim
his emotion was difficult to conceal.

One soft, clear evening, he sat enjoying the calm atmosphere, with his
lady and their child. The sun was nigh setting, and the lake glowed
like molten fire at his approach.

"'Tis said a mermaid haunts yon water," said Mrs Harrington; "I have
heard many marvellous tales of her, a few years ago. Strange enough,
last night I dreamed she took away our little girl, and plunged with
her into the water. But she never returned."

"How I should like to see a mermaid!" said the playful girl. "Nurse
says they are beautiful ladies with long hair and green eyes.
But"--and she looked beseechingly towards them--"we are always
forbidden to ramble towards the Meer."

"Harrington, the night wind makes you shiver. You are ill!"

"No, my love. But--this cold air comes wondrous keen across my bosom,"
said he, looking wistfully on the child, who, scarcely knowing why,
threw her little arms about his neck, and wept.

"My dream, I fear, hath strange omens in it," said the lady
thoughtfully.

The same red star shot fiercely up from the dusky horizon; the same
bright beam was on the wave; and the mysterious incidents of the
fisherman's hut came like a track of fire across Harrington's memory.

"Yonder is that strange woman again that has troubled us about the
house these three days," said Mrs Harrington, looking out from the
balcony; "we forbade her yesterday. She comes hither with no good
intent."

Harrington looked over the balustrade. A female stood beside a pillar,
gazing intently towards him. Her eye caught his own; it was as if a
basilisk had smitten him. Trembling, yet fascinated, he could not turn
away his glance; a smile passed on her dark-red visage--a grin of joy
at the discovery.

"Surely," thought he, "'tis not the being who claims my child!" But
the woman drew something from her hand, which, at that distance,
Harrington recognised as his pledge. His lady saw not the signal;
without speaking, he obeyed. Hastening down-stairs, a private
audience confirmed her demand, which the miserable Harrington durst
not refuse.

Two days he was mostly in private. Business with the steward was the
ostensible motive. He had sent an urgent message to his friend
Molyneux, who, on the third day, arrived at H----, where they spent
many hours in close consultation. The following morning Grace came
running in after breakfast. She flung her arms about his neck.

"Let me not leave you to-day," she sobbed aloud.

"Why, my love?" said Harrington, strangely disturbed at the request.

"I do not know!" replied the child, pouting.

"To-day I ride out with Sir Ralph to the Meer, and as thou hast often
wished--because it was forbidden, I guess--thou shalt ride with us a
short distance; I will toss thee on before me, and away we'll
gallop--like the Prince of Trebizond on the fairy horse."

"And shall we see the mermaid?" said the little maiden quickly, as
though her mind had been running on the subject.

"I wish the old nurse would not put such foolery in the girl's head,"
said Mrs Harrington impatiently. "There be no mermaids now, my love."

"What! not the mermaid of Martin Meer?" inquired the child, seemingly
disappointed.

Harrington left the room, promising to return shortly.

The morning was dull, but the afternoon broke out calm and bright.
Grace was all impatience for the ride; and Rosalind, the favourite
mare, looked more beautiful than ever in her eyes. She bounded down
the terrace at the first sound of the horses' feet, leaving Mrs
Harrington to follow.

The cavaliers were already mounted, but the child suddenly drew back.

"Come, my love," said Harrington, stretching out his hand; "look how
your pretty Rosalind bends her neck to receive you."

Seeing her terror, Mrs Harrington soothed these apprehensions, and
fear was soon forgotten amid the pleasures she anticipated.

"You are back by sunset, Harrington?"

"Fear not, _I_ shall return," replied he; and away sprang the pawing
beasts down the avenue. The lady lingered until they were out of
sight. Some unaccountable oppression weighed down her spirits; she
sought her chamber, and a heavy sob threw open the channel which
hitherto had restrained her tears.

They took the nearest path towards the Meer, losing sight of it as
they advanced into the low flat sands, scarcely above its level. When
again it opened into view its wide waveless surface lay before them,
reposing in all the sublimity of loneliness and silence. The rapture
of the child was excessive. She surveyed with delight its broad
unruffled bosom, giving back the brightness and glory of that heaven
to which it looked; to her it seemed another sky and another world,
pure and spotless as the imagination that created it.

They entered the fisherman's hut; but it was deserted. Years had
probably elapsed since the last occupation. Half-burnt turf and
bog-wood lay on the hearth; but the walls were crumbling down with
damp and decay.

The two friends were evidently disappointed. At times they looked out
anxiously, but in vain, as it might seem; for they again sat down,
silent and depressed, upon a turf-heap by the window, while the child
ran playing and gambolling towards the beach.

Harrington sat with his back to the window, when suddenly the low
murmuring noise he had heard on his former visit was repeated. He
turned pale.

"Thou art not alone; and where is the child?" or words to this purport
were uttered in a whisper. He started aside; the sound, as he thought,
was close to his ear. Molyneux heard it too.

"Shall I depart?" said he, cautiously; "I will take care to keep
within call."

"Nay," said his friend, whispering in his ear, "thou must ride out of
sight and sound too, I am afraid, or we shall not accomplish our plans
for the child's safety. Depart with the attendants; I fear not the
woman. Say to my lady I will return anon."

With some reluctance Sir Ralph went his way homewards, and Harrington
was left to accomplish these designs without assistance.

Immediately he walked out towards the shore; but he saw nothing of the
child, and his heart misgave him. He called her; but the sound died
with its own echo upon the waters. The timid rabbit fled to its
burrow, and the sea-gull rose from her gorge, screaming away heavily
to her mate; but the voice of his child returned no more!

Almost driven to frenzy, he ran along the margin of the lake to a
considerable distance, returning after a fruitless search to the hut,
where he threw himself on the ground. In the agony of his spirit he
lay with his face to the earth, as if to hide his anguish as he wept.

How long he remained was a matter of uncertainty. On a sudden,
instantaneously with the rush that aroused him, he felt his arms
pinioned, and that by no timid or feeble hand. At the same moment a
bandage was thrown over his eyes, and he found himself borne away
swiftly into a boat. He listened for some time to the rapid stroke of
the oars. Not a word was spoken from which he could ascertain the
meaning of this outrage. To his questions no reply was vouchsafed, and
in the end he forbore inquiry--the mind wearied into apathy by
excitement and its consequent exhaustion.

The boat again touched the shore, and he was carried out. The roar of
the sea had for some time been rapidly growing louder as they neared
the land. He was now borne along over hillocks of loose sand to the
sea-beach, when he felt himself fairly launched upon the high seas. He
heard the whistling of the cordage, the wide sail flap to the wind,
with the groan of the blast as it rushed into the swelling canvas;
then he felt the billows prancing under him, and the foam and spray
from their huge necks as they swept by. It was not long ere he heard
the sails lowered; and presently they were brought up alongside a
vessel of no ordinary bulk. Harrington was conducted with little
ceremony into the cabin; the bandage was removed from his eyes, and he
found himself in the presence of a weather-beaten tar, who was sitting
by a table, on which lay a cutlass and a pair of richly-embossed
pistols.

"We have had a long tug to bring thee to," said the captain; "but we
always grapple with the enemy in the long run. If thou hast aught to
say why sentence of death should not pass on thee, ay, and be executed
straightway too--say on. What! not a shot in thy locker? Then may all
such land-sharks perish, say I, as thus I signify thy doom." He
examined his pistols with great nicety as he spoke. Harrington was
dumb with amazement, whilst his enemy surveyed him with a desperate
and determined glance. At length he stammered forth--

"I am ignorant of thy meaning; much less can I shape my defence. Who
art thou?"

The other replied, in a daring and reckless tone--

"I am the Free Rover, of whom thou hast doubtless heard. My good
vessel and her gallant crew ne'er slackened a sky-raker in the chase,
nor backed a mainsail astern of the enemy. But pirate as I am--hunted
and driven forth like the prowling wolf, without the common rights and
usages of my fellow men--I have yet their feelings. I _had_ a child!
Thy fell, unpitying purpose, remorseless monster, hath made me
childless! But thou hast robbed the lioness of her whelp, and thou art
in her gripe!"

"As my hope is to escape thy fangs, I am innocent of the crime."

"Maybe thou knowest not the mischief thou hast inflicted; but thy
guilt and my bereavement are not the less. My child was ailing; we
were off this coast, when we sent her ashore secretly until our
return. A fisherman and his wife, to whom our messenger entrusted the
babe, were driven forth by thee one bitter night without a shelter.
The child perished; and its mother chides my tardy revenge."

"'Tis a falsehood!" cried Harrington, "told to cover some mischievous
design. The child, if it be thine, was given to my care--by whom I
know not. I have nurtured her kindly; not three hours ago, as I take
it, she was in yonder hut; but she has been decoyed from me; and I am
here thy prisoner, and without the means of clearing myself from this
false and malicious charge."

The captain smiled incredulously.

"Thou art lord of yonder soil, I own; but thou shouldest have listened
to the cry of the helpless. I have here a witness who will prove thy
story false--the messenger herself. Call hither Oneida," said he,
speaking to the attendants. But this personage could not be found.

"She has gone ashore in her canoe," said the pirate; "and the men
never question her. She will return ere mid-watch. Prepare: thou
showedst no mercy, and I have sworn!"

Harrington was hurried to a little square apartment, which an iron
grating sufficiently indicated to be the state prison. The vessel lay
at anchor; the intricate soundings on that dangerous coast rendered
her perfectly safe from attack, even if she had been discovered. He
watched the stars rising out, calm and silently, from the deep: "Ere
yon glorious orb is on the zenith," thought he, "I may be--what?" He
shrank from the conclusion. "Surely the wretch will not dare to
execute his audacious threat?" He again caught that red and angry star
gleaming portentously on him. It seemed to be his evil genius; its
malignant eye appeared to follow out his track, to haunt him, and to
beset his path continually with suffering and danger. He stood by the
narrow grating, feverish and apprehensive; again he heard that low
murmuring voice which he too painfully recognised. The mysterious
being of the lake stood before him.

"White man"--she spoke in a strange and uncouth accent;--"the tree
bows to the wing of the tempest--the roots look upward--the wind sighs
past its withered trunk--the song of the warbler is heard no more from
its branches, and the place of its habitation is desolate. Thine
enemies have prevailed. I did it not to compass thine hurt: I knew not
till now thou wert in their power; and I cannot prevent the
sacrifice."

"Restore the child, and I am safe," said Harrington, trembling in his
soul's agony at every point; "or withdraw thy false, thine accursed
accusations."

"Thou knowest not my wrongs and my revenge! Thou seest the arrow, but
not the poison that is upon it. The maiden, whose race numbers a
thousand warriors, returns not to her father's tribe ere she wring out
the heart's life-blood from her destroyer. Death were happiness to the
torments I inflict on him and the woman who hath supplanted me. And
yet they think Oneida loves them--bends like the bulrush when the wind
blows upon her, and rises only when he departs. What! give back the
child? She hath but taken my husband and my bed; as soon might ye tear
the prey from the starved hunter. This night will I remove their child
from them--to depart, when a few moons are gone--it may be to dwell
again with my tribe in the wigwam and the forest."

"But I have not wronged thee!"

"Thou art of their detested race. Yet would I not kill thee."

"Help me to escape."

"Escape!" said this untamed savage, with a laugh which went with a
shudder to his heart. "As soon might the deer dart from the hunter's
rifle as thou from the cruel pirate who has pronounced thy death! I
could tell thee such deeds of him and these bloody men as would freeze
thy bosom, though it were wide and deep as the lakes of my country.
Yet I loved him once! He came a prisoner to my father's hut. I have
spilled my best blood for his escape. I have borne him where the white
man's feet never trod--through forests, where aught but the Indian or
the wild beast would have perished. I left my country and my kin--the
graves of my fathers--and how hath he requited me? He gave the ring of
peace to the red woman; but when he saw another and a fairer one of
thy race, she became his wife; and from that hour Oneida's love was
hate!--and I have waited and not complained, for my revenge was sure!
And shall I now bind the healing leaf upon the wound?--draw the arrow
from the flesh of mine enemies? Thou must die! for my revenge is
sweet."

"I will denounce thee to him, fiend! I will reveal"----

"He will not believe thee. His eye and ear are sealed. He would stake
his life on my fidelity. He knows not of the change."

"But he will discover it, monster, when thou art gone. He will track
thee to the verge of this green earth and the salt sea, and thou shall
not escape."

With a yell of unutterable scorn she cried--

"He may track the wild bee to its nest, and the eagle to his eyrie,
but he discerns not one footprint of Oneida's path!"

The pangs of death seemed to be upon him. He read his doom in the
kindling eye and almost demoniac looks of the being who addressed him.
She seemed like some attendant demon waiting to receive his spirit.
His brain grew dizzy. Death would have been welcome in comparison with
the horrors of its anticipation. He would have caught her; but she
glided from his grasp, and he was again left in that den of loneliness
and misery. How long he knew not; his first returning recollection was
the sound of bolts and the rude voices of his jailers.

In this extremity the remembrance of that Being in whom, and from
whom, are all power and mercy, flashed on his brain like a burst of
hope--like a sunbeam on the dark ocean of despair.

"God of my fathers, hear!" escaped from his lips in that appalling
moment. His soul was calmed by the appeal. Vain was the help of man,
but he felt as if supported and surrounded by the arm of Omnipotence,
while silently, and with a firm step, he followed his conductors.

One dim light only was burning above. Some half-dozen of the crew
stood armed on the quarter-deck behind their chief; their hard,
forbidding faces looked without emotion upon this scene of unpitying,
deliberate murder.

To some question from the pirate Harrington replied by accusing the
Indian woman of treachery.

"As soon yonder star, which at midnight marks our meridian, would
prove untrue in its course."

Harrington shuddered at this ominous reference.

"I cannot prove mine innocence," said he; "but I take yon orb to
witness that I never wronged you or yours. The child is in her
keeping."

"Call her hither, if she be returned," said the captain, "and see if
he dare repeat this in her presence. He thinks to haul in our canvas
until the enemy are under weigh, and then, Yoh ho, boys, for the
rescue. But we shall be dancing over the bright Solway ere the morning
watch, and thy carcase in the de'il's locker."

"If not for mine, for your own safety!"

"My safety! and what care I, though ten thousand teeth were grinning
at me, through as many port-holes. My will alone bounds my power. Who
shall question my sentence, which is death?"

He gnashed his teeth as he went on. "And your halls shall be too hot
to hold your well-fed drones. Thy hearth, proud man, shall be
desolate. I'll lay waste thy domain. Thy race, root and branch, will I
extinguish; for thou hast made me childless!"

The messenger returned with the intelligence that Oneida was not in
the ship.

"On shore again, the ----! If I were to bind her with the main-chains,
and an anchor at each leg, she would escape me to go ashore. No heed;
we will just settle the affair without her, and he shall drop quietly
into a grave ready made, and older than Adam. I would we had some more
of his kin; they should swing from the bowsprit, like sharks and
porpoises, who devour even when they have had enough, and waste what
they can't devour."

"Thou wilt not murder me thus, defenceless, and in cold blood."

"My child was more helpless, and had not injured _thee_! Ye give no
quarter to the prowling beast, and yet, like me, he only robs and
murders to preserve his life. How far is it from midnight?"

"Five minutes, and yon star comes to his southing," said the person he
addressed.

"Then prepare; that moment marks thy death!"

The men looked significantly towards their rifles.

"Nay," cried this bloodthirsty freebooter, "my arm alone shall avenge
my child."

He drew a pistol from his belt.

"Yonder is Oneida," sang out the man at the main-top; "she is within a
cable's length."

"Heed her not. When the bell strikes, I have sworn thou shalt die!"

A pause ensued--a few brief moments in the lapse of time, but an age
in the records of thought. Not a breath relieved the horror and
intensity of that silence. The plash of a light oar was heard;--a boat
touched the vessel. The bell struck.

"Once!" shouted the fierce mariner, and he raised his pistol with the
sharp click of preparation.

"Twice!"

The bell boomed again.

"Thrice!"

"Hold!" cried a female, rushing between the executioner and the
condemned: But the warning was too late;--the ball had sped, though
not to its mark. Oneida was the victim. She fell, with a faint scream,
bleeding on the deck. But Harrington was close locked in the arms of
his little Grace. She had flown to him for protection, sobbing with
joy.

The pirate seemed horror-struck at the deed. He raised Oneida,
unloosing his neckcloth to staunch the wound.

"The Great Spirit calls me:" she spoke with great exertion: "the green
woods, the streams, land of my forefathers. Oh! I come!" She raised
herself suddenly with great energy, looking towards Harrington, who
yet knelt, guarded and pinioned--the child still clinging to him.

"White man, I have wronged thee, and I am the sacrifice. Murderer,
behold thy child!" She raised her eyes suddenly towards the pirate,
who shook his head, supposing that her senses grew confused.

"It was for thy rescue!" again she addressed Harrington. "The Great
Spirit appeared to me: he bade me restore what I had taken away, and I
should be with the warriors and the chiefs who have died in battle.
They hunt in forests from which the red-deer flies not, and fish in
rivers that are never dry. But my bones shall not rest with my
fathers!--I come. Lake of the woods, farewell!"

She threw one look of reproach on her destroyer, and the spirit of
Oneida had departed.

The pirate stood speechless and bewildered. He looked on the child--a
ray of recollection seemed to pass over his visage. Its expression was
softened; and this man of outlawry and blood became gentle. The savage
grew tame. The common sympathies of his nature, so long dried up,
burst forth, and the wide deep flood of feeling and affection rolled
on with it like a torrent, gathering strength by its own accumulation.

Years after, in a secluded cottage by the mansion of the Harringtons,
dwelt an old man and his daughter. She soothed the declining hours of
his sojourn. His errors and his crimes--and they were many and
aggravated--were not unrepented of. She watched his last breath; and
the richest lady of that land was "THE PIRATE'S DAUGHTER."


[Illustration: GEORGE FOX]




GEORGE FOX.


     "O Thou who every thought pervades,
       My darkened soul inform:
     With equal hand Thy goodness guides
       A planet or a worm."


     On the eastern side of Swart Moor, about a mile from
     Ulverstone, stands Swartmoor Hall. This bleak elevation took
     its name from Colonel Martin Swart, or Swartz, an experienced
     and valiant soldier, of a noble German family, to whom the
     Duchess of Burgundy, in 1486, entrusted the command of the
     troops which were sent to support Lambert Simnel in his claim
     to the English crown. A more detailed account of this
     transaction will be found in the first volume of our present
     series, in the tradition relating to "The Pile of Fouldrey."
     Suffice it to say that the rebel army was defeated here with
     great slaughter; and Swartz, along with several of the English
     nobility, was slain--an event which entailed the name of this
     chieftain on the place of his overthrow.

     The hall, about 180 years ago, was the residence of Thomas Fell,
     commonly called Judge Fell, vice-chancellor of the Duchy Court
     at Westminster, and one of the judges that went the Welsh
     circuit; a man greatly esteemed both in his public and private
     capacity. His wife was a lady of exemplary piety: she was born
     at Marsh Grange, in the parish of Dalton, in the year 1614, and
     was married before she had attained to the age of eighteen. The
     Judge and his lady being greatly respected, and much hospitality
     being displayed in their house to ministers and religious
     people, George Fox, in the year 1652, on his first coming into
     Furness, called at Swartmoor Hall, and preaching there, and also
     at Ulverstone, Mrs Fell, her daughters, and many of the family
     adopted his principles.  The Judge was then upon the circuit.
     On his return he seemed much afflicted and surprised at this
     revolution in his family; and in consequence of some malicious
     insinuations from those who met him with the intelligence, he
     was greatly exasperated against George Fox and his principles.
     By the prudent intervention of two friends, however, his
     displeasure was greatly mitigated; and Fox, returning hither in
     the evening, answered all his objections in so satisfactory a
     manner, that the Judge "assented to the truth and reasonableness
     thereof;" the tranquillity of the family was restored; and from
     that time, notwithstanding numerous attempts to detach him from
     the cause, he continued a steady friend to the members of the
     society and its founder on all occasions where he had the power.
     A weekly meeting was established in his house the following
     Sunday. But his patronage did not last many years; he departed
     this life in September 1658, his health having been for some
     time before considerably on the decline.

     Mrs Fell, after his death, suffered much inconvenience and
     oppression because of the religious principles she had
     embraced; yet, notwithstanding, the weekly meetings continued
     to be held at her house until the year 1690, when a new
     meetinghouse was opened about a quarter of a mile distant.

     In 1669, eleven years after the death of Judge Fell, she
     married George Fox, whom she survived eleven years, dying at
     Swartmoor Hall in February 1702, nearly eighty-eight years
     old.[15]

     The house is still inhabited, though in a very dilapidated
     condition. The barns and stables by which it is surrounded, and
     the litter of the farmyard, give it a very mean and
     undignified appearance.

     The tenant is a substantial farmer, who is very assiduous in
     showing the premises. The hall is spacious, with an oaken
     wainscoting. The bedrooms, which are large and airy, were
     formerly ornamented with carved work, now greatly damaged. In
     one of them is a substantial bedstead, with carved posts, on
     which it is said this reformer used to repose, and any of his
     followers have permission to occupy it for one night. This
     privilege is either not known, or perhaps not very highly
     appreciated, for the tenant states that not a single "Friend"
     has availed himself of it during the whole time he has resided
     there. Here is shown the study of George Fox in all its
     pristine plainness and simplicity. On one side of the hall is
     an orchard, looking almost coeval with the building. The house
     stands high, and the upper windows command an extensive and
     beautiful prospect. The meetinghouse is a neat plain building,
     in perfect repair, still used by the Friends at Ulverstone and
     the neighbourhood for religious worship. Over the door is the
     following inscription, "_Ex dono G.F. 1688_." There is a
     burial-place surrounded with trees attached to the chapel.

     George Fox did not reside constantly at Swartmoor after his
     marriage. The greater part of his time was spent in itinerancy.
     He  travelled nearly over the whole of Great Britain, and
     several parts of America in the exercise of his ministry. After
     encountering innumerable sufferings, oppositions, and
     afflictions, this indefatigable missionary departed this life on
     the 13th of November 1690, in the 67th year of his age, at a
     house in White Hart Court, London. He was interred in the
     "Friends Burying-Ground," near Bunhill Fields.

     The author is aware that the following remarkable account of "a
     special interposition" has been attributed to other names and
     later dates, and is recorded as having happened to individuals
     at different places both in England and Ireland. The same fact
     attaching itself to different localities and persons--probably
     according to the caprice or partialities of the several
     narrators--is, as he has found in the course of his researches,
     no unusual occurrence. He does not attempt to decide in favour
     of any of the conflicting claims or authorities, but merely to
     give the tale as it exists, selecting those places and
     circumstances which are most suitable for his purpose.


The supremacy of a special Providence, guiding and overruling the
affairs of men, is a doctrine which few will have the hardihood to
withstand and still less to deny. It is interwoven with our very
nature, and seems implanted in us for the wisest and most beneficent
of purposes. It is a doctrine full of comfort and consolation; our
stay and succour in the most appalling extremities. There does seem,
at times, vividly bursting through the most important periods of our
existence, a ray from the secret place of the Most High. We see an
opening, as it were, into the very arrangements and councils of the
skies; we catch a glimpse of the machinery by which the universe is
governed; the wheels of Providence are for a moment exhibited,
palpable and unencumbered by secondary causes, while we, stricken
prostrate from the consciousness of our own insignificance,
acknowledge with awe and admiration the protecting power of which we
are so unworthy.

Of the special interference we have just noticed the following
narrative, true as to the more important particulars, is a striking
instance; events, apparently happening out of the ordinary way, seem
brought about by this direct interposition at a period when the most
eminent display of human foresight and sagacity would have been
unavailing.

One chill and misty evening in the year 1652, being the early part of
a wet and, as it proved, a tardy spring, two strangers were benighted
in attempting to cross the wild mountain ridge called Cartmel Fell.
They had proposed taking the most direct route from Kendal to
Cartmel; having, however, missed the few points which indicated their
track, they had for several hours been beating about in the
expectation of finding some clue to extricate themselves, but every
attempt seemed only to fix them more inextricably in a state of doubt
and bewilderment. A dense fog had been rapidly accumulating, and they
began to feel something startled with a vague apprehension of a
night-watch amongst the hills, unprovided as they were with the
requisite essentials for either food or lodging.

The elder of the two, though not more than midway between thirty and
forty years old, was clad in a strange uncouth garb of the coarsest
materials, and his lank long hair hung matted and uncombed upon his
shoulders from a "brim" of extravagant dimensions. This style of dress
was not then recognised as the distinctive badge of a religious sect,
as it is now of the people called "Quakers," or, as they are more
favourably designated, "Friends." The person of whom we speak was the
founder of this society, George Fox, who, only about five years
previous to the date of our story, after much contemplation on
religious subjects, took upon himself the public ministry. In the year
1650 he was imprisoned at Derby for speaking publicly in the church
after divine service; on being brought before a magistrate, he bade
the company "_tremble at the word of the Lord_;" the expression was
turned into ridicule, and he and his friends received the appellation
of "_Quakers_."

His appearance was stout and muscular; and his general demeanour of
that still, undisturbed aspect which, if not one of the essentials of
his own religion, is at least looked upon as its greatest ornament,
betokening the inward grace of a meek and quiet spirit. "He was," says
John Gough, the historian of this people, "a man of strong natural
parts, firm health, undaunted courage, remarkable disinterestedness,
inflexible integrity, and distinguished sincerity. The tenor of his
doctrine, when he found himself concerned to instruct others, was to
wean men from systems, ceremonies, and the outside of religion in
every form, and to lead them to an acquaintance with themselves by a
most solicitous attention to what passed in their own minds; to direct
them to a principle of their own hearts, which, if duly attended to,
would introduce rectitude of mind, simplicity of manners, a life and
conversation adorned with every Christian virtue, and peace, the
effect of righteousness. Drawing his doctrine from the pure source of
religious truth, the New Testament, and the conviction of his own
mind, abstracted from the comments of men, he asserted the freedom of
man in the liberty of the gospel against the tyranny of custom, and
against the combined powers of severe persecution, the greatest
contempt, and keenest ridicule. Unshaken and undismayed, he persevered
in disseminating principles and practices conducive to the present and
everlasting well-being of mankind, with great honesty, simplicity, and
success."

The companion of this reformer was arrayed in a more worldly suit; a
mulberry-coloured cloak and doublet, with a hat of grey felt, that,
for brevity of brim, would almost have vied with that of the brass
basin worn by the knight of the rueful countenance, whose history may
be consulted at length in the writings of that veracious historian,
Don Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. His movements were of a more
irregular and erratic nature than comported with the well-ordered and
equable gait of his companion. The rarely-occurring remarks of the
latter were anything but explicit as to the state of his feelings in
contemplation of an event, the possibility of which increased with
every step--a night's lodgings in these inhospitable wilds. The sun
was now evidently beneath the horizon; darkness came on with frightful
rapidity; and they had, as yet, no reason to divest themselves of so
disagreeable an anticipation. To one in the full glare of daylight, or
with a sound roof-tree over his head and a warm fire at his elbow, the
idea of a night-vigil may not appear either unpleasant or
extraordinary; but, wrapped in a sheet of grey mist, the wet heath
oozing beneath his feet, with the cold and benumbing air of the hills
for his supper, there could be little question that he would be apt to
regard it as a condition not far removed from the extremity of human
suffering; especially if at the same time he had just exchanged a snug
fireside and an affectionate neighbourhood of friends for these
appalling discomforts.

"I know not what we shall do," said the younger traveller. "It never
entered into my head beforehand to imagine the possibility of such an
event. Surely, surely, we are not to live through a whole night in
these horrid wilds. Pray, do speak out, and let me at least have the
comfort of a complaint, for we are past consolation."

"I have been ruminating on this very matter," replied the other; "and
it does appear that we are as safe in this place verily as though we
were encompassed with walls and bulwarks. Methinks, friend, thou
speakest unadvisedly; in future, when thee knowest not what to
do--wait! The more thee pulls and hauls, and frets and kicks, depend
on it thou wilt be the less able to extricate thyself thereby. We are
not left quite without comfort in this dreary wilderness; here is a
goodly and a well-set stone, I perceive, just convenient. Verily, it
is a mercy if we get a little rest for our limbs. Many a meek and holy
disciple, of whom the world was not worthy, has ere now been fain of a
slice of hard rock for his pillow."

"And, in truth, we are as likely as the holiest of 'em to refresh
ourselves all night on a stone bolster," pettishly replied the
unthankful youth, as he seated himself beside his friend.

It was not long ere a slight breeze began to roll the mist into
irregular masses of cloud. The dense atmosphere appeared to break, and
a star twinkled for a moment, but disappeared as suddenly as it came
forth. Ralph Seaton, the younger of the pedestrians, pointed out the
friendly visitant to his companion. It seemed as though the eye of
mercy were beaming visibly upon them.

"I have seen it," said the man of quiet endurance; "and now gird up
thy loins to depart. The fog will rapidly disperse; and it may be that
some distant light will guide us to rest and shelter."

While he was speaking the mist coiled upwards, driving rapidly across
the sky in the shape of a heavy scud. A few stars twinkled here and
there through the lucid intervals, "few and far between;" but they
were continually changing place, closing and unfolding as the wind
mingled or separated their shapeless fragments.

"It is even as I said. Seest thou yonder light?"

"I see not anything," replied Seaton.

"Just beneath that bright star to our left?" again inquired the elder
traveller.

"I only see a dark hill rising there abruptly against the lowering
swell of the sky."

Our "Friend" was silent for a space, when he replied in a tone of deep
solemnity--

"It is the inward light of which I have spoken to thee before; a token
of no ordinary import. To-night, or I am deceived, we are called on
to pass through no common allotment of toil and tribulation. Oft hath
this light been outwardly manifest, and as often has it been the
precursor of some sharp and fiery trial! Again! But thou seest it not.
Yet mayest thou follow in my steps. Take heed thou turn not either to
the right hand or to the left. But"----The speaker's voice here grew
fearfully ominous and emphatic.

"Hast thou courage to do as I shall bid thee? I must obey the will of
the Spirit; but unless thou hast faith to follow the light that is
within me, rather pass the night on that cold unsheltered rock than
draw back from His witness. Remember, it is no slight peril that
awaits us."

Not without a struggle and certain waverings, which indicated a faith
somewhat less implicit than was desirable on such an occasion, did the
disciple promise to obey--ay, to the very letter--every command that
might be given. Peradventure, a well-founded apprehension of spending
the night companionless on the cold and wet dormitory to which his
evil stars had conducted him, had some influence in this
determination. Suffice it to say, never did disciple resolve more
faithfully to obey than did our young adventurer in this perilous
extremity.

Their path now appeared to wind precipitately down a steep and narrow
defile, through which a rapid torrent was heard foaming and tumbling
over its rugged bed. Following the course of the stream to a
considerable distance, a rude bridge was discerned, sufficiently
indicating a path to some house or village in that direction. The wind
was rising in sharp and heavy gusts. The moon, not yet above the
hills, was brightening the dark clouds that hung behind them like a
huge curtain. The sky was studded, in beauteous intervals, with hosts
of stars. This light enabled them to follow a narrow footpath, which,
abruptly turning the head of a projecting crag, showed them a distant
glimmer as though from some friendly habitation. Seaton bounded past
his more recondite companion; and it was not long ere a fierce growl
challenged him as he approached nearer to the dwelling. He threw open
the door, and discovered what was sufficiently distinguishable as a
public-house, a homely interior, dignified by the name of tavern. Two
grim-looking men sat before a huge pile of turf, glowing fiercely from
the wide expanse appropriated to several uses beside that of fireplace
and chimney. Liquor and coarse bread were near them on a low
three-legged table; while Seaton, overjoyed at his good fortune and
happy escape, thought the rude hut a palace, and the smell of turf
and oat-cake a refection fit for the gods.

"Be quiet, Vixen." The fierce animal, at this rebuke from her
mistress, slunk into a dark corner beside the chimney, whence two
hideous and glaring eyes were fixed on the strangers for the rest of
the evening. Wherever Seaton turned, he still beheld them, intently
watching, as though gloating on their prey. The female who had thus
spoken did not welcome her guests with that cheerful solicitude which
the arrival of profitable customers generally creates. She bustled
about unceasingly; but showed neither anxiety nor inclination to offer
them any refreshment. Short and firm-set in person, she looked more
muscular than was befitting her sex. Her hair was grizzled, and the
straggling tresses hung untrammelled about her smoke-dried and
hard-lined visage. Her features wore a dubious and unpleasant aspect,
calculated to create more distrust than seemed desirable to their
owner. Every effort, however, to disguise their expression only
rendered them the more forbidding and repulsive.

Near the turf-stack, by the chimney, sat a being to all appearance in
a state of mental derangement almost approaching to idiotcy. His eye
rested for a moment, with a vacant and undefined stare, upon the
strangers; then, with a loud shrill laugh, which made the listeners
shudder, he again bent his head, basking moodily before the blaze. The
moment Seaton had thrown down a light portmanteau that he carried, the
dame, with a low tap, summoned two stout fellows from an inner room,
who, with a suspicious and over-acted civility, inquired the
destination and wishes of their guests. The elder of the travellers,
now coming forward as spokesman, inquired about the possibility of
obtaining lodgings for the night, and was informed that a room,
detached from the rest, was generally used as a guest-chamber on all
extra occasions.

"There's a bed in 't fit to streek down the limbs of a king," said one
of the gruff helpers; "and maybe the gentlemen will sleep as sound
here as they could wish. Rabbit thee, Will, but the luggage will break
thy back. Have a care, lad. Let me feel: it's as light as a church
poor's-box. The de'il's flown awa' with aw the shiners, I think; for
it's lang sin' I heard a good ow'd-fashioned jink in a traveller's
pack."

This was said more by way of comment than conversation, as he handled
the stranger's valise.

The features of these men exhibited a strange mixture of ferocity and
mirth. Savage, and almost brutal in their expression, still an
atmosphere of fun hovered about them--a Will-o'-the-wisp sort of
playfulness, unnatural and decoying, like the capricious gambols of
that renowned and mischievous sprite.

The Quaker seated himself on a low bench before the fire. He took from
his neck a huge handkerchief, spreading it out on his knees. He then
drew off a pair of long worsted stocking-boots; leisurely untied his
shoes, and extending his ample surface in the most convenient manner
to the blaze, appeared, with eyes half-shut, pondering deeply some
inward abyss of thought, yet not wholly indifferent to the objects
around him. His tall and bony figure looked more like some stiff and
imitative piece of mechanism than a living human frame with flexible
articulations, so fashioned was every motion of the body to the formal
and constrained habits and peculiarities of the mind. Seaton had
observed, with no slight uneasiness, the suspicious circumstances in
which they were placed; but he was fearful of betraying his mistrust,
lest it should accelerate the mischief he anticipated. He looked
wistfully at his friend; but there was no outward manifestation that
could elucidate the inward bent of his thoughts. The keen expression
of his eye was not visible; but his other features wore that
imperturbable and stolid aspect which suited the stiff and unyielding
substance of his opinions. Seaton was now reminded of his supper by an
inquiry from the female as to their intentions on that momentous
subject. A "flesh pye," as she termed it, was drawn from its lair--a
dark hole used as a cupboard--and set before the guests. The very name
sounded suspicious and disgusting. In the present state of his
feelings the most trivial circumstance was sufficient to keep alive
the apprehensions that haunted him. He endeavoured to rally himself
out of his fears, and had in some measure succeeded, thrusting his
knife deep into the forbidden envelope. At that moment a slight
rustling caused him to look aside. The idiot was gazing on him. He
shrank from this unexpected glance; and the knife loosened in his
grasp. He thought the creature made a sign with his finger, forbidding
him to eat. It might be fancy; but nevertheless he felt determined not
to touch the food; and the former, with that natural cunning which, in
characters of this description, almost assumes the nature of instinct,
again appeared crouching over the blaze, and incapable either of
observation or intelligence. This transaction passed unnoticed by the
rest of the party; and Seaton, afraid that some horrible and unnatural
food had been set before him, secretly motioned to his friend, who,
apparently unheeding, helped himself to a portion of the mysterious
dish. For a moment it occurred to Seaton that the cunning half-wit,
apprehensive lest too great a share of the savoury victuals should
fall to their lot, had contrived to forbid this appropriation. After a
few mouthfuls, however, he observed that his friend had as little
relish for the provision as himself, remarking that a rasher of bacon
would be preferred, if the hostess could furnish him with this
delicacy. A whisper was the result of this request; but, in the end, a
savoury collop was set upon the table. Beer was added, as a matter of
course; but neither of them partook of the beverage. Though Seaton, to
all appearance, drank a portion, yet his fears got the better of his
fatigue; and some apprehension of treachery made him careful to convey
away the liquor unobserved. Fox now drew up his gaunt figure in the
attitude which indicated a change of position. With great deliberation
he rose, and addressed the hostess--

"Canst thee show us to bed?"

Answering in the affirmative, she snatched up a light, and leading the
way across a narrow yard, she pointed out a small step-ladder outside
the building. Giving the candle into the hands of the grave personage
who followed her, she left them after bidding "Good-night!"

They scrambled up the ladder, entering the room appropriated to their
use. It was low, and of scanty dimensions. The walls were bare; and
the damp oozed through chinks and crevices, where the wind met with
slight interruption, though it clamoured unceasingly for admission.
The only furniture in the apartment was a low bedstead, on which a
straw mattress reposed in all the accumulated filth of past ages. A
coverlid of coarse woollen partly concealed a suit of bed-linen that
would have stricken terror amongst a tribe of Esquimaux. Neither party
appeared wishful to tempt the mysteries that were yet unseen, or to
divest himself of clothing. They flung their luggage on the floor, and
sat upon it, each awaiting the first word of intercourse from his
companion. After a while there was a heavy groan from the Quaker; and
Seaton something hastily intimated his suspicions respecting the
occupation and pursuits of the party below.

"I am of the like persuasion with thyself," was the reply. "Verily,
the warning was not in vain. This night may not pass ere faith shall
have its test. I have had a sore struggle. Our safety will be granted;
but through inward guidance rather than from our own endeavours. Yet
must we use the means."

"I see no way of escape," returned Seaton, "provided they be what we
have unhappily too good cause to apprehend. Unarmed, and without the
means of defence, how can we cope with men whose object, doubtless,
with the robbery, will be the concealment of their crime?"

"Follow my example. It is thine only chance for deliverance. Question
me not; but be silent, and obey. I have said it."

While the speaker relapsed into one of his usual reveries, Seaton cast
his eyes inquiringly round the room. Their feeble light was ready to
expire. The rude gusts rocked the frail tenement "as if't had agues;"
and the walls groaned beneath their pressure. There was a small
casement, stuffed with paper and a matchless assortment of
parti-coloured rags, near the roof, directly over the bed. He ascended
softly to examine the nature of this outlet; but, to his further
alarm, he found it guarded outside with iron bars. This was a direct
confirmation of his surmises. A cold shudder crept over him. He felt
almost stiffening with horror as he looked down upon his thoughtful
companion, doomed, he doubted not, as well as himself, to fall a prey
to the assassin. He gazed wildly round the apartment, as if with some
desperate hope of deliverance. His head grew dizzy; objects seemed to
flit past him; and more than once he fancied that footsteps were
creeping up the ladder. This acute burst of agony subsiding, he
listened to the short and rapid whirl of the wind eddying by; and
never had the sound fallen upon his ear so fearfully. It seemed like
the wail of a departing spirit, or like some funeral dirge, moaning
heavily and deep through the sudden pauses of the blast. He threw
himself on the bed. Fatigue and long abstinence had enervated his
frame. Nature, forced almost beyond the limit of endurance, had become
passive, and almost incapable of suffering. A deep slumber stole upon
him, yet could he not escape the horrors by which he was surrounded.
Daggers reeking in blood--spectres covered with hideous
wounds--murderers on the rack--gibbets, and a thousand forms,
shapeless and unimaginable, crowded past with inconceivable rapidity.
A huge figure approached. In its hand a weapon was uplifted, as if to
destroy him. He made a vehement effort to escape; but was holden,
without the power of resistance. Just as it was descending he awoke.
For a while he was unable to recollect precisely the nature of his
situation. The apartment was quite dark. He groped confusedly about
him, but to no purpose. At that instant a ray seemed to glide from the
casement. It was a moonbeam struggling through that almost impervious
inlet. By this light he beheld a figure intently gazing towards the
window. At the first glance he did not recognise his companion; but,
as he started from the couch, the former approached him, and, laying
one hand on his shoulder, whispered that he should be still. He
obeyed, and remained motionless. The reason for this admonition was
soon apparent. He heard a slight pattering at intervals on the few
brittle fragments which the window yet retained. Seaton at first
thought it might be the rain, especially as the wind had considerably
abated; but he soon found there must be some other cause, from the
rattling of sand and other coarser materials upon the floor and bed.
He crept close to the window, looking out below, but was unable to
find out the reason of this disturbance. Suddenly a volley of pebbles
bounded past his face, and the moon shining forth at the same instant,
a figure was distinguished anxiously attempting to arouse and excite
their attention. To his great astonishment he recognised the wayward
being whose glance had startled him so disagreeably a few hours
before. He recollected the idiot's former signal, and felt convinced
that this was a more direct and friendly interference. Seaton
carefully pulled away a portion of the stuffing, and was thus enabled
to bring his head closer to the bars. This movement was observed; and
with an admonition to silence, the strange creature pointed to the
ground, at the same time he appeared as if urging them to escape.
Seaton comprehended his meaning; but the iron fastenings were an
apparently insurmountable impediment. He laid hold of one of the bars
with considerable force; and to his great joy it yielded to the
pressure. Apparently there was no other individual beneath, or this
friendly warning would not have been given. It seemed as if the
tenants of the hovel were too secure of their prey to set a watch. He
descended cautiously to his companion. A few whispers were sufficient
to convey the intelligence. Again he mounted to the window; and, on
looking down, found that their providential monitor had disappeared.
There was no time to be lost. Seaton again tried the bar, and
succeeded in removing it. Another was soon wrenched from its hold, and
a few minutes more saw him safely through the aperture, from which he
let himself down with little difficulty to the ground. His companion
immediately followed; and once more outside their lodging, a new
difficulty presented itself. Seaton knew of no other path than the one
by which they had previously gained the cottage; and this would, in
all probability, afford a leading track to their pursuers, who might
be expected shortly to be aware of their escape. But he was relieved
from this dilemma by his companion making a signal that he should
follow. "Remember thy promise," said he. Seaton was prepared to obey,
feeling a renewed confidence in the discretion of his guide. Turning
into a pathway near the place where they had alighted, their course
was towards a river, which they beheld at no great distance twinkling
brightly in the moonbeams. They cautiously yet rapidly proceeded down
a narrow descent, fear hastening their flight, for they expected every
moment to hear the footsteps of their pursuers. In a little while they
turned out of the road, and, by a circuitous path, which the guide
seemed to tread with unhesitating confidence, they came to the river's
brink. By the brawling of its current, and the appearance it
presented, the water was evidently shallow, and might be crossed
without much difficulty. Seaton was preparing to make the attempt, but
was prevented by his comrade.

"I have some inward impression that we may not cross here. We shall be
pursued; and our adversaries will imagine that we have passed over
what is doubtless the ford of this Jordan. I know not why, but we must
follow its banks, and for some distance, ere we pass."

Seaton urged the danger and folly of this proceeding, and proposed
crossing immediately, but met with a decided and unflinching refusal
from his companion. They now kept along the river's brink, but with
much difficulty. The rain having swollen the waters, they were often
forced to wade up to the knees through the little creeks and rivulets
that intersected their path. They journeyed on for a considerable
time in silence, when the elder traveller made a sudden pause.

"It is here," said he. Seaton looked on the river; but the broad and
deep wave rolled past with frightful impetuosity. The moonbeams
glittered on a wide and rapid flood, whose depths were unknown, but to
which, nevertheless, it seemed that they were on the point of
committing themselves.

"The river is both wide and deep!" said the youth.

"Nevertheless, we must cross," replied his more taciturn companion.
Without further parley the latter plunged boldly into the stream.
Urged on by his fears, and preferring death in any shape to the death
that was pursuing him, Seaton followed his example. For some time they
struggled hard with the full sweep of the current; and it seemed
little short of a miracle when they arrived, almost breathless and
exhausted, on the opposite side.

"Praised be His name who hath given strength! Though deep waters have
encompassed us, yet His arm is our deliverance."

With a holy and ardent outpouring of soul did this good man render
thanksgivings unto Him whose hand had been so visibly stretched out
for their protection. Just as he had made an end of speaking, a
distant but distinct howl was borne down upon the wind. They listened
eagerly, as the sound evidently grew nearer. It was like the short but
stifled cry of a hound in full chase.

"Peril cometh as a whirlwind," said George Fox; "but fear not--a way
will be left for our escape!"

"It is that malicious hound!" replied Seaton shuddering, as he
remembered the beast which had gazed so intently on him, and which was
evidently trained for the present purpose.

"We must climb up to those tall bushes with all speed," said the
companion of his flight, at the same time leading the way with
considerable haste and agility.

From this height they saw, at some distance up the river, three men on
horseback, preceded by a large hound, who, true to the scent, was
following steadily on their footsteps. They approached rapidly to the
place where the fugitives had gone over, when the dog made a dead
halt, and looked wistfully across.

"Loo, loo!" said the foremost rider, "hie on, lass!" But the beast
would not move.

"Sure now, Mike," said he, as the others came up, "if they've taken
the water at this unlucky hole, they'll need no drownin' by this
anyhow."

"It's the brute, bad luck to her," replied his comrade. "She's on the
wrong scent. Why they're over the ford by this, and we shall have the
bloody thief-catchers here before we can open the door for 'em."

"If the bitch had followed my nose, instead of her own beautiful
scent," said the remaining speaker, "we should ha' been over the ford
too, long ago. They'd as soon think of swimming o'er the bay in a
cabbage-leaf as cross at this place. Back, back; and we'll shoulder
'em yet, my darlings. Come along, boys--one of you take the ford, an'
watch the road over the hill. Have a care, now, that the rogues be not
skulking round the bog. I'll keep the road hereabout; an' thou, Mike,
lay to with the hound when thou art on the other side. Maybe they'll
not find it just so easy to beat us in the hunting while we've a leg
to lay on after them."

The worthy triumvirate here withdrew. The animal was with much
difficulty forced from her track; but by the help of a stout cord she
was dragged off, yelping and whining, to the great joy of their
intended victims. Seaton could not but recognise the very finger of
Providence, which had pointed out the means of preservation. No other
way was left apparently for their escape. Whatsoever course they had
taken, save this, must have inevitably thrown them into the very toils
of their pursuers; and he determined to follow, fearlessly and without
question, the future impulses of his companion.

"Shall we attempt to flee, or must we tarry here a space?" he
hesitatingly inquired.

"Nay, friend," said his guide, "I wis not yet what we shall do; but
methinks we are to abide here until morning!"

Seaton shivered at this intimation. His clothes were drenched, and his
whole frame stiffened and benumbed with cold. His position, too,
crouching amongst decayed branches and alder twigs, was none of the
most eligible or easy to sustain. He felt fully resolved, however, to
follow the leadings of his friend, being convinced that his ultimate
safety depended on a strict adherence to this determination.

The country was very thinly inhabited, and their enemies were in
possession of the only outlets by which they could escape to the
nearest village. Aided, too, by the sagacity of the dog, their track
would inevitably be discovered before daylight enabled them to find
shelter. These considerations were too important to be overlooked, and
Seaton quietly resolved to make himself as comfortable as
circumstances would permit. He wrung out the wet from his clothes,
chafed his limbs, and ere long, to his inexpressible relief, the first
symptoms of the dawn were visible in the east. Just as a glowing rim
of light was gliding above the horizon, they ventured to peep forth
cautiously from their retreat. To their great mortification, they saw,
at a considerable distance, a horseman stationed on the brow of a
neighbouring hill, evidently for the purpose of a more extended
scrutiny. Signals would inevitably betray their route should they
emerge from their concealment; and escape now seemed as hopeless as
ever.

In this fresh difficulty Seaton again sought counsel from his friend,
who replied with great earnestness--

"There is yet another and a more grievous trial;"--he lifted up his
eyes, darkening already with the energy of his spirit;--"but I trust
our deliverance draweth nigh. We must return!"

"Return?" cried Seaton, his lips quivering with amazement. "Whither?
Not to the den we have just left?"

"Even so," said the other with great composure.

"Then all hope is lost!" mournfully returned the inquirer.

"Nay," replied his companion, "but let me ask what chance, even
according to thine own natural and unaided sense, there is of
deliverance in our present condition? Hemmed in on every hand, without
a guide, and strangers to the path we should take, if the watchman
from the hill miss our track, there is the hound upon our scent!"

There was no gainsaying these suggestions; but still a proposal that
they should return to the cabin, whence they had with such pains and
difficulty made their escape, in itself was so absurd and inexplicable
a piece of manoeuvring, that common sense and common prudence alike
forbade the attempt. Yet, on the other hand, common sense and common
prudence appeared to be equally unavailing as to any mode of escape
from the toils in which they were entangled.

Again he determined to follow his friend's guidance: who, addressing
himself immediately to the task, made the best of his way to the ford
which he had refused to cross the preceding night. They now took the
direct road to the house. The morning was sharp and clear. Seaton felt
the cold and raw atmosphere cling to his frame, already chilled to an
alarming degree; but the excitation he had undergone prevented further
mischief than the temporary inconvenience he then suffered. As they
came nearer the hut his very faculties seemed to escape from his
control. A sense of danger, imminent and almost insupportable, came
upon him. Bewildered, and actuated with that unaccountable but
instinctive desperation which urges on to some inevitable doom, he
rushed wildly into the dwelling. It was not as they had left it.
Several horses were quietly standing by the door; and a party, who had
merely called for the purpose of half-an-hour's rest and refreshment,
were then making preparations to depart. Seaton took one of them
aside, and disclosed the terrible circumstances we have related. By a
judicious but prompt application of their forces they prevented any
one from leaving the house, and were prepared to seize all who should
return thither. A close search soon betrayed the quality and calling
of its inmates. A vast hoard of plunder was discovered, and proofs too
abundant were found that deeds had been there perpetrated of which we
forbear the recital. The old woman was seized; and her capture was
followed by the apprehension of the whole gang, who shortly after met
with the retribution merited by their crimes.

The maniac proved to be a son of the old beldame. At times, the cloud
unhappily clearing from his mental vision had left him for a short
space fearfully cognisant of the transactions he was then doomed to
witness. On that night to which our history refers a sudden
providential gleam of intelligence flashed upon him, and an unknown
impulse prompted his interference in behalf of the unfortunate, and,
as he thought, unsuspecting victims. Ere leaving the country they saw
him comfortably provided for; and, as far as the nature of his malady
would permit, his mind was soothed, and his darkest moments partly
relieved from the horrors which humanity alone could mitigate, but not
prevent.

     [15] _Vide_ West's _Antiquities of Furness_.




THE DEMON OF THE WELL.

       "Avaunt, thou senseless thing!
     Can graven image mimic life, and glare
     Its stony eye-balls; grin, make mouths at me?
     Go to, it is possessed;--some demon lurks
     Within its substance."


     Peggy's well, the subject of our engraving, is near the brink
     of the Ribble, in a field below Waddow Hall; Brunckerley
     Stepping-stones not being far distant, where several lives have
     been lost in attempting to cross, at times when the river was
     swollen by a rapid rise, which even a day's rain will produce.
     These calamities, along with any other fatal accidents which
     happened in the neighbourhood, are usually attributed to the
     malevolence of Peggy. The stepping-stones are alluded to in our
     first volume as the place where King Henry VI was taken, after
     escaping from Waddington Hall.

     Some stones are still visible at low water; but whether these
     are the original "Hippins," or the foundations of a wooden
     bridge which succeeded them, and was borne down by the ice at
     the breaking up of the frost in the year 1814, is not known.

     The stone image by the well, depicted in our engraving, has
     been the subject of many strange tales and apprehensions, being
     placed there when turned out of the house at Waddow, to allay
     the terrors of the domestics, who durst not continue under the
     same roof with this misshapen figure. It was then broken,
     either from accident or design, and the head, some time ago, we
     have understood, was in one of the attic chambers at Waddow
     Hall.


One loud, roaring, and tempestuous night--the last relics of the year
1660--some half-dozen boon companions were comforting themselves
beside a blazing fire, and a wassail-cup, at the ingle of a
well-ordered and well-accustomed tavern within the good borough of
Clitheroe, bearing on its gable front, over a grim and narrow porch, a
marvellous portraiture apparently of some four-footed animal, by
common usage and consent denominated "The Bull." What recked they of
the turmoil that was abroad, while good liquor lasted, and the troll
and merry tale went round? The yule-log was blazing on the hearth,
and their cups were bright and plenished.

[Illustration 10: PEG O'NELLY'S WELL, NEAR CLITHEROE.
_Drawn by G. Pickering._
_Engraved by Edw^d Finden._]

"'Ods bodikins, Nic--and that's a parson's oath," said a small waspish
figure from the farther chimney-corner, in a sort of husky wheezing
voice, "I'll lay thee a thimblefull of pins thou dar'na do it."

"And I'll lay thee a grey lapstone, an' a tachin-end to boot, that I
run ower t' hippin-stones to-night, and never a wet sole; but a buss
and a wet lip I'll bring fro' the bonniest maiden at Waddow!"

"Like enough, like enough, though thou hast to brag for't," said the
first speaker tauntingly--an old customer of the house, and a compiler
of leathern extremities for the good burghers and their wives.

"Give o'er your gostering," said another; "_Non omnes qui citharam
tenent, sunt citharoedi_.[iii] Many talk of Robin Hood who never shot from
his bow. Know ye not 'tis Peggy's year, and her oblation hath not been
rendered? Eschew therefore the rather your bravery until this night be
overpast."

This learned harangue betrayed the schoolmaster, who was prone to make
Gaffer Wiswall's chimney-side a temporary refuge from the broils and
disturbances of his own, where his spouse, by way of enticing him to
remain, generally contrived either to rate him soundly or to sulk
during their brief communion.

"Who cares for Peg?" said the hero who had boasted of his
blandishments with the maids. "She may go drown herself i' the Red Sea
for aught I care!"

This heretical, unbelieving, and impious scorner was a man of shreds
and patches, a pot-valiant tailor, whose ungartered hosen, loose
knee-strings, and thin shambling legs, sufficiently betokened the
sedentary nature of his avocations. "I wonder the parson hasn't gi'en
her a lift wi' Pharaoh and his host ere this," continued he.

"Or the schoolmaster," said that provoking little personage, the first
speaker, whose sole aim was to throw the apple of discord amongst his
fellows.

"And pray who may this lady be whom ye so ungallantly devote to
perdition?" inquired a stranger from behind, who had hitherto been
silent, apparently not wishful to join the hilarity of those he
addressed. The party quesited was in the midst of a puff of exhalation
more than usually prolonged when the question was put, so that ere he
could frame his organs to the requisite reply the pragmatical tailor,
whose glibness of tongue was equalled only by his assurance, gave the
following by way of parenthesis:--

"Plague on't, where's t'ou bin a' thy life, 'at doesn't know Peg
O'Nelly, man?"

"Deuce tak' thee for a saucy lout," said the sutor; "I'll brak' thy
spindle-shanks wi' my pipe-stump. Be civil if thou can, Nicky, to thy
betters. Sir, if it please ye to listen, we'll have ye well instructed
in the matter by the schoolmaster here." He cast a roguish look at the
pedagogue as he spoke. But I pray you draw in with us, an' make one
wi' the rest."

The scholar adjusted himself, passed one hand thoughtfully upon his
brow, and with a gentle inclination commenced with a loud hem, or
clearance of aught that might obstruct the free communication of his
thoughts.

"Peg, or Peggy, as some do more euphoniously denominate her, was maid,
woman, or servant--_ancilla_, _famula_, _ministra_, not _pedissequa_,
or one who attends her mistress abroad, but rather a servant of all
work, in the house yonder at Waddow, many years past. Indeed, my
grandmother did use to speak of it as _ex vetere famâ_--traditionary,
or appertaining unto the like."

"I tell thee what, gossip, if thee doesn't get on faster wi' thy tale,
Peggy's ghost will have a chronicle of another make. I can see Nic's
tongue is yammering to take up a stitch i' thy narrative," interrupted
the leathern artificer.

"And I'd bring it up in another guess way," said Nicholas, tartly,
"than wi' scraps and scrapings fro' gallipots, and remnants o' mass
books."

"Pray ye, friends, be at peace a while, or I may be dealt with never a
word to my question," said the stranger beseechingly.

"Go on," rejoined the peremptory occupant of the chimney-corner; "but
let thy discourse be more akin to thy text."

The schoolmaster, thus admonished, again set forward.

"As I was a-saying precedent or prior to this unseasonable
interruption--_medium sermonem_--I crave your mercy, but I was born,
as I may say, with the Latin, or the _lingua latialis_ in my mouth,
rather than my mother-tongue; so, as I was a-saying, this same Peggy,
_filia_ or daughter to Ellen, if I mistake not, seeing that Peg
O'Nell doth betoken, after the manner and use of these rude
provincials, that the genitrix or _mater_ is the genitive or
generator, being"----

"Now a murrain light on all fools, coxcombs, and"----

"Tailors' shins--hang thee, for thou hast verily split mine wi' thy
gilly-pegs. They're as sharp as a pair of hatchets," said an
unfortunate neighbour who had the ill-luck to encounter the gyrations
of these offensive and weapon-like appendages to the trunk of Nicholas
Slater, who, in his great ardour and distress at the floundering and
abortive attempts of the scholar, threw them about in all directions,
to the constant jeopardy and annoyance of those more immediately
within their sphere of operation.

"Keep 'em out o't gait then," said the testy aggressor, angry at the
interruption, being fearful of losing so lucky an opportunity.

"Peg O'Nelly, sir, was a maid-servant once at Waddow, killed first,
and then drowned i' the well by one o' the men for concubinage, as the
parson says; and so for the wrong done, her ghost ne'er having been
laid, you see she claims every seventh year an offering which must be
summat wick--and"----While he hesitated another took up the thread of
his narrative.

"This is the last night o' the year, you see," said the other in
continuation; "and we be just thinking to bid good-bye to th' old
chap, and greet th' new one with a wag of his paw, and a drink to his
weel-doing. But the first cause o' this disturbance was by reason of
its being Peggy's year, and as she hasn't had her sop yet, we thought
as how it would be no bad job to get rid o' this drunken tailor here,
and he might save some better man; so we have been daring him to cross
t' hippin-stones to-night; for there is but an hour or two to spare
before her time's up."

"It is not too late," said the stranger, with great solemnity. Every
eye was bent upon him. He still sat in the broad shadow projected by
one huge chimney-corner, his face overhung by a broad felt hat, girt
with a band and buckle; a drooping draggled feather fell over its
crown. His whole person was so curiously enveloped in a loose
travelling cloak that nothing but a dark unshapely mass, having some
resemblance to the human form, could be distinguished. Concealment
was evidently the object. Every one was awed down into silence. The
few words he had spoken seemed to have dried up, or rather frozen at
its surface, the babbling current of their opinions, that ran, whilom,
with unceasing folly and rapidity.

"Silence!" cried the sutor from the opposite ingleside.

This command operated like a charm. The ice was broken, and the
current became free. Without more ado, as if in opposition to the
self-constituted authority from the high-backed chair, the guests,
with one exception only, commenced with a vigorous discharge of "airy
missiles," which by degrees subsided into a sort of desultory
sharp-shooting; but their words were neither few nor well applied. It
was evident that a gloom and disquietude was upon the assembly. There
was a distinct impression of fear, though a vague notion as to its
cause--a sort of extempore superstition--a power which hath most hold
on the mind in proportion as its limits and operations are least known
or understood. The bugbear owing its magnitude and importance to
obscurity and misapprehension, becomes divested of its terrors when it
can be surveyed and appreciated.

     "_Te misereat, miserescat, vel commiserescat mei,_"

quoted the schoolmaster, who, before he could find an equivalent in
his mother-tongue, was tripped up by the nimble constructor of
raiment.

"The dule and his dam are verily let loose on us," said he.

"Our Lady and her grace forefend!" cried he of the awl and lapstone,
whose pipe having unaccountably been extinguished, was just in the act
of being thrust down into the red and roaring billets when he beheld a
blue flame hovering on them; a spiral wreath of light shot upwards,
and the log was reduced to a mass of glowing ashes and half-burnt
embers. At this critical moment the stranger deliberately approached
the hearth. He threw a whole flagon of liquor wilfully upon the waning
faggots, and in a moment fiz, splutter, and smoke proclaimed that the
warfare of the elements, like many others, had ended in the
destruction of both the contending belligerents. The yule-log was
extinguished. There was a general rush, and a consternation of so
unequivocal a nature, that tables, benches, platters, and drinking
utensils were included in one vast overthrow. Some thought they saw
the glowing emblem of Yule transferred to the stranger's eyes, which
twinkled like twin loopholes to the furnace within.

"I have thee now!" said he; but who this unfortunate might be whom
they had so left, even in the very claws of the Evil One, they knew
not, nor did they care to inquire. Each, too happy to escape, rushed
forth hatless and sore dismayed into the street, with all the horrors
of a pelting and pitiless night upon his head, and thought himself
well off by the exchange, and too much overjoyed that his own person
was not the victim in the catastrophe.

In the morning Isabel, the landlord's ward, and his coal-black steed
were amissing!

Now, it was but a mile or so from this ancient borough to Brunckerley,
or Bromiley hippin (stepping) stones, across the Ribble, where, upon
this insecure but long-used mode of transit, the steps of our
forefathers were guided over the ford. These same stepping-stones were
quite as often the instruments or executioners of Peggy's vengeance as
the well itself dignified by her name. It need not, therefore, be a
matter of surprise that when the appalling and fearful events of the
preceding night were bruited forth in the public thoroughfares upon
New-Year's morning--a season when news-carriers and gossips, old and
young, are more particularly prone to a vigilant exercise of their
talents and avocations--we say it need not be a source of either
suspicion or surprise that many of these conduit-pipes of
intelligence, even before the day was broad awake, did pour forth an
overwhelming flood of alarm and exaggeration. According to these
veracious lovers of the marvellous, shrieks were heard about the
requisite time, and in the precise direction where it must needs
follow that Isabel was just in the act of being whisked off by one of
Pegg's emissaries, and that ere now she was doubtless offered as one
of the septennial sacrifices to her revenge.

It was a brave and comely morning, and a brave sight it was to see old
and young go forth to the river on that blessed day. The crisp and icy
brink of the brawling Ribble was beset by groups of idle folk, some
anxiously looking out for symptoms or traces of the body, others
occupied with rakes and various implements for searching the unknown
regions beneath the turbid and angry waters. Beyond were the antlered
and hoary woods of Waddow, every bow laden with the snows of
yestereven, sparkling silently in the broad and level sweep of light,
pouring in one uninterrupted flood over the wide and chilly waste--a
wilderness of snow, a gay and gorgeous mantle glittering on the bosom
of death and desolation.

Gaffer Wiswall was there. The old man almost beside himself with
grief, heart-stricken with the blow, felt alone, a scathed trunk,
doomed to survive when the green verdure of his existence had
departed.

Wet and weary were the searchers, and their toil unremitting, but the
body was not found. The "Well," Peg O'Nelly's Well, was tried, with
the like result. Surely this was a visitation of more than ordinary
spite and malignity. Hitherto the bodies of the victims, with but few
exceptions, had been rendered back to their disconsolate survivors,
the revengeful ghost apparently satisfied with their extinction; but
it is now high time to make the attempt, if possible, to rid
themselves of her persecutions.

"Look here!" said one of the bystanders, pointing to the river's
margin; "there hath gone a horse, or it may be two, along these
slippery banks, but a few hours ago, and the track seems to come from
the river."

"Let us see to the other side," said another, "if there be a fellow to
it." And, sure enough, on the opposite bank, there were footmarks
corresponding thereto, as though one or more adventurous horsemen had
swam the swollen waters recently, a little higher up than the ford,
pursuing their slippery way by the very margin, along the woods, for
some distance, when their track was lost amid these deep and almost
pathless recesses.

"Mercy o' me," said one, "it is deep enough thereabouts to drown the
castle and hill to boot. Neither horse nor man could wade that
hurly-burly there last night, for the waters were out, and the footboy
from Waddow told me that nobody could even cross the hippin-stones at
eight o'clock. He came round by the bridge."

"But if the beasts could swim?" said another, of more knowledge and
shrewdness than the rest.

"Swim!--Go to!" said the small leathern-aproned personage whose
functions we have before adverted to at the bright and merry ingle of
old Wiswall; "neither man nor beast could have held breast against the
torrent."

This was a complete negation to the whole. Nevertheless something had
crossed, whether cloven-footed or not they were unable to distinguish,
inasmuch as the demon, or whatsoever it might be, had taken the
precaution to make its passage in a pair of horse-shoes. The
probability was, that Peggy had varied the usual mode of her
proceedings, and sent a messenger with a strong arm and a fiery steed
to seize her victim.

"We're none on us safe," cried one, "fro' this she div--div--Save us!
I'd like to ha' made a bad job on't."

"The bloody vixen is ne'er satisfied," said an old gossip, whose nose
and chin had been gradually getting into closer fellowship for at
least a long score of winters. "I'll hie me to Bet at the Alleys for a
charm that'll drive aw t' hobgoblins to the de'il again. When I waur a
wee lassie, the scummerin' dixies didn't use to go rampaging about
this gate. There was nowt to do, but off to t' priest, an' th' job
waur done. Now-a-days, what wi' new lights, doctrines, an' lollypops,
Anabaptists an' Presbyterians, they're too throng wranglin' wi' one
another to tak' care o' the poor sheep, which Satan is worrying and
hurrying like hey go mad, and not a soul to set the dog at him, nor a
callant to tak' him by t' horns, an' say 'Boh!'"

It seems "the good old times," even in those days, were objects of
regret, still clung to with fondness and delight--reversing the
distich; for--

     "Man never is, but always _has been_, blest!"

It is a principle in our very nature that we should look back with
yearnings to our youthful years, when all was fresh and joyous; when
our thoughts were in all the prime, the spring-tide of their
existence, and our emotions, young and jocund as ourselves, bubbled
forth fresh and clear as the mountain-spring from its source. The
change is not in the objects around us; it is in ourselves. Looking
through the medium of our own jaded and enervated feelings, we fancy
all things have the same worn-out aspect, and contrast the present
with the freshness and vigour of our former existence.

Turn we now to the former inmates at Waddow, an old-fashioned building
in that old-fashioned age, now re-edified and re-built. It is
beautifully situated on a slope on the Yorkshire side of the Ribble,
beyond the "hippin-stones" we have named.

In a low, dark chamber, panelled with dingy oak, into which the
morning sun burst joyously, its garish brightness ill assorting with
the solemnity and even sadness of the scene, there sat an elderly
matron, owner and occupier of the place. The casements were so beset
with untrimmed branches and decayed tendrils that her form looked dim
and almost impalpable, seen through the mist, the vagrant motes
revelling in the sunbeams. It seemed some ghostly, some attenuated
shape, that sat, still and stately, in that gloomy chamber. Before her
stood a female domestic, antique and venerable as herself, and the
conversation was carried on scarcely above a whisper, as though
silence brooded over that mansion, rarely disturbed by voice or
footstep.

"I heed not these idle tales. A hammer and a willing hand will pound
yon bugbear into dirt," said the dame. "If there be none else, I'll
try what the hand of a feeble but resolute woman can do. Yon
Dagon--yon graven image of papistrie, which scares ye so, shall be
broken for the very beasts to trample on."

"But the dins last night were"----

"Tell me not of such folly. When yonder senseless thing is gone, you
shall be quiet, maybe, if the rats will let ye. Send Jock hither, and
let Jim the mason be sent for, and the great iron mallet. Quick,
Mause, at my bidding. We shall see whether or not yonder grim idol
will dare to stir after it is cast down."

With a look of surprise, and even horror, at this impious intent, did
the ancient housekeeper move slowly forth to execute her commands.

The innocent cause of all this broil was a certain stone figure,
rudely sculptured, which, time out of mind, had been the disturbing
but undisturbed inmate of an obscure corner in the cellar beneath an
uninhabited wing of the mansion at Waddow. Superstition had invested
this rude misshapen relic with peculiar terrors; and the generation
having passed to whom its origin was known, from some cause or another
it became associated with Peggy's disaster, who, as it was currently
believed, either took possession of this ugly image, or else employed
it as a kind of spy or bugbear to annoy the inhabitants of the house
where she had been so cruelly treated. There did certainly appear some
connection between Peggy's freaks and this uncouth specimen of
primitive workmanship. Though bearing evident marks of some rude
effigy, the spoliation of a religious house at some reforming, or, in
other words, plundering, era--the ideal similitude probably of a
Romish saint--yet, whenever Peggy's emissaries were abroad and a
victim was to be immolated, this disorderly cast-out from the calendar
was particularly restless; not that any really authenticate, visible
cases were extant of these unidol-like propensities to locomotion, but
noises and disturbances were heard for all the world like the uncouth
and awkward gambols of such an ugly thing; at least, those who were
wiser than their neighbours, and well skilled in iconoclastics, did
stoutly aver that they had heard it "clump, clump, clump," precisely
like the jumping and capering of such a misshapen, ill-conditioned
effigy, when inclined to be particularly merry and jocose. Now this
could not be gainsaid, and consequently the innocent and mutilated
relic, once looked upon as the genius or tutelary guardian of the
house, was unhesitatingly assigned to the evil domination of Peggy. It
might be that the rancour she displayed was partly in consequence of
an adequate retribution having failed to overtake her betrayer, and
the family, then resident at Waddow, not having dealt out to him the
just punishment of his deserts. Thus had she been permitted to pervert
the proper influences and benevolent operations of this mystic
disturber to her own mischievous propensities; and thenceforth a
malignant spirit troubled the house, heretofore guarded by a saint of
true Catholic dignity and stolidity.

But it seemed the time was now come when these unholy doings were to
be put an end to. The present owner of Waddow, tired, as we have seen,
of such ridiculous alarms, and the terrors of her domestics, and
wishful to do away with the evil report and scandal sustained thereby,
was now resolved to dissipate these idle fears, to show at once their
folly and futility.

"Well, Mause, the old lady will have her way, I know; but if she
doesn't rue her cantrips, my name's not Jock; that's all." And here
the speaker stamped with a heavy clouted foot upon the kitchen-hearth,
whither the lady's message had been conveyed.

"Thou maun get thy hammer and pick, lad, and soon, too, I tell thee,"
said Mause.

"I'll do aught 'at she asks me; but--but--to run like some goupin'
warlock to the whame o' destruction, wi' one's een open, it's what no
Christian will do that hasn' forsworn his baptism."

"Maun I tell her so?" inquired Mause, with a significant emphasis.

"Naw, naw; no' just soa; but thee maun--wait a bit; let's see." Here
he began to beat about anxiously for an excuse, which did not present
itself with the same facility as the expression of his unwillingness
to undertake the job. "Eh me!--Jock Tattersall--herd and bailiff now
these twenty years--that I should be brought to sich a pass; an' aw'
through these plaguy women. Well, well; but if a good stiff lie,
Mause, would sarve my turn, I wouldna' care so mich. Hears to me, owd
wench; tell mistress I'm gone wi' t' kye to water, Peg's Well being
frozen up."

"Tell her thysel'," said the indignant Mause; "an' then one lie may
sarve. I'll no go to the dule upo' thy shouthers!"

"There's Bob i' the yard yon; winnat he do for her instead?"

"I tell thee what, Jock," said Mause, "mistress'll ha't done in her
own way; so we may as weel budge sooner as later. But let's a' go
together, an' I warrant our dame will be the first, an' she'll stand
i' th' gap if aught should happen. Besides, courage comes wi' company,
thee knows, an' there's a round dozen of us."

This proposal, in the present exigency, seemed the best that could be
adopted. The whole household were full of misgivings about the result;
yet, sheltered under the authority of their mistress, and themselves
not consenting to the deed, they trusted Peggy would consider it in
the same light, and if she should break forth upon them, doubtless she
would possess sufficient discrimination to know the real aggressor,
and wreak her vengeance where it was due.

Mause was despatched to their mistress, who, after a short period,
starched and pinned, her aspect as stiff and unyielding as her
disposition, consented to take the lead, and shame the unwillingness
and cowardice of her domestics. Immediately behind walked, or rather
lagged, the executioner with his weapons, looking more like unto one
that was going to execution. Mause came next, then the remainder of
the household, not one of them disposed to quarrel about precedency.
The room to which they were tending was low, dark, and unfurnished,
save with the _exuviæ_ of other parts of the premises. Rats and lumber
were its chief occupants. A few steps accomplished the descent, the
chamber having less of the nature of cellarage than that of a dairy,
which, in former times, and until a more eligible situation had been
found, was the general use and appropriation to which it was allotted.
Seldom visited, Peggy, or rather her mysterious representative,
reigned here without molestation or control. At times, as we have
before seen, the image, awaking from its stony slumber, played the
very shame amongst the chattels in the lumber-room.

Its activity and exertions against "social order" were now destined to
be forever ended. Irrevocable was the doom, and the lowering aspect of
the proud dame of Waddow, as the door unclosed, and a faint light from
the loophole opposite revealed her enemy in all the mockery of
repose--grim, erect, and undisturbed--showed the inflexibility of her
purpose.

"Now to work," said she; "come hither with thy torch, Hal; why dost
loiter so? and where's Jock and the mason with the tools?" But Jock
and his compeer were loth to come, and the lady's voice grew louder
and more peremptory. "Shame on ye, to be cow'd thus by a graven
image--a popish idol--a bit of chiselled stone. Out upon it, that
nature should have put women's hearts into men's bosoms. Nay, 'tis
worse than womanhood, for they have the stouter stomach for the
enterprise, I trow. Bring hither the hammer, I say. Doth the foul
apprehension of a trumpet terrify you that has been dead and rotten
these hundred years?"

Thus did the sturdy dame strive to quell their fears and stimulate
them to the attack. Yet they lingered, and were loth to begin. Nay,
one whispered to his fellow that the image grinned and frowned
horribly during this harangue, and made mouths at the trenchant dame.

"It's no use," said Jock; "I darena strike!"

"Thou craven kestril!" said she, angrily; "and what should ail thee to
shy at the quarry? Give me the weapon." And with that she seized the
hammer as though rendered furious by the pusillanimity of her
attendants. The whole group were paralysed with terror. Not a word was
spoken; scarcely a breath was drawn; every eye was riveted upon her,
without the power of withdrawal. They saw her approach, as though
endowed with tenfold strength, and lending the whole weight of her
long, thin arm to the blow, with a right good will added thereto, she
dealt a powerful stroke at the head of this dumb idol. A headless
trunk tumbled on the floor; but with that there came a shriek, so
wild, woeful, and appalling, that the cowardly attendants fled. The
torch-bearer threw down the light, and the whole of the domestics,
with dismal outcries, rushed pell-mell through the narrow passage;
fearful, inconceivable horror urging their flight. The dame was left
alone, but what she saw or heard was never divulged; an altered woman
she looked when she came forth, like one of the old still portraits
that had slipped down from its frame in the gloomy oaken chamber. She
spoke not again even to Mause that day, but seemed as if bent on some
deep and solemn exercise. Abstracted from every outward impression,
she sat, the image of some ancient sibyl communing with the inward,
unseen pageantries of thought--the hidden workings of a power she
could not control. Towards night she seemed more accessible. Naturally
austere and taciturn, she rarely spoke but when it was absolutely
necessary; yet now there was a softened, a subdued tone of feeling,
and even a bland expression in her address, which for years had not
been felt. Some bitter, some heart-searing disappointment, had dried
up the sources of feeling, and left her spirit withered, without
nurture, and without verdure, without so much as a green spot in the
untrodden wilderness of her existence.

"I've seen him, Mause," said she, as though half in earnest,
half-musing, when the faithful domestic came to warn her mistress that
the time of rest was at hand.

"Seen who, my lady?"

"Bless thee, silly wench, I've seen William. Nay, nurse, it was thy
boy, as thou didst use to call him; and as sure as these aged eyes
have wept themselves dry at his departure and decease, I saw his
vision this morning i' the image-chamber."

"Eh! the good saints guide and preserve us," said the aged menial,
crossing herself very devoutly, more by way of conjuration or
counter-charm, than from any proper feeling of reverence or faith in
the mystic symbol of our redemption. "There's death at the door, then,
sure enough," she continued; "aw this gramarye and foretokening isn't
for nought; so who's to pay for it?"

"When the light was gone," said the dame, as though scarcely heeding
the interpolation of her domestic, "I stayed a brief space; but what
passed"----Here she raised her dim and hollow eyes for a moment; "no
matter now, Mause; suffice it that my nephew, who was drown'd seven
long years ago, stood before me!"

"But young master, Heaven rest his soul, what can he want from yonder
bright mansion of glory, where you always said he was gone," replied
Mause, "that he should come again to this pitiful world? Eh me! that
Peggy should ha' claw'd so fair a victim."

"Peace, Mause; never would I believe it. Nor even now will I, for one
moment, apprehend that Heaven would put any of its creatures, for whom
its care is continually going forth, into the power of a base and
vindictive harlot--that the All-merciful and All-good would render up
an innocent victim to her malice. Better worship Moloch and the
devils, unto whom our forefathers did offer a vain and cruel
sacrifice. No, Mause! believe me, our faith forbids. The light of
revealed truth shows no such misrule in the government of the Deity.
The powers of evil are as much the instruments of good in His hand as
the very attributes of His own perfections. And yet, strange enough
that my devoted William should appear at the very time, and in the
very place, when the destruction of the ugly image was accomplished,
as though the charm were then broken, and he were set free! I am
distressed, bewildered, Mause; the links are too strong to be undone
by my feeble and unassisted reason. That he was reckoned by common
report as a doomed one to that vindictive ghost, I know; and that the
mutilation of yonder image should apparently have called forth his
very substance from the dark womb where he had lain, transcends my
imperfect knowledge. Beshrew me, but I could readily become tinctured
with the prevailing belief, did not my firm hold on the goodness and
the omnipotence of the great Ruler of all sustain my faith and forbid
my distrust."

"I know not what wiser heads may think; but if I'd seen his wraith
rising fro' the image, I should ha' thought--what I do yet--and
so"----

"Tarry with me through the night, Mause. This vision haunts me
strangely, and I do feel more heavy and debilitate than I have been
wont."

Whether the shock was too great or too sudden for a frame so stubborn
and unyielding, we know not; but that the firmest often feel more
intensely the blows and disasters which others, by yielding to them,
do evade, needeth not that we set forth, inasmuch as it is too plain
and demonstrative to require illustration. On that same night, Mause,
awakening from a short and broken slumber, looked on her mistress, and
lo, she was a corpse!

This event, according to the popular belief, would doubtless add
another to the list of Peggy's victims, and was looked upon as a
terrible token from the demon against all who should hereafter have
the temerity or presumption to interfere with her proceedings.

The following day it was noised abroad, and the survivors were mindful
to have the entrance to this fearful chamber walled up, and thus
prevent any further mischief or interference.

Towards eventide, or ere the lights were renewed in the death-chamber,
there came a gentle knock at the hall-door. An aged domestic answered
the summons; but with a scream, she fled as from the face of an enemy.
A footstep was heard in the hall. Slowly it ascended the stairs. They
creaked and groaned, every step seeming to strike with a cold shudder
to the heart. They verily thought that the house was beset by a whole
squadron of infernals, who had sent a messenger for the body of their
mistress. The tramp of the mysterious visitor was heard in the
death-chamber. Moans and bewailings were distinctly audible; and
Mause, who was in the room, came down with a face colourless and wan,
as though she had seen a ghost. She could not articulate, save one
harrowing word--

"William!" she cried, and pointed upwards. Seven years ago had he been
drowned, according to general belief, one fearful night, in crossing
the river by Bromiley or Brunckerley hippin-stones. Nephew and
heir-presumptive to the lady of Waddow, he had left his home that
evening writhing under her malediction; for he had in an evil hour, as
she thought, formed a base-born attachment to an orphan living with
Gaffer Wiswall, and generally looked upon as his daughter. It was this
curse which clave like a band of iron about the breast of the proud
dame of Waddow; for, in the morning light, when there came news to the
hall that he had been seen swept down by the ravening flood--perishing
without hope of succour--she sat as though stupefied, without a murmur
or a tear, and her stricken heart knew not this world's gladness
again. Solitary and friendless, this fair creation seemed blotted out,
and she became fretful and morose. All her earthly hopes were centred
in this boy, the offspring of a sister, and they were for ever gone!
Mause only had the privilege of addressing her without a special
interrogation. The appearance, or it might be, the apparition of her
beloved nephew, seemed again to open the sluices of feeling and
affection; to soften and subdue the harshness that encrusted her
disposition; but it was only the forerunner of an eternal change--the
herald of that inexorable tyrant, Death!

Darkness was fast gathering about them; but the whole household were
huddled together in the kitchen, none daring to venture forth to their
occupations. A long hour it seemed, while every moment they were
expecting some further visitation. The fire was nigh extinguished, for
who durst fetch the billet from the stack? The conversation, if such
might be called the brief and scanty form of their communications, was
kept up in a sort of tremulous whisper, every one being frightened at
the sound of his own voice. How long this state of things might have
lasted we know not, inasmuch as the terrible footsteps were again
heard upon the stairs--the same slow and solemn tread. They heard its
descent into the hall. It became louder, and the fearful vision was
evidently approaching. The sound was now in the narrow passage close
to them. The next moment a form was presented to their view, carrying
a taper, and recognised by the major part of the group; it being the
very semblance of their deceased "young master," as he was generally
called, changed, it was true, but still sufficiently like him, when
living, to be distinguished from any other. One loud cry announced
their discovery of the phantom.

"Why tarry here?" said the intruder. "Yonder corse hath need of the
death lights;" and with that he disappeared. Yet, however needful it
was that the usual offices should be rendered to the departed, there
was no one bold enough to perform the duty. Nevertheless the lights
were kindled by some invisible hand in the lady's chamber that night;
and, by whomsoever the office was fulfilled, the corpse was not
without a watcher, and a faithful one, till daylight came softly on
the couch, driving away the darkness and the apprehensions it
excited.

It was past midnight ere the domestics retired to rest, or rather to
their chambers; so fearful were they of another visit that, by a
little care and management, they contrived so that none should be left
alone till morning arose before them, bright and cheerful,
dissipating, in some measure, their former terrors.

Softly and cheerily broke that morning sun upon the frosty and
embossed panes of Gaffer Wiswall's dwelling; but the light brought no
cheer, no solace unto him. The old man was now a withered, a sapless
trunk, stripped of the green verdure which had lately bloomed on its
hoary summit. His daughter, as he loved to call her--and he had almost
cheated himself into the belief--was ravished from him, and the staff
of his declining years had perished.

He was sitting moody and disconsolate, and, like the bereaved mother
in Israel, "refusing to be comforted," when a stranger entered, and,
without speaking, seated himself by the broad ingle, opposite the
goodman, who was looking listlessly forth into the blazing faggots,
but without either aim or discernment. The intruder was wrapped in a
dark military cloak; his hat drawn warily over his forehead,
concealing his features beneath the broad and almost impervious
shadow.

Wiswall awoke from his study, and with a curious eye, seemed silently
to ask the will and business of the stranger; but he spoke not. The
old man, surveying his guest more minutely, inquired--

"Be ye far ridden this morning, Sir Cavalier?"

"Not farther than one might stride ere breakfast," was the reply, but
in a low, and, it seemed, a hasty tone, as though impatient of being
questioned, and preferring to remain unnoticed.

The tapster's instincts were still in operation. With the true spirit
of his calling, he inquired--

"From the army, sir?"

"Ay, from the Grand Turk, an' thou wilt."

"The king, they say, hath a fairer word for the dames than for those
stout hearts who won him his crown," said the victualler, seemingly
conversant in the common rumours that were abroad. "The sparks about
court," continued he, "do ruffle it bravely among the buxom dames and
their beauteous"----Here his daughter's bright image came suddenly
upon his recollection, and the old man wept.

"Why dost weep, old man?" inquired his guest.

"Alas! I had a daughter once, a match fit for the bravest galliard
that sun e'er shown upon. She was the wonder and dismay of all that
looked on her. She loved a soldier dearly, and her mouth would purse
and play, and her eye would glisten at a cap and plume; and yet the
veriest prude in all Christendom was not more discreet."

"Mayhap her sweetheart was a soldier, and abroad at the wars; so that
these were but the outgoings of hope and expectation for his return."

"Her sweetheart, marry! she had once--but--he was ta'en from us. The
young heir of Waddow, as we always called him, at the hall yonder, was
her true love; but one night, seven long bitter years back, the flood
swept him away: we never saw him again, but Isabel's hope was for ever
blighted!"

"And the body--was it not found?"

"Nay, for the current was swift, and bore him hence. The demon--she
hath ta'en mine, as the next dainty morsel for her ravening appetite."

"'Tis seven years since I first sought my fortune as a soldier. I
served my king faithfully. With him I went into exile. He hath
returned, and here I come to redeem my pledge."

The stranger threw off his cloak, and the astonished and almost
incredulous tapster beheld the nephew of the dame now heir to the
inheritance of Waddow.

"Though swept rapidly down the stream on that dreadful night when I
fled, heedlessly fled, from the denunciations of her who had supplied
a parent's place from my infancy, I escaped, almost by a miracle, at a
considerable distance below the ford, where I attempted to cross; yet,
knowing her inflexible disposition--for she had threatened to leave me
penniless--I resolved to seek my fortune as a soldier until I should
be enabled to wed with better prospects for the future. I contrived to
assure Isabel of my safety, but I strictly enjoined secrecy. I was not
without hope that one day or another, appearing as though I had risen
from the dead, I should win a reluctant consent, it might be, to our
union. A long exile was the only recompense for my loyalty. The
restoration hath rendered me back, and I have redeemed my pledge. At
my urgent entreaty the other night, the first of my return, she
accompanied me, and we have plighted our vows at the same altar. I
took her privily to my former home. Knowing a secret entrance to the
chamber where the image is deposited, I concealed her there, safe, as
I thought, from molestation, until I had won the consent of her who
was my only friend. To my horror and surprise she discovered me there,
and the screams of Isabel had nigh betrayed her presence; but it was
evident she thought the grave had given back its dead. I could not
then undeceive her, and when I returned she was a corpse! Dying
without will, I am now the lawful heir to yon good inheritance, and
Isabel is the proud mistress of Waddow!"

This unlooked-for intelligence was almost overwhelming; the old man's
frame seemed hardly able to bear the disclosure. He wept like a child;
but the overflow of his joy relieved the oppressed heart, full even to
bursting.

Yet Peggy was not without a sacrifice, according to popular belief,
which sacrifice was offered in the person of the late defunct at
Waddow. Indeed, according to some, it were an act of unbelief and
impiety to suppose any other, and only to be equalled by that of the
attack made by this resolute dame upon Peggy's representative--an
outrage she so dearly atoned for by her own death.

The headless trunk was, however, removed some years afterwards to its
present site by the brink of "the Well," where, having fallen upon
evil and unbelieving times, it is desecrated to the profane uses of a
resting-place for cans unto the merry maidens who come thither at
morning and eventide to draw water.

Many are the victims now recorded to the capricious malevolence of
Peggy; and though deprived of her domicile at Waddow, still her
visitations are not the less frequent; and whether a stray kitten or
an unfortunate chick be the sufferer, the same is deemed a victim and
a sacrifice to the wrath of Peggy's _manes_.


[Illustration: ULVERSTONE SANDS.
_Engraved by Edw^d Finden._
_Drawn by G. Pickering._]




THE SANDS.

     "It is the shout of the coming foe,
       Ride, ride for thy life, Sir John;
     But still the waters deeper grew,
       The wild sea-foam rushed on."

     --_Old Ballad._

     The following account of an excursion over the sands, from Mr
     Baines's _Companion to the Lakes_, will give a very accurate
     idea of the mode in which travellers accomplish this
     interesting, though sometimes perilous journey, over the bare
     sands of the Bay of Morecambe. Taking a horse at Lancaster, and
     setting out at the same time with the "Over-sands" coach, he
     says--

     "We arrived at Hest Bank, on the shores of Morecambe Bay, three
     miles and a half from Lancaster, about five in the afternoon.
     Here a little caravan was collected, waiting the proper time to
     cross the trackless sands left bare by the receding tide. I soon
     saw two persons set out in a gig, and, following them, I found
     that one of them was the guide appointed to conduct travellers,
     and the other a servant who was driving his master's gig to the
     Cartmel shore, and was to return with the horse the same
     evening. He had of course no time to lose, and had begun his
     journey at the earliest possible hour. We found the sands firm
     and level, except the slight wrinkles produced by the ripple of
     the waves; but they were still wet, having only just been left
     by the sea. The guide appeared to drive with caution, and in no
     place went farther than a mile from land. We had a good deal of
     conversation, and I found him intelligent and communicative. His
     name is Thomas Wilkinson. He is a tall, athletic man, past the
     middle age, and bears marks of the rough weather he has been
     exposed to in discharging the duties of his post during the
     winter months. In stormy, and more especially in foggy weather,
     those duties must be arduous and anxious. It is his business to
     station himself at the place where the river Keer runs over the
     sands to the sea, which is about three miles from Hest Bank, and
     to show travellers where they may pass with safety. The bed of
     the river is liable to frequent changes, and a fresh of water
     after rain may, in a very short time, convert a fordable place
     into a quicksand. When we came to the river, he got out of the
     gig, and waded over to ascertain the firmness of the bottom, the
     water being about knee-deep. Having escorted us a little
     farther, till we saw the guide for the Kent at a distance, and
     having pointed out the line we should keep, he left us to
     return to his proper post. We gave him, as is usual, a few
     pence; for though he is appointed by government, his salary is
     only £10 a-year, and he is, of course, chiefly dependent on what
     he receives from travellers.

     "These sands are called the Lancaster Sands, and the guide said
     that they were at present eleven miles over, from Hest Bank to
     Kent's Bank, but that he had known them when he could pass
     directly over in not more than seven miles. The tide forms a
     channel in the sand, which has been gradually coming nearer the
     shore for some years past, and has obliged persons crossing to
     take a longer circuit. It was now the spring-tide, and the
     sands we were travelling upon would, at high-water, be
     seventeen feet below the surface of the sea.

     "The day was exceedingly fine, and the prospects, in crossing
     over the sands, were splendid. The whole coast of the bay, from
     Peel Castle round to the shore beyond Lancaster; the stern
     crags of Warton and Arnside Fells, on the right; farther
     eastward, the well-known form of Ingleborough, whose broad
     head, not apparently of very great elevation, is still visible
     from every considerable hill in Lancashire, Westmoreland, and
     Cumberland, and seems to lift itself in serene and unchanging
     majesty over the neighbouring hills; the broken and picturesque
     shores of the Kent, beautifully wooded, and forming a vista to
     the eye;--the fells of Cartmel, rising in the mid-distance,
     their sides hung with forests, and several ornamental parks
     lying round their base; and above, and far beyond them, the
     noble chain of the Westmoreland and Cumberland mountains, whose
     lofty summits, clothed with light, formed a sublime barrier
     stretching along the northern horizon. Such are the principal
     features of a prospect which is not the less beautiful because
     it rises from the level expanse of the sands, and which was to
     me the more interesting from the novelty of my own situation.

     "The Ulverstone coach, several gigs, and some persons on
     horseback, had followed us at a little distance, keeping the
     track left by the wheels of the vehicle which conveyed the
     guide. When Wilkinson left us, we rode on two or three miles
     before we came to the channel of the Kent, and there we found a
     guide on horseback, who had just forded the river from the
     opposite side. The guide stationed here has long gone by the
     name of the Carter, and it is difficult to say whether the
     office has been so called from the family in which it has been
     vested, or the family have assumed their official title as a
     cognomen; but it is certain that for many ages the duties of
     guide over the Lancaster Sands have been performed by a family
     named Carter, and have descended from father to son. The
     present possessor of the office is named James Carter, and has
     lately succeeded his father. He told me that some persons said
     the office of guide had been in his family five hundred years,
     but he did not know how anybody could tell that; and all he
     could say was, that they had held it 'for many grandfathers
     back, longer than anyone knew.' The salary was only £10 a-year
     till his father's time, when it was raised to £20; yet I should
     suppose that the office is a rather productive one, as the family
     have accumulated some property.

     "The Carter seems a cheerful and pleasant fellow. He wore a
     rough greatcoat and a pair of jack-boots, and was mounted on a
     good horse, which appeared to have been up to the ribs in the
     water. When we came to him, he recommended us to wait till the
     arrival of the coach, which was nearly a mile distant, as the
     tide would then be gone farther out. I asked if there had been
     any accidents in this place lately; to which he replied, that
     some boys were drowned two years ago, having attempted to pass
     when the tide was up, in defiance of warnings; but that, with
     that exception, there had not been any accidents for a
     considerable time. When the coach came up we took the water in
     procession, and crossed two channels, in one of which the water
     was up to the horses' bellies. The coach passed over without
     the least difficulty, being drawn by fine tall horses. Arrived
     at the other side, the man of high genealogy received our
     gratuities, and we rode on, keeping close to a line of rods
     which have been planted in the sand to indicate the track, and
     which have remained there for many months. We shortly met the
     coach from Ulverstone, and several other vehicles, and as we
     proceeded the views of the estuary and the distant mountains
     became still more beautiful and interesting. Three or four
     miles brought us to Kent's Bank, on the Cartmel shore. I infer
     that the river is not fordable for any long period, as the
     guide told the servant whom I have mentioned that he must
     return in an hour if he wished to pass over again that evening.

     "The peninsula formed by the Kent and the Leven is three miles
     over; and, after passing it, I came to the latter river, the
     sands of which are of the same breadth, and must be crossed to
     reach Ulverstone."

     These sands are reckoned more dangerous than the former, as the
     channel of the river is frequently shifted.

     It is safest to cross at spring-tides; the water then is more
     completely drained out, and the force of the tide sweeps the
     bottom clean from mud and sediment.

     Here another guide on horseback escorts travellers over.

     The views up the Leven are fully as picturesque, though not
     quite so extensive, as those at the mouth of the Kent. A bold,
     woody promontory, seen in our engraving, projects into the
     river at the mouth of the ford, narrowing it to less than half
     the breadth. The two ridges of the Cartmel and Ulverstone
     Fells, the former clothed with wood and the latter with
     verdure, run up inland, and carry the eye back to the
     mountains, round the head of Coniston Water and Windermere. On
     the Ulverstone shore, to the left of the town, are the grounds
     of Conishead Priory, which adorn with their rich woods and
     lawns the gently-waving side of the hill; and the mouth of the
     Leven opens out to the Bay of Morecambe, the shores of which
     are visible to a great extent.


The sands forming the Bay of Morecambe, covered by the sea at high
water, are crossed every day by travellers whose time or inclination
leads them to choose this route rather than one more circuitous, and
nearly thrice the distance, inland. Yet the sands are by no means
without danger, especially to the uncautious or unwary. Scarcely a
year passes without some loss of lives, generally owing to the
obstinacy or foolhardiness of the victims. Guides are appointed to
conduct strangers across this trackless waste, whose duty it is to
examine daily, on the receding of the tide, the several routes by
which passengers may accomplish their journey. The places where danger
is to be apprehended are the fordings of the several rivers or
watercourses, which, even when the sands are bare, still pour forth a
considerable stream to the ocean. These fords are continually changing
by reason of the shifting of the sands, so that one day's path may on
the morrow prove a dangerous and impassable quicksand.

The principal guide has a small annuity from government, and is
obliged, in all weathers, to perform this disagreeable but
highly-important duty. The priory of Conishead was charged with this
office over the Leven or Ulverstone sands, and the guide whom they
appointed, besides perquisites, had an allotment of three acres of
land, with fifteen marks per annum. Henry the Eighth, on the
dissolution of the monasteries, charged himself and his successors
with the payment of a certain sum to the person that should be guide
for the time being, by patent under the seal of the duchy of
Lancaster. Such was the importance and the idea of danger attached to
this journey, that on a little rocky island midway between the shores
of Cartmel and Furness, there stood a small chapel or oratory built by
the monks of Furness, where prayers were daily offered for the safety
of travellers then occupied in this perilous attempt. Yet these,
called the Ulverstone sands, are scarcely more than three miles
across, whilst the well-known Lancaster sands are nine miles, from the
circuitous line of the track, though it is said that the shorter
passage is the more dangerous. That the longer journey is not
unattended with risk may be inferred from the accidents which have
occurred, as well as from the fact, that carriages are sometimes left
to the mercy of the coming tide, the passengers making their escape in
the best manner they are able.

Our tale hath reference to one of these perilous adventures, long
years ago; and as neither plot nor story is evolved, the reader is
warned, if he so please, that he leave the few following pages unread,
unless he be of a temper not liable to suffer disappointment thereby.

The night was beautifully calm: the moon just sinking upon the verge
of the distant waters, where the Bay of Morecambe, the great estuary
so called, according to some authorities, by Ptolemy, opens out into
the broad channel of the Irish Sea.

The stars shone down, keen, bright, and piercing,--"fixed in their
everlasting seat,"--ever presenting the same aspect, the same order
and disposition, through all the changes of this changing and mutable
world. The scene was peculiarly inviting--so calm, so placid, the
whole wide and visible hemisphere was without a blot. Nature, like a
deceitful mistress, looked so hypocritically serene, that her face
might never have been darkened with a cloud or furrowed by a frown. So
winning was she withal, that, though the veriest shrew, and all
untamed and ungovernable in her habits and conditions, this night she
became hushed and gentle as the soothed infant in its repose.

The same night came down to the Kent side, intending to set out on
their perilous march over the sands of the bay, divers travellers,
well mounted for the occasion. Yet were their steeds much harassed,
weltering in mud and foam, by reason that their journey had been both
long and hasty, and their business urgent, nor were they yet without
apprehension of pursuit. They looked wistfully down towards the west,
where the moon hung over the ocean's brim, a red ensanguined crescent,
as if about to dip her golden bowl into the raging deep, or mayhap to
launch her glittering bark on that perilous tide. For, in good sooth,
the travellers on that same day, having forded the estuaries of the
Duddon and the Leven, were barely in time for their passage across the
sands of the Kent, their destination being the tower of Arnside,
standing on a round rocky peninsula, little more than two miles from
their present station. Yet was the way perilous, though they had time
sufficient for their purpose. The river Kent, or Ken, which, when the
tide hath receded from the bay, followeth often at a considerable
depth and speed, was at this period much swollen by reason of the late
swells and freshes from the hills. Moreover, the tide would ere long
press back the waters towards their source, and but few hours should
elapse ere the ocean itself would roll over and obliterate every trace
of their intended path. Yet though sure and undeviating was the peril
before them, another more imminent and perchance not less remote,
awaited them from behind. They were pursued. Hot and hasty was the
chase, and their blood alone would slake the vengeance of their
adversaries.

Pausing ere the first plash was heard in the heavy sands beneath the
shore, the foremost horseman of the party thus held discourse. Those
that followed were likewise armed, and to all appearance were
followers or retainers of the chief, who had been with them upon some
foray or predatory excursion.

"We are between fire and water, I trow; but what of that? We must e'en
cross."

"And how if the fog of yesternight should come again, or we should
miss our track?"

"Tush, Harry, with thine evil croak. There will be time enough to
discourse with danger when it comes. Besides, I would know it
blindfold, and the night doth bear no token of either distemper or
disquiet."

"Thou art passing careless of our jeopardy. It were better, even now,
that we follow the track by the coast. My counsel was set at naught,
or we had gone forward by Cartmel, and missed this perilous pathway of
the sea."

"And with it met the enemy at my gate; or, peradventure, having passed
on thither before us, we should have found them in quiet possession of
our good fortalice yonder. Truly it were a precious entertainment! We
should have Lenten fare, I trow, where they be lords o' the feast."

"Our steeds, I think, would have outstripped them, even by way of the
forest and the bridges, but"----

"Thou reckonest not for delay by the hill-paths and the morass, let
alone the weary miles that we should have to ride. Tut, man, they
fancy not of our crossing this little brooklet here, because I misled
them ere we departed; and they are now mightily sure of cutting off
our retreat, and getting at the tower before us. How the knaves will
slink back when they find the gate barred in their teeth. Forward, Sir
Harry, and let the Cumberland wolves take the hindmost!"

They dashed down the slope into the heavy mud by the beach, and soon
the little band might have been seen moving like dark specks on the
sandy waste, even though night had come on, so clear and unsullied was
the atmosphere.

The wind, which through the day had blown light, but piercing, from
the north, seemed all at once to become more bland and genial. A
pause was felt; then a veering to and fro, like the flapping sail, ere
the big canvas comes bellying before the wind; a pause, created by one
of those occult and uncomprehended operations of nature, to be
understood only in the secret recesses of her power, where all the
germs of being are elaborated, but whither the most daring and exalted
of human capacities never penetrated.

It was near the turn of the tide, and the wind, obeying her spell, as
though at the call of that mighty wizard, was gradually veering
towards the sea, and shortly would ride on with the rolling billows,
driving forward, like some proud charioteer, the dark waters of the
Atlantic in its progress.

The travellers were pricking on their way discreetly, the channel of
the river just before them, rippling pleasantly over some quiet star,
that seemed to sink deep within its bosom.

To their right was the voice of the restless and mystic ocean, obeying
the fiat of Him who hath fixed its bounds--at too great a distance now
to excite other feelings than those of their own impotence, and the
immensity by which they were surrounded. I know of no sound to be
compared to it. There is nought in the wide range of our intelligence
that can produce the dread, the almost terrific expansion which it
seems to create in the mind, save it be the dizzy view over some dark
and unfathomable abyss--an impression that comes over us like the
dread unutterable anticipations of eternity!

Suddenly a thin white vapour was seen obscuring the brightness in the
west. Then came a cloud-like haze, scudding on the very surface of the
stream, wherein the plash of horses' feet announced their entrance.
They rode slowly on, but the channel was deep, and it seemed as though
some sleight and witchery was about them, for the mist became so dense
that the clouds seemed to have dropped down to encompass and enfold
them. The stream gradually became deeper, until the foremost horse was
wading to the belly, labouring and snorting from the chillness and
oppression upon his chest.

"'Tis an unlucky and an embarrassing escort that we are favoured
with," said the rider. "The wind, too, whiffles about strangely. 'Tis
on my face, now, and verily I think the stream will ne'er be crossed.
I trust we are not wading it down towards the sea."

"Troth but we be, though," hastily replied his friend, after looking
down, bending as low as possible to observe his horse's feet, where
he could just discern the gouts of foam as they ran right before,
instead of passing them from left to right.

"Put back--put back, and soon!" he cried, in great alarm; for the mist
bewildered them strangely. They did put back, but instead of all
obeying the same impulse, some of the party, finding themselves on
opposite sides of the stream, were plunging and replunging into it, to
rejoin their comrades, every one calling out for his neighbour to
follow; so that, in the end, the whole party were so confused that, on
being gathered together once more on the sand, they really knew not on
which side of the stream they stood, nor which way to move. They
seemed like persons discoursing in a dream, and the mist hung about
them so closely that they could not, even by dismounting, see the
marks of their own footsteps. They felt that they were standing on a
bank of sand, which they knew must inevitably, and ere long, be
covered by the raging tide, even then, perhaps, on its way to
overwhelm and devour them. But this was the utmost of their knowlege,
for the direction in which to proceed, or the bearing of either shore,
was beyond their knowledge or apprehension. They would now have been
glad to retrace their steps, but this, alas! they knew not how to
accomplish. To remain would be certain destruction; to go on, might
only be hastening to meet it. But move they must, as the only chance
of escape; yet opinions were as various as the points of the compass.
One was for going to the right, another to the left, another straight
forward; so that, what with arguing and wrangling, they became more
bewilderd and uncertain than ever.

"I do verily believe we have not yet crossed the river," said one.

"Not come across!" replied another; "why we've been through and
through, to my own certainty, at least thrice."

"Thrice in thy teeth!" said his angry opponent; "and so I'll go
forward."

"And I'll go back," was the reply. But the precise idea they had
formed of these opposite and important determinations was more than
either of them could explain; even though they had been ever so
certain upon these points, to proceed in a straight line in any
direction was impossible, without some object by which to direct their
course. Ever and anon was heard a heavy plunge into the stream, but
even this token had ceased to avail them, for its course could not be
ascertained. The tide was now arresting its progress, and the water
moved to and fro in every direction, according to the various impulses
it received. The wind, too, was light and treacherous; its breath
seemed to come and go, without any fixed point by which they could
feel either its arrival or departure. In this dilemma, and without any
clue to their extrication, harassed and confounded, they were like men
bereft of their senses, and almost at their wits' end. Still they
clung instinctively about each other, but their conduct had now taken
the opposite extreme. Before, all was bustle and activity, everybody
giving directions, hallooing, shouting, and so forth. Now, they were
silent, and almost stationary, stupefied, distracted. There is a
fascination in danger. I have known those who never could look down a
precipice without a horrible impulse to leap over the brink. Like the
scared bird, almost within the gripe of its destroyer, yet unable to
flee, so had they lost, apparently, all power of escape. It was a
silence more awful even than the yellings of despair. Its horrid gripe
was on every heart; every bosom withered beneath its touch. The nature
of the most courageous appeared to change; trembling and perplexity
shook the stoutest frame; yet suddenly and unexpectedly was the
silence broken, and the spell that bound them dissolved.

"Hark!" said every voice together; "a bell, by the blessed Virgin!"
The sound roused them from their stupor. Hope again visited the
prison-house of the spirit.

"On, on!" said their leader.

"On, on!" was re-echoed on every side; but they were still attempting
to escape in different directions. Scarcely two of them were agreed as
to the place whence the sound proceeded. Yet it came on, at stated
intervals, a long, deep, melancholy knell, almost terrific in their
present condition. Another council was attended with the same
results--opinions being as varied as ever. Still that warning toll had
some connection with their fellow-men, some link, which, however
remote, united them to those who were now slumbering in happiness and
security. Yet of their true course and bearing they were as ignorant
as ever.

"Now, by'r lady," said one, "there's either witch or wizard at the
tail o' this. Haven't I passed this very place to and fro, man and
boy, these twenty years, and never went away by a yard's space, right
or left. Now"----

"Right well, Humphry Braithwaite, should I know it too, and yet we
might be in a wilderness for aught I can distinguish, either land-mark
or sea-mark. Hush, I'm sure that bell is from the right."

"Nay, I hear it yonder, to the left, if I'm not witched."

"Thee'rt gone daft, man, 'tis----Well, if the sound binna from both
sides, right and left! I hear it behind me now."

"We must be moving," said the leader. There's no chance for us here.
We can but meet the enemy at the worst, and there are three chances of
escaping for one of drowning, which way soever we take, at a blind
venture. Then let us away together; and may the Virgin and St Bees be
our helper!"

But there were some who would rather trust to their own guidance; and
what with the indecision of one, the obstinacy of another, and the
timidity of a third, he soon found himself with only one companion,
besides his good grey steed, when he flung the reins to his control,
and spurred forward.

Reckless, almost driven to desperation, he committed his way to the
beast's better discretion, as he thought, goading on the jaded animal
incessantly, his fellow-traveller still keeping behind, but at no
great distance. They halted after a space; but how long it is
impossible to say. Hours and minutes, in seasons of pain or
excitement, are, in the mind's duration, arbitrary and conventional.
To measure time by the state of our feelings would be as futile as an
attempt to measure space by the slowness or impetuosity of our
movements. Hours dwindle into minutes, and minutes are exaggerated
into hours, according to the circumstances under which the mind moves
on. We are conscious of existence only by the succession of our
feelings. We are conscious of time only by its lapse. Hence we are apt
to make the same measure serve for both; and, as our own dispositions
predicate, so doth time run fast or slow. True it is that time cannot
measure thought. The mind notes but the current and passage of its own
feelings; they only are the measure of existence and the medium of
identity.

"Halt, Lord Monteagle!" cried his companion from behind; "I hear the
sea before us. Hush, and use thine own senses, if they be worth the
trial."

The other listened, but it was only for one moment; the next saw him
wheel round, urging on his flight in the opposite direction, for he
knew, or his senses were rendered deceptive through terror, the sound
of the coming tide.

"Halt, Lord Monteagle!" again cried the horseman from behind; "for
the water is deeper at every plunge. Halt, I say, for the love
of"----The sound died on the speaker's lip, for he was overwhelmed and
sickening with the dread anticipation of death.

"On one side or the other, then, I care not which," cried the foremost
rider.

"To the right, and Heaven grant us a safe deliverance!"

Away went the panting steeds; but the waters increased; yet were they
powerful animals, and they swam boldly on amid the roar and dash of
the rising waves. Still it was with difficulty they could breast the
torrent. The courageous beasts braced every sinew to the
work--instinctively grappling with danger--every effort was directed
to their escape. Suddenly a loud shout was heard, and something dark
rose up before them. It might be the hull of some vessel, that was
approaching an ark of safety. This thought was the first that crossed
them. But they felt a sudden shock and a vibration, as though their
steeds had struck the land.

They saw, or it was a deception produced by agitation or excitement,
the dark outline of the beach, and men hurrying to and fro with
lighted torches. They galloped on through the waves, and a few moments
brought them safely upon the hard, loose pebbles of the shore.

Joyful was the recognition; for those who had come to their succour
were the party from whom they had separated, who had luckily gained
the shore before them. But what was their surprise when they found
they had been galloping to and fro almost within a stone's throw of
the beach opposite the place of their destination! Yet such was their
state of bewilderment that it was an even hand but they had put about
on the other side, and attempted to return across the channel. In that
case no human help could have rescued them from destruction, for the
tide already had overtaken them, and it was only their close proximity
unto the shore which enabled the horses to regain their footing, and
bear them safely to land.

It seems that their pursuers were still outdone, for their stronghold
was open to receive them; and the enemy, foiled in their expectations,
returned with all speed into Cumberland, lest during their absence
some more dangerous foe from the Borders should lay waste their
possessions.


[Illustration: THE RING AND THE CLIFF]




THE RING AND THE CLIFF.

     "And still I tried each fickle art,[ii]
       Importunate and vain;
     And while his passion touched my heart,
       I triumphed in his pain."

     --GOLDSMITH.

     Having in vain attempted to ascertain the locality of the
     following tradition, we suspect that it may have strayed
     originally from another county, though it has taken root in our
     own.

     The only place that could by any possibility answer the
     description which marks the catastrophe is the high ridge above
     Broughton, in Furness; and even here it would be difficult to
     point out any single spot which would exactly correspond in
     every particular.

     The Lancashire coast, with here and there an exception, is one
     low bank or ridge of sand, loosely drifted into hillocks of but
     mean height and appearance; only preserving their consistency
     by reason of the creeping roots of the bent or sea-mat weed
     (_Arundo arenaria_)[16] which bind the loose sands together,
     and prevent them from being dispersed over the adjoining
     grounds. On the opposite coast fancy might often recognise
     those very cliffs to which our story alludes; perpendicular,
     bare, and almost inaccessible, with rents and chasms, where
     little difficulty would be found in pointing out the exact
     features represented in this tradition.


On the sea-coast, where a wild bare promontory stretches out amidst
the waves of the Irish Channel, is a small hamlet or fishing station.
Its site is in the cleft of a deep ravine, through which a small
stream lazily trickles amid sand and sea-slime to the little estuary
formed by the sea at its mouth. Between almost perpendicular cliffs
the village lies like a solitary enclosure, where the inhabitants are
separate and alone--aloof from the busy world--their horizon confined
to a mere segment of vision. The same ever-rolling sea hath swung to
and fro for ages in the same narrow creek, at the sides of which rise
a cluster of huts, dignified with the appellation of village--some of
these ornamented about and upon the roofs with round patches of the
yellow stone-crop and house-leek, that never-failing protection
against lightning and tempest, according to indubitable testimony set
forth by Master Nicholas Culpepper in his _Herbal_.

The strong marine odour, so well known to all lovers of sea-side
enjoyments, may here be sensibly appreciated; for the pent-up effluvia
from the curing of fish, marine algæ, and other products of the coast,
abundantly strengthen the reminiscences connected with this solitary
and secluded spot.

It was on a cold, grey morning in October that two individuals were
loitering up a narrow path from the hamlet which led to the high main
road, passing from village to village along the coast; branches from
which, at irregular intervals, penetrated the cliffs to the different
fishing stations along the beach. The road, on rising from the
village, runs along the summit, a considerable height above the sea;
terrific bursts through some rocky cleft reveal the wide ocean rolling
on from the dim horizon to the shore. Here and there may be seen the
white sail, or the hull of some distant bark, gliding on so smooth and
silently as to suggest the idea of volition obeyed without any visible
effort. Rising from the ravine, the road passes diagonally up the
steep. At the period of which we speak, ere it reached the main line
of communication through the country, a reft or chasm in the steep
wall towards the sea--a nearly perpendicular rent--left the mountain
path without protection, save by a slender paling for the space of a
few yards only. Nothing could be more dreary and terrific. Through
this dizzy cleft--the sides bare and abrupt, without ledge or
projection--the walls, like gigantic buttresses, presenting their
inaccessible barriers to the deep--the distant horizon, raised to an
unusual height by the point of sight and position of the spectator,
seemed to mingle so softly and imperceptibly with the sky that it
appeared one wide sea of cloud stretching to the foot of the cliff.
From that fearful summit the billows were but as the waving of a
summer cloud, undulating on the quiet atmosphere. The fishing bark,
with its dun, squat, picturesque sail, looked as though floating in
the sky--a fairy boat poised on the calm ether.

As we before noticed, two persons were loitering up this path. They
paused at the brink of the chasm. It might be for the purpose of
gazing on the scene we have just described; but the lover's gaze was
on his mistress, and the maiden's eye was bent on the ground.

"'Tis even so, Adeline. We must part. And yet the time may come,
when----But thou art chill, Adeline. The words freeze ere they pass my
lips, even as thine own; for I never yet could melt the frost-work
from thy soul. Still silent? Well. I know thy heart is not another's;
and yet thou dost hesitate, and linger, and turn away thy cold grey
eyes when I would fain kindle them from mine. Nay, Adeline; I know
thou lovest me. Ay! draw back so proudly, and offer up thine and thy
true lover's happiness for ever on the altar of thy pride."

"Since thou knowest this heart so well," retorted the haughty maiden,
"methinks it were a bootless wish to wear it on thy sleeve, save for
the purpose of admiring thine own skill and bravery in the
achievement."

"Thou wrongest me, Adeline; 'tis not my wish. Say thou art mine; we
are then safe. No earthly power shall part us. But I warn thee,
maiden, that long years of misery and anguish will be our portion
should we separate while our troth is yet unplighted. This ring," said
he, drawing off his glove, "is indifferently well set. The bauble was
made by a skilful and cunning workman. The pearls have the true orient
tinge, and this opal hath an eye like the hue of the morning,
changeable as--woman's favour. How bright at times!--warm and radiant
with gladness, now dull, cold, hazy, and"----unfeeling, he would have
said, but he leaned on the slender barrier as he spoke, and his eye
wandered away over the dim and distant wave, across which he was about
to depart. Whether he saw it, or his eye was too intently fixed on the
dark and appalling future, we presume not to determine.

"A woman's favour, like thy similes, Mortimer, hath its colour by
reflection. Thou seest but thine own beam in't; the hue and temper of
thy spirit. We have no form nor feeling of our own, forsooth; we but
give back the irradiation we receive."

"Thou canst jest, Adeline. Thy chillness comes upon my spirit like the
keen ice-wind; it freezes while it withers."

The maiden turned aside her head, perhaps to hide a gleam of
tenderness that belied her speech.

"Adeline, dark hours of sorrow are before thee! Think not to escape."

He seized her hand.

"Shouldst thou wed another, a doom is thine--a doom from which even
thought recoils."

He looked steadfastly upon her, but the maiden spoke not; a tear
quivered through her drooping eyelashes, and her lip grew pale.

"But I must away," continued Mortimer. "Yonder bark awaits me," and he
drew her gently towards the brink. "It will part us, perhaps for ever!
No, no, not for ever. Thou wilt wed--it may be--and when I
return--Horror!"

He started back, as from a spectre which his imagination had created.

"That ring--take it. Let it be thy monitor; and should another seek
thy love, look on it; for it shall warn thee. It shall be a silent
witness of thy thoughts--one that will watch over thee in my stead;
for the genii of that ring," said he, playfully, "are my slaves."

But she returned the pledge.

"I cannot. Do not wind the links around me thus, lest they gall my
spirit; lest I feel the fetters, and wish them broken!"

"Then I swear," said Mortimer, vehemently, "no hand but thine shall
wear it!"

He raised his arm, and the next moment the ring would have been
hurled into the gulf, but ere it fell he cast another glance at his
mistress. Her heart was full. The emotion she sought to quell quivered
convulsively on her lip. He seized her hand; but when he looked again
upon the ring it was broken!

By what a strange and mysterious link are the finest and most subtle
feelings connected with external forms and appearances! By what unseen
process are they wrought out and developed; their hidden sources, the
secret avenues of thought and emotion, discovered--called forth by
circumstances the most trivial and unimportant! Adeline turned pale;
and Mortimer himself shuddered as he beheld the omen. But another
train of feelings had taken possession of her bosom; or rather her
thoughts had acquired a new tendency by this apparently casual
circumstance; and true to the bent and disposition of our nature, now
that the slighted good was in danger of being withdrawn, she became
anxious for its possession. She received the token. A slight crack
upon its rim was visible, but this fracture did not prevent its being
retained on the hand.

After this brief development their walk was concluded. They breathed
no vows. Mortimer would not again urge her. A lock of hair only was
exchanged; and shortly the last adieu was on their lips, and the broad
deck of the vessel beneath his feet, whence he saw the tall cliff sink
down into the ocean, and with it his hopes, that seemed to sink for
ever into the same gulf!

Some few years afterwards, on a still evening, about the same time of
the year, a boat was lowered from a distant vessel in the offing.
Three men pulled ashore as the broad full moon rose up, red and dim,
from the mist that hung upon the sea. The roll of the ocean alone
betokened its approach. Its melancholy murmur alone broke the
universal stillness. The lights came out one by one from the village
casements. The cattle were housed, and the curs had crept to the
hearth, save some of the younger sort, who at intervals worried
themselves, fidgeting about, and making a mighty show of activity and
watchfulness.

One of the passengers stepped hastily on shore. He spoke a few words
to the rowers, who threw their oars into the boat, fastening her to
the rocks. Afterwards they betook themselves to a tavern newly
trimmed, where, swinging from a rude pole, hung the "_sign_" of a
ship--for _sign_ it could only be called--painted long ago by some
self-initiated and village-immortalised artist, whose production had
once been the wonder of the whole neighbourhood.

A roaring blaze revealed the whole interior, where pewter cups and
well-scoured trenchers threw their bright glances upon all who wooed
these dangerous allurements at "The Ship."

But the individual whom the rowers had put ashore withstood these
tempting devices. He strode rapidly up the path, and paused not until
he approached the cliff where the agony of one short hour had left its
deep furrows for ever on his memory.

The incidents of that memorable day were then renewed with such
vividness that, on a sudden, writhing and dismayed, he hurried forward
in the vain hope, it might seem, of flying from the anguish he could
not control.

A dark plain stone house stood at no great distance, and hither his
footsteps were now directed. A little gate opened into a gravel walk
sweeping round an oval grass plat before the door. He leaned upon the
wicket, as though hesitating to enter. By this time the moon rode high
and clear above the mist which was yet slumbering on the ocean. She
came forth gloriously, without a shadow or a cloud. The wide
hemisphere was unveiled, but its bright orbs were softened by her
gaze. The shadows, broad and distinct, lay projected on a slight
hoar-frost, where a thousand splendours and a thousand crystals hung
in the cold and dewy beam. Bright, tranquil, and unruffled was the
world around him--but the world within was dark and turbulent--tossed,
agitated, and overwhelmed by the deep untold anguish of the spirit.

The tyrant sway of the passions, like some desolating invader, can
make a paradise into a desert, and the fruitful places into a
wilderness. How different to Mortimer would have been the scene viewed
through another medium! His soul was ardent, devoted, full of high and
glorious imaginings; but a blight was on them all, and they became
chill and decayed--an uninformed mass, without aim or vitality.

He was afraid to proceed, lest his worst suspicions might be
confirmed. He had heard----But we will not anticipate the sequel.

A loud barking announced the presence of an intruder, but the
sagacious animal, when he had carefully snuffed out a recognition,
fawned and whined upon him, running round and round towards the house,
with gambols frolicsome and extravagant enough to have excited the
smiles of any human being but Mortimer.

As he approached he heard a soft, faint melody from within. It was her
voice;--he could not be mistaken, though years had passed by;--though
the dull tide of oblivion had effaced many an intervening record from
the tablet of his memory, those tones yet vibrated to his soul. His
heart thrilled to their impression like two finely-modulated strings,
which produce a corresponding sympathy upon each other. He listened,
almost breathless. The recollection came like a track of fire across
his brain. Memory! how glorious, how terrible art thou! With the wand
of the enchanter thou canst change every current of feeling into joy
or woe. The same agency--nay, the same object--shall awaken the most
opposite emotions. The simplest forms and the subtlest agents are
alike to thee. Nature seems fashioned at thy will, and her attributes
are but the instruments of thy power.

The melody that he heard was a wild and mournful ballad which he had
once given to Adeline, when the hours flew on, sparkling with delight,
and--she had not forgotten him!

The thought was too thrilling to endure. His brain throbbed with
ecstacy. Unable to restrain his impatience, he applied hastily to the
door. Such was the excitement under which he laboured that the very
sound made him start back: it struck so chilly on his heart. Then came
an interval of harrowing suspense. He shuddered when he heard the
approaching footsteps, and could with difficulty address the servant
who stood inquiring his errand.

"Is--is Adeline within?"

The menial silently surveyed the inquirer, as though doubtful in what
manner to reply, ere he answered--

"My mistress is at home, sir."

Mortimer stepped into the hall. The servant threw open the door
announcing his name, and Mortimer was in the presence of Adeline.

The meeting was too sudden for preliminary forms and courtesies. There
was no time for preparation. The blow was struck, and a thousand idle
inquiries were perhaps saved; but Adeline, after one short gaze of
astonishment and dismay, covered her face; a low groan escaped her,
and she threw herself convulsively on the chair.

Mortimer hastened to her relief, but she shrank from his touch. She
spoke not; her anguish was beyond utterance.

"Adeline!"

She shuddered as though the sound once more awakened the slumbering
echoes of memory.

"Leave me, Mortimer," she cried. "I must not"----

"Leave thee!" it was repeated in a tone that no words can describe.
Inquiry, apprehension, were depicted in his look as if existence hung
on a word; while a pause followed, compared with which the rack were a
bed of roses. The silence was too harrowing to sustain.

"And why? I know it all now," cried the unhappy Mortimer; and the
broad impress of despair was upon his brow, legibly, indelibly
written.

"I am here to redeem my pledge; and thou! O Adeline! Why--why? Say how
is my trust requited? Were long years too, too long, to await my
return? I have not had a thought thou hast not shared. And yet thou
dost withhold thy troth!"

"It is plighted!"

"To whom?"

"To my husband?"

Though anticipating the reply, the words went like an arrow to his
heart. We will not describe the separation. With unusual speed he
descended the path towards the village. He rushed past the cleft with
averted looks, fearful that he might be tempted to leap the gulf. He
entered the tavern; but so changed in manner and appearance that his
companions, fearful that his senses were disordered, earnestly
besought him to take some rest and refreshment.

In the end he was persuaded to retire to bed. But ere long fever and
delirium had seized him; and in the morning he was pronounced by a
medical attendant to be in extreme danger, requiring the interposition
of rest and skill to effect his cure.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was in the cold and heavy mist of a December evening that a female
was seated upon the tall cliff above the chasm we have described. As
the solitary gull came wheeling around her, she spoke to it with great
eagerness and gesticulation.

"Leave me--leave me!" she cried. "I must not now. Poor wanderer! art
thou gone?" With an expression of the deepest bitterness and
disappointment, she continued, "Why, oh, why didst thou take back thy
pledge? Nay, it is here still; but--alas! 'tis broken. Broken!" and a
scream so wild and pitiful escaped her, it was like the last agony of
the spirit when riven from its shrine. Her hair wet with the drizzly
atmosphere hung about her face. She suddenly threw it aside, as if
listening.

"'Tis he! Again he comes. My--no, no; he _was_ my lover! I have none
now. I have a husband; but--he is unkind. Alas! why am I thus? I feel
it! O merciful Heaven! my brain leaps; but I am not--indeed I am not
mad!"

Saying this, she bounded down the cliff into the path she had left,
with surprising swiftness. Returning, she was met by her husband, with
two servants, who were in search. He chid her harshly--brutally. He
threatened--ay, he threatened restraint. She heard this; but he saw
not the deep and inflexible purpose she had formed. Horror at the
apprehension of confinement, which, in calmer intervals, she dreaded
worse than death, prompted her to use every artifice to aid her
escape. She was now calm and obedient, murmuring not at the temporary
attendance to which she was subjected. She sought not the cliff and
the deep chasm; but would sit for hours upon the shore, looking over
the calm sea, with a look as calm and as deceitful.

Vigilance became relaxed; apprehension was lulled; she was again left
to herself, and again she stole towards the cliff. Like to some guilty
thing, she crept onward, often looking back lest she should be
observed. Having attired herself with more than ordinary care, before
leaving her chamber she unlocked an ivory casket with great caution,
taking thence a ring, which she carefully disposed on her forefinger.
She looked with so intense a gaze upon this pledge--for it was the
pledge of Mortimer--that she seemed to be watching its capricious
glance, like the eye of destiny, as if her fate were revealed in its
beautiful and mystic light.

Sunset was near as she approached the cliff. She paused where the
chasm opened out its deep vista upon the waters. They were now
sparkling in the crimson flush from a sky more than usually brilliant.
Both sky and ocean were blent in one; the purple beam ran out so pure
along the waves, that every billow might now be seen, every path and
furrow of the deep.

Adeline climbed over the rail. She stood on that extreme verge, so
fearful and abrupt that it might have rendered dizzy a stouter head
than her own.

"This night are we married, Mortimer. The _ring_ and the _cliff_!"

The ring at this moment shot forth a tremulous brightness; probably
from participation with the glowing hues by which it was surrounded.

"The genii of that ring--said he not so?--they will bear me to him.
Our couch is decked, and the bridal hymn----Hark!"

It was only the sound from some passing skiff that crept along the
waters, but Adeline thought she heard the voice of her lover.

"He calls me; when will he return?"

She looked anxiously on the ring, as though expecting a reply; but she
saw its bright hues diminish, and gradually grow dim in the dull grey
light which displaced the gaudy sunset.

"Oh, why art thou gone so soon?" Her heart seemed full, as though in
the very agony of separation.

"I must away. His bark is on the deep; and he will not return."

She buried her head in her lap, and wept. But suddenly she started up;
she looked on the distant wave as though she beheld some object
approaching. She again climbed upon the rail, and gazed eagerly
through the twilight on the billows, now foaming back in triumph with
the returning tide. Her features were yet beautiful, though wasted by
disease; and as she gazed, a smile, rapturous and bright, passed over,
like a sunbeam on the dark billows. She waved her hand.

"I have waited for thee. Bear me hence. Haste! Oh, haste! They are
here."

She listened. Her countenance grew more pale and agitated. Voices were
heard, and footsteps evidently approaching. She recognised the hated
sound of her pursuers. Agony and despair were thy last ministers,
unhappy victim! She wrapped her cloak closer to her form, and, with
one wild and appalling shriek, leaped that dizzy height, by the foot
of which her mangled remains were shortly discovered.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the family of ---- is a ring, taken from the finger of a female
ancestor of the house who leaped from "_The Lady's Cliff_,"--for such
it continues to be called; and it is still said to be haunted by her
spirit. The ring was found uninjured, save by a crack through the rim,
where it seems bent by a sudden stroke. Superstition attaches strange
stories to this relic. True enough, at times it appears almost gifted
with intelligence; though perhaps the answer, intimated by the
brilliancy or dimness of the stone, may often be construed according
to the thoughts or wishes of the inquirer. It is kept in a little
ivory box, and preserved with great care. It is said there never was a
question propounded to this oracle--if done with a proper spirit, with
a due and devout reverence, and a reliance on its wondrous
efficacy--but the ring, by its brightness or its gloom, shadowed forth
the good or evil destiny of the querent.

Mortimer recovered. In this village, many years afterwards, lived an
old man, whose daily walk was to the cliff. From that height he would
gaze until the last hue of evening died upon the waves. He then
returned, with a vacant and down-cast look, sad and solitary, to his
dwelling. He was buried there in the churchyard; and a plain-looking
stone, with the initials C. M., still marks the spot called THE
STRANGER'S GRAVE.

     [16] Many a fertile acre has been covered with
     sand and rendered useless which might have been preserved by
     sowing on its confines the seeds of this plant. The Dutch have
     profited by a knowledge of its efficacy; Queen Elizabeth
     prohibited the extirpation of it. As soon as it takes root a
     sandhill gathers round it; so that wherever it is planted it
     gives a peculiar character to the coast. This grass or reed is
     manufactured into mats, baskets, &c. A legislative enactment,
     however, in 1742, was issued for its preservation. The Scottish
     Parliament likewise protected it, together with _Elymus
     arenarius_, or upright sea-lyme grass.


[Illustration: THE DEAD MAN'S HAND]





THE DEAD MAN'S HAND.

     "Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
       And dry those pearly tears;
     For see, beneath this gown of grey,
       Thy own true love appears."

     --PERCY'S _Reliques_.

     Bryn Hall, the scene or rather the solution, of the following
     tradition, is now demolished. It was the ancient seat of the
     Gerards, by virtue of marriage between William Gerard, about
     the year 1280, with the daughter and sole heir of Peter de
     Bryn. It was built in a quadrangular form with a spacious
     courtyard, to which admittance was gained by a narrow bridge
     over the moat surrounding the whole fabric. The gatehouse was
     secured by massy doors well studded with iron; a
     curiously-carved porch led to the great hall, where, on the
     chimney-piece, were displayed the arms of England, not older
     than the reign of James I. A railed gallery ran along one side,
     on which persons might stand to observe the entertainments
     below without mingling in them. It was supported by double
     pillars in front of pilasters, forming arches between,
     profusely ornamented by rich carved work. Most of these
     decorations, together with the carved wainscots, were taken to
     embellish Garswood Hall, near Ashton, a few miles distant,
     where the family resided after their removal.

     In the windows were some armorial bearings of painted glass, the
     first quarterings beginning with the Leighs of Lyme, instead of
     Gerard or Bryn, as might have been expected. Here was a Roman
     Catholic chapel, and a priest who continued long after the
     family had departed, having in his custody the hand mentioned
     in the following pages. It is still kept by them, or rather by
     the priest, who now resides at Garswood. Preserved with great
     care in a white silk bag, it is still resorted to by many
     diseased persons, and wonderful cures are said to have been
     wrought by this saintly relic. It is called the Hand of Father
     Arrowsmith--a priest who is said to have been put to death at
     Lancaster for his religion in the time of William III. When
     about to suffer, he desired his spiritual attendant to cut off
     his right hand, which should then have the power to work
     miraculous cures on those who had faith to believe in its
     efficacy. Not many years ago, a female, sick of the smallpox,
     had it lying in bed with her every night for six weeks, in order
     to effect her recovery, which took place. A poor lad, living in
     Withy Grove, Manchester, afflicted with scrofulous sores, was
     rubbed with it; and though it has been said he was miraculously
     restored, yet, upon inquiry, the assertion was found incorrect,
     inasmuch as he died in about a fortnight after the operation.

     Not less devoid of truth is the tradition that Arrowsmith was
     hanged for witnessing a good confession. Having been found
     guilty of a misdemeanour, in all probability this story of his
     martyrdom and miraculous attestation to the truth of the cause
     for which he suffered was contrived for the purpose of
     preventing the scandal that might have come upon the Church
     through the delinquency of an unworthy member.

     One of the family of the Kenyons attended as under-sheriff at
     the execution; and it is said that he refused the culprit some
     trifling favour at the gallows, whereupon Arrowsmith denounced
     a curse upon him--to wit, that whilst the family could boast of
     an heir, so long they should never want a cripple: which
     prediction was supposed by the credulous to have been literally
     fulfilled.


What a strange and appalling history would be that of superstition!
how humiliating, how degrading to the boasted dignity of our nature!
In all ages this teeming source of error has yielded abundantly all
varieties of phantasms--the sublime, the solemn, the horrible, and the
ridiculous--a mildew, a blight, on the fairest blossoms of truth; an
excrescence; a coat of rust, which eateth as a canker, and makes
religion, which was given as a blessing and a boon to our perishing
race, a burden and a curse. And yet neither good nor evil is unmixed.
Such is the nature even of our most baneful impressions that instances
do arise where good may come from so corrupt a source. The connection
between material and immaterial, between mind and matter, so operates,
that sometimes, and in proportion to the strength of the impression, a
change is wrought by the mere control of the mind over the bodily
functions.

To this operation may be ascribed the wonder-workings of these latter
days. We do not question the effects thereby produced; but totally,
unhesitatingly, deny the cause. Imagination at times doth so usurp the
mastery over the animal and bodily faculties, that she has been known
to suspend their ordinary processes, and to render the frame
insensible even to the attacks of pain itself.

In one of the northern divisions of the county--we know not the
precise situation, nor is it needful to our purpose that we
inquire--there dwelt a comely maiden, who, at a period of little more
than twenty summers from her birth, found herself in the undisturbed
possession, if not enjoyment, of an abundant income, with a domain of
more than ordinary fertility and extent. Her parents dying during the
period of her youth, she, as the only offshoot of the family, held her
dominion uncontrolled. That the possessor of such an abundant stock of
liberty should wish to wear a chain is verily a marvel not easily
resolved. But so it was; and she seemed never so well pleased as when
the links were firmly riveted. The forging of this invisible chain was
a work performed in secret. She felt her thrall, but she sighed not to
be free! For, alas! a grievous malady had seized her. The light of her
eyes--a brisk and winning gallant, in the shape of a male cousin--had
departed. He went out to the wars, as was reported, and Ellen refused
to be comforted. He knew not, peradventure, of her liking towards him.
He was of a different creed, moreover--a Catholic--and she had, in the
sovereignty of her caprice, treated him with something of
petulance--he thought scorn. What a misfortune, that two fond hearts
should have wanted an interpreter!

She sat one evening in her bed-chamber, and Bridget her maid, a little
Roman Catholic orphan, who had served her from a child, was busily
engaged in preparing her mistress for the night's repose. Now Bridget
was a zealous believer in saints, miracles, and the like; and Ellen
would often disport herself gently on the subject.

"I wish I could believe in thy legends and thy saints' gear; it would
verily be a comfortable disposition of my thoughts in all extremity to
have a hope of a special interference."

"And why not?" said Bridget, who confessed thrice a-year, and knew the
marvellous histories of a dozen saints by rote.

"Because," said her mistress, "I did not imbibe thy faith with my
mother's milk as thou hast done. 'Tis part of thy very nature, wench;
and thou couldst not but act in conformity thereto."

"There have we the better of our birthright. But, nevertheless, those
who repent and turn to the true faith have the same privileges; yet it
is hard, as well it may be, to bend their stubborn nature to this
belief. How comfortable to have one's sins struck from the calendar,
and to know that we are holy again as a little child, besides ailments
of the body innumerable that are cured whenever we can bring our faith
to its full exercise!"

"Well, Bridget, if I were a good Catholic as now I am an unbeliever
and heretic, dost think that St Somebody, or whoever I might take a
fancy to for the purpose, would be propitiated by a few prayers and
genuflexions, and restore me to health and--and"----

She faltered in her speech; the banter died away on her lips; memory
gave a sudden twinge, and her heart grew dark under the dim cloud that
was passing over.

"I'd answer for it, if you were a good Catholic, that Father O'Leary
would cure you as readily as he did Davy Dean's sow, that went mad,
and bit her master."

"But seeing that I am neither a good Catholic nor even Davy Dean's
sow, is there a saint in the whole calendar would think it worth while
to work a miracle on such a wicked unbeliever as I am?"

"There's one way, as I've heard tell; that if ye take a sprig of St
John's wort, and say three _credos_ over it and a _paternoster_, and
lay it under your pillow, you shall dream of the remedy by which a
cure may be wrought."

Ellen did not immediately reply to this suggestion, for she thought
that no special revelation was needed to point out a remedy.

"I would give the world if I had it to know what my cousin William is
doing," said she in a musing fit, as though some sudden fancy had
crossed her.

"And why may you not?" said the ready-witted maid; "yea, as sure as St
Peter's at Rome, and that's not to be gainsaid either by Turk or
infidel."

"What, dost thou learn these crotchets in thy creed?" said Ellen.

"Nay," replied the other, "it is a bit of conjuration not enjoined by
the Church; a kind of left-handed intercourse which we get by stealth
from other guess-folk, I reckon, than the holy saints."

"Am I to dream of this too?"

"Why, nay; you may be wide awake for that matter; but you must just
take a phoenix feather in one hand, a cockatrice tooth in your mouth,
and breathe on the glass, when, as the breath departs, they say your
true love will appear therein."

"But he is not my true love, wench; and so I may not bind him with
such spell, mayhap."

"How know ye that, fair mistress?"

"Go to; thou dost wound and vex me with thy questions. Hath he not
been gone these five months, and never a word, good or bad, hath been
rendered to me? Nay, did he not, ere he went, so deport himself with
most cold and supercilious arrogance, and even with neglect and
disdain?"

"Because in your own bright self, lady, he had the first example; for
of all the gay sparks that fluttered about you there was never a one
o' them that had to endure such chilling looks and so haughty a
bearing as were usually reserved for him."

"Hold thy tongue; thou dost presume too much, methinks, upon thy
former freedoms, wench. I like not such unguarded speech."

Bridget was silent at this rebuke; and, whatever was uppermost in her
thoughts, no more was said that night.

The following days Ellen was much worse. The disease appeared to be
rapidly gaining strength, and the maiden seemed doomed to an early
grave.

"And isn't it a silly thing for one like you to die so soon?" said
Bridget; "I can ask for you, what I would not have the face to ask for
myself."

Ellen smiled. The hectic flush was apparently on her cheek; and the
fever that fed it was on her vitals; at least, so said the village
chroniclers by whom it was told.

What was the precise nature of the request that Bridget made the next
Sunday from her patron saint, we know not; but she seemed mightily
occupied therewith; and if ever there was faith in such an
intercessor, Bridget felt assured that her patron would intercede on
behalf of her mistress, though a heretic and unbeliever. But St
Bridget was told, in all likelihood, that Ellen must necessarily be a
convert to the true faith should a miracle be wrought in her favour.

The following morning Bridget was early at the bedside of her
mistress, with a countenance more than usually indicative of some
important communication. But Ellen was the first to break silence.

"I have had a strange dream last night."

"So I guessed," said Bridget, with a face of great importance; "and
what said the holy saint, my good kind patron?"

"Bless thy silly face, it was no woman saint that I saw."

Bridget looked sad and chop-fallen at this intimation; she was fearful
that her prayers were unheeded.

"There came, as I thought in my dream," said Ellen, "a long-robed
priest to my bedside."

"Sure enough, then, St Bridget--blessings on her wherever she
be!--sent him."

"Prithee, be quiet, and listen. He stood there, methought, and when I
asked him of his errand, he raised his right arm, and I saw that the
hand was wanting, being taken off at the wrist. I marvelled
exceedingly at this strange apparition; but as I was a-going to
question him thereon I awoke. I know not why, but the vision sorely
troubled me, especially when again going to sleep, for it was repeated
thrice."

"It's a riddle," said Bridget, "and one with a heavy meaning in it,
too, if we could find it out."

"Verily, I think so," said Ellen; "for the impress doth not pass away
like that from ordinary dreams; but rests with a deep and solemn power
upon my spirit, such as I can neither throw off nor patiently endure."

"I'll unriddle it for you, or go a pilgrimage to our Lady at Loretto,"
said Bridget, determined not to be behindhand in her curiosity. So she
set her woman's wits immediately to work; yet she saw her mistress
daily losing strength, and no clue was obtained by which to know the
interpretation of the vision. She consulted her confessor; but he was
equally at a loss with herself, and knew not the nature of the dream,
nor its meaning.

One day Mistress Bridget brought in a tall beggar woman, dumb, or
pretendedly so, and apparently deaf. She made many signs that the gift
of foreknowledge was in her possession, though she seemed herself to
have profited little by so dangerous an endowment. Ellen, being
persuaded by her maid, craved a specimen of this wonderful art. The
hag, a smoke-dried, dirty-looking beldame, with a patch over one eye,
and an idiotic expression of face, began to mutter and make an odd
noise at the sight of the sick lady. She took a piece of chalk from
her handkerchief, and began her work of divination. First she drew a
circle on the floor, as a boundary or frame, and within it she put
many uncouth and crabbed signs; but their meaning was perfectly
unintelligible. Under this she sketched something like unto a sword,
then a hideous figure was attached to it, with a soldier's cap on his
head. Before him was a heart, that seemed to hang, as it were, on the
point of this long sword; which when Ellen saw she changed colour, but
attempted to smile; yet she only betrayed her agitation. The dumb
operator drew one hand across her own breast, and with the other
pointed to the lady; which appeared to Ellen as though intimating that
a soldier had won her heart, and that this was the true cause of her
illness. Such an interpretation, perchance, was but the conscious
monitor speaking from within, as it invested this unmeaning
hieroglyphic with the hue and likeness of its own fancies. But more
marvellous still was the subsequent proceeding. Having revealed the
cause, it seemed as though she were about to point out, obscurely as
before, the method and means of cure. When she had drawn the long
unshapely representation of a cloak, above it was placed something
like unto a human head, without helm or other covering; and to this
figure two arms were added; one having a huge hand, displayed proper,
as the heralds say, the other arm entirely destitute of this useful
appendage. Ellen at once remembered her dream, and watched the process
even with more interest than before.

The hand which should have been attached to the wrist was now drawn
distinct from the rest, as though grasping a heart wounded by the
sword; and doubtless the interpretation, according to Bridget's
opinion, was, that the application of a hand, which had been severed
from the body, would alone cure the disease under which she pined. The
dumb prophetess did not communicate further on the subject; and after
having received her bounty, she departed.

"How very strange!" said Ellen.

"Marvellous enough," said the maid; "but St Bridget hath doubtless
sent her to your help. Nay, peradventure, it was St Bridget herself!
Save us, what a kind, good creature she must be!"

Here she crossed herself with great fervour, forgetting that even a
saint among womankind would hardly feign herself dumb.

"There is some mystery about this hand," thought Ellen; but where to
seek for a solution was a mystery of equal magnitude with the rest.
Bridget was sure, from the disclosures already vouchsafed, that the
needful directions would not be withheld.

Ellen felt restless and disturbed for a while after this event; but
her sensations were again reverting to their ordinary channel when one
morning she awoke in a fearful trepidation. She said that the figure
of a human hand was visible, in her slumbers; that it led the way,
pointing to an old house like a fortified mansion, with a moat and
gatehouse before the main entrance. As she followed, the hand seemed
to twine its fingers about her heart, and for that time she felt
relieved of her pain. So vividly was the scene impressed upon her
imagination that she felt assured she should recognise the building
again, and especially the interior, where, in a stately chamber, the
miraculous cure was performed. Bridget rubbed her hands, and capered
about for joy.

"The name of St Bridget be praised!" said she, and vowed twenty things
in a breath; but the principal of these was an embroidered petticoat,
which vow she expected her mistress would enable her to fulfil.
Indeed, she had long set her mind upon this lustrous piece of attire,
and was waiting, somewhat impatiently, the time when it should be
allotted to her. So audibly had she made her vow that Ellen was
reminded of her pertinacity in still hoarding this precious and
coveted piece of finery, which Bridget looked upon as an unwarrantable
detention of her perquisites.

The cunning maid having obtained the garment for her patron saint,
what harm was there in wearing it, a while at least, for her sake?

Affairs went on for a little time in this dubious state; but the
continued and increasing illness of Ellen made it expedient that a
change of air should be attempted, and the journey accomplished by
short and easy travel. The family coach was brought out, and Mistress
Bridget, invested with the dignities of her office, went forth as
attendant of the body, and principal conductor of stores and packages.

Journeying southwards at a slow pace, pausing to take a look where
there was any object worth the attention, they came one afternoon,
about the fourth day from their departure, to Wigan. When they had
journeyed thence a mile or so, as they were passing down a jolting
road, Bridget, whose curious eye was ever on the look-out, suddenly
exclaimed, at the same time pointing through the window--

"I declare if there is not the dummy again yonder!"

Ellen beheld the dumb sibyl, whose predictions were not forgotten.
Bridget, by her looks, seemed to ask leave to stop the carriage and
hold another conference with the woman; and Ellen, whom illness had
rendered somewhat passive in such matters, did not make any
opposition. Having accosted this walking oracle, Bridget curtsied with
great reverence, peradventure fancying that St Bridget herself might
be again embodied before her; but the beldame went straight to the
carriage, addressing herself to the invalid within by pointing to her
breast, and making divers motions of the like signification, which
were not easy to be understood, even by the party for whom they were
intended. The prophetess seemed fully to comprehend that her symbolic
representations were unintelligible, and no fitting place being at
hand whereon they could be readily portrayed, she strove with the
greater vehemence to explain her meaning. There appeared a more than
ordinary anxiety on her part to communicate something of importance;
and the travellers looked as though fully aware of it. Her most
unequivocal signs, however, were to this purport--that they should not
proceed farther. Ellen, impelled by fear and curiosity, spoke aloud--

"Surely we are not to remain here at the beck of this woman!"

The one-eyed sibyl nodded an affirmative. This, at any rate, helped
them to an easier mode of communication, finding that she was not
deaf, as they had hitherto supposed.

"And whither shall we proceed?"

The woman here pointed to a narrow lane on the right of the main road
they were pursuing.

"Truly that seems but an indifferent path. Wherefore should we turn in
thither?" inquired Ellen.

Again the prophetess pointed to her own breast, and then at the bosom
of the invalid.

"By this token I understand that in so doing I am to expect some
relief."

Again nodded the officious intruder.

"But how shall that relief be obtained?"

The woman here lifted up her hand, again pointing towards the path by
which they should proceed.

"Go and see, I suppose thou wouldst say," said Ellen.

Another affirmatory nod was the answer.

"Wilt thou be our guide?"

The person addressed here darted a look at Ellen which seemed to
express pleasure at the request, if pleasure it might be called that
could irradiate such an aspect. She put out her hand for the customary
largess ere setting forward as their guide on the expedition. Some
difficulty now arose by reason of the straitness of the path; but
their dumb leader hastened up the lane with unusual speed, beckoning
that they should follow. From this signal it appeared that there was
sufficient room, and the postilion addressed himself to proceed by so
unusual a route.

They went forward for about a mile with little difficulty; but a
sudden turn, almost at right angles with their course, presented an
obstacle which the driver hesitated whether or not to encounter; but
it was impossible to return, though they were not without serious
fears that the weird woman might lead them on to a situation from
which they could not extricate themselves. Still she beckoned them
forward, until they emerged into another and a wider road, on which
they travelled without further impediment.

Ellen, whose eyes were abundantly occupied, suddenly assumed a look of
greater fixedness and intensity. For a while she seemed nearly
speechless with amazement. At length she cried--

"'Tis there!--There!"

Bridget looked forth, but saw nothing worthy of remark save an old
gatehouse over a dark lazy moat, secured by heavy wooden doors.

This gatehouse was apparently the entrance to a court or quadrangle,
enclosed by buildings of wood and plaster of the like antiquity. Their
guide stood on the bridge, as though to intimate that their wanderings
would here terminate.

"I have seen it before," said Ellen, with great solemnity and emotion.
Bridget perhaps fancied her mistress's thoughts were wandering
strangely, and was just going to recommend rest and a little of the
medicine she carried, when Ellen again spoke, as though sensible of
some incoherency in her remark:--"In my dreams, Bridget."

"St Bridget and the Virgin be praised! Is this the house you saw
when"----

"The very same. I should know it again; nor should I forget it if I
were to live to the age of the patriarchs."

"It's an evident answer to my prayers," said Bridget; and here the
devout enthusiast began to recite internally some holy ejaculations,
which, if they did not possess any positive efficacy, were at least
serviceable in allaying the excitement under which she laboured.

Ellen determined to alight and witness the issue of the adventure; so
in due time these forlorn damsels were seen advancing over the bridge
unto this enchanted castle.

The beldame knocked loudly at the gate, and immediately she sprang
back; but when the travellers again looked round she was gone!

Now were they in a precious dilemma. Two females before a stranger's
gate; the warder a-coming, when their business would of necessity be
demanded. A tread, every footstep of which might have been passing
over them, was close at hand. The bolts shrieked; the gate shook, and
a curious face peeped forth to inquire their errand. Bridget, whose
ready tongue rarely refused its office, replied--

"Is there a Catholic priest hereabout? for we would fain have a word
with one of that persuasion."

The grim warder smiled.

"Ye have not far to go for such an one," said he; "but ye be far-off
comers, I reckon, or ye would have known Bryn Hall belike, the
dwelling-place of the noble house of Gerard, that hath never been
without a priest and an altar therein."

He threw the gate wide open, and invited them to follow; after which
he led them through a clumsily-ornamented porch into the great hall,
at the end of which was a low gallery, supported by pillars and
pilasters richly and profusely carved. From these arches were sprung,
and a flight of stairs at one end led to the upper chambers.

Their guide preceded them into a small wainscoted room, fitted up as a
study, or perhaps an oratory in those days. A wooden crucifix, with a
representation of the Saviour carved in ivory, was placed in a recess,
occasionally covered by a green curtain. Shelves laden with books
occupied the farther end of the room, and writing materials were laid
upon an oak trestle or table, before which sat a tall white-haired
personage in a suit of sables, to whose further protection the porter
left his charge.

Ellen had suffered herself to be led passive hitherto by her maid; but
when she saw that they were now fairly committed to the disposal of
the priest, for so he appeared, she felt uneasy and anxious to
depart. The room and the whole scene were vividly brought to her
recollection; for she fancied that, at one time or another, she had
been present in a similar place.

Bridget curtsied to the holy father, who, doubting not that either a
case of conscience or a need-be for confession brought these strangers
to his presence, began the usual interrogatories.

"Here is a sick person, most reverent sir, who would have the benefit
of your prayers," said Bridget. The pale and wasting form that was by
her side sufficiently corroborated this reply.

"Daughter, the prayers of the church are for the penitent and
believing; hast thou made shrift and a clear confession?"

Bridget was prepared for this question.

"She is not of the faith; but, peradventure, if aid be vouchsafed, she
shall be reclaimed."

"If she have faith, I will cure her malady. What sayest thou?" He
fixed his clear grey eye upon her, and Ellen felt as though some charm
were already at work, and a strange tingling went through her frame.
She stammered out something like an assent, when the priest carefully
proceeded to unlock a little cabinet, inlaid with ivory and gold, from
which he took out a white silk bag that diffused a grateful perfume
through the chamber. He offered up a prayer before he unloosed the
strings; after which, with great formality and reverence, he drew
forth a human hand, dried and preserved, apparently by some mysterious
process, in all its substance and proportions. Ellen was dumb with
astonishment. Bridget could with difficulty refrain from falling on
her knees before this holy relic; and her delight would easily have
run over in some form of religious extravagance had it been suffered
to have free vent. To this relic, doubtless, had the predictions
referred: and she doubted not its power and efficacy.

"This rare and priceless thing," said the priest, "was once the right
hand of an English Martyr, Father Arrowsmith by name, put to death for
his holy profession. In consideration whereof, it is permitted, by the
will of the Supreme, that an honourable testimony be rendered to his
fidelity by the miracles that it doth and shall work to the end of
time. Rub it thrice on the part affected, and mark the result. If thou
receive it with humility and faith, trusting in Heaven, from whence
alone the healing virtue doth flow--these holy relics being, as it
were, but the appointed channels and conduits of His mercy--thou shall
assuredly be healed."

But Ellen was at some loss to know the precise situation of her
complaint, until she recollected the picture drawn by the dumb
fortune-teller, who described the heart alone as touched by this
miraculous hand. Yet, in what manner to make the application was a
matter of some difficulty.

Bridget again relieved her from the dilemma.

"If it so please your reverence, the seat of the complaint is not
visible. Suffer us to use it privately. We will not carry forth nor
misuse this precious keepsake; for I have been brought up in the
nurture of the Holy Church, and am well instructed in her ceremonies."

"I fear not for the harm that can happen to it, by reason of ungodly
or mischievous devices. If taken away, it would assuredly return
hither. Should the lady have some inward ailment, let her lay it as
near as may be to the part where she feels afflicted, and keep it
there for a space, until she findeth help."

The two visitors were then shown into another chamber; and here
Bridget, with great devoutness, and a firm faith in its efficiency,
placed the dead cold hand upon her mistress's heart. Ellen shuddered
when she felt its death-like touch. It was either fancy, or something
more, but she really felt as though a load were suddenly taken
away--an oppression, an incubus, that had continually brooded over
her, was gone. Surprised, and lightened of her burden, she returned
into the oratory, and gave back the relic, along with a liberal
offering into the hands of the priest. He said there would scarcely be
occasion for a repetition of the act, as it was evident the faith of
the recipient had wrought its proper work.

The day by this time being far spent, the priest begged permission to
introduce Ellen to Lady Gerard, who, he said, would be much gratified
to afford them entertainment, and, if need were, shelter for the
night. On hearing the name of her visitor, this kind lady would take
no denial, but expressed herself warmly on the folly and imprudence of
an invalid being exposed to the night air; and Ellen, delighted with
the change she felt, was all compliance and good-nature. After a
little hesitation, she suffered her first refusals to be overcome, and
the night wore on with pleasant converse. By little and little Lady
Gerard gained the confidence of Ellen, who seemed glad that she could
now speak freely on the subject nearest to her heart.

"It is marvellous enough," continued Lady Gerard, "that you should
have been conducted hither; for in this house there is a magic mirror,
which may, peradventure, disclose what shall relieve your anxiety. On
being looked into, after suitable preparations, it is said--for I
never tried the experiment--to show wondrous images within its charmed
surface; and like the glass of Cornelius Agrippa, of which we have a
tractate in the library chamber, will show what an absent person is
doing, if the party questioning be sincere, and anxious for his
welfare."

"I have long wished," said the blushing Ellen, "that I might see him
of whom our evening's discourse hath, perchance, been too much
conversant. I would not for worlds that he knew of my wish; but if I
could see him once more, and know the bearing of his thoughts toward
me, I could now, methinks, die content."

"This very night, then, let us consult the oracle," said Lady Gerard;
"but there must not be any witness to our exploit; so while away your
impatience as best you may until I have made the needful preparations
for our adventure."

Ellen could not repress her agitation when, after waiting alone for a
little time, her kind hostess came to summon her to the trial. She was
conducted up the staircase before mentioned, and through a corridor of
some length. The lamp grew pale and sickly in the cold wind of the
galleries they trod. Soon, however, they paused before a low door.
Lady Gerard pressed her finger on her lip, in token of silence. She
then blew out the light, and they were involved in total darkness.
Taking hold of Ellen's arm, which trembled excessively within her own,
she opened the door, but not a ray was yet visible. She was conducted
to a seat, and Lady Gerard whispered that she should be still.
Suddenly a light flashed forth on the opposite side, and Ellen saw
that it came from a huge antique mirror. A form, in male attire, was
there discernible. With a slow and melancholy pace he came forward,
and his lips seemed to move. It was--she could not be mistaken--it was
her cousin William! She thought he looked pale and agitated. He
carried a light which, as it glimmered on his features, showed that
they were the index of some internal and conflicting emotion. He sat
down. He passed one hand over his brow, and she thought that a sigh
laboured from his lips; but as she gazed the light grew dim, and ere
long the mirror, ceasing to be illuminated, again left them in total
darkness. A few minutes elapsed, which were swollen to long hours in
the estimation of the anxious and wondering inquirer. Her companion
again whispered that she should await the result in silence. Suddenly
the light flashed out as before, and she saw the dumb fortune teller
instead of the individual she expected. Her features were more writhen
and distorted than ever; and she seemed to mutter, it might be, some
malignant spell, some charm, the operation of which was for some
unknown and diabolical intent. Ellen shuddered as the weird woman took
a paper-roll from her bosom. Unfolding it, there was displayed the
figure of her lover, as she supposed, kneeling, while he held out his
hands toward the obdurate heart which he in vain attempted to grasp.

"I have wronged him," said Ellen, in a whisper to her companion; "if I
interpret these images aright, he now sighs for my favour; and--would
that we had known each other ere it was too late!"

"He knows now," said Lady Gerard; and immediately the dumb prophetess
was at her side. She threw off a disguise, ingeniously contrived, and
Ellen beheld her cousin William! The magic mirror was but an aperture
through the wainscot into another apartment, and the plot had been
arranged in the first place by Mrs Bridget, who had been confederate
with the handsome but somewhat haughty wooer, having for his torment a
maiden as haughty and intractable as himself. Thus two loving hearts
had nigh been broken for lack of an interpreter. William's absence had
taken deeper hold on Ellen's finely-tempered frame than was expected;
and it was with sorrow and alarm that he heard of her illness. His
distant relative, Lady Gerard, to whom he had retired for a season,
spake of the marvellous hand, which, he was sure, being a devout and
pious Catholic, would cure any disease incident to the human frame. It
was absolutely needful that a cure should be attempted, along with
some stratagem, to conquer the yet unbroken obstinacy in which, as
with a double panoply, Ellen had arrayed herself. The result of the
experiment has been shown. She was united to her cousin ere a few
months were old, and the "merrie spring" had melted in the warm lap of
summer.




THE LOST FARM;

OR, THE HAUNTED CASKET.

     "And when of me his leave he tuik,
        The tears they wat mine ee,
      I gave tull him a parting luik,
        'My benison gang wi' thee;
      God speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart,
        For gane is all my joy;
      My heart is rent, sith we maun part,
        My handsome Gilderoy.'

     "Of Gilderoy sae 'fraid they were,
        They bound him mickle strong,
      Tull Edenburrow they led him thair,
        And on a gallows hung.
      They hung him high aboon the rest,
        He was sae trim a boy;
      Thair dyed the youth whom I lued best,
        My handsome Gilderoy."


On the flat, bare, sandy coast, near to Southport, now a modern
bathing-place of great resort, described in the first series of this
work, might be seen, some few years ago, a ruined barn, cottage, and
other farmyard appurtenances, around which the loose and drifting sand
was accumulated, covering, at the same time, some acres of scanty
pasture, once held under lease and occupation by an honest fisherman,
who earned a comfortable, if not an easy subsistence, from his
amphibious pursuits. The thatched roofs were broken through--the walls
rent and disfigured--all wore the aspect of desolation and decay. Long
grass had taken root, flourishing luxuriantly on the summit, though
surrounded by a barren wilderness, a wide and almost boundless ocean
of sand. The ruin was the only fertile spot in this dreary waste.
Though painful and melancholy the aspect, still, as the sea-breeze
came softly over, sighing gently on its time-worn furrows, and on the
nodding plumes that decorated the crest of this aged and hoary relic
of the past, the sensation, though pleasing, became mournful; the
heart seemed linked with the unknown, the mysterious events of ages
that are for ever gone--feelings that make even a luxury of grief,
prompted by that within us, "the joy of sorrow;" something more
hallowed, more cherished in the heart's holiest shrine, than all the
glare and glitter of enjoyment--the present bliss--which we prize only
when it departs.

[Illustration: THE LOST FARM, NEAR SOUTHPORT.
_Drawn by G. Pickering._
_Engraved by Edw^d Finden._]

Many years ago, this humble tenement was the abode of George Grimes,
the fisherman to whom we have just alluded. It was a dwelling one
story only from the ground, as the general use was in these regions,
ere modern edifices, staring forth in red, white, and green--their
bold and upstart pretensions outfacing and supplanting the lowly but
picturesque abodes of the aboriginal inhabitants--had overtopped and
overshadowed these meek, rural, and primitive displays of
architectural simplicity.

Grimes, we repeat, was of that amphibious class, common upon every
coast, combining the occupations incident to land and water in his own
proper person. Half-fisherman, half-farmer, he ploughed the seas with
his keel, when upon land his coulter was out of use. He was nigh
sixty, and had long settled down into that quiet nap-like sort of
existence, when the passions are lulled, scarcely visible, as they
creep over the stagnant current of life. He was hale and hard
featured; the lines on his visage betokening, if need were, a stern,
decisive, and obstinate bent in his disposition, that might have
issued in deeds of high and noble daring had its possessor been thrown
into circumstances favourable to the display. As matters stood, George
was master of his own household. Here none questioned his authority;
no profane, irreverent approach ever awakening the dormant energies of
his character, or thwarting the current, visible only by opposition.

His wife was a round, brown, heavy-cheeked, dark-eyed dame, with a cap
white as the whitest goose of the flock that marched every morning
from her barn-doors to the common, where, by some little pool, a
scanty and close-bitten herbage formed their daily subsistence. She
wore a striped apron; the blue lines would have vied with the best
Wigan check for breadth and distinctness. Her good-humoured mouth,
reverse from her husband's, was usually puckered up at the corners
into an expression of kindness, benignity, and mirth--the contrast
greatly aided by proximity; for though George Grimes was benevolent
and kind-hearted at the bottom, yet he was by no means apt to let
these gentler feelings rise to the surface.

An only daughter was now passing within the precincts of womanhood.
Her complexion, red, and--not white, reader--but of that rich,
healthy, and wholesome tinge, perfect as an example of the real
English brunette. Her face exhibited a beautiful modification of her
father's hard and determined expression, blended with her mother's
gentleness and placidity. A smile of thrilling sweetness would
sometimes pass upon her calm and thoughtful countenance, always
beautiful--if such a term can be allowed in speaking of a brown, rosy,
plump, and well-conditioned girl, of good stature, whose form had not
been squeezed into shape, nor her linsey woolsey flourished into
flounce and farthingale. Her hair hung in bright clusters on her brow;
fresh from Nature's toilet, their wild untutored elegance was singular
and bewitching. Indeed, Katherine, or "Kattern," as she was more
generally called, was the cynosure of this clime--a jewel, that needed
not the foil of its homely setting; the envy and admiration of the
whole neighbourhood--well known at church, and at Ormskirk market,
where she attended weekly--at the latter place to dispose of her
produce. Here she was the torment of many a rustic, unable to conquer,
or even to understand, the power by which his heart was taken captive.

Avarice was the besetting sin of her father. He was always fearful of
becoming poor, and "not paying his way," as he called it. Yet was it
suspected that George Grimes had a "powerfu'" hoard, concealed both
from his family and friends. Money he doated on. It was an undoubted
fact that many a shining face went into the coffer of old Grimes that
was never again seen performing the common everyday functions of
currency and traffic.

He was always a-dreaming, too, that he had found treasure. Often he
would spend the greater part of a morning tide in pacing the brink of
the boiling waves, hoping to find there some coinage of his brain that
had been his dream on the preceding night. Southport then existed not,
at least in name. No gay and laughing crowds fluttered on the margin
of the deep. No lines of well-trimmed "green-eyed" houses looked on,
nor boats with their dancing pennons and bright forms shone gallantly
on the waves. All was bleak, bare, and unappropriated. The very air
seemed tenantless, save when the solitary gull came sailing on heavily
with the approaching tide, screaming over the gorge she beheld rising
on the billows. The loud lunge of the sea was interrupted solely by
the cry of the fisherman, and the "cockler's" whistle, plying his
scanty trade among the shoals and sandbanks about the coast. It is
scarcely possible to conceive a situation more desolate and
uninviting. Hills of arid sand skirting the beach, without vegetation
or enclosure, except where the withered bent and little golden-starred
stone-crop gave their own wild and peculiar aspect to the scene. The
shore is flat and unbroken to the very horizon, where the tide,
retreating to its extreme verge, throws up a dim sparkle in the
distance--Nature even here displaying her never-ceasing round of
reproduction and decay, of advance and retrocession.

We had almost forgotten that there was another inmate of the
household--a tall, thick-browed, high-cheeked menial, whose coarse
habiliments displayed a well-proportioned shape, and shoulders of an
athletic width. He had been engaged at the farm barely twelve months
before the date of our narrative; and, at the first, a more egregious
simpleton, as to farming and fishing operations, never drew a net or
whistled at the plough-tail. Yet he came well recommended by a
Catholic gentleman in the neighbourhood as a stout servant of all
work, who would serve Grimes honestly and for moderate wages. He had
one excellence or defect, as it might be--that which we impute to one
dumb from his birth, but not deaf. He perfectly understood what was
spoken, though, to make known his wishes, he was obliged to have
recourse to signs or writing. In the former accomplishment he seemed
to be well skilled, for he often elucidated his meaning by rude
sketches in chalk upon the floor and table. There was a mystery about
his appearance he cared not to divulge. His country and connections,
too, were equally unknown. By the neighbours it was often suspected
that he dealt with the Evil One. The "evil eye" was sometimes
attributed to him; and the signs and chalkings were supposed to be
mystic emblems of the future, into the hidden secrets of which he had
the power of directing his inquiries.

He was apt in learning, and served George Grimes diligently and
faithfully. He soon became acquainted with the various duties of the
farm; and could unreef a sail or make a net with the best labourer in
the parish.

His only companion was Katherine. She taught him to knit, and to make
nets; directed him how to find the best peats, and showed him where
the rabbits burrowed and the larks and lapwings made their nests.
Sometimes the instructress and her pupil would sit on the sandhills,
and watch the sun sink down upon the ocean; sometimes they would
gather shells, when the day's work was over, and string them in
fantastic chaplets, which "_Dummy_" was very expert in contriving. He
could converse with Kattern without difficulty. He had taught her his
vocabulary of signs, and the maiden liked to observe his strange
remarks and inquiries on passing events.

In the forenoon of a dark, threatening, and squally day, just before
high tide, Grimes and his assistant had trudged towards the beach,
intending to go out with the boat for a little while. The weather
having been stormy of late, supplies were becoming scanty, and he
wanted a few fish for their own use. They proposed to take the smaller
boat only, hoping to be back with the next flood.

Toiling through the sand-drifts, they came to an opening between the
hills, which looked immediately on the beach. The sky was black and
heavy on the horizon towards the south-west. Round hard-edged clouds
rode on from the main body, like flying squadrons, "grim couriers" of
the storm. Here and there, through an opening in the clouds, the sky
was of a deep, vivid, and intense blue, contrasting wildly with the
rolling forms that tumbled about in turbulent confusion over the whole
hemisphere. The sea was rising in breakers over the banks, hillocks of
white foam riding on the crest of the billows, while the margin of the
waves boiled and frothed like some vast cauldron.

The old man was not in a particularly complaisant mood that day. He
was cross and snappish at trifles; irritable and out of humour with
himself. As he waded through the narrow defile, the dumb assistant
behind him whistled faintly, and perhaps inadvertantly. The fisherman
looked back with a furious glance.

"Thou staring buzzard, is't not enough to see sich a bellyful o' wind
i' brewing but thou must whistle for more to keep it company? Hang
thee for a he-witch; I never hear that accursed piping but the wind
follows, like sea-gulls to the garbage."

He had just turned a corner of the hill, when, looking round, he cried
in a tone of terror and amazement--

"How now, Dick? Why, the boat is gone! what prank next? Thou careless
unthrift, ill-luck follows i' thy wake. She has slipped anchor, and
the little _Kitty_ is gone to the Manx herring-boats. I am ruined,
thou limb of Old Nick! thou chub! thou"----

Epithets were accumulating with prodigious force, when Dick,
half-closing his eyes, pointed to something dark, like a small boat,
in the offing.

"What's yon thee'rt pointing at? A porpoise-back, I warrant. Ay, shake
thy head, fool; 'twill bring my bonny _Kitty_ back. Why, thou'rt
staring like a bit-boomp in a gutter catching frogs!"

Soon, however, the black speck became less ambiguous. George beheld a
white stern heaving up and down. He ran forward as if to accelerate
her return, crying out to his companion--

"A murrain catch thy tail, thou hast ever a longer sight than beseems
thee. But she's coming, sure enough, whatever she be."

The old man gazed in wonder and suspense. He saw a sail unfurl, and
the bark--his own little tight, trim vessel--come prancing on the
white billows toward the shore. Soon he observed, sitting therein,
perfectly at his ease, and unmindful of the near approach to, and the
portentous menaces of, the owner, a figure clad in a garment of grey
frieze, and a dark hairy cap on his head. One hand grasped the helm,
and in the other he held the sheet, while he managed the boat with the
most seamanlike skill and composure. His eye was fixed alternately on
the shore and on the vane at the masthead as he came dancing through
the surf, until he ran right upon the sands, where the boat grounded,
and he sprang out upon the beach. The astonishment of Grimes can
hardly be conceived when, without once deigning to notice him, away
went the stranger, vouchsafing neither thanks nor acknowledgments.

"Holloa, friend!" cried the incensed owner; "your disposition be freer
than welcome, methinks. Holloa, I say, whither away so fast?" cried he
impatiently, quickening his pace; but the stranger altered not his
gait in the least, plodding steadily onwards, without appearing to
notice the angry inquiries of his pursuer.

Soon the quick long strides of George Grimes brought him alongside of
the person he addressed. Crossing before him, and almost intercepting
his progress, he exclaimed--

"How now, friend? I'd be bold to know what thou be'st. I'm mightily
beholden to thee for this favour."

A malicious grin quivered on his pale and angry countenance; but the
stranger was unmoved. He merely waved his hand, as though kindly
admonishing the inquirer to depart and leave him unmolested.

"Nay, good man; I'm not so soon put off. Prithee, save thy wit, for
I'm not i' the humour for a jest this morning."

A melancholy smile accompanied the reply.

"Friend," said he, "I am beholden to thee for thy boat; and if thou
art seeking conditions for the hire, I am willing to return its
equivalent. Will this content thee?"

Here George saw a bit of gold twinkling in the stranger's hand, which,
like a beam on the dark waters, cleared his brow immediately.

He doffed his bonnet with great humility; but he was still curious
about the matter, and more particularly as to what errand could have
been requisite that boisterous morning. He stammered out some inquiry,
and the stranger replied--

"Seek not to know; 'tis a doomed thing and accursed. I would have
given thrice my revenue long ago, to have been rid o' the pest. But
the wave hath swallowed it--for ever, I would earnestly pray; and I am
again free!"

Saying this, he passed on, leaving the astonished fisherman gaping
mute with wonder, until a projecting sandhill shut him out from their
sight. During this interview the dumb assistant was busily engaged
with the boat, disposing of the nets and other implements, though at
the same time evidently keeping a wary eye towards the stranger.

The little bark was soon afloat, the wind again filled the sails, and
shortly she was seen flying over the billows in defiance of "wind,
water, and foul weather."

Grimes only purposed to cast the nets a mile or two from shore, for a
good haul at that period was easily obtained much nearer the coast
than is now practicable, the fish being driven away, as the
inhabitants superstitiously but firmly believe, by the quarrels that
have taken place amongst the fishermen.

The bark went merrily on, leaping over the waves, with the old mariner
at her helm, and his dumb servant by the mainsheet. The wind was
blowing more steadily; the short and squally gusts had increased into
a roaring gale, driving right ahead from the west. To work, however,
they went, when, after a haul or two, the old man being engaged with
the tackling, up came something in the net--at least old Grimes saw it
glittering amongst the fish when he turned round, and it could have
come from none other quarter than the sea.

Grimes drew it forth, and a fair and weighty casket it was, apparently
uninjured. It was ornamented in the arabesque or antique fashion,
inlaid with great care and skill. He grasped the prize; he poised it,
to ascertain its gravity. It seemed to be both heavy and well-filled.

This at last was the treasure he had often dreamt about, and the old
man was almost frantic with joy. He hugged the unlooked-for messenger
of wealth and good-fortune, and, putting the vessel about, made all
sail for land.

Once more anchored as near the beach as the retiring tide would allow,
Grimes was too much engaged with his prize to notice that "Dummy" took
another route to the farm. Alone with his bundle, and a pelting storm
at his heels, the old man came to his dwelling. His early appearance
was unexpected, but the women, little used to question his movements,
immediately set about preparing for dinner. Depositing the casket,
which was locked, in the oaken chest or ark at his bedside, he
purposed to break it open when he had procured the means, without
harming the exterior.

The storm was rapidly gaining strength; the wind blew a hurricane; the
thunder rolled on, louder and more frequent; and the rain came down in
torrents. It was not an ordinary tempest, but more like one of those
tropical tornadoes, when the elements--fire, air, and water--seem to
mingle in universal uproar, fighting and striving for the mastery.

"I think, o' my conscience, this wind is raised by the ould one," said
the elder female. Scarcely were the words uttered when the room seemed
in a blaze, and a clap of thunder followed: so loud and appalling,
that it made the very walls to rock and the whole fabric to reel with
the stroke. The fisherman grew pale; the stranger's words rang in his
ears. Was it the _casket_ that he had committed to the deep, and of
which he spake with such horror and execration? Strange as was the
idea, yet he could not get rid of it; there seemed some connection
between this fearful agony of nature and the mysterious treasure
beneath his roof. The pipe fell from his mouth, and he sat listening,
as he fancied, to the awful denunciations mingled with the howling
storm, as though he had not power to move or to avert his gaze from
the window.

"Bless me, I had forgotten you were by yourself, father," said
Katherine. "He will be almost drowned, if he has not ta'en shelter."

"I know not," muttered Grimes; "he left me on the shore. He might ha'
been here long since." The rain and wind abated for a brief space,
when old Isabel appeared to be listening near the chamber door, where
Grimes had left the casket.

"Mercy! what's that, George?"

The fisherman was immediately all eye and ear; his head bent towards
the door, which stood ajar.

"Who is there in the chamber?" inquired the old woman. "I hear it
again."

"Hear! what?" replied he, in great agitation.

"Something like an' it were a-whispering there," replied the dame.

But a gust of wind again overwhelmed every other sound in its
progress. Grimes thought he had heard a whisper that made his blood
freeze, and the very flesh to creep over his bones with terror.

But Katherine fearlessly entered; she looked cautiously about, but all
was still, and she returned. Ere she closed the door, however, she
heard a soft whisper, as though behind her. Naturally courageous, she
immediately went back, but all was quiet as before; nor could she find
that any person had been concealed in the apartment. She opened the
chest where Grimes had stowed his booty, and seeing the casket, she
took it up, running hastily into the adjoining room.

"Why, father, what a pretty fairing you have brought me. I'se warrant,
now, you would not have told me on't till after the wakes, if I had
not seen it."

The old man looked as if he had seen a ghost. The whispers he had
heard were, foolishly enough perhaps, connected in his mind with the
presence of this mysterious thing.

"Take it back--back, wench, into the chest again. It was not for thee,
hussy. A prize I fished up with the nets to-day."

"From the sea. Oh me! it is--it is unholy spoil. It has been dragged
from some wreck. Cast it again to the greedy waters. They yield not
their prey without a perilous struggle," said the girl.

The fisherman was silent. He looked thoughtful and disturbed, while
Katherine went back to put the treasure into its hiding-place.

"I wonder what that whispering could be?" thought the maiden, as she
opened the old chest. Ere the lid was pulled down, she cast one look
at the beautiful but forbidden intruder, and she was sure--but
imagination is a potent wizard, and works marvellously--else she was
sure that a slight movement was visible beneath the casket. She flung
down the lid in great terror; pale and trembling, she sprang out of
the room, and sat down silent and alarmed. Again the mysterious
whispers were audible in the momentary pauses of the blast.

"Save us!" said the elder female; "I hear it again."

Bounce flew open the door of the bed-chamber, and--in stalked their
dumb assistant, as though he had chosen this mode of ingress, through
the window of the sleeping-room, rather than through the house-door.

"Plague take thee! Where hast thou been?" said the old woman, partly
relieved from her terrors. Yet was the whispering precisely as
incomprehensible as before. The dumb menial that stood before her was
obviously incapable even of this act of incipient speech.

"Where hast thou been, Dick?" inquired Grimes, seriously. But the
former pointed towards the beach.

"How long hast thou been yonder?--in the chamber, I mean."

Dick here fell into one of his ordinary fits of abstraction, from
which neither menace nor entreaty could arouse him. As the old man
turned from the window he saw a blaze of light flashing suddenly upon
the wall. The yard was filled with smoke. Rushing forth, the inmates
found the barn thatch on fire, kindled probably by the lightning. The
rain prevented it from extending with much rapidity; and Grimes,
mounting on the roof, soon extinguished the burning materials before
much damage had been the result. Misfortunes verily seemed to crowd
upon each other; and that unlucky casket, doubtless, was the cause.
When the old man, with his dame, returned into the house, Katherine
was nowhere to be found. The "Dummy," too, was unaccountably absent.
Anxious and wondering, they awaited, hoping for their appearance at
dinner; but their meal was cheerless and unvisited. Evening came,
serene, deceitful as ever--but their child did not return. They went
out to make inquiries, but could find no clue to aid them in the
search. Katherine had never stayed from home so late. The parents were
nigh distracted. There was evidently some connection between the
disappearance of their servant and her own absence. Fearful surmises
ensued. Suspicion strengthened into certainty. The casket was
forgotten in this fearful distress; and, after a fruitless search,
they were forced to return.

On the third night after this occurrence, Grimes and his disconsolate
helpmate were sitting by the turf embers in moody silence, broken only
by irregular whiffs from the pipe--the old man's universal solace.
After a longer pull than usual, he abruptly exclaimed--

"Three days, Isabel, and no tidings of the child. Who will comb down
my grey hairs now, or read for us in the Book o' nights? We must
linger on without help to our grave; none will care to keep us
company."

"Woe's me!" cried the dame, and she wept sore; "my poor child! If I
but knew what was come to her, I think i' my heart I would be
thankfu'. But what can have happen'd her? unless it be Dick indeed;
and yet I think the lad was honest, though lungeous at times, and
odd-tempered. By next market, surely, we shall ha' tidings fra' some
end. But I trow, 'tis that fearsome burden ye brought with you,
George, fra' the sea, that has been the cause of a' this trouble."

Grimes started up. He threw the ashes from his pipe, and, without
saying a word, went into the bed-chamber. Lifting up the chest-lid, he
saw the casket safe, and apparently undisturbed. He drew it fearlessly
forth, and vowed that he would throw it into the sea again, without
further ado, on the morrow. It felt much lighter, however, than
before; but not another night should it pass under his roof; so he
threw it beside a turf-heap in the yard. His heart, too, felt lighter
as he cast the abominable thing from him; and he was sure it was this
mischievous inmate alone that had wrought such woe in his hitherto
happy and quiet household.

Morning came; and Grimes, for the first time since his loss, took the
boat, committing himself alone with the haunted casket on the sea. It
was a lovely morning as ever sun shone upon; the waters were
comparatively smooth; and the tide brought one of those refreshing
breezes on its bosom, so stimulating and healthful to the invalid.

But Grimes thought not of the brightness or beauty of the morning.
With the helm in his hand, one light sail being stretched out to the
wind, he was steering through the intricate channel, and amongst the
sandbanks which render the coast so dangerous even to those best
acquainted with its perils.

He stood out to a considerable distance, intending to have depth and
sea-room enough to drown his burden.

The breeze was fair, the sea was bright, and the mariner sailed on. He
determined, this time at least, that the casket should be sent far
enough out of harm's way.

"If that plaguy thing had been down deep enough before," thought he,
"this mischief had not happened." He looked at it, and thought again,
"How very sad to part with so beautiful a treasure." He had not
observed before that the lid was unlocked. He might as well peep
before it should be hidden for ever beneath the dark billows. He
lifted up the rim of the coffer cautiously; he trembled as the hinges
gave way; and--it was empty!

"I am a fool!" thought he; "a downright fool. An empty box can have
nothing to do with"----

But, as if to belie his own conclusions, and to convince him that
peril, and misfortune must attend the presence of that mysterious
thing, he having just quitted the helm for a more convenient
examination, a sudden squall nearly upset the boat. Fortunately she
righted, but not before most of the movables were tossed out,
including the cause of all his troubles. This at any rate was lucky,
and cheaply purchased with the loss and breakage of his marine stores.

The tide was still coming in, though nearly at the height, and Grimes
floated merrily to land. After hauling the boat ashore, he stood for
a moment looking towards the sea, when he saw, dancing like a spectre
on the very edge of the wave that broke in a thousand bubbles at his
feet, the identical box he had taken such pains to commit to the safe
keeping of that perilous deep. It was evidently pursuing him. He would
have fled, but fear had arrested his footsteps. He did not recollect
that the box was now empty, and floated from its own buoyancy.

"It will not drown," thought he. After a little reflection he resolved
to dispose of it in some other manner.

"It will haunt me as long as it is above ground. I'll bury it." In
pursuance of this wholesome resolve, he took it home again. Digging a
deep grave in the peat-moss behind this cottage, he thrust in the
object of his apprehensions, trusting that he was now safe from its
power.

But noises horrid and unaccountable disturbed him. Demons had surely
chosen his dwelling for their head-quarters. Nor day nor night could
he rest--fancying that a whole legion of them were haunting him. He
seemed to be the sport and prey of his own terrors; and with a heavy
heart he resolved to quit, though suffering a grievous loss by the
removal.

The story of the haunted casket, with many additions and improvements,
soon got abroad. No one dared to pass the house after nightfall, and
"The Lost Farm" has ever since been tenantless.

Grimes removed to another in a few weeks; but his happiness and his
hopes were for ever dissipated by the mysterious intruder. Hearing no
tidings from his daughter, he determined, several weeks after the
adventure, to sally forth in quest of intelligence.

It was a cold blustery morning when the old man set out on his errand.
He was clad in a coarse blue frieze coat, with the usual complement of
large white-plated buttons. His head was sheltered by an oil
case-covered hat, tied down with a blue and white check handkerchief,
and he held a long stick before him at arm's length, on which his
sorrowful and drooping frame hung more heavily than usual. He had
grown a dozen years older at least in less than as many weeks; and
when he came to Church Town, having taken the bypath through the
hills, he was fain to rest himself a while at the inn-door. Before it
stood several carts on their way towards Preston, whither they were
bound for the disposal of their produce on the morrow. Grimes thought
he might as well make some inquiries there; Katherine having at times
visited that remote town to make purchases. He would have company too
if he went with the carts, and a lift now and then if he were tired;
so, throwing down his bundle, he entered the house intimating his wish
that they should join company.

"To Preston, lad?" said a jolly carter, holding a pewter pot that
seemed as if glued to his hard fist. "Rare doings there, old one.
What! thee wants to look at the fun, I warrant. Why, the rebels ha'
been packed off to Lunnun long sin'; but we han had some on 'em back
again; that is, thou sees, their Papist heads were sent back i' pickle
into these parts, and one on 'em grins savagely afore the Town Ha'."

Grimes knew little of political niceties, or whether kings _de facto_
or _de jure_ were better entitled to the throne.

The late disturbances had not reached these districts; so that the
rebellion of 1745 might as well have happened in Kamtschatka or Japan
for any personal knowledge that old Grimes had of the matter.

"Rebels!" said he; "I have heard a somewhat of this business; though I
know nothing, and care less about them cannibals."

"Then what be'st thee for in such a hurry to Preston?"

"I had a daughter, but she has left me, the staff and comfort of my
old age, when I stood most in need of the prop!" Here the old man drew
his hat over his brows, partly turning aside.

"Cheer up, friend," saith another; "thy daughter, maybe, is gone wi'
Prince Charlie, when he piped through Preston 'Hie thee, Charlie, hame
again!'"

This malicious sally raised a loud laugh; but the old man heard it
with great agony and consternation; for though a bow drawn at a
venture--a chance expression merely, intended as a clever hit at the
women's expense, who had followed in the train of the rebels--Grimes
construed the passage literally; and from that time it ran continually
in his head, that his daughter's absence would be found to have some
connection with these events.

"Hang thy jibes!" said the first speaker, for whom this piece of wit
was more especially intended; "hang thee, I'll knock thy neck
straight; pepper me but I will!"

This worthy had a wife, who incontinently had contributed to augment
the rebel train when the Prince, in far different plight, on the 27th
of November 1745, passed through Preston, on his route to London,
piping "The king shall have his own again."

A fray was nigh commencing--a circumstance not at all unusual in those
turbulent times--but the master of the band speedily interfered,
threatening displeasure and a wholesome discipline to his refractory
servants.

Grimes accompanied them on their journey, riding, walking, and
gossiping, at irregular intervals; during which he learned much news
relating to the aspect and circumstances of the time, the names of the
leaders, and those attainted and condemned, in this hasty and
ill-timed rebellion. A considerable number of Lancashire partisans,
officers of the Manchester regiment, commanded by Colonel Townley, had
been conveyed to London, and tried for high treason, in July 1746.
Some were reprieved and pardoned; others were executed, with all the
horrid accompaniments prescribed by the law. The heads of Townley and
one Captain Fletcher were placed upon Temple Bar. The heads of seven
others, having been preserved in spirits, were at that time
ornamenting posterns and public thoroughfares in Manchester, Preston,
Wigan, and Carlisle, to the great comfort of the loyal and
well-disposed, and the grievous terror of the little children who
passed in and out thereat. Others, the noble leaders of this short and
ill-acted tragedy for the benefit of the selfish and bigoted Stuarts,
suffered death; while others escaped, amongst whom was the titular
Earl of Derwentwater, supposed to have been conveyed secretly aboard
ship for Scotland.

In these rebellions, it may generally be said, that in the county of
Lancaster, Catholics as well as Protestants displayed a firm
attachment to the reigning family. Instances of defection were very
rare; and, when they occurred, might be imputed to some peculiarity in
the situation of the delinquents rather than to party or religious
feelings. The romantic attempt of the young Chevalier, as displayed in
this rebellion, had in it something imposing to ardent and
enthusiastic minds; and those who embraced his cause south of the
Tweed were principally young men of warm temperament, whose
imaginations were dazzled by the chivalrous character of the
enterprise.[17]

About the close of day, the towers of "proud Preston" were seen rising
above the broad sweep of the river below Penwortham Bridge. The
situation chosen by our ancestors for the erection of "_Priest's
Town_"--so called because the majority of its inhabitants in former
times were ecclesiastics--evinces the discriminating eye of a priest,
and shows that, whether the religious orders selected a site for an
abbey or for a city, they were equally felicitous in their choice.
Placed at a convenient distance from the sea, upon the elevated banks
of one of the finest rivers in England, with a mild climate and a dry
soil, and commanding a rich assemblage of picturesque views, in one of
the most interesting portions of Ribblesdale, the spirit of St Wilfred
himself, to whom the parish church is dedicated, and who was the most
accomplished ecclesiastic of his age, must have animated the mind that
fixed upon this spot.[18]

Grimes, adjusting his satchel and other appendages, trudged warily on,
according to the directions he had procured from his guides, in
respect to lodgings. His route lay up Fishergate; and on his way, near
the Town Hall, his progress was interrupted by a dense crowd. The
soldiers and local authorities were just conveying a prisoner of some
note from the hall of justice to head-quarters at the Bull Inn, under
a strong guard.

Grimes, impelled by curiosity, and likewise having an idea that it
might be one of the rebels, with whom he still connected the
disappearance of his daughter, thrust himself, edgeways, into the
crowd; his primitive appearance causing no slight merriment amongst
the bystanders.

Guarded by soldiery and a bevy of constables before and behind, came a
tall, muscular figure, attired in a ragged suit--probably a disguise,
and not of the most reputable or becoming description. He looked
haggard and dejected--harassed, in all likelihood, by long watching
and fatigue. His hair was intensely black, surmounted by a coarse cap
or bonnet, such as the mechanics then wore at their ordinary
occupations.

The old man looked steadfastly at the prisoner.

"Surely it cannot be!" said he half-aloud. He pressed into the
foremost rank, and near enough to receive a lusty blow from one of the
constables; but not before he had, with an exclamation of joy and
astonishment, recognised the features of his former servant and dumb
inmate at the farm.

Grimes, caring not a whit for the blow, in his ready and imprudent
zeal stepped up to the leader of the party, thinking there was
doubtless some mistake in the person they had seized, and anxious,
too, for an opportunity of speaking with the prisoner anent his
errand.

"Stand back!" said the official representative gruffly.

"Friend, I know thy prisoner well. He was lodged and victualled at my
house not six weeks agone."

"The ---- he was; then we may as well try a hand with thee too," said
the constable.

But the simplicity and openness of the old man was his protection; for
the constable walked on, without deigning to bend his truncheon to
such low and inglorious enterprise.

"But look thee," said the pertinacious and unsuspecting fisherman, "he
is my servant; and you are i' the wrong to capture him without my
privity."

"And who art thou?" inquired another of these myrmidons of justice,
eyeing Grimes and the cut of his habiliments from head to foot. "I do
bethink me thou art i' the roll. Thee would make a grim fixture for a
pole here hard by." He looked significantly towards the reward of
treason hung in front of the Town Hall above them.

"Like enough!" said the other, taking the offender by the collar; who,
astonished beyond measure at this proceeding, was unable for a while
to give such an account of himself as to satisfy the officers and
regain his liberty. The prisoner looked at him, but did not betray the
least symptom of acknowledgment.

"Ill-mannered varlet!" thought the old man; "but what can they be
a-wanting with our Dummy?"

Still urged on by the crowd, he resolved to see an end of the
business; so, pushing with them through the gateway of the inn, he
came so near the prisoner as to touch him gently by the sleeve during
the press and scuffle in the entry. For a moment--and it was a glance
observed by the fisherman alone--the pale features of the unfortunate
rebel showed a glimpse of recognition; but immediately they relapsed
into their former stern though melancholy expression.

Being much amazed at this conduct, the old man could not forbear
exclaiming--

"Varlet!--my daughter--thou"----But the prisoner was out of sight and
hearing, and the crowd were driven from the gateway. Grimes heard a
few of the bystanders speaking of some great man that was taken, and
of the reward that would be obtained for his apprehension; but the old
fisherman smiled at their ignorance. He knew better. It was none other
than his dumb retainer at the farm; and he set his wits to work--no
despicable auxiliaries at a pinch--in order to procure an interview.

In vain he attempted to persuade such of the crowd as would give him a
hearing of the real state of the case, and the great injustice of the
man's arrest. But they listened to him with impatience and suspicion.
The old man was doubtless either crazed or guilty as one of the rebel
partisans.

"I tell thee what, old crony; if thou dost not change thy quarters, we
will lay thee by the heels i' the cage, presently. Budge! move, quick;
or"----Here the speaker, a little authoritative-looking personage,
would have made a movement corresponding to the words; but Grimes,
perceiving that he was not to be trifled with, unwillingly drew aside
out of harm's way.

Hungry, weary, and dispirited, the old man inquired his way to an
obscure lodging in one of the wynds near the market. It was a low,
dismal-looking tavern, wherein sat two or three unwashed artificers,
drinking beer and devouring the news.

"I'm right fain he's taken," said one of the politicians, whose black
leathern apron and smutty face betokened his occupation. "There's but
old Lovat, they say, now, to chop shorter by a handful of brains.
Proud Preston, say I, for ever. Hurra!"

"Ay, and the mayor's wife too, say I; and may she never want a pair of
garters to tuck round a rebel's neck!" replied a little giggling,
good-humoured fellow, who seemed to imbibe ale as he drew his
breath--both being vitally necessary to his existence.

"She's a rare wench, and would sooner see a rebel hanged, than bod her
nose at a basin of swig and roasted apples."

"She played the husband's part to some purpose when Charles Edward
levied the tribute forsooth, Mr Mayor being gone to look after his
children, by Longridge; but old Sam the beadle says he was afeard o'
the wild Highlanders, and slunk out of the way."

Whilst this conversation was going on Grimes untied his handkerchief,
doffed his stocking boots, and embracing his satchel, drew forth a
piece of hard, unsavoury cheese, and some barley-cake, with which he
proceeded to entertain, if not satisfy, his stomach. A glass of beer
finished this frugal repast, when the old man retired into the shadow
of a huge projecting chimney, ruminating on the perplexities by which
he was encompassed, and on the possibility of his final extrication.
Opposite to him, in the shadow, as if shunning observation, sat
another person who appeared wishful to avoid any intercourse with the
guests. Grimes stretched his gaunt figure on a bench beside the
hearth, as though desirous to let in the dark waters of oblivion upon
his spirit.

The hostess was bustling in and out, doubtless impatient at this
prolonged stay when the cup was empty; and, in one of these inspectory
visits, the old man addressed her, scarcely raising his contemplative
gaze from the embers, where he had been poking his eyes out for the
last half-hour.

"I want a bed for the night, good dame."

"We have none to spare," said the dissatisfied landlady--"for such
guests as thee," perhaps she would have added, but the stranger from
the opposite corner interrupted her.

"He shall have mine: I can lie on the squab."

The voice of the speaker was soft and musical, apparently in a
disguised tone.

"You're very kind, sir," said the hostess; "but this over-thrifty
customer may find other guess places i' the town; unless, indeed, he
chooses to pay handsomely for the lodging."

"And then, maybe," said the stranger, "the siller would find out a bed
to lie in."

"I could lend him mine, perhaps," returned the accommodating landlady.

"Then here's a crown," said the other, "and let the old man be both
fed and bedded. I have money enough; and his purse, I think, is not
overstocked with provision, if we may guess by the lining of his
wallet."

The dame, growing courteous in an instant, promised as good a bed as
King George himself slept in that blessed night. The astonished
fisherman could hardly credit his senses. He thanked his stars for
this unexpected interposition; nor would he refuse the gift, though
from the hands of a stranger.

The latter shortly afterwards retired to rest; and the political
weaver and blacksmith, having settled the hanging, drawing, and
quartering of the unfortunate prisoner, not without a full and
minute-description of this disgusting and barbarous, though to them
diverting process, called for a parting cup, to drink confusion to the
rebels and a speedy dismissal to the Chevalier.

Old Grimes retired also; and in a low wide room, white-washed and
bare-walled, containing a broken chair, two-thirds of a table, and a
bed without tester, covered with a thick blue quilt, was deposited the
mortal fabric of the weary fisherman.

He could not sleep for a considerable time; the strange events he had
witnessed, the excitement he had undergone, together with the rude
brawls beneath his window, prevented him from closing his eyes until
past midnight. He heard not a few loyal home-made songs, by the
red-hot braggarts, pot-valiant and full of "gentle minstrelsie," as
they trolled lustily past his lodging. Amongst many others, the
following seemed an especial favourite:--

                     1.
     "Down wi' the Papists an' a', man,
       Down wi' the priest and confession;
     Down wi' the Charlies an' a', man,
       And up wi' the Duke an' the nation.

                     2.
     "There's Townley, an' Fletcher, an' Syddal,
       And Nairn, wi' his breeks wrang side out, man;
     Some ran without breeks to their middle,
       But Charlie ran fastest about, man."

After a while, the sounds began to mingle confusedly with the images
floating on his own sensorium. He felt as though unable to separate
them: ideal forms took up the real impressions, and arrayed themselves
so cunningly withal, that to his mind's eye the image of his daughter
seemed to approach. The brawling ceased; the room was lighted up. It
was his own chamber, and Katherine sprang towards him, smiling as she
was wont, for her usual "Good-night." "God bless thee, my child!" said
he, as he threw his arms about her. Starting up, awake, at the sound
of his own voice, he found that he had not grasped a shadow; but a
being, real and substantial, was in his embrace. Grimes was horribly
alarmed.

"Father, it is I," said a soft whisper. It was the voice of his
daughter.

"Hush!" said she; "be silent, for your life and mine. You shall know
all; but not now. Fear not for me. I'm safe; but I will not leave
_him_--my companion--yonder unfortunate captive. Help me, and I'll
contrive his rescue."

"_Thy_ companion, wench! why, how is this? Art"----

"Honest and true, as he is faithful. We may yet be happy as we once
were, when this fearful extremity is past. Say no more; we may be
overheard. Now aid me; for without our help he is lost! and, oh,
refuse not this one, perhaps this last request of thy child!"

She fell upon his neck, and the old man was moved to an unwonted
expression of tenderness; for truly his daughter was dearer to him
than any earthly object; and still dearer in the moment when the lost
one was restored.

"To-morrow night," said the maiden, "bring your boat, with four stout
rowers, to the quay at Preston Marsh. Let me see; ay, the moon is near
two days old, and the tide will serve from nine till midnight. You
know the channel well, and wait there until I come."

"Kattern, thou shall go with me. I'll not leave thee now."

"Nay," said the faithful girl; "I must not; I _will_ not. There is
life depending on my endeavours. Father," continued she, throwing her
arms round the old man's neck, who now sobbed aloud, "hear me; no
power shall force me to leave him now in misery and misfortune. I
would move the very stones for his rescue; and cannot I move thee?"

"Well, Kattern, I am a silly and a weak old body, and thou--But thou
art disguised. Where didst get that coat? and--I declare--trousers.
For shame, wench!"

"Nay, you shall know all, father, when I return; when we have
delivered him, and not before."

The old man was too much overjoyed not to promise the requisite
attendance.

"My life depends on 't, father; so good-night."

"Stay--stay, wench--a moment!"

But a light step, and the sound of a gently-closing door, announced
her departure; and Grimes was forced to remain, where he lay sleepless
on his pallet, impatiently awaiting daybreak.

With the first peep of dawn was old Grimes astir; and the lark was but
just fluttering from the dew when the quaint, angular form of the
mariner was again seen plodding towards the coast.

"Since that plaguy box came into my fingers, I've had neither rest nor
luck. I'll ne'er meddle with stray goods again while I live!" and in
this comfortable determination he continued, thinking of his bonny
Kattern to lighten the toil of his long and lonesome journey.

The same day the sun lighted early on the towers and gables of "Proud
Preston." Longridge Fell threw off its wreath of mist; but on the
river a long and winding vapour followed its course, everything
betokening one of those pure, exhilarating days that so rarely visit
our watery and weeping regions.

       *       *       *       *       *

The mayor was but just awakened; yet Mrs Mayor had long been
vigilantly engaged in household and political affairs (for she ruled
the civic power in Preston's thrice happy borough), when a stranger
came on some business of importance.

"What is your will, my good friend?" inquired the mayoress, taking off
a light pair of shagreen-mounted spectacles; for being of that
debatable age when time is hardly known by his advances on the person,
having just mounted these helps occasionally, as she said, when
mending a pen or sewing fine work, she cared not to show that they
were in use at other seasons more germane to their purpose.

"I would have a word in private with the mayor."

"Mr Mayor has no words in private that come not through his lady's
ear. Once more, your business?"

"I must see him, and alone," said the intruder.

"_Must_ see him?" replied the female diplomatist; "I tell you that you
shall not see him before I am acquainted with the cause. I hear your
master on the floor above," said she to a servant who had just
entered; "tell him he need not hurry down; breakfast is not yet
ready."

The servant retired as he was bid; but, having heard more of the
foregoing colloquy than his mistress intended, the message, as
delivered to his worship, was of an opposite tenor from what he had
been charged with. The stranger continued firm in his determination
not to divulge his errand; and the anxiety of the ruling power to
ascertain his motive would not suffer her to dismiss him.

Great was the disappointment and dark the storm on the lady's brow,
when, beslippered and begowned, came in hastily the chief magistrate
of this ancient borough.

"A word in your worship's ear," said the stranger; "my time is short
and the affair is urgent."

"Speak out; my wife shares the burdens of this office, and,
indeed"----

"But, sir, I crave an audience in private. Should you not grant my
request, there be other ears shall have the benefit of what is meant
for your own."

The magistrate quailed before the terrors of his wife's frown; but
however dangerous the duty--and it was fraught with no ordinary
peril--still, in his official capacity, he could not refuse to grant
the stranger a private interview.

The mayor was a round, full-eyed personage, whose cheek and nose
displayed the result of many a libation to the jolly god.
Short-legged, short-breathed, and full-paunched, he strode, quick and
laborious, like a big-bellied cask set in motion, as if glad to
escape, into a small back chamber, furnished with two stools, a desk,
and sundry big books--implements in use only as touching his private
affairs.

"Now, sir," said his majesty's vicegerent, puffing from unwonted
exertion, "it is my lot to fill the civic chair in these troublous
times; and truly my portion is not in pleasant places; but I am loyal,
sir, loyal. The king has knighted many a servant less worthy than
myself; and, but that Mrs Mayor is looking forward to the title, there
would be little good-will to the office from 'my lady' that is to be.
Now, sir."

The garrulous and ambitious minister of justice here paused, more for
lack of breath than words or will to utter them; and the stranger, who
had hitherto kept his hat just below his chin, waiting for a pause in
this monologue, replied--

"My message respects your prisoner."

"Well, sir, go on. Proceed, sir, I say. What! can't you speak? Why
stand there as if stricken dumb in our presence?"

The stranger did proceed the moment that an interval was granted.

"I am brief, your worship."

"Brief--brief--so am I; and my lady--that is, Mrs Mayor--though she
likes that I should, in some sort, furnish my tongue to an
acquaintance with the speech, so that I often speak of and to her as
such, you observe, that when it may seem good unto his Majesty's
pleasure, knighting my poor honesty"--here he made a slight
obeisance--"the words may fall trippingly off the tongue, as though we
were used to the title, and wore our honours like they who be born to
them, sir. Proceed, sir. Why stand dilly-dallying here? Am I to wait
your pleasure?"

"Mine errand is simply this:--A plot is laid for the escape of your
prisoner on his way to London; so that, unless means be taken to
hinder it, he will be liberated."

"Escape!--what?--where? We will raise the soldiery. How say you? I
will tell my lady instantly. Escape! If he escape I am undone. My
knighthood--my knighthood, sir, is lost for ever; and my lady--she
will ne'er look kindly on me again."

Here the little man arose, and, in great agitation, would have sought
counsel from his wife, but the stranger prevented him.

"This must not be; 'tis for your ear alone. Stay!"

His worship was too much alarmed to resist; and the other led him
gently from the door.

"If you will be guided by me you may prevent this untoward event. Let
him be conveyed with all speed aboard the king's ship that is in the
Irish Channel yonder; so shall you quit your hands of him, and
frustrate the plans of his confederates. This must be done secretly,
or his friends may get knowledge of the matter, who have had a ship
long waiting for him privily on the coast to convey him forthwith to
Scotland."

"I will about it directly. Dear me, I have left my glasses. The
town-clerk must be apprised. The jailer--ay, good--thinkest thou he
had not best be committed to jail?"

"Peradventure it will be prudent to do this. I will bear your orders
to the town-clerk for his removal."

"What, immediately?"

"When your worship thinks best; but I would recommend despatch."

"I will about it instantly. There--there--take this. I shall be at the
clerk's office myself shortly. Tell Mr Clerk to be discreet until I
come."

The little twinkling eyes of the functionary were overflowing at the
good fortune which revealed to him alone this vile Popish treason.
Thus happily frustrated by himself, it would doubtless be the means
of raising him from plebeian ranks to the honours of knighthood,
perhaps further. His head grew dizzy at the prospect. He shook the
stranger by the hand, who bowed and withdrew.

Soon a little antiquated clerk, with green spectacles mounted in huge
black rims, and a skin like unto shrivelled parchment, was seen
accompanying the stranger to the inn.

The bolts opened to this demi-official, and they were at once ushered
into the prisoner's chamber. He had already arisen, and was pacing the
apartment in great haste.

"We come, sir," said the clerk, "to announce your removal; but first
we search for plots. This rebel's disguise--where, sayest thou, is it
concealed?"

"Upon his person," said the stranger.

"Pray doff that noble suit, sir," said the jocose purveyor of justice.

The prisoner, with an angry scowl, in which both grief and
astonishment were mingled, silently obeyed the mandate; and displayed,
underneath these coarse habiliments, a complete suit of female
apparel--the very clothes worn by Katherine Grimes at the time of her
disappearance.

"A well-contrived disguise, sir, truly. I wot you can suddenly change
your gender at a pinch," said the clerk, chuckling at his own
impertinence. But the prisoner, no longer dumb, as aforetime at the
farm, answered, in a voice that awed even this presuming minion, with
all the attributes of both law and power at his grasp.

"Why call you me sir, Sir Knave? I own no nicknames, and I answer to
none. My title is Derwentwater."

"The titular earl, truly; but now Charles Ratcliffe, since your
brother was"----

"Hanged, thou wouldst say," said the unfortunate and attainted peer,
interrupting him; "it was his lot, as I pray thine may be, when the
king shall have his own again. Silence!" continued he, in a commanding
tone, as one accustomed to be obeyed. "I own it was my purpose to
escape; but there is treachery in the camp--treachery in our own
bosom--treachery"--here he cast a keen glance at the stranger--"ay,
where our best feelings were cherished. I have leaned on a spear, and
it hath pierced me! deeper than I thought--in this hard and seared
heart."

A strong and painful emotion came over his dark features; he clenched
his hands; but the stranger betrayed no symptoms of compunction.

"Now, sir, I am ready," said the earl; "make my fetters tight; or
perhaps I may be spared that indignity."

But the proud Earl of Derwentwater would not stoop to propitiate.

"Nay, bind them, and I will be prouder of their insignia than of all
the honours, all the trappings, that George Guelph can bestow."

"We have orders merely for your safe keeping in the jail," said the
clerk; "to which the proper officers will see you conveyed."

He was accordingly removed to the town jail, then situated to the west
of Friargate. This building had been formerly a Franciscan convent of
Grey Friars, or Friars Minor, built by Edmund, Earl of Lancaster, son
of Henry III., in 1221, to which Robert de Holland, who impeached
Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, for high treason, contributed largely, and
was buried there. In its original state it was a small collegiate
building, with a chapel attached to its quadrangular cloisters. By the
mutations of time, it became the residence of the Breares of
Hammerton, in Bowland; next a house of correction, until the prison at
the bottom of Church Street was erected in 1790.

The clerk, being more particular in his inquiries than his worship,
addressed the stranger as follows when their mission was ended:--

"Thou hast given good evidence of this plot, and too full of
circumstance and confirmation to be disbelieved. The name is Oswald
thou sayest, and one of the party who have plotted for his rescue?"

"I have told thee of this before," replied the stranger, sullenly.

"What should prompt thee to betray him?"

"The same that prompts thee to minister to the hangman's trade--gold!"

"Humph!" replied the other drily, wiping his spectacles; "and what
will satisfy your craving?"

"Why, thinkest thou that I deserve not a reward for my loyalty and
readiness to reveal this plot? I will to London with the prisoner; the
king will not fail to grant me great largess for what this proud
lack-land calls my treachery."

"Why an it be a noose mayhap: for my part," continued the greedy and
disappointed man of law, "I have touched never a doit of the bounty,
though I have got many a sound rating, and am harder worked than a
galley-slave, without even so much as a 'thank ye' for my pains. The
mayor himself, who dreams he shall be knighted, may whistle a duet
with 'my lady' as he calls her, as long as a county precept, or ere
his title be forthcoming, though it be only a puff of empty breath.
There's no luck in being loyal; neither honour nor honesty thrive
therein. But 'tis the spoke that's uppermost; and so are we."

"Thinkest thou that I may get no share of the reward for his
apprehension?" inquired the avaricious betrayer.

"Yes; Judas's reward, maybe, who sold his Master," said the
indomitable clerk, much diverted by his own talents for tormenting.
"Hold--I bethink me thou mayest claim the earl's linsey-woolsey gown
and petticoats."

A loud laugh proclaimed that he had fully appreciated his own wit;
though the stranger made no comments thereon.

"To-night, thou sayest, a boat will be in readiness, one hour before
midnight and by the mayor's orders?"

"Yes; arrangements will be made, and soon after daylight we shall have
our prisoner safe aboard the king's cruiser," replied the stranger,
"for I know her bearing to a league."

"Thou wilt with us then?"

"Why, ay, if they will grant me a free passage. I would fain see him
safe at head-quarters."

"I know not but thou art right; though, rest thee satisfied, he shall
be sufficiently guarded."

The worthies here separated--one to his indictments and his desk, the
other to gloat on the mischief he had either committed or prevented.

About an hour before midnight a heavy jarring sound announced to the
prisoner that the time was at hand for his departure.

"Quick--quick, sir," said the jailer; "the mayor and his posse will
see you safe aboard."

"The mayor! Wherefore comes he to swell the procession?"

"A prisoner of your rank and influence must be well looked after, I
guess. The mayor will see you safely afloat, sir, and then he may go
home with a quiet heart. He has had sore misgivings on account of your
safety."

The earl accompanied his keeper; a close carriage was at the gate,
well guarded. Mr Mayor and his green-eyed clerk took their seats with
the prisoner: and the heavy vehicle rumbled dismally through the now
deserted streets, wakening many a drowsy burgher as it passed.

They gained the low landing-place without interruption, having taken
the precaution to chain the legs and wrists of their prisoner to
prevent escape. The mayor and his shadow, the gossiping clerk, stepped
out first, the carriage being well guarded on each side. Conducted
along a jet or wooden pier, they saw a fishing-boat lying beneath. The
waves flapped heavily on her sides, beating to and fro against the
pier. Four rowers were leaning silently on their oars, awaiting the
arrival of their cargo; their dark, low-crowned hats heaving above the
dim light which yet lay upon the water.

The wind howled in the rising sail, and the creaking cordage whistled
through the block. The sail was hoisted. The wind was fresh, and the
rowers raised their oars. The earl was lifted into the boat by two of
the attendants. The jailer next stepped in; three other myrmidons of
justice followed.

"You know the offing well, my lads, I guess?" said the jailer.

"Ay, ay, sir," replied several voices.

"Where is the king's cutter?" said he, addressing the stranger, who
was already in the boat.

"Lying to, between us and the Peel of Fouldrey," replied he.

"This is a strange boat I think," said the inquisitive jailer.

"We came with fish to market from Church Town," was the reply.

"One of your own men engaged her," said the stranger; "and these have
grumbled long and hard enough, that they should have the ill-luck to
be pressed into this disagreeable service."

"I would you had laid your paws on some other boat. We shall ha' na'
luck after this," said the elder of the seamen. "You may hire another
now, and welcome."

But there were none at hand. The jailer, with a hearty curse at his
insolence, bade him be silent and push off.

"Hast thou gotten the memorial touching my poor services to the king?"
inquired the trenchant mayor.

"Have ye gotten the warrant safe, and the prisoner in close custody?"
inquired the clerk.

But the boat pushed from shore, and the answer was scarce heard,
mingling with the rush of the waves and the hollow wind, while the
trampling of horses and the rumbling of the coach announced the
departure of Preston's high and illustrious ruler and his learned
clerk: one to dream of swords, knights, and drawing-rooms; the other
to soar through those mystic regions, sublime and
incomprehensible--the awful, inscrutable forms, fictions, and
subtleties of law.

The boat soon gained the mid-channel. The wind was favourable, and the
tide, beginning to return, swept them rapidly down the river. The
stranger, at whose instigation this plan had been adopted, lay in the
little cabin, or rather coop, wrapped in a fisherman's coat,
apparently asleep. Derwentwater sought not repose; he sat, moody and
silent, in a deep reverie, unconscious or insensible to all but his
own dark and untoward fate.

The loud dash and furrowing of the wave, the roar of the wind, and the
cry of the boatman as he gave the soundings, were often the only
audible sounds. No one was inclined to converse, and the roll and
pitching of the boat when they approached the river's mouth made the
jailer and his friends still less willing to disturb their comrades.

After nearly four hours the lights of the little fishing hamlet of
Lytham were passed, and they were fast entering upon the open sea. The
stranger came out of the cabin, stationing himself by the steersman.
They were evidently on the look-out for signals. It was not yet
daybreak, and the wind was from the north, a bitter and a biting air,
that made the jailer's teeth to chatter as he raised himself up to
examine their course and situation as well as the darkness would
permit.

"How long run we on through these great blubbering waves ere we end
our voyage? This night wind is worse than a Robin Hood's thaw."

"We will hoist signals shortly," was the reply; "if the ship is within
sight, she will answer and bring to."

"Have ye any prog[iv] aboard?" inquired the officer.

A bottle was handed to him. He drank eagerly of the liquor, and gave
the remainder to his assistants.

"I wish with all my heart," said he, "the prisoner were safe out of my
custody, and I on my way back. I had as lief trot a hundred miles on
land bare-back as sit in this confounded swing for a minute. How my
head reels!"

He leaned against one of the benches, to all appearance squeamish and
indisposed.

A faint light now flickered on the horizon and disappeared. Again. It
seemed to rise above the deep. They were evidently approaching towards
it, and the stranger spoke something in a low tone to the steersman.

"Yonder it be, I reckon," said the jailer, lifting up his head on
hearing an unusual bustle amongst the crew. "I am fain to see it, for
I am waundy qualmish dancing to this up-an'-down tune, wi' nought but
the wind for my fiddle."

"And who pays the piper?" asked a wavering voice from below.

"Thee Simon Catterall, bumbailiff, catchpole, thieftaker, and"----

Here a sudden lurch threw the jailer on his beam-ends. A pause was the
result, which this worthy official was not inclined to interrupt.

A light hitherto concealed, was now hoisted up to the masthead. This
was apparently answered by another signal at no great distance.

"Friends!" said the stranger; "and now hold on to your course."

They had passed the banks and were some leagues from shore. Morning
was feebly dawning behind them, when the dark hull of a ship, rapidly
enlarging, seemed to rise out, broad and distinct, from the thin mist
towards the west. The loud and incessant moan of the waves, the dash
and recoil of their huge tops breaking against the sides of the
vessel, with voices from on board, were distinctly heard, and
immediately the boat was alongside.

The transfer of their cargo was a work of more difficulty, partly
owing to the clumsiness and unseamanlike proceedings of the men who
had charge of the prisoner, and partly owing to the light being yet
too feeble for objects to be distinctly seen. A considerable interval
in consequence elapsed ere the jailer, his assistants, and their
charge were hoisted on the deck, not of a trim, gallant war-ship, well
garrisoned and appointed, but of a lubberly trading vessel, redolent
of tar, grease, and fish-odours, bound for merry Scotland.

"Yoh-o-ih! There--helm down--back maintopsail. So, masters, we had
nigh slipped hawser and away. Why, here have we been beating about and
about for three long nights; by day we durst not be seen in-shore. Yon
cruiser overhauls everything from a crab to a crab-louse. What! got
part of your company in the gyves! Where is the earl?"

"Here!" said the prisoner, coolly.

"Hold, captain," cried the wondering jailer, "the vessel goes not on
her voyage until I and two of my friends here depart with the boat; we
go not farther with our prisoner. The remaining two will suffice to
see him delivered up at head-quarters. Yet, this cannot be." Here the
bewildered officer looked round. "I have a warrant to commit this
rebel unto the safe keeping of--ay, the captain of his majesty's
cutter, the _Dart_. But this," surveying the deck with a suspicious
glance, "is as frowsy and fusty a piece of ship-timber as ever stowed
coals and cods' tails between her hatches. I pray we be not nabbed!"
said he in a supplicating tone to his head craftsman.

The prisoner himself seemed as much surprised as any of the group; but
the stranger, now addressing him, unravelled the mystery.

"My lord; I am no traitor; though until now labouring under that
imputation; but you are amongst friends. Thanks to a woman's wits, we
are, despite guards, bolts, and fetters, aboard the vessel which was
waiting for us when you were surprised and seized, unfortunately, as
we were trying our escape towards the coast. With the aid of my
parent, I have been at last successful. You are now free!" It was
Katherine who said this.

She changed her hitherto muffled voice as she continued:--"Captain, we
have nabbed as cunning a jailer as ever took rogue to board in a stone
crib. We will trouble thee to use thy craft; undo these fetters,
prithee. He must with you, captain, till you can safely leave him and
his companions ashore; but use him well for his vocation's sake. My
lord, through weal and woe I have been your counsellor--your friend;
but we must now part--'tis fitting we should. While you were in
jeopardy, that alone could excuse my flight. Should better times
come!"----Her voice faltered; she could not proceed; and old Grimes
drew his hat over his face.

"Father," said Katherine, "you will take me to our home again. I will
be all to you once more; and to my mother, now that _he_ is safe."

One kiss from the gallant earl, and the high-minded, though low-born,
maiden stepped into the boat. One wave of the hand, when the morning
mist interposed its white veil, and parted them for ever;--yet not
before old Grimes, taking a last survey of the vessel, was quite sure
he saw the magician of the casket looking at him over the ship's side.
In all probability his fancy had not deceived him; the affair of the
casket, though supposed by the fisherman to be altogether of a
supernatural nature, was, in all likelihood, a means of supplying the
earl with money and information to aid his escape.

The subsequent history of this unfortunate but misguided chieftain,
whose daring and audacious bravery was worthy of a better cause and a
more disinterested master, is but too well known.

The vessel, being ill equipped and hardly sea-worthy, was pursued--the
earl taken, and an ignominious death gave to the world assurance of a
traitor.


[Illustration: THE MAID'S STRATAGEM]




THE MAID'S STRATAGEM;

OR,

THE CAPTIVE LOVER.

     "Let me alone with him. If I do not gull him into a nayword,
     and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit
     enough to lie straight in my bed."

     --_Twelfth Night._

     The following tale is perhaps the most apocryphal in our
     series. There has been considerable difficulty in fixing its
     locality: and, indeed, we are hardly sure that the names,
     dates, and places we have hit upon, will answer to the facts in
     every particular. We have done our best to verify it, and have
     succeeded, we trust, in the attempt, more to our reader's
     satisfaction than our own.


"There be more fools than farthingales, and more braggarts than
beards, in this good land of ours. A bald-faced impertinent! it should
cost the grand inquisitor a month's hard study to invent a punishment
for him. This pretty morsel! Hark thee, wench; I'll render his
love-billet to thine ear. Listen and be discreet.

     "'If my sighs could waft the soft cargo of their love to thy
     bosom, I would freight the vessel with my tears, and her sails
     should be zephyr's wings, and her oars love's fiercest darts.
     If I could tell but the lightest part of mine agony, your heart,
     though it were adamant, would melt in the furnace of my speech,
     and your torture should not abate till one kind glance had
     irradiated the bosom of your most unhappy, and most wretched of
     lovers,

     ANTONIO.'

"Now for the _post scriptum_. If thy sighs be as long as thine
ears,----help the furnace they are blown through. Again.

     "'If one ray of compassion lurks in your bosom, lady, let those
     radiant fingers illuminate your pen, touching one little word
     by way of answer to this love-billet, though it were but as a
     rope thrown out in this overwhelming ocean of love to keep from
     sinking your unhappy slave. These from my dwelling at ----.'

"O' my troth, answer thou shalt have, and that quickly, on thy fool's
pate. Dost think, Marian, it were not a deed worth trying, to quell
this noisome brute with a tough cudgel?"

"It were too good for him," replied the maid; "but if you will trust
the rather to my conceits, lady, we will make this buzzard spin. He
shall dance so rare a coarnto[v] for our pastime; beshrew me, but I would
not miss the sport for my best holiday favours."

But we leave the beauteous Kate and her mischief-loving maiden, to
plot and machinate against the unsuspecting lover. It behoveth us,
moreover, to be absent for a somewhat grave and weighty reason, to
wit, that when women are a-plotting, another and a more renowned
personage--the _beau ideal_ of whose dress and personal appearance,
according to the testimony of a reverend divine, consists of a black
coat and blue breeches--generally contrives to be present, as was by
that learned dignitary umquhile set forth in a well-known ditty, of
which the veracity is only equalled by the elegance and propriety of
the subject, and the classical dignity of its composition.

Leaving them, though in somewhat dangerous company, we just glance at
the lover, whose epistle to the proud maiden proved so galling to her
humours.

Master Anthony Hardcastle was the only son of a substantial yeoman of
good repute long resident in ----. Dying he left him, when scarcely at
man's estate, the benefit of a good name, besides a rich store of
substance, in the shape of broad pieces, together with lands and
livings. The sudden acquisition of so much loose wealth to one whose
utmost limit of spending money aforetime had been a penny at Easter
and a groat at Michaelmas, did seem like the first breaking forth of
a mighty torrent, pent up for past ages, forming its own wild and
wilful channel, in despite of all bounds and impediments. His
education had been none of the most liberal or extensive; and,
astonished at his own aggrandisement, he found himself at once
elevated into an object of importance ere he could estimate his own
relative insignificance in the great world around him. Thus he became
an easy prey to the hordes of idlers and braggarts with whom he
associated. He had been to town, kept company with some of the leading
cut-and-thrust bullies of the day; but Nature had denied him the
headstrong boldness, the desperate recklessness of disposition,
requisite for this amiable occupation. His infirmity had consequently
often led him to play the coward. At the same time it probably was the
means of restraining him from many of those evils into which his
lavish and simple disposition might have been enticed, and he was now
settling down quietly in the character of a good-natured,
well-furnished simpleton. Fond of dress and a gaudy outside, he aimed
at ladies' hearts through the medium of silken cloaks and ponderous
shoe-buckles;--designing to conquer not a few of the fair dames with
whom he associated. But, alas! the perversity of woman had hitherto
rendered his efforts unavailing; still an overweening opinion of his
own pretensions to their favour prevented him from giving up the
pursuit, every succeeding mishap in no wise hindering him from
following the allurements of the next fair object that fluttered
across his path. He had heard of the wit and beauty of Kate Anderton,
only daughter to Justice Anderton of Lostock Hall, a bluff and honest
squire who spent his mornings in the chase and his evenings in the
revel incident thereto; a man well looked upon by his less
distinguished neighbours, being of a benevolent disposition, and much
given to hospitality. Kate's disposition was fiery and impetuous, but
tempered withal so pleasantly by the sweetness of a naturally tender
and affectionate spirit, that you loved her the better for these sharp
and wayward ingredients, which prevented that sweetness from cloying.

Master Anthony, hearing of this goodly maiden, found himself, after
secretly beholding her, moved to the exploit of winning and wearing in
his bosom so precious a gem, which many a high-flown gallant had
essayed to appropriate. He began the siege by consulting the most
approved oracles and authorities of the time for the construction of
love-billets. The cut and fashion of the paper, too, were matters of
deep and anxious consideration. Folded and perfumed, the missile was
despatched, and the result was such as we have just seen.

Upon this memorable day, it then drawing on towards eventide, Anthony,
full of solicitude and musing on the fate of his billet, was spreading
himself out, like a newly-feathered peacock, in the trim garden behind
his dwelling. A richly-embroidered Genoa silk waistcoat and
amber-coloured velvet coat glittered in the declining sun, like the
church weathercock perched just above him at a short distance from the
house.

The mansion of Squire Anderton lay a few miles off; yet there had been
sufficient time for the return of his trusty valet, who was the bearer
of this love-billet. Several times had he paced the long straight
gravel walk stretching from the terrace to the Chinese temple, and as
often had he mounted the terrace itself to look out for the well-known
figure of Hodge, ere the hind was descried through a cloud of hot
dust, urging on his steed to the extremity of a short but laborious
trot. Needless were it to dwell upon the anxiety and foreboding with
which he awaited the nearer approach of this leaden-heeled Mercury. To
lovers the detail would be unnecessary, and to others description
would fail to convey our meaning.

"I ha't, measter."

"What hast thou brought, Hodge?"

"A letter."

"Quick--quick, fellow. Canst not give it me?"

"Ay, i' fackens; but where is it?"

Great was the consternation depicted in the flat and vapid face of the
boor as he fumbled in his pocket, turned out the lining, and groped
down incontinently "five fathom deep," into his nether appendages; but
still no letter was forthcoming.

"She gi'ed me one, though; an' where it is----I'se sure it waur here,
an'----Bodikins if those de'ilments hanna twitched it out o'
my----Thoose gigglin' wenches i' th' buttery took it when I waur but
putting my nose to the mug the last time, for a lift i' the stirrup."

Terrible was the wrath and disapprobation evinced by Master Anthony at
this disaster. He had nigh despoiled the curls of his new wig, which
were become twisted and awry with choler.

Patiently to endure was the business of Hodge; and his master's fury
having "sweeled" down into the socket, a few hasty flashes just
glimmered out from the ignited mass, ere it was extinguished.

"But thou hadst a letter--dolt--ass!"

"Ay, master, as sure as I am virtuous and well-favoured."

"Then is the lady kindly affected towards my suit? But oh, thou
gull--thou dunderpate--thou losel knave, to lose one line moved by her
sweet fingers. Get in; I'll not defile my rapier with beating of thee.
Thanks to the lady thou hast just left; her condescension so affecteth
my softer nature that I could not speak an angry word without weeping.
March, rascal, and come not into my presence until thou art bidden,
lest I make a thrust at thee with my weapon. O Katherine! my life--my
love,--'my polar star, my axle; where all desire, all thought, all
passions turn, and have their consequence!'"

Anthony had picked up this scrap from the players, with whom he had
smoked, and committed the usual delinquencies, not peculiar to that
age of folly and licentiousness.

"I'll go dream of thee where there be a bank of flowers. Here let me
lose myself in a delirium of sweets."

Choosing a fair position, he squatted down upon a ripe strawberry bed,
and great was the dismay with which he beheld the entire ruin of his
best puce-coloured breeches. So sudden was the dissipation of his
complacency, that he determined to beat Hodge forthwith; to which
thrifty employment we commend him, whilst we address ourselves to the
further development of our story.

Near to the lower extremity of the village dwelt a maiden whose bloom
had been wasted, and whose matchless hopes were always frustrated ere
their accomplishment. Many a simpering look had she cast towards the
goodly raiment of Master Anthony, and some incipient notion was
entertained that the indweller at the big house was not averse to a
peep, now and then, more tender than usual, at the window of Mrs
Bridget Allport. When a boy, Anthony had been a sort of spoiled pet of
the maiden, who was then opening into bloom, and the bud of promise
breaking forth in all its pride and loveliness. While Anthony's legs
were getting rounder, and his face and figure more plump and
capacious, the person of Mistress Bridget was, alas! proceeding,
unluckily, in a manner quite the reverse. Anthony's love had not
quickened into fruition with his growth: but the lady kept a quick
and wary eye upon his movements, and many a pang had his flattering
favours caused in her too susceptible heart.

Distantly related to the family, she sometimes visited Lostock Hall;
and at the period when our narrative begins she was located therein.

Kate had long been aware of her likings and mishaps, and was no
stranger to her predilection for Master Anthony Hardcastle.

The first overt act of mischief resulting from the plots of Kate and
her maid was a smart tap at the door of Mistress Bridget, her
bed-chamber, where she was indulging in reverie and romance; but the
day being hot, she had fallen asleep, and was dreaming of "hearts,
darts, and love's fires." She started from this mockery of bliss at
the summons.

"Prithee, Marian, what is it?"

"A billet from--I don't care to tell who!"

"A billet, sayest thou?--eh!--who can it be? What! It is--go away, my
good Marian; I cannot--oh! when will my poor heart----'_Waft a cargo
of love to thy bosom._' '_Melt in the furnace._' Dear, delightful
passion! How pure! Just like mine own, I declare. '_Harder than
adamant._' Nay, thou wrongest me. Prithee, Marian, who--where is he?"

"A trusty messenger is below." She dropped a handsome curtsy.

"Give me my tablets and my writing-stool. O Marian! little did I think
of this yesterday. When I was telling thee of--of--oh, I am
distraught!"

She commenced a score of times ere something in the shape of a
communication could be despatched.

"There--there; let it be conveyed quick. Nay, I will see him myself.
Lead me to him, girl. I will say how--and yet, this may look too bold
and unmaidenly. Take it, good girl, and say--what thou thinkest best."

Lightly did the laughing maiden trip through the great hall into the
buttery, where Hodge was ambushed along with a huge pie, fast
lessening under his inspection. Her intention was not to have given
him the billet, but she was suddenly alarmed at the approach of
Mistress Bridget. Fearful lest the deception might be discovered, she
hastily gave Hodge the precious deposit, trusting to some favourable
opportunity when she might extract the letter from his pouch. An
occasion shortly occurred, and Hodge was despatched, as we have seen,
billetless, and unconscious of his loss.

The lover was sore puzzled how to proceed. It was possible--nay, more
than probable--that the message might have appointed a meeting; or
twenty other matters, which he was utterly unable to conjecture,
woman's brain being so fertile in expedients; and if he obeyed not her
injunctions it might be construed amiss, and unavoidably prove
detrimental to his suit. Should he send back the messenger? She would
perhaps laugh at him for his pains; and he was too much afraid of her
caprice to peril his adventure on this issue. A happy thought crossed
his brain; he capered about his little chamber; and could hardly
govern himself as the brilliant conception blazed forth on his
imagination. This bright phantasy was to be embodied in the shape of a
serenade. It would be more in the romantic way of making love--would
stimulate her passions--powerfully enlist her feelings in his favour,
and doubtless bring on something like an appointment, or a permission,
at any rate, to use a freer intercourse.

"To-morrow night," said he, rubbing his hands and stroking his soft
round chin, for be it understood, gentle reader, the youth was of a
tender and fair complexion, with little beard, save a slight blush on
his upper lip. He was not ill-favoured, but there was altogether
something boyish and effeminate throughout his appearance, which
seemed not of the hue to win a lady's love. He could twang the guitar,
and had at times made scraps of verse, which he trolled to many a
damsel's ear, but to little purpose hitherto.

On the morrow he watched the sun creep lazily up the sky, and more
lazily down again. The old dial seemed equally dilatory and unwilling
to move. He had sorted out his best and most ardent love sonnet, and
strummed as many jangling tunes as would have served a company of
morris-dancers and pipers for a May festival. Twilight came on apace.
The moon was fast mounting to her zenith. No chance of its being dark;
so much the better--it would enable the lovers to distinguish each
other the more easily.

Hodge had long been ready, and the steeds duly caparisoned. At length,
reckoning that his arrival would take place about the time the lady
had retired to her chamber, he set forth, accompanied by his trusty
esquire. The road lay for some distance over a long high tract of
moorland, while beautifully did the bright stars appear to shoot up
from the black, bleak, level horizon. The moon seemed to smile
suspiciously upon them, and even Hodge grew eloquent beneath her
glance.

"It's brave riding to-night, master; one might see to pick up a tester
if 'twere but i' the way. Well, I does like moonlight, ever since
Margery came a-living at the parson's."

"Peace, sirrah!" Anthony was conning inwardly, and humming the soft
ditty by which he proposed to excite his mistress' ear. "I think thou
art mine evil destiny, doomed everlastingly to be my plague and
annoyance."

"Body o' me, but you're grown woundily humoursome of a sudden,"
muttered the other at the lower end of his voice. "I waur but saying
as how Margery"----

Hodge here received another interruption. A stray ass, turned out to
browse on the common, seemingly actuated thereto by sympathy or
proximity of either man or beast, burst into one of those hysterical,
though exquisite cadences, which defy all imitation, and at the same
time produce an extraordinary and irresistible effect on the animal
economy.

"That is all along of thy prating," said the meditative lover, when
the "_strain_" was concluded. "It bodes no good; and I'd as lief see a
magpie, and hear a screech-owl, as one of those silly beasts. The
salutation of an ass by night is ever held a sound of ill-omen; and
lo! there be two of ye, reckoning thine own ugly voice."

"Then may two bode good, if one bode ill, as the maids say of the
magpies," replied the indefatigable attendant.

"I'll cudgel thine infirmity out o' thee. Hold thy tongue! Hadst thou
not been left me by my father, a precious bequest, I had sent thee a
packing, long ere thou hadst worn a badge in my service."

The rest of their journey was accomplished in comparative silence,
until a short ascent brought them to a steep ridge, down which the
road wound into the valley. It was a scene of rich and varied beauty,
now lighted by a bright summer moon. A narrow thread of light might be
seen twining through the ground below them, broken at short intervals,
then abruptly gliding into the mist which hung upon the horizon.
Lights were yet twinkling about, where toil or festivity held on
their career unmitigated. A mile or two beyond the hill they were now
preparing to descend lay a dark wood, extending to the shallow margin
of the adjacent brook. Above this rose the square low tower of Lostock
Hall; clusters of long chimneys, irregularly marked out in the broad
moonlight, showed one curl of smoke only, just perceptible above the
dark trees, intimating that some of the indwellers were yet awake. Ere
long a bypath brought them round to a fence of low brushwood, where a
little wicket communicated with the gardens and offices behind.

"Here stay with the beasts until I return," said Anthony, deliberately
untying the cover wherein reposed his musical accompaniment.

"And how long may we kick our heels and snuff the hungry wind for
supper, master?"

"Until my business be accomplished," was the reply.

Master Anthony commenced tuning, which aroused the inquiries of
several well-ordered and decently-disposed rooks who were not given to
disturb their neighbours at untimely hours, and were just at the
soundest part of their night's nap.

"These villainous bipeds do fearfully exorbitate mine ear," said the
agonised musician. "'Tis not in the power of aught human to harmonise
the strings."

The clamour increased with every effort, until the whole community
were in an uproar, driving the incensed wooer fairly off the field.
Trusting that he should be able to eke out the tune in spite of these
interruptions, he hastened immediately to his destination. He crossed
a narrow bridge and passed through a gap into the garden, taking his
station on one side of the house, where he commenced a low prelude by
way of ascertaining if the lady were within hearing, and likewise the
situation of her chamber. To his inexpressible delight a window,
nearly opposite the tree under which he stood, was gently opened, and
he could distinguish a figure in white moving gently behind the
drapery. He now determined to try the full power of his instrument,
and warbled, with no inconsiderable share of skill and pathos, the
following ditty:--

     "Fair as the moonbeam,
     Bright as the running stream,
       Sparkling, yet cold;
     In Love's tiny fingers
     A shaft yet there lingers,

     "And he creeps to thy bosom, and smiles, lady.
       Soon his soft wings will cherish
         A flame round thine heart,
       And ere it may perish
         Thy peace shall depart.

           Oh listen, listen, lady gay;
             Love doth not always sue;
           The brightest flame will oft decay,
             The fondest lover rue, lady!
               The fondest lover rue, lady!"

At the conclusion he saw a hand, presently an arm, stretched out
through the casement. Something fell from it, which glistened with a
snowy whiteness in the clear moonlight. He ran to seize the
treasure--a scrap of paper neatly folded--which, after a thankful and
comely obeisance towards the window, he deposited in his bosom. The
casement was suddenly closed. The lover, eager to read his billet,
made all imaginable haste to regain the road, where, mounting his
steed, he arrived in a brief space, almost breathless with
anticipation and impatience, at his own door. The contents of the
despatch were quickly revealed in manner following:--

     "I know thine impatience; but faith must have its test. Send a
     message to my father; win his consent to thy suit; but as thou
     holdest my favour in thine esteem come not near the house
     thyself ere one month have elapsed. Ask not why; 'tis
     sufficient that I have willed it. Shouldst thou not obey, I
     renounce thee for ever.

     "This shall be the test of thy fidelity.

     KATHERINE."

He kissed the writing again and again; he skipped round the chamber
like unto one demented; and when the old housekeeper, who was in a
sore ill-temper at being deprived of her accustomed allowance of rest,
came in to know his intentions about supper, he bade her go dream of
love and give supper to the hogs.

The morning found Anthony early at his studies. A letter, painfully
elaborated, was despatched in due form "To Master Roger Anderton,
these;" and the lover began to ruminate on his good fortune. The terms
were hard, to be sure, and the time was long; but women, and other
like superior intelligences, will not bear to be thwarted; at least,
so thought Master Anthony Hardcastle, as he threw his taper legs over
the opposite chair, screwing his forbearance to the test.

The same day an answer was received, briefly as follows:--

     "Though thy person and qualifications be unknown to me, yet
     have I not been ignorant of the respect and esteem which thy
     father enjoyed. Shouldst thou win my daughter's favour, thou
     shall not lack my consent, if thou art as deserving as he whose
     substance thou hast inherited."

Leaving to Anthony the irksome task of minuting down the roll of time
for one unlucky month, turn we to another personage with whom it is
high time the reader should be acquainted. At Turton Tower, a few
miles distant, dwelt a cavalier of high birth, whose pedigree was
somewhat longer than his rent-roll. To this proud patrician Kate's
father had long borne a bitter grudge, arising out of some sporting
quarrel, and omitted no opportunity by which to manifest his
resentment. Dying recently, he had left an only son, then upon his
travels, heir to the inheritance and the feud with Anderton.

Shortly after his return, Kate, being on a visit in the neighbourhood,
saw him; and as nothing is more likely to excite love than the
beholding of some forbidden object, unwittingly, in the first
instance, she began to sigh; and with each sigh came such a warm gush
of feeling from the heart as did not fail to create a crowd of
sensations altogether new and unaccountable. On his part the feeling
was not less ardent, though less inexplicable, at least to himself,
and a few more glances fixed them desperately and unalterably in love.
Hopeless though it might be, yet did the lovers find a sad and
mournful solace in their regrets, the only sentiment they could
indulge. They had met, and in vows of secrecy had often pledged
unintermitting attachment.

Love at times had prompted some stratagem to accomplish their union,
for which the capricious and unforgiving disposition of the old
gentleman seemed to afford a fair excuse. It is a most ingenious and
subtle equivocator that same idle boy, and hath ever at hand
palliatives, and even justifications, in respect to all crimes done
and committed for the aiding and comforting of his sworn lieges. And
thus it fell out, Kate's wits were now at work to make Anthony's suit
in some way or another subservient to this object. Once committed to a
purpose of such duplicity, no wonder that contrivances and plots not
altogether justifiable should ensue; and Kate's natural archness and
vivacity, coupled with the mischievous temper of her maid, gave their
proceedings a more ludicrous character than the dignity of the passion
would otherwise have allowed.

The month was nigh spent when Hodge one morning entered the chamber of
his master, who sat there dribbling away the time over a treatise on
archery.

"How now, sirrah?"

"Please ye, master, Mistress Kate is to be wed on the feast of St
Crispin; an' I'm a-thinking I've no body-gear fitting for my
occupation."

"Married, sayest thou?--to whom?"

"Nay, master, an' ye know not, more's the pity if it be not to your
honour."

"To me, sayest thou?"

"They ha' so settled it, belike; and I thought, if it would please ye,
to order me new boots and a coat for the wedding."

"Peace!--where gattest thou the news?"

"At the smithy. I was but just getting the mare shoed, and a tooth
hammered into the garden rake."

"It is wondrous strange!" replied Anthony, musing; "but women are of a
subtle and unsearchable temper. She did appoint me a month's
abstinence. Sure enough, the feast thou hast named happeneth on the
very day of my release. She hath devised this plot for my surprise!
Excellent!--and so the rumour hath gotten abroad? Now, o' my troth,
but I like her the better for't. Go to; a new suit, with yellow
trimmings, and hose of the like colour, shall be thine: thou shalt be
chief servitor, too, at my wedding."

Anthony seemed raving wild with delight. He resolved that the jade
should know of his intelligence, and he would attack the citadel by a
counterplot of a most rare and excellent device. To this end he
resolved on going to the hall the night preceding his appointment; in
the meantime diligently maturing his scheme for the surprise and
delight of the cunning maiden.

With the evening of an unusually long and tedious day, whose minutes
had been spun to hours, and these hours into ages, did Master Anthony
Hardcastle, accompanied by his servant, set forth on this perilous
exploit. Upon a rich and comely suit, consisting of a light blue
embroidered vest, and a rich coat of peach-coloured velvet, with
bag-wig and ruffles, was thrown a dark cloak, partly intended as a
disguise, and partly to screen his gay habiliments from dust and
pollution.

They passed slowly on for an hour or two, dropping down to the little
wicket as aforetime, above which the crows were again ready with the
usual inquiries. The squires being left with the steeds, Master
Anthony once more scrambled over the garden hedge, and sustained his
person in a becoming attitude against the pear-tree whence he had so
successfully attacked and carried the citadel on his former visit. He
now beheld, with wonder, lights dancing about in the house, frisking
and frolicking through the long casements like so many
jack-o'-lanterns. Indeed, the greater part of the mansion seemed all
a-blaze, and of an appalling and suspicious brightness. Sounds,
moreover, of mirth and revelry approached his ear. He would instantly
have proceeded to ascertain the cause of this inauspicious
merry-making had not Kate's injunction kept him aloof. The noise of
minstrelsy was now heard--symptoms of the marriage-feast and the
banquet. More than once he suspected some witchery, some delusion of
the enemy to beguile him by enchantments. However, he resolved to be
quiet; and, for the purpose of a more extended vision, he climbed, or
rather stepped into, the low huge fork of the tree. From this tower of
observation he kept a wary eye, more particularly towards the window
whence the billet was thrown, expecting to behold some token of his
mistress's presence. But this chamber seemed to be the dullest and
darkest in the whole house; not a ray was visible. It seemed shut out,
impervious to the gladness which irradiated the bosom of its
neighbours.

A white cur now came snarling about the bushes; then, cautiously
smelling his way to the tree, suddenly set up a yell so deafening and
continuous that he roused some of the revellers within. Two men
staggered from the house, evidently a little the worse in their
articulation by reason of the potations they had taken.

"Quiet, Vick! Hang thy neck, what's a matter? Eh! the pear-tree? It's
the thief again--and before the fruit's ripe. Bodikins! but we'll
catch thee now, 'r lady. We'll have a thong out of his hide; split me,
if we ha'n't!"

The men approached as cautiously as their condition would permit;
while Anthony, overhearing the latter part of their dialogue, sat
somewhat insecurely on his perch.

"Dan, get th' big cudgel out o' t' barn. I see a some'at black like,
an' fearsome, i' th' tree."

Probably they had imbibed courage with their liquor, otherwise the
black "somewhat" in the tree might have indisposed them for this
daring attack.

"I'll have a blow at it, be't mon or devil, hang me."

Anthony pulled his cloak tightly about him; and while the weapon was
providing he entertained serious thoughts of surrendering at
discretion; but the effect which this premature disclosure might have
on his mistress's determination towards him retarded the discovery;
and he was not without hope of eluding the drunken valour of the
brutes.

"Now gie't me, Dan--Tol de rol--

     'An' back and sides go bare, go bare.'"

Approaching to the attack, Barnaby brandished his cudgel to the time
and tune of this celebrated alehouse ditty. The concluding flourish
brought the weapon waving within a very concise distance of the goodly
person of Master Anthony Hardcastle.

"Murder!--Villains!" cried the terrified lover, unable to endure the
menacing aspect of this fearful invader; "I'm Master Anthony, ye sots,
ye unthrifts--your master, is to be; and I--I'll have ye i' the stocks
for this."

"Bodikins and blunderkins? hear'st him, Dan? Why, thou lying
lackpenny, I'll soon whack the corruption out o' thee. Master Anthony,
indeed! he be another guess sort of thing to thee, I trow. Thee be'st
hankering after the good things hereabout; but I'll spoil thy
liquorish tooth for tasting. Come, unkennel, vermin!"

"I am Master Anthony, friend, as safe as my mother bore me. If thou
lackest knowledge, go ask Hodge with the horses at the back gate."

"Then what be'st thou for i' the pear-tree? Na, na; Master Anthony is
gone home a great whiles back. He's to marry young mistress i' the
morn, an' we're getting drunk by participation. There's for thee! I
talks like ou'd Daniel the schoolmaster."

Sorely discomposed with the infliction of this vile contumely, Anthony
was forced to descend. Nothing, however, would convince the clowns of
their mistake. He showed them his glossy raiment; but their intellects
were too confused for so nice a discrimination; they consequently
resolved to hold him in durance until the morrow, when their master
would bring him to account for this invasion of his territory. But who
shall depict the horror and consternation of the unhappy lover, on
finding them seriously bent on his incarceration in a filthy den, used
heretofore as a receptacle for scraps and lumber, near the stables.
Remonstrance, entreaty, threats, solicitations, were equally
unavailing. He demanded an audience with the justice.

"Thee'll get it soon enough, I warrant thee. And thee may think well
o' the stocks; but th' pillory is no more than I'll be bound for. The
last we catched, Jem Sludge, we belaboured in such fashion as I verily
think he waur more like a midden' nor a man when he got his neck out
o' th' collar. Come along--it's not to th' gallows, this bout, my
pretty bird. Lend him a whack behind, Dan, if he do not mend his
pace."

A rude blow was here administered to the unfortunate captive. He cried
out lustily for help; but the inquirers from the hall made merry at
his captivity, rejoicing that the thief was now safely in the trap.

On the following morning, the eventful day of his daughter's bridal,
the justice rose earlier than he was wont. His features wore a tinge
of anxiety as he paced the room with sharp and irregular footsteps.
Suddenly he was disturbed by approaching voices, and a sort of
suppressed bustle along the passage. On opening the door he saw Daniel
and his doughty companion, Barnaby, whose red eyes and hollow cheeks
betokened their too familiar indulgence in past festivities.

"We've catched him at last, master."

"Who? What dost stand agape for?"

"Why, a rogue 'at was robbing the gardens."

"A murrain light on both of ye! I cannot be chaffed with such like
matters now."

"But your worship," cautiously spake Dan, "he be the most comical
thing you ever clapped eyes on. He says he be Master Anthony, your
worship's new son that is to be to-day."

"How sayest thou? I think thy wits are the worse for bibbing o'
yesternight."

"Nay, your worship's grace, but we'll e'en fetch him. He's pranked out
gaily; and a gay bird he be for your honour's cage."

Two or three domestics now entered, leading in their prisoner. His
woe-begone looks were angrily bent on his conductors. He shook off
their grasp, approaching the owner of the mansion where he had been so
evil-entreated. His hair, released from its bonds, dangled in
primæval disorder above his shoulders. His goodly raiment, no longer
hidden, was rumpled and soiled, like the finery of a stage wardrobe.
Indeed, the Squire guessed he was one of the village players that had
been foraging for his supper after a scanty benefit.

"How now, braggart? What evil occupation brings thee about my house?
What unlucky hankering, sirrah, brings thee, I say, a-robbing of my
grounds and poultry-yards? Methinks thou hast but a sorry employment
for thy gingerbread coat."

"I came, sir, to wed your daughter," replied Anthony, simpering, and
with great modesty.

"My daughter!" cried Anderton, in a voice of thunder; "and pray may I
inquire to whom I am beholden for this favour?"

"To Master Anthony Hardcastle," said the lover, drawing himself up
proudly, and casting a glance of triumph and defiance at his
tormentors.

"Whew!" cried the other; "why, Master Anthony is no more like thee,
thou tod-pate, than thou to St George or the dragon of Wantley. A rare
device, truly--a cunning plot--a stage-trick to set the mob agape!
Why, thou puny-legged Tamburlane!--thou ghost of an Alexander!--how
darest thou confront me thus? Now, i' lady, but I've a month's mind to
belabour the truth out o' thee with a weapon something tough and
crabbed i' the tasting."

Anthony's face lengthened inordinately at this unexpected rebuke, and
a latent whimper quivered about the corners of his pale and pursy
mouth. Sobs and protestations were useless; there seemed a base
conspiracy to rob him even of his name and identity. He vowed, that
the period of his proscription being past, Kate was hourly expecting
him, and his appearance overnight was but to execute a little
stratagem for her surprise. This explanation but served to aggravate;
and in vain did he solicit an interview with the lady, promising to
abide by her decision.

"Why, look thee," said the justice; "Anthony Hardcastle, whom thy
lying tongue and figure most woefully defame, hath been our guest
oftentimes during the past month, and truly his gallant bearing and
disposition have well won my consent. No marvel at my daughter's love!
But thou!--had she stooped from her high bearing to such carrion, I'd
have wrung your necks round with less compunction than those of two
base-bred kestrils."

Anthony was dumb with astonishment. The whole transaction had the
aspect of some indistinct and troubled dream, or rather some delusion
of the arch-enemy to entangle and perplex him. At this moment tripped
in the pert maiden, whose share in the machinations we before
intimated. She looked on the bewildered lover with a sly and equivocal
glance. Craving permission to speak, she said--

"'Tis even so, your worship; this interloper is none other than the
very person he represents; and here come those who will give the
riddle its proper answer."

Immediately came in the blushing Kate, led in by a tall and comely
gentleman, whom her father recognised as the real Anthony.

"We come but to crave your blessing," said this personage, bending
gracefully on his knee, whilst Kate seized the hand of her parent.

"Forgive this deceit:" she looked imploringly at the old man, who
seemed too astonished to reply: "it was but to win my father's
knowledge and esteem for the man to whom my vows are for ever
plighted."

"Nay, start not," said the bridegroom; "I but borrowed this ill-used
gentleman's name, as I knew none other mode of access to your presence
than the disguise that his _suit_ afforded; and from him I now crave
forgiveness."

"And I knew," said Kate, glancing round towards the real Anthony,
"that the man of my choice would be yours, could I but contrive you
should hold a fair judgment between them, as you now do this day."

A reconciliation was the result; but ere a "little month was old" were
seen at the same altar, and with the same object, Master Anthony
Hardcastle and Mistress Bridget Allport.

     [17] _Vide_ Baines's _Lancashire_, vol. i. p. 78.

     [18] _Vide_ Baines's _Lancashire_, vol. ii. p. 504.


[Illustration THE SKULL HOUSE]




THE SKULL HOUSE.

     "That skull had a tongue in't that could sing once."
                                     --_Hamlet._

     Wardley Hall, in the manor of Worsley, is an ancient building
     about seven miles west from Manchester. It was an old seat of
     the Downes family, and afterwards of Lord Barrymore. A human
     skull was formerly shown here, beside the staircase, which the
     occupiers would not permit to be removed. This grim fixture, it
     was said, being much averse to any change of place or position,
     never failed to punish the individual severely who should dare
     to lay hands on it. If removed or buried, it was sure to
     return, so that in the end each succeeding tenant was fain to
     endure its presence, rather than be subject to the terrors and
     annoyances consequent upon its removal. Its place was a square
     aperture in the wall; nor would it suffer this opening to be
     glazed, or otherwise filled up, without creating some
     disturbance. It seemed as if those rayless sockets loved to
     look abroad, peradventure on the scenes of its former
     enjoyments and reminiscences. It was almost bleached white by
     exposure to the weather, and many curious persons have made a
     pilgrimage there even in late years. Several young men from
     Manchester once going on this errand, one of them, unobserved
     of his fellows, thought he would ascertain the truth of the
     stories he had heard. For this purpose he privately removed the
     skull to another situation, and left it to find its way back
     again. The night but one following, such a storm arose about
     the house, that many trees were blown down, the roofs were
     unthatched, and the tenants, finding out the cause, as they
     supposed, replaced the skull, when these terrific disturbances
     ceased.

     The occurrences detailed more fully in the following pages are
     usually assigned as the origin of this strange superstition.


"I wonder what that hair-brained brother of mine can be doing. No
fresh brawl, I hope," said Maria Downes to her cousin Eleanor, as they
sat, mopish and disquieted enough, in a gloomy chamber of the old hall
at Worsley.

"I hope not, too," replied Eleanor; and there was another long and
oppressive silence.

It was in the dusk of a chill, damp November evening. The fire shot
forth a sharp uncertain glimmer, and the dim walls threw back the
illumination.

"I know not why," said Maria, "but my spirits are very sad, and
everything I see looks mistrustful and foreboding!"

So thought her cousin; but she did not speak. Her heart was too full,
and a tear started in her eye.

"Would that Harry had eschewed the frivolities and dissipations of
yonder ungodly city; that he had stayed with us here, in safe and
happy seclusion. I have hardly known pleasure since he went."

Eleanor's bosom again responded to the note of agony that was wrung
from her cousin, and she turned her head to hide what she had too
plainly betrayed.

"Since that unhappy fray in which peradventure an innocent and
unoffending victim was the result of Harry's intemperance, the bloody
offence hath been upon my soul--heavier, I do fear, than upon his own.
But unless he repent, and turn aside from his sinful courses, there
will, there must, come a fearful recompense!"

"Do not sentence him unheard," said Eleanor; but her words were
quivering and indistinct. "It was in his own defence, maybe, however
bitterly the tidings were dropped into your ear. Sure I am," said she,
more firmly, "that Harry was too kind, too gentle, to slay the
innocent, and in cold blood!"

"Nay, Eleanor, excuse him not. It may be that the foul deed was done
through excess of wine, the fiery heat of debauch, and amid the
beastly orgies of intemperance; but is he the less criminal? I tell
thee nay; for he hath added crime to crime, and drawn down, perchance,
a double punishment. He is my brother, and thou knowest, if possible,
I would palliate his offence; but hath it not been told, and the very
air of yon polluted city was rife and reeking with the deed, that
Harry Downes, the best-beloved of his father, and the child of many
hopes, did wantonly, and unprovoked, rush forth hot and intemperate
from the stews. Drawing his sword, did he not swear--ay, by that
Heaven he insulted and defied, that he would kill the first man he
met, and--oh, horror!--was not that fearful oath fulfilled?"

Eleanor had covered her face with her hands--a convulsive sob shook
her frame; but though her heart was on the rack, she uttered no
complaint. Maria, inflexible, and, as some might think, rigid, in
those principles of virtue wherein she had been educated, yet sorrowed
deeply for her cousin, who from a child had been her brother Harry's
playmate, and the proofs of mutual affection had been too powerful,
too early, and too long continued, to be ever effaced. Timid as the
frighted fawn, and tender as the wild flower that scarce bent beneath
her step, she lay, a bruised reed; the stem that supported her was
broken. Her fondest, her only hopes were withered, and the desolating
blast of disappointment had passed upon her earliest affections. Her
little bark, freighted with all a woman's care and tenderness, lay
shivered with the stroke, disabled and a wreck!

Just as the short and murky twilight was expiring, and other lights
were substituted, there came a loud summons at the outer gate, where a
strong barrier was built across the moat. The females started, as
though rendered more than usually apprehensive that evil tidings were
at hand. But they were, in some measure, relieved on hearing that it
was only Jem Hazleden, the carrier from Manchester, who had brought a
wooden box on one of his pack-horses, which said box had come all the
way from London by "Antony's" waggon. Maria thought it might be some
package or present from her brother, who had been a year or two in
town, taking terms; but a considerable period had now passed since
tidings were sent from him. She looked wistfully at the box, a clumsy,
ill-favoured thing, without the least symptom of any pleasant
communication from such a source; so different from the trim packages
that were wont to arrive, containing, maybe, the newest London chintz,
or a piece of real brocade, or Flanders lace of the rarest
workmanship.

"No good lurks in that ugly envelope," thought she; and, stooping
down, she examined the direction minutely. It was a quaint crabbed
hand--not her brother's, that was certain; and the discovery made her
more anxious and uneasy. She turned it over and over, but no clue
could be found, no index to the contents. It would have been easy,
methinks, to have satisfied herself on this head, but she really felt
almost afraid to open it, and yet----At any rate, she would put it off
till the morrow. She was so nervous and out of spirits that she
positively had not courage to open a dirty wooden box, tied round with
a bit of hempen cord, and fastened with a few rusty nails. She ordered
it to be removed to her bed-chamber, and morning, perchance, would
dissipate these idle but unpleasant feelings. She went to bed, but
could not sleep; the wind and rain beat so heavily against the
casement, and the recent excitement kept her restless and awake. She
tried various expedients to soothe and subdue her agitation, but
without effect. The rain had ceased to patter on the windows, but the
wind blew more fiercely and in more violent gusts than before. The sky
was clearing, and a huge Apennine of clouds was now visible as she
lay, on which the moonbeams were basking gloriously. Suddenly a ray
glided like a spirit into the chamber, and disappeared. Her eyes were
at that moment directed towards the mysterious box which lay opposite,
and her very hair moved with horror and consternation; for in that
brief interval of light she thought she saw the lid open, and a grisly
head glare out hideously from beneath. Every hair seemed to grow
sensitive, and every pore to be exquisitely endued with feeling. Her
heart throbbed violently, and her brain grew dizzy. Another moonbeam
irradiated the chamber. She was still gazing on the box; but whether
the foregoing impression was merely hallucinatory, an illusion of the
feverish and excited sense, she knew not, for the box was there,
undisturbed, grim, silent, and mysterious as before. Yet she could not
withdraw her eyes from it. There is a fascination in terror. She could
hardly resist a horrible desire, or rather impulse, to leap forth, and
hasten towards it. Her brow felt cold and clammy; her eyes grew dim,
and as though motes of fire were rushing by; but ere she could summon
help she fell back senseless on her pillow.

Morning was far advanced ere she felt any returning recollection. At
first a confused and dream-like sensation came upon her. Looking
wildly round, her eyes rested on the box, and the whole interval came
suddenly to her memory. She shuddered at the retrospect; but she was
determined, whether it had been fancy or not, to keep the secret
within her own breast, though more undetermined than ever to break
open the fearful cause of her disturbance. Yet she durst not seek
repose another night with such a companion. Her apprehensions were not
easily allayed, however disposed she might be to treat them as trivial
and unfounded.

"Will you not open yonder package that came last night?" inquired
Eleanor, as they were sitting down to breakfast. Maria shuddered, as
though something loathsome had crossed her. She shook off the reptile
thought, which had all the character of some crawling and offensive
thing as it passed her bosom.

"I have not--that is, I--I have not yet ordered it to be undone."

"And why?" said Eleanor, now raising her soft blue eyes with an
expression of wonder and curiosity on her cousin. "It did not use to
be thus when there came one of these couriers from town."

"'Tis not from Harry Downes; and--I care not just now to have the
trouble on't, being jaded and out of spirits."

"I will relieve you of the trouble presently, if you will permit me,"
said Eleanor, who was not without a secret hope, notwithstanding
Maria's assertion, that it was a message of gladness from Harry, with
the customary present for his sister, and perhaps a token of kindness
for herself.

"Stay!" said Maria, laying her hand on Eleanor as she rose, whilst
with a solemn and startling tone she cried, "Not yet!" She sat down;
Eleanor, pale and trembling, sat down too; but her cousin was silent,
evidently unwilling to resume the topic.

"To-morrow," said she, when urged; but all further converse on the
subject was suspended.

Maria, as the day closed and the evening drew on apace, gave orders
that the box should be removed into a vacant outbuilding until
morning, when, she said, it might be opened in her presence, as it
probably contained some articles that she expected, but of which she
was not just then in need.

"It's an ugly cumbersome thing," said Dick, as he lugged the wearisome
box to its destination. "I wonder what for mistress dunna break it
open. Heigho!"

Here he put down his burden, giving it a lusty kick for sheer
wantonness and malice.

"What is't sent here for, think'st 'ou?" said Betty the housemaid, who
had followed Dick for a bit of gossip and a sort of incipient liking
which had not yet issued on his part into any overt acts of courtship
and declaration. It was nigh dark, "the light that lovers choose;" and
Betty, having disposed herself to the best advantage, awaited the
reply of Dick with becoming modesty.

"How do I know the nature o' women's fancies? It would be far easier
to know why there's a change o' wind or weather than the meaning o'
their tricks and humours."

"I know not what thee has to complain on," said Betty. "They behaven
better to thee nor thou deserves."

"Hoity, toity, mistress; dunna be cross, wench. Come, gie's a buss an'
so"----

"Keep thy jobbernowl to thysel'," said the indignant Betty, when she
had made sure of this favour. "Thy great leather paws are liker for
Becky Pinnington's red neck nor mine," continued she, bridling up, and
giving vent to some long-suppressed jealousy.

"Lorjus days; but thou's mighty quarrelsome and peevish; I ne'er
touch'd Becky's neck, nor nought belongin' to her."

"Hush," said Betty, withdrawing herself from the approaches of her
admirer. "Some'at knocks!"

Dick hastened to the door, supposing that somebody was dodging them.

"'Tis somethin' i' that box!" said Betty; and they listened in the
last extremity of terror. Again there was a low dull knock, which
evidently came from the box, and the wooers were certain that the old
one was inside. In great alarm they rushed forth, and at the
kitchen-chimney corner Dick and his companion were seen with blanched
lips and staring eyes, almost speechless with affright.

Next morning the story was bruited forth, with amendments and
additions, according to the fancy of the speaker, so that, in the end,
the first promulgers could hardly recognise their own. The
grim-looking despatch was now the object of such terror that scarcely
one of them durst go into the place where it stood. It was not long
ere Maria Downes became acquainted with the circumstance, and she
thought it was high time these imaginary terrors should be put an end
to. She felt ashamed that she had given way to her own apprehensions
on the subject, which doubtless were, in part, the occasion of the
reports she heard, by the seeming mystery that was observed in her
manner and conduct. She determined that the box should be opened
forthwith. It was daylight, be it remembered, when this resolution was
made, and consequently she felt sufficiently courageous to make the
attempt.

But there was not one amongst the domestics who durst accompany her on
this bold errand--an attack, they conceived, on the very den of some
evil spirit, who would inevitably rush forth and destroy them.

Alone, therefore, and armed with the necessary implements, was she
obliged to go forth to the adventure.

The terrified menials saw her depart; and some felt certain she would
never come back alive; others did not feel satisfied as to their own
safety, should their mistress be the victim. All was terror and
distress; pale and anxious faces huddled together, and every eye
prying into his neighbour's for some ground of hope or confidence.
Some thought they heard the strokes--dull, heavy blows--breaking
through the awful stillness which they almost felt. These intimations
ceased: and a full half-hour had intervened; an age of suspended
horror, when--just as their apprehensions were on the point of leading
them on to some desperate measures for relieving the suspense which
was almost beyond endurance--to their great joy, their mistress
returned; who, though appearing much agitated, spoke to them rather
hastily, and with an attempt to smile at their alarm.

"Yonder box," said she, passing by, "is like to shame your silly
fears. Some wag hath sent ye a truss of straw--for a scrubbing wisp,
maybe." But there was, in the hurried and unusual hilarity of her
speech, something so forced and out of character, that it did not
escape even the notice of her domestics. Some, however, went
immediately to the place, and after much hesitation lifted up the lid,
when lo! a bundle of straw was the reward of their curiosity. By
degrees they began to rummage farther into the contents; but the whole
interior was filled with this rare and curious commodity. They could
hardly believe their eyes; and Dick, especially, shook his head, and
looked as though he knew or suspected more than he durst tell; a
common expedient with those whose mountain hath brought forth
something very like the product of this gigantic mystery.

Dick was the most dissatisfied with the result, feeling himself much
chagrined at so unlooked-for a termination to his wonderful story, and
he kept poking into and turning about the straw with great sullenness
and pertinacity. His labours were not altogether without success.

"Look! here's other guess stuff than my lady's bed straw," said he, at
the same time holding up a lock of it for the inspection of his
companions. They looked and there was evidently a clot of blood! This
was a sufficient confirmation of their surmises; and Dick, though
alarmed as well as the rest, felt his sagacity and adroitness
wonderfully confirmed amongst his fellows. They retired, firmly
convinced that some horrible mystery was attached thereto, which all
their guessing could not find out.

At night, as Dick was odding about, he felt fidgety and restless. He
peeped forth at times towards the outhouse where the box was lying,
and as he passed he could not refrain from casting a glance from the
corner of his eye through the half-closed door. The bloody clot he had
seen dwelt upon his imagination; it haunted him like a spectre. He
went to bed before the usual hour, but could not sleep; he tossed and
groaned, but the drowsy god would not be propitiated. The snoring of a
servant in the next bed, too, proved anything but anodyne or oblivion
to his cares. He could not sleep, do what he would. Having pinched his
unfortunate companion till he was tired, but with no other success
than a loud snort, and generally a louder snore than ever, in the end,
Dick, rendered desperate, jumped out of bed, and walked, or rather
staggered across the floor. He looked through the window. It was
light, but the sky was overcast, though objects below might readily be
distinguished. The outhouse where the box lay was in full view; and as
he was looking out listlessly for a few minutes he saw a female figure
bearing a light, who was gliding down stealthily, as he thought, in
the yard below. She entered the building, and Dick could hardly
breathe, he was so terrified. He watched until his eyes ached before
she came out again, when he saw plainly it was his mistress. She bore
something beneath her arm; and as Dick's curiosity was now
sufficiently roused to overcome all fear of consequences, he stole
quickly down-stairs, and by a short route got sufficiently on her
track to watch her proceedings unobserved. He followed into the
garden. She paused, for the first time, under a huge sycamore tree in
the fence, and laid down her burden. She drew something from beneath
her cloak, and, as he thought, began to dig. When this operation was
completed she hastily threw in the burden, and filled up the hole
again; after which, with a rapid step, she came back to the house.
Dick was completely bewildered. He hesitated whether or not to examine
immediately into the nature of the deposit which his mistress seemed
so desirous to conceal; but as he had no light, and his courage was
not then screwed up to the attempt, he satisfied himself at present
with observing the situation, intending to take some other opportunity
to explore this hidden treasure. That his mistress's visit had some
connection with the contents of the mysterious box was now certain,
and whatever she had concealed was part of its contents, a conclusion
equally inevitable; but that she should be so wishful to hide it, was
a problem not easy to be explained without examination. Was it money?
The clotted blood forbade this surmise. A horrible suspicion crossed
him; but it was too horrible for Dick to indulge.

Wondering and guessing, he retraced his steps, and morning dawned on
his still sleepless eyelids.

Some weeks passed by, but he found none other opportunity for
examination. Somebody or something was always in the way, and he
seemed destined to remain ignorant of all that he was so anxious to
ascertain.

After the arrival of the box Maria Downes never mentioned her brother
unless he was alluded to; and even then she waived the subject as soon
as possible, whenever it happened to be incidentally mentioned.
Eleanor saw there was an evident reluctance to converse on these
matters; and, however she might feel grieved at the change, in the end
she forbore inquiry.

One morning her cousin entered the breakfast-room, where Eleanor was
awaiting her arrival. Her face was pale--almost deathly--and her lips
livid and quivering. Her eyes were swollen, starting out, and
distended with a wild and appalling expression.

She beckoned Eleanor to follow; silently she obeyed, but with a
deadly and heart-sickening apprehension. Something fearful, as
connected with the fate of her cousin Harry, was doubtless the cause
of this unusual proceeding. Maria led the way up the staircase, and on
coming to the landing, she pointed to a square opening in the wall,
like unto the loophole of a turret-stair. Here she saw something dark
obstructing the free passage of the light, which, on a closer
examination, presented the frightful outline of a human skull! Part of
the flesh and hairy scalp were visible, but the whole was one dark and
disgusting mass of deformity. She started back, with a look of
inquiry, towards her cousin. Hideous surmises crowded upon her while
she beheld the features of Maria Downes convulsed with some untold
agony.

"Oh, speak--speak to me!" cried Eleanor, and she threw her arms about
her cousin's neck, sobbing aloud in the full burst of her emotion.
Maria wept too. The rising of the gush relieved her, and she spoke.
Every word went as with a burning arrow to Eleanor's heart.

"I have hidden it until now; but--but Heaven has ordained it. His
offence was rank--most foul--and his disgrace--a brother's
disgrace--hangs on me. That skull is Harry's! Believe it as thou wilt,
but the truth is no less true. The box, sent by some unknown hand, I
opened alone, when I beheld the ghastly, gory features of him who was
once our pride, and ought to have been our protection. My courage
seemed to rise with the occasion. I concealed it with all speed until
another opportunity, when I buried this terrible memorial--for ever,
as I hoped, from the gaze and knowledge of the world. I thought to
hide this foul stain upon our house; to conceal it, if possible, from
every eye; but the grave gives back her dead! The charnal gapes! That
ghastly head hath burst its cold tabernacle, and risen from the dust,
without hands, unto its former gazing-place. Thou knowest, Eleanor,
with what delight, when a child, he was accustomed to climb up to that
little eyelet-hole, gazing out thereat for hours, and playing many odd
and fantastic tricks through this loophole of observation."

Eleanor could not speak; she stood the image of unutterable despair.

"In that dreadful package," continued Maria, "this writing was
sent:--'Thy brother has at length paid the forfeit of his crimes. The
wages of sin is death! and his head is before thee. Heaven hath
avenged the innocent blood he hath shed. Last night, in the lusty
vigour of a drunken debauch, passing aver London Bridge, he encounters
another brawl, wherein, having run at the watchman with his rapier,
one blow of the bill which they carry severed thy brother's head from
his trunk. The latter was cast over the parapet into the river. The
head only remained, which an eye-witness, if not a friend, hath sent
to thee!"

Eleanor fell senseless to the ground, whence her cousin conveyed her
to the bed from which she never rose.

The skull was removed, secretly at first, by Maria herself; but
invariably it returned. No human power could drive it thence. It hath
been riven in pieces, burnt, and otherwise destroyed; but ever on the
subsequent day it is seen filling its wonted place. Yet was it always
observed that sore vengeance lighted on its persecutors. One who
hacked it in pieces was seized with such horrible torments in his
limbs that it seemed as though he might be undergoing the same
process. Sometimes, if only displaced, a fearful storm would arise, so
loud and terrible, that the very elements themselves seemed to become
the ministers of its wrath.

Nor would this wilful piece of mortality allow of the little aperture
being walled up; for it remains there still, whitened and bleached by
the weather, looking forth from those rayless sockets upon the scenes
which when living they had once beheld.

Maria Downes was the only survivor of the family. Her brother's death
and deplorable end so preyed on her spirits that she rejected all
offers of marriage. The estate passed into other hands, and another
name owns the inheritance.




RIVINGTON PIKE;

OR,

THE SPECTRE HORSEMAN.

         "Are you a man?
     Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that
     Which might appal the devil."

     --SHAKESPEARE.

     This beacon stands on a conical hill, at an elevation of 1545
     feet from the level of the sea. An immense pile of wood was
     raised here when the alarm of the French invasion prevailed, at
     the beginning of the present century.

     Rivington Hall was for many ages the seat of one of the
     Pilkingtons, of which family Fuller says--"The Pilkingtons were
     gentlemen of repute in this shire before the Conquest;" and the
     chief of them, then sought for after espousing the cause of
     Harold, was fain to disguise himself as a mower; in allusion to
     which the man and scythe was taken as their crest. James
     Pilkington, a descendant, and Master of St John's, Cambridge,
     was one of the six divines appointed to correct the Book of
     Common Prayer; for which and other services he was in 1560
     created Bishop of Durham. After the suppression of the great
     northern rebellion in 1569, headed by the Earls of
     Northumberland and Westmoreland, he claimed the lands and goods
     of the rebels attainted in his bishopric. In support of this
     claim he brought an action against the queen for a recovery of
     the forfeited estates; and though his royal mistress was
     accustomed to speak of unfrocking bishops, the reverend divine
     prosecuted his suit with so much vigour and success that
     nothing but the interposition of Parliament prevented the
     defendant from being beaten in her own courts.

     The present erection, the scene of our story, was built in the
     year 1732, by Mr Andrews, the owner of Rivington Hall, whose
     family have for many generations--with, perhaps, one
     interruption only--had it in possession.


The evening was still and sultry. The clear and glowing daylight was
gone, exchanged for the dull, hazy, and depressing atmosphere of a
summer's night. The cricket chirped in the walls, and the beetle
hummed his drowsy song, wheeling his lumbering and lazy flight over
the shorn meadows.


[Illustration: RIVINGTON PIKE.
_Drawn by G. Pickering.
_ _Engraved by Edw^d Finden._]


It was about harvest-time--the latter end of August. The moors were
clothed in their annual suit of gay and thickly-clustered blossoms,
but their bloom and freshness was now faded. Here and there a sad
foretokening of dingy brown pervaded the once glowing brilliancy of
their dye, like a suit of tarnished finery on some withering and
dilapidated beau.

A party of sportsmen had that day taken an unusually wide range upon
the moors, stretching out in wild and desolate grandeur through the
very centre of the county, near the foot of which stands the populous
neighbourhood of Bolton-le-Moors. Rivington Pike, an irregularly
conical hill rising like a huge watch-tower from these giant masses of
irreclaimable waste, is a conspicuous and well-known object, crowned
by a stone edifice for the convenience of rest and shelter to those
whom curiosity urges to the fatigue and peril of the ascent. The view
from this elevated spot, should the day be favourable, certainly
repays the adventurer; but not unfrequently an envious mist or a
passing shower will render these efforts unavailing, to scan the wide
creation--or rather but a circlet of that creation--from an
insignificant hillock, scarcely an atom in the heap of created matter,
that is itself but as a grain of dust in the vast space through which
it rolls. But to our tale, or rather, it may be, to our task--for the
author is now sitting in his study, with the twilight of as dull,
hazy, and oppressive an atmosphere about him as beset our adventurous
sportsmen at the close of their campaign; enervating and almost
paralysing thought; the veriest foe of "soaring fantasy," which the
mere accident of weather will prevent from rising into the region
where she can reign without control, her prerogative unquestioned and
unlimited.

The party to whom we have just referred consisted of three
individuals, with their servants, biped and quadruped, from whom their
masters derived the requisite assistance during their useful and
arduous exploits--the results being conspicuous in the death of some
dozen or two of silly grouse or red game, with which these hills are
tolerably well supplied during the season. But alas! we are not
sportsmen ourselves, and bitterly do we lament that we are unable to
describe the desperate conflict, and the mighty issues of that
memorable day; the hopes, fears, and _fire-escapes_ of the whole
party: the consumption of powder, and the waste of flint, or the
comparative merits of Moll and Rover, we shall not attempt to set
forth in our "_veritable prose_," lest we draw down the wrath of some
disappointed fowler upon us for meddling with matters about which we
are so lamentably ignorant, and we are afraid to say, in some measure,
wilfully deficient. To the spoils, when obtained, it may be that we
are less indifferent; and we hail, with favourable reminiscences and
anticipations, the return of another 12th of August--an era which we
would earnestly and affectionately beseech our friends to remember
likewise, for purposes too interesting in the history of our domestic
arrangements to allow them willingly to forget.

But the August in which our narrative opens was many years ago--though
not precisely in the olden time--when the belief in old-world fancies
and delights was not in danger of being blazed out by "diffusions of
useful knowledge," which "useful" knowledge consists in dissipating
some of our most pleasant dreams, our fondest and most cherished
remembrances. We are afraid a writer of "Traditions" must be looked
upon with inconceivable scorn by those worthies whose aim is to throw
open the portals of Truth to the multitude; or, as the phrase goes,
she is to be made plain to the "meanest capacity." For our own parts,
we were never enamoured with that same despotic, hard-favoured,
cross-grained goddess, Truth: she "commendeth not" to our fancy; nor
in reality is she half so worthy of their homage as her ardent and
enthusiastic worshippers imagine. We are more than ever inclined to
believe that imagination is the great source of our pleasures; and in
consequence we look not with an eye of favour on those who would
persuade us that our little hoard of enjoyment is counterfeit, not
being the sterling coin of sovereign and "immutable truth."

Little did we imagine or anticipate that we should be so deviously
betrayed from our subject. We never had the temerity to speak of
ourselves before. Thoughts, wishes, and opinions were studiously
concealed; and if we have been led unwarily and unintentionally from
the subject in this our concluding effort, that very circumstance
alone is a sufficient warranty against a repetition of the offence.

The day was fast closing when the party had surmounted the last hill
on their return to the valley. For the sake of proximity, they had
spent the previous night in a little way-side tavern at the foot of
the descent; and they now looked down towards the place of their
destination, still some weary miles distant--their prospect partly
interrupted by the huge hill called the Pike, of which we have before
spoken. From the elevation whereon they now stood the ascent was but
short to the summit of the beacon, though somewhat abrupt and
difficult of access. When they had gained the ridge overlooking the
valley, with the flat and fertile tract of low lands stretching out
into the dark and apparently interminable vista towards the coast, the
elder of the sportsmen exclaimed--

"Now, Mortimer, mayhap you have never seen a storm in our wilds; but,
if my judgment err not, this happy event is in a very auspicious train
for accomplishment."

The speaker looked towards the south, where the grim clouds were
already accumulated, evidently pouring out a copious blessing in their
progress. From the direction of the wind they too were threatened with
a speedy participation.

"These summer storms always make for the hills," continued he; "and,
looking yonder, I apprehend that we are precisely in the very line of
its path."

"I do like to watch the gathering of a storm, Pilkington," replied
Mortimer. "Surely the outpouring vials of its wrath must be
terrifically sublime in these regions. I would not miss so glorious a
sight for the world."

"In a snug shelter maybe at our hostelrie below, with a mug of the
right barley-bree buzzing at our elbow--oat-cake and cheese
conformable thereto."

"Nay, here; with the sky opening above our heads, and the broad earth
reeking and weltering under the wide grasp of the tempest. See! how
the crooked lightning darts between the coiled clouds, like a swift
messenger from yon dark treasure-house of wrath!"

This was said by a third individual, named Norton, a young man who
lived in the neighbourhood; a friend and former school-fellow of the
preceding speakers--only one of whom, Mortimer, resided in a distant
county, and was on a visit with Norton for the first time.

"Like a train of gunpowder, perhaps, thou meanest, Norton?" said the
less enthusiastic Pilkington, whose residence, too, was but a few
miles distant; "and, furthermore, I warn ye all, that unless we can
house, and that right speedily, we shall have the storm about our
heads, and maybe lose our way if the mist comes on, or get soused over
head and ears in some bog-trap. We'll climb yonder hill, Norton,
whence we may survey the broil and commotion from our 'watch-tower in
the skies,' under a tidy roof and a dry skin. Thou mayest tarry here
an thou wilt, and offer thyself a sacrifice on these altars of Jupiter
Pluvius."

The whole party--dogs, helps, and servants--were soon sheltered in the
little square tower upon the summit, and the predictions of the elder
and more experienced of them were soon verified. Almost on the
entrance of the last of the group came down the deluge in one broad
sheet, an "even-down pour," so loud and terrible, accompanied by a
burst of hail, that they were threatened with an immediate invasion of
their citadel through several crevices in both roof and windows.

A peal of thunder, loud, long, and appalling, shook their shelter to
its base. The very foundations of the hill seemed to rock with the
concussion. Their lofty tabernacle hung suspended in the very bosom of
the clouds, big with their forky terrors. The lightning began to hiss
and quiver, and the sky to open its wide jaws above them, as though to
devour its prey. The roar and rattle of the wind and hail, mingled
with the crash and roll of the contending elements, made the stoutest
of them tremble, and silenced several loud tongues that were generally
the foremost in jest and banter.

"Well, Norton," said Pilkington, "I reckon you are not in the mind to
try a berth abroad in this rude atmosphere during such an angry and
merciless disposition of your deity. 'Tis a _mêlée_, I imagine, to
your heart's content."

"Norton is hearkening to these rude tongues that do speak so lustily!"
said Mortimer. "He can, peradventure, interpret their mystic voice."

Norton was in the attitude of intense and earnest expectation or
inquiry; his head slightly turned and depressed on one side, the
opposite ear raised, so as to catch the most distinct impressions of
sound. His eyes might have been listening too, yet his vision was
absorbed, and apparently withdrawn from surrounding objects. He was
standing near the window, and the workings of his countenance
betrayed a strange and marvellous expression of wonder and anxiety.

It grew still darker, and the rain came down in torrents. The
thunder-cloud, as though attracted by the height of their situation,
kept hovering over the hill, and often seemed to coil round, and wrap
them in its terrific bosom. Night, they knew, was about setting in,
but they were still unable to issue forth without imminent danger. The
thick cloud by which they were enveloped would have rendered it a
hazardous attempt to proceed under any circumstances.

"We are in excellent condition for a night's lodging in our good
fortalice," said Pilkington: "it hath stood many a close siege from
the elements, and will abide a stouter brush before it yields."

"But surely the storm is too violent to continue. I hope we may
venture out ere it be long," said Mortimer, anxiously.

"Maybe the clouds will either be driven off or disperse. Should a
breeze spring up from the west, which is not unusual after such a
turbulent condition of the atmosphere, it will clear us rapidly from
these lumbering masses of almost impregnable vapour. I think Norton is
still in close communion with the elements. I can yet see his outline
by the window. I thought the last flash lighted on his visage as
though it would tarry there a while ere it departed!"

The servants were huddled in a corner by the door, sitting on the
ground, with the dogs between their legs; the timid animals, terrified
exceedingly at every thunder-peal, and shivering, as though from cold
and distress. Suddenly one of them began to growl; and a short, sharp
bark from another, with eyes and ears turned towards the entrance,
seemed to announce the approach of an intruder.

The brutes now stuffed their officious noses in the crevice beneath
the door, but immediately withdrew them, evidently in great terror, as
they slunk back, trembling and dismayed, to the opposite side of the
chamber, where they crouched, as if to screen themselves from
correction.

"What ails the cowards?" exclaimed Norton, who had apparently observed
their proceedings by the scanty light that was yet left.

"They are witch'd, I think," said one of the men; "or they've seen, or
haply smelt, a boggart."

"'Tis o'er soon for such like gear; they stir not abroad before the
bats and owls be gone to bed," said another.

"Ay! your common everyday sort o' breein' darena' show their bits o'
wizen cheeks by daylight; but there be some 'at will abroad at all
hours, without fear o' being laid by the parson. The '_Spectre
Horseman_' I think they ca' him. I've heard my granam tell as how it
feared neither sunshine nor shade, but"----

Here the speaker's voice failed him, every eye and ear being turned
towards the entrance. There seemed to come a sound from without, as
though a horse were urged to the utmost of its speed, his clattering
hoofs driven to the very threshold, and there he paused, awaiting some
communication from those within.

"Nought living or breathing," cried Mortimer, "could come that bent.
Perch'd as we are on this tall steep summit, 'tis not possible
for"----

"Hush!" said Norton. "I verily think 'tis some adventure which I must
achieve. What if I should turn giant-killer; this invisible steed
being sent for mine especial use, whereon I may ride, like Amadis or
Sir Lancelot, or any other knight or knave o' the pack, delivering
damsels, slaying dragons and old wicked magicians, by virtue of this
good right arm alone."

"Thou art a strange enthusiast, Norton," said Pilkington. "Thy love of
the marvellous will sooner or later thrust thee into some ridiculous
or perilous scrape, from which not all thy boasted prowess can deliver
thee unshent."

"Hark!" said one of the servants in a whisper. Is not that a knock?"

The loud uproar of the elements had suddenly abated, and the sound,
from whatever source it might arise, was distinctly audible to the
whole group. A dull hollow blow seemed to vibrate round the walls, as
if they had been struck with some heavy instrument. They seemed to
breathe the very atmosphere of terror. A strange feeling, portentous
and unaccountable, pervaded every bosom. The quadrupeds too crept
behind their masters for protection. Fear, like other strong and
unreasonable impulses, rapidly becomes infectious. In all likelihood,
the mere mention of the Spectre Horseman, together with their novel
and somewhat dangerous situation, had disposed their minds for the
reception of any stray marvels, however ridiculous or improbable. Yet
this impression could not extend to the trembling brutes, evidently
under the influence of alarm, and from a similar source.

Another blow was heard, louder than before. Those who were nearest
crept farther from the entrance; but Norton, as though bent on some
wild exploit, approached the door. He raised the latch, and, as it
swung slowly back, most of the party beheld a figure on horseback,
motionless before the opening. From the height they occupied this
mysterious visitor was depicted in a clear bold outline against a mass
of red angry-looking clouds, towards the south-east, on the edge of
which hung the broad disc of the moon breaking through "Alps" of
clouds, her calm sweet glance fast dissipating the wrath that yet
lowered on the brow of Heaven. The intruder wore a dark-coloured
vestment; a low-crowned hat surmounted his figure. His steed was black
and heavily built. Probably, from the position whence he was seen,
both horse and rider looked almost gigantic. Not a word was spoken.
The stranger stood apparently immovable, like some huge equestrian
statue, in the dim and mystic twilight.

Norton's two friends were evidently astonished and alarmed, but he
scarcely evinced any surprise; some superior and unknown source of
excitement overpowered the fear he might otherwise have felt. Silence
continued for a few moments, the strange figure remaining perfectly
still. Pilkington approached nearer to his friend, who was yet
standing near the threshold, gazing intently on the vision before him.
He whispered a few words over Norton's shoulder.

"Knowest thou this stranger, Norton?"

"Yes," he replied with great earnestness and solemnity; "years have
gone by since I saw him. Thou never knewest mine uncle; but that is
he, or one sense hath turned traitor to the rest. This very night,
twelve years ago--it was just before I left home for school"----His
voice now became inaudible to his friend, who observed him, after a
gaze of inquiry on the stranger, suddenly disappear through the
opening. The door was immediately closed by a loud and violent gust.
Flying open again with the rebound, the figure of Norton was seen
rapidly descending the hill towards the south-east, preceded by the
mysterious horseman. The light was too feeble for enabling them to
ascertain the course they took; but it seemed probable that Norton
was away over the hills with the unknown messenger. Their first
impulse was to follow; but the impossibility of overtaking the
fugitives, and the near approach of night, would have rendered it a
vain and probably a perilous attempt. Looking anxiously down the dark
ravine where Norton had so strangely disappeared, Pilkington was
startled by a voice from behind; turning, he saw it was the man who
had previously dropped those mysterious hints about the "Spectre
Horseman," which now vividly recurred to his memory and imagination.

"Master," said this personage, respectfully touching his cap, "you had
better not follow."

"Follow!" said Pilkington, as though bewildered; and the words were
but the echo of his thoughts; "follow!--I cannot--yet why should we
not make the attempt?"

"Step in, if you please, sir. I should not like to speak of it here."
He said this hurriedly, in a tone of deep anxiety and apprehension,
looking wistfully around and over the dark hills, fearful, apparently,
that others were listening. Pilkington obeyed, but with reluctance.
The door was cautiously latched; and to prevent the wind, which now
began to rise in louder gusts, from bursting this crazy barrier, a
heavy stone was laid to the threshold.

"It is--let me see"--said Martin, counting the lapse upon his fingers;
"ay,--ten--eleven--'tis twelve years ago, on this very night, St
Bartlemy's Eve, my father, a hale old man at that time of day, some'at
given, though, to hunting and fowling a bit o' moonlights--and a fine
penny he made on't, for many a week, selling the birds at Manchester.
Well, as I was saying;--one evening before dusk--the sun had but just
cooled his chin i' the water away yonder--he trudged off wi' the dogs,
Crab and Pincher--two as cunning brutes as ever ran afore a tail. They
might ha' known the errand they were going on, sneakin' about wi' such
hang-dog looks, which they always took care to put on when t' ould man
began to get ready for a night's foraging. They would follow at his
heels, almost on their bellies, for fear o' being seen by the Squire's
men; but when fairly astart for the game, they could show as much
breeding as the best-trained pointer i' the parish. I am getting sadly
wide o' my story, your honour; but I used to like the cubs dearly, and
many a time I have played with 'em when I wasn't a bit bigger than
themselves. They came to a sad end, sir, like most other rogues and
thieves besides, and"----

"But we are not getting an inch nearer the end of the story all this
time," said Pilkington.

"True, your honour; but I'll piece to it presently. I was a great
lubberly lad, I know, and tented the cattle then upon the moors. Well,
on this same night, as I was saying, my mother and the rest were gone
to bed, my father was upon the hills, and I was watching at home,
thinkin' maybe of the next Michaelmas fair, and many a fine bit of fun
thereby. The fire was gone out, but I had lighted a scrap of candle,
which sweeled sadly down, I remember, in the socket. Well, just as I
was getting sleepy I heard a scratch, and then a whine at the door.
'What's to do now,' thinks I, 'that the dogs are here again so soon?'
an' without more ado, I lifted the latch, when, sure enough, it was
them, dirty draggled beasts, they might ha' bin possed through a
slutch-pit. 'Where's yere master?' says I;--the things took no heed to
me, but began licking themselves, an' tidying their nasty carcases,
till the house verily reek'd again. 'So, friends,' says I, 'if ye're
for that gait, you may as well take a turn i' the yard,' an' without
more ado, I bundled 'em off, with a sound kick into the bargain. Well,
you see, I hearkened till my ears crack'd for my father's foot; but I
heard nought except the crickets, and the little brook that runs
behind the house, for everything was so still I could have heard a
mouse stir. I opened the door, and looked out, I think, into as clear
and mellow a night as ever gazed down from the sky upon our quiet
hills. Then I went to the gate, and looked up the road which takes you
into the little glen by a short path, away up to the high meadows; but
I could neither see him, nor hear any likelihood of his coming. I
could ha' told his footstep amongst a thousand, and his cough, too,
for that matter. I felt myself growing all of a shake, an' the very
hairs seemed crawling over my head; a pea might have knocked me down,
and, for the life of me, I durst not venture farther--it was something
so strange that the dogs should come back without their master--I was
sure some mischief had happened to him. All at once it jumped into my
head that he had stuck fast in some of these bogs or mosses, and the
rascal curs had left him there instead of their own pitiful carcases;
but that my father should be so forefoughten as to let himself be
nabbed in one of these bog-traps I could hardly believe. Yet the
dogs--ay, there was the mischief--and the lurching ne'er-do-weels
coming back in such dismal pickle. I went back to the house, for I
durst not stay abroad; and yet, when I was indoors, I could not bide
there neither; so I walked up and down the house-flags, like as I waur
dazed. I durst not go to bed; so there I was, and for a couple of
hours too, in a roarin' pickle, that I would not be steeped in again
for a' the moorgates between here and Chorley."

"Go on;--we've no loitering time now," said Pilkington; "thy story
sticks fast, I fear, like thy father i' the bog."

"Why, I was but rincing the evil thoughts out of my mind, as it were,
for they come about me like a honey-swarm at the thoughts on't; and I
don't just like their company at present, it minds me o' the time when
this plaguy chance befell my father."

"He did not tarry away for good and all, I reckon?"

"You shall hear, sir, if you but gie me a taste o' the flask; for I
feel just like to go into a swoon, or some tantrum or another."

Martin took a strong pull at the bottle, and, thus refreshed, he
resumed his story.

"Well, you see as how I waited, and my mind was like as it might ha'
been set on a pismire hillock, I waur so uneasy. The dogs, too, began
to howl pitifully at the door, so I let the poor things in for a bit
o' company. I had not waken'd mother; for I kept thinking I'd wait a
while longer, and a while longer, as I never in all my life liked to
bring bad news. Well, it might be about two or three hours I went on
at that gait, an' just as I was pondering as to whether I should go
up-stairs or not, I heard something come with a quick step through the
gate and up the flags to the door. It was not like father's foot,
neither; it was so terrible sharp and hasty. I felt as if I'd been
strucken of a heap. My knees shook an' dither'd as if I'd had the
ague. Up goes the latch; for I could not stir--I was holden fast to
the floor. The door bangs open in a fearfu' hurry, and in comes my
father, as though 'Legion' had been at his heels. He looked pale, and
almost fleered out of his wits, so I made sure he had seen the bogle
that my granam used to frighten us with. 'Father, father,' says I, as
soon as I could speak, 'what's happened? ha' ye seen it?' He did not
say a word, but sat down in the big rocking-chair by t' hob-end, when
he tilted his head back, and began swingin' back'ard and for'ard,
moaning all the while as if he waur in great trouble. I looked at him,
as well as I could, for I had lighted a whole candle a while before. I
sat down, too, and not another word could I say. But, my conscience!
what a racket the dogs made when they saw him! They jumped, and
frisked, and almost cried for joy, as though they had gi'en him up for
lost, and were desperately fain, poor things, at his return. The first
word he spoke was to these dummies; for they whined, wriggled, and
wagged their tails, and licked his fingers, enough to have drawn words
from a stone wa'. 'Ay, ay, ye sneaking rascals,' said he, 'ye left me
wi' yere tails down low enough, and as fast as your legs could lilt ye
off, when I was forefoughten wi''----Here he looked round, with a face
so dismal and disturbed that I verily think I should not forget it if
I waur at my last shrift. Taking this opportunity, as I may say, I
ventured a word or so. The old man gave me another of those terrible
looks before he spoke--'Eh, me!' said he, 'my days are but few now, I
reckon. I've seen the'----He stopped and looked round again; then he
said, almost in a whisper--'I've seen him, Martin!' 'I thought so,'
says I. 'I've seen the ould one, I believe,' says he; 'an' that's more
nor I'll like to do again, or thee either. We've done wi' our
night-work now, an' the dogs may just go where they can get an honest
bellyful.' You may be sure I was sadly fear'd. I durst not ask him how
it happened that he should have snappered upon old Sootypaws; but in a
while he saved me the speerin', and, as well as I can think, this was
the account of his misadventure:--

"'I was goin' up by the Pike,' said he, 'and a brave shower of
moonlight there was, weltering on the side of the hill, when, just as
I got behind it there in the shadow, I thought I saw somethin' big and
black standing among a little clump of gorses afore me. I felt started
a somehow, but I rubb'd my forehead and eyes, and looked again. It did
not shift, so I thought I might as well make the best o' the matter,
an' went for'ard without altering my speed. Well, what should I see
when I got nearer, but a great spanking black horse, and a littleish
man upon it, who seemed just waiting till I came up. I stood still
when I got within a yard or two, expecting he would speak first, for I
thought as how it might be some poor body belike that had lost his
way in crossing the moors. But he did not say a word, which I thought
mighty uncouth and uncivil. So making my best speech for the once,
though fearful it was some fellow watching to waylay me, I asked him
civilly how he did, and so on. Then I asked if he waur in want of a
guide over the hills any way. The thing here set up a great rollickin'
horse laugh, that frightened my father worse than anything he said;
but he durst not turn back for fear he might follow, and happen to
catch him as he ran, so he stood still, dithering like a top all the
while.

"'Canst show me the road to the Two Lads?'[19] he ask'd, as soon as he
had gotten his laugh out.

"'That can I,' says my father, 'as well as anybody i' the parish.' 'On
with thee, then,' says the devilkin, 'and don't mind picking your way,
friend, for my horse can tread a bog without wetting a hair of his
foot.' My father walked on, but the dogs kept a wary eye towards the
stranger, he thought, and hung their tails, an' slunk behind, like as
they were mightily afeard on him. But it wasn't long afore my father
began to wonder within himself what this unlikely thing could want
there at the Two Lads, which, as you know, is scarcely two miles off
yonder, and on the highest and ugliest part of the whole commoning; a
place, too, which is always said to have a bad name sticking to it. He
durst not ask him his business though, and they went on without
speaking, until the Two Lads were just peeping out before them into
the clear soft moonlight. 'There they are,' said my father; 'and now
I'll bid your honour good-night.' 'Stay,' said his companion: 'I may
want you a little while yet, so budge on, if you please.' Somehow my
father felt as though he durst not refuse, and however loth to such
company, he trudged away till they came together to the spot. 'Now,'
says the little gentleman, 'lift up that big heap of stones there, and
I'll tell you what to do with them.' 'Sir,' says my father, 'you are
in jest, belike.' 'Not a bit of it,' replied the other; 'see, 'tis
easy as flying.' Wi' that he leaps off his horse, and at one stroke of
his switch, up they went, jump, jump, jump, like a batch of crows from
a corn-field. The dogs set up a fearful howl, and, without once
turning to see what was behind them, set off helter-skelter through
bog and bush for the nearest, and left my father to himself with the
foul fiend. All at once it popped into his head the tales he had once
heard about the '_Spectre Horseman_,' that was said to ramble about
these hills, sometimes in the air, sometimes on the ground, like the
dark clouds and their shadows upon the soft grass, without ever a
footprint. My poor father could have wished the ground to gape and
swallow him, he said, he was so frightened. Where the stones had been
there was a great hole gaping, like one of the mouths of the
bottomless pit, and try how he would, he could not turn away his eyes
from it. 'That's the place,' said this fearful thing; but my father
was ready to cower down with terror. He could not speak, but he
thought he saw a great long black arm thrust out of the hole. 'Take
what he gives thee,' says Blackface, 'and make haste.' But he might
as well have spoken to the whins and gorses, for the chance of being
obeyed. 'Take it!' said this ill-tongued limb of Old Harry, in a voice
like thunder. But my father could not stir, and then there waur
shrieks, yells, and moans, and such noises as he had never heard. The
creature looked angry, and full of venom as a toad. 'I shall miss my
time,' said he; and with that he began to listen, for there came the
sound of footsteps on the dark heather, and then the ugly thing did
laugh for very gladness. 'Go, fool,' he cried, 'here comes one better
than thee;' and with that he lent my father a kick that might have
sent him across the valley, at a moderate calculation, had he not
remembered an old witch charm which he mumbled as he fell. How long he
lay there, and what happened the while, he did not know, but when he
awoke, he saw the heap was in its place again, the moon looking down
bright and beautiful as ever, as if she thought nothing particular had
taken place. He could hardly persuade himself that he had not dreamed
an ugly dream, until he remembered the spot, and how he had been
enticed, or rather forced there against his will. You may be sure he
made the best of his way home again, where he came in the condition I
have just told you. Not many days after we heard that a gentleman of
no mean condition, that lived not many miles off--I have forgotten
his name--and who was supposed to be crossing the hills on that very
night, was lost. He never appeared afterwards. It was generally
thought he was swallowed up in some bog, but my father always believed
that he had fallen into the clutches of that Evil One, from whom he
himself had escaped but with the skin of his teeth. From that time to
his dying day was he never known to ramble on the moors again; an
altered man he became, sure enough, and our big Bible, with the
pictures in it, was brushed fro' the dust. He might be seen with the
book upon his knee at the doorstone on a summer's night, and the
third bench from the Squire's pew at Blackrod church never missed a
tenant till my father was laid quietly down in the churchyard."

During this recital there had been a close and almost breathless
attention. As he concluded a buzz of agitation pervaded the group; not
a word was spoken for a little while until Pilkington exclaimed,
slowly passing one hand over his brow--

"A marvellous delivery, which I might have been disposed to treat like
other marvels, had not our own senses in some measure left with us a
show of truth, or probability at least, about the adventure, which,
for my own part, I find it difficult to throw off. Exaggerated and
full of improbabilities, I admit, yet the story hath some substratum
of truth, no doubt by which it is supported. What it is, would be
difficult to ascertain, but the mystery or misapprehension, whatever
it be, shall be cleared up, and that speedily."

"Doubtless," said Mortimer; "but first let us return to our lodging.
Marvels, being in the inverse ratio to truth, always appear greatest
at a distance; and when the explanation comes, we may perhaps smile at
our present embarrassment. The riddle is easy when solved."

"True; but how is that to be accomplished?"

"Let us return to our quarters; we may perhaps find that our companion
has arrived there before us."

Pilkington shook his head incredulously. Indeed the whole affair had
made a much greater impression upon him than he was willing to allow,
even to himself.

The moon lighted them on their path as they took the nearest route to
their temporary sojourn. Many a cautious glance was cast behind, and
many a dark stone or bush--many a grotesque shadow--assumed the form
they feared to encounter. They arrived at their dwelling without
molestation, but--Norton was not there!

"Here is foul play somewhere," said Mortimer thoughtfully. "Think you,
Pilkington, that we could find out our way in this quiet moonshine to
that same 'Two Lads' which Martin pointed out? I fancy the louts we
have about us durst not venture thither. Indeed I think it may be
prudent to go unattended on several accounts."

"That is my opinion," said Pilkington; "and as for poking out the way,
I can do that readily. I cannot rest without making the attempt, at
any rate."

"Let us not create any alarm, but steal quietly off when we have
refreshed ourselves," said Mortimer; "we need not tell them of our
intent."

"It were best," replied Pilkington, "that we give these knaves a
caution first that they bruit not forth the adventure at present, or
until we have more exact information as to the nature of the
proceedings it may be needful to adopt."

It was not long ere they commenced their journey, traversing the
hill-path in the requisite direction. By day, the pillars are easily
seen from some parts of the valley below, and Pilkington had
frequently passed them in crossing the moors. A pretty accurate notion
of their bearing was thus formed from the point whence they started.

The greater part of the way was trodden in silence. The rivulets were
swollen with the heavy rains, and great care was necessary to attain
their object in safety. The path was not devoid of danger at any time,
by reason of the spongy and uncertain nature of the bogs, accumulated
masses of spumous unhealthy vegetation, showing patches of bright
green verdure, holding water often to an unknown depth, and sometimes
proving fatal to those who dare to venture upon this deceitful and
perilous surface. By using great caution, and carefully ascertaining
the nature of the ground before them, they passed on, without further
inconvenience than that of wading through bogs and ditches, climbing
stone-walls and embankments, aided by the uninterrupted light of a
blazing harvest-moon.

They had now accomplished the most fatiguing part of the ascent, the
dark heathery crown of the mountain, whereon the moonbeams lay so
beautiful, as though nature were one vast region of universal
silence, for ever unbroken and undisturbed. It was like gazing on a
statue--there was the semblance of life, but all was silent and
motionless, the very stillness startling like a spectre.

Soon they had passed through the creaking heather-bushes on the
summit, when they saw two rude pillars peeping up from the dark line
of the horizon before them. A sensation, not unallied to fear, passed
with a sudden thrill across the deep, unseen sources of feeling--the
sealed fountains of the spirit. They felt as though entering on
mysterious or forbidden ground. The hour--the circumstances which led
to their present situation--their companion's recent and unaccountable
disappearance, and the prevalent superstitions connected with this
solitary spot--all contributed to their present alarms with a force
and poignancy unusual, and even appalling. They almost expected the
"_Spectre Horseman_" to rush by, or to rise up suddenly before them,
and forbid their further progress into his domains.

"I am not prone to pay much heed either to marvels or superstitions,
and yet"----said Mortimer, again pausing after a long silence.

"Why," said Pilkington, "the very air feels rank with mystery.
Whatever may be the cause, I never felt more i' the mood for an hour
of devotion in my life."

"We may both have need for the exercise ere we depart hence, or my
thoughts misgive me," replied Mortimer.

"It may be the mystery connected with our expedition which operates in
its own nature upon the mind," said Pilkington. "I feel, as it were,
every faculty impressed with some fearful and indissoluble spell. An
atmosphere, impervious, and almost impalpable, seems to oppress the
spirit. Surely we are on the trail of some demon, and his subtle
influence is about us."

"Ah!" said Mortimer, starting aside with a shudder, as though a
serpent stung him.

"Heardest thou aught, Mortimer?"

"I thought there was a rushing past my ear."

"I heard it too," replied Pilkington, in a low and agitated tone; "but
I heard more, Mortimer. A voice, methought, distinct as thine own,
swept by: '_Go not_,' was faintly uttered. I am sure I heard the
words."

"This place affects me strangely," said Mortimer; "but I will not go
back, though the very jaws of the pit were to interpose."

Suddenly a mist gathered about them, not an unusual circumstance in
these mountain regions, but a sufficiently portentous one to fasten
strongly upon their imaginations, already predisposed to invest every
appearance, however trivial, or according to the common course of
events, with supernatural terrors. A gust of wind soon curled the
vapour into clouds, which swept rapidly on; sometimes with the
moonlight through their shattered rifts, then dark and impervious,
shutting out the whole hemisphere, and wrapping them as with a cloak.
Still they kept on their way, slowly, but in the direction, as near as
they could ascertain, towards the place where they hoped to find some
clue to their search. They felt convinced, though neither of them
could state the nature of their convictions, that the mystery would
here terminate.

The wind came on now in heavier and more continuous gusts, like the
distant rumble of the ocean. They fancied other sounds were audible in
the blast; yells and howlings that seemed to approach nearer with
every successive impulse. A sound, like the rush of wings, brushed
past them, and, instinctively, they grasped each other by the arm. A
moan was distinctly heard; then another, louder and more terrible. A
cry of agony succeeded, then a shriek, so loud and appalling that a
cry of horror involuntarily burst from their lips.

"Save us, Father of Mercy!"

It was the cry of faith; a look fixed upon Him "who is not slow to
hear, nor impotent to save." The cloud rolled suddenly away,
unfolding, as though for the disclosure of some mighty pageant. They
saw before them, and within a very few paces, the dark, heavy pillars,
looking more black and hideous in the garish light by which they were
seen. A cloud or mist seemed to have rolled, as suddenly, from their
mental vision; a weight was removed from their apprehensions. They
felt as though scarcely acting, previously, as free agents, but
impelled by some unseen power, to which every faculty and every
thought was in thraldom.

Beside one of the heaps lay a figure, prostrate and motionless. It was
the death-like form of Norton! He was, to all appearance, lifeless,
with hands clenched, and his whole attitude betokening some recently
desperate and painful struggle. They tried to arouse him, and a
cordial with which they moistened his lips produced some slight
symptoms of returning consciousness; but the spark disappeared with
the breath that fanned it. The safest plan was evidently to attempt
his removal. With as little delay as possible they bore him gently
between them; and as the first streak of daylight was dawning over the
hills, they had the satisfaction to see him safely disposed of in
their little hostelrie, whither a surgeon was speedily summoned from
the adjacent village. He was yet insensible, but life was not extinct;
the medical attendant pronouncing him in great jeopardy, from some
violent struggle and exertion, both of body and mind. Rest, and the
most careful attention, were absolutely necessary, lest, with
returning consciousness, reason should be disturbed, and the mind
remain bewildered from the agitation previously undergone.

For several weeks this unfortunate victim, as they supposed, to his
own vague and supernatural terrors, lay without showing the slightest
symptom of recognition. Groans and incoherent murmurs, after long
intervals of silence, proclaimed that life was yet lingering on the
threshold of the tabernacle, unwilling for her flight. A cry of terror
would sometimes break forth, and his whole frame become violently
convulsed, while he seemed to exhaust himself in struggles to escape.

We will not prolong the recital, nor is it needful to relate how the
first light glimpse broke through the clouds that had so long veiled
his spirit. Fearful were the first awakenings of the soul. Like the
last dread summons, it was not an awakening from oblivion. Every
faculty wore the dark impress of terror, though he remained apparently
unconscious of the interval that had passed.

Pilkington and his friend were unremitting in their attentions. The
issue was long doubtful; but in the end he recovered from the dread
hallucination under which he laboured.

With restored health, he disclosed, to them only, the events which had
occurred in the brief interval of their separation.

"I think I before told you," said he, reluctantly commencing the
narrative, "that the figure who appeared so mysteriously at the door
of our temporary shelter on the hill wore the very image of my uncle,
whom you never knew, Pilkington. You may conceive that my surprise was
excessive, though I cannot say that I felt so; but it will, in some
measure, account for my apparent rashness and eager determination to
follow, when I inform you that it was just twelve years previously, on
that self-same night, the eve of St Bartlemy, when his unaccountable
disappearance on these moors, of which I have before spoken, threw
consternation and distress into the hitherto peaceful and happy
community with which he was associated. I need not recount the family
disasters and disagreements which his mysterious absence has
originated. No trace was left of his disappearance; nor could his body
ever be discovered. The night prior to our excursion I saw him; but it
was in a dream. This circumstance, together with the place and the
very time, twelve years since his departure, was the cause of my
apparent thoughtfulness and abstraction prior to the appearance of our
mysterious visitor. I felt an apathy; and, at the same time, a load
upon my spirits for which I could not account. I remember that I was
scarcely alarmed, or even surprised, when he presented himself; and
that I felt as though I had been waiting for his arrival--more under
the bewildering influence of a dream than the sober conceptions of
waking truth. I made no doubt but that the mystery would now be
elucidated. I followed the retreating horseman, who, I saw, beckoned
me forward, and occasionally seemed to chide my tardiness and want of
speed. I could not hear his voice, but I thought he pronounced my
name. He descended the hill with considerable haste, and it was with
difficulty that I could now keep him in sight. Fully bent on the
discovery, I resolved, if possible, let the consequence be what it
might, that I would follow. The storm had suddenly abated, and the
clouds were rolling off in broken masses through the calm ether, from
which the moon crept out, by whose aid I hoped to keep in view the
object of my pursuit.

"The path he now took led up the ascent on the opposite hill. I
clambered up with some difficulty, but the flying horseman before me
seemed to accomplish the work without either hesitation or
inconvenience. He waited for me when he had surmounted the steepest
part of the acclivity, and I grew more and more convinced that it was
my uncle's form, as I had seen him in my boyhood. Memory was
sufficiently tenacious on this head; and knowing the great need, as it
concerned family affairs, that his fate should be clearly ascertained,
I braved all hazards, and still followed this mysterious conductor. I
do not recollect I felt any apprehension that I was following a
supernatural guide; or that it might possibly be a phantom who was
luring me on to misery and destruction. The mild, benevolent aspect
of my relative was before me, and I could not associate an idea of
danger with the guide and protector of my youth.

"As I gained the brow of the hill I saw the dark form of the horseman
dilated upon the wide, bare, uninterrupted horizon, in almost gigantic
proportions. It might be the distance that caused this illusion, but
the huge black horse appeared to wax in magnitude with every step, and
to become more fiend-like and terrible. Still I followed, and ere long
I beheld the two pillars unto which our course was evidently tending.
They seemed to rise up from the earth like huge giants waiting for
their prey. My guide, whom I had previously attempted to overtake,
stood still when he reached them, awaiting my approach. With feelings
strangely akin to those of an ill-fated victim, urged by some
resistless fascination into the very jaws of his destroyer, I drew
nearer to the object of my hopes and apprehensions. I recognised the
very dress my uncle wore on ordinary occasions, and the strong
square-built form that in my childhood I was accustomed to view with a
parental regard. Yet was I disquieted with alarm and agitation.
Horrible images rushed upon my brain. I seemed to be the sport and
prey of some power I could not withstand--a power that apparently
might wield my very faculties at his will, and had already taken the
reins of self-government into his own keeping. I began to fancy that
it was some terrible vision by which I was harassed; and I well
remember it was the precise feeling that haunts us in our dreams when
a horrible doom is approaching from which apparently there is no
escape; and yet we feel as though assured some way will be opened for
our deliverance. While we endure all the horrors of our situation, we
know of a surety that our miseries shall soon terminate. Yet a cloud
was gathering upon my soul, and objects assumed another hue seen
through its wild and chaotic elements. With all the vagueness and
uncertainty of a dream, I felt that I was awake!

"'Dost thou know me?' said the mysterious inquirer, in a tone which I
immediately recognised. Still there was an awful and thrilling
emphasis in the expression which alarmed me more than before.

"'I know you,' I replied, 'as the friend and guardian of my youth;
but--to what end am I called hither, and why are you thus?'

"'My path is hidden!' said he, in a voice terrible and foreboding.

"'Tell me, where have you been? Is this your habitation?
unless'--shuddering, I added in a low but energetic tone--'unless you
are some evil one that hath ta'en his semblance to lure me to my
hurt.'

"'When the moon rides o'er the blue south 'tis midnight; I will then
reveal what thou hast desired, and the purpose of my coming.'

"'Art thou really he whose form thou bearest? Answer truly, as thou
dost hope for my stay.'

"'I am!' he replied, in a tone so like that of my uncle that I was now
satisfied his very form was before me. Conjecture was vain as to the
motives that prompted this long and extraordinary concealment.

"'Promise, Norton, that thou wilt tarry here until my return!'

"'I will; but give me some pledge, some proof that thy being is real;
that thou comest not as a phantom to delude my hopes.'

"He stretched out his hand. I again felt the warm pressure of my
earliest friend, whom I had so long mourned as dead. I would have
embraced him, but he shrunk back, and I saw the black steed again
preparing and impatient to depart.

"'Remember,' said he, in a hollow voice, 'at midnight I will return.'

"I leaned against the stone, determined to await the arrival of my
mysterious relative, who would, I was convinced, on his return
satisfactorily elucidate his proceedings. Occupied with vain surmises
and reflections, time passed on almost unperceived; and ere I was
aware the black steed was at my side. The rider suddenly dismounted. I
drew back, instinctively, as he approached; for I saw, in the still
clear light of the unclouded moon, his countenance hideously distorted
and almost demoniacal in its expression.

"'Thou art mine!' said he, laying one hand upon my shoulder; 'and thou
shall know too soon my terrible secret.' He came nearer; I felt his
breath upon my face; it was hot and even scorching; I was unable to
resist; he clung round me like a serpent; his eyes shot livid fire,
and his lips--hideous, detestable thought--his lips met mine! His
whole spirit seemed diffusing itself throughout my frame. I thought my
body was destined to be the habitation of some accursed fiend--that I
was undergoing the horrid process of demoniacal possession! Though
gasping, almost suffocating, for I could not disengage myself from his
deadly fangs, I exerted my utmost strength. One cry was to Heaven, but
it was the last; the soul seemed to have exhausted herself with the
effort. All subsequent and sensible impressions vanished; and I
remember nothing save horrible incoherent dreams, wherein I was the
sport and prey of demons, or my own body the dwelling-place of some
ever-restless and malicious fiend! From the long night of
insensibility that ensued I would be thankful that reason has awaked
without injury; and though fearful beyond the common lot of mortals
has been my destiny, yet I would render homage to that Power whose
might rescued me from the very grasp of the Evil One!"

The listeners were appalled, horror-struck beyond measure, at this
fearful narrative. Its mysteries they could not solve by any reference
to the usual course of natural events; no key that nature holds would
unlock this dark and diabolical mystery. To his dying day Norton
firmly believed that his uncle's body was the abode of some foul
spirit, permitted to sojourn upon earth only on the fearful condition
that he should effect his entrance, at stated periods, into a living
human frame, whose proper occupant he might be able to dispossess for
this horrible purpose. Many circumstances would seem to corroborate
this belief. The adventure of the old poacher, in particular,
happening precisely on the night of his uncle's disappearance, led
Norton to conclude that the foul fiend was obliged to renew his
habitation upon every twelfth return of the holy festival of St
Bartholomew. That a solution so inconsistent with our belief in the
constant care and control of an all-wise and an all-powerful
Providence was incorrect, we need not be at any pains to prove in this
era of widely-disseminated knowledge and intelligence. Still, a
mystery, inscrutable under the ordinary operations of nature, appears
to hang over the whole proceeding, and though a legend only, yet the
events bear a wonderful semblance and affinity to truth, even in their
wildest details.

It is said that the "_Spectre Horseman_" appeared no more, and that
having failed in fulfilling the terms by which his existence upon
earth was, from time to time, permitted and prolonged, he was driven
to his own place, where he must abide for ever the doom of those
kindred and accursed spirits whose aim it is continually to seduce and
to destroy.

     [19] The Two Lads are heaps of loose stones, about
     ten or twelve feet in height, set up, as the story goes, to
     commemorate the death of two shepherd boys, who were found on
     the spot after a long search, missing their way during a heavy
     fall of snow. The tale is most probably incorrect; these mural
     monuments have been gradually accumulated by the passers-by;--a
     custom handed down from the most remote ages, and still
     observed as an act of religious worship in the East. There is
     little doubt but they are remnants yet lingering amongst us of
     the "altars upon every high hill," once dedicated to Baal, or
     Bel, the great object of Carthaginian or Phoenician worship,
     from which our Druidical rites were probably derived.




MOTHER RED-CAP; OR, THE ROSICRUCIANS.

A LEGEND OF THE NORTH.


PART THE FIRST.

In the wild and mountainous region of East Lancashire, at the foot of
the long line of hills called Blackstonedge, and not far from the town
of Rochdale, stood one of those old grim-looking mansions, the abode
of our Saxon ancestors; a quiet, sheltered nest, where ages and
generations had alike passed by. The wave of time had produced no
change; the name and the inheritance were the same, and seemingly
destined to continue unaltered by the mutations, the common lot of all
that man labours to perpetuate. This state of things existed at the
date of our story; now, alas! the race of its former possessors is
extinct, their name only remains a relic of things that were--their
former mansion standing,[20] as if in mockery, amidst the hum of
wheels, and in melancholy contrast with the toil and animation of this
manufacturing, money-getting district.

Buckley Hall, to which we allude, is still an object of interest to
the antiquary and the lover of romance, telling of days that are for
ever departed, when the lords of these paternal acres were the
occupants, not impoverishers, of the soil from unrecorded
ages--constituting a tribe, a race of sturdy yeomanry attached to
their country and to the lands on which they dwelt. But they are nigh
extinct--other habits and other pursuits have prevailed. Profuse
hospitality and rude benevolence have given place to habits of
business as they are called, and to a more calculating and
enterprising disposition. The most ancient families have become
absorbed or overwhelmed by the mighty progress of this new element,
this outpouring of wealth as from some unseen source; and in many
instances their names only are recognised in these old and rickety
mansions, now the habitation of the mechanic and the plebeian.

Many of these dwellings remain--a melancholy contrast to the trim
erections, the symbols of a new race, along with new habits and forms
of existence, sufficiently testifying to the folly and the vain
expectations of those who toil and labour hard for a long lease with
posterity.

This mansion, like the rest of our ancestral dwellings of the better
sort, was built of wood, on a stone basement. The outside structure
curiously vandyked in a zigzag fashion with wooden partitions, the
interstices were filled with wicker-work, plastered with well-tempered
clay, to which chopped straw imparted additional tenacity. When newly
embellished, looking like the pattern, black and white, of some
discreet magpie perched on the wooden pinnacles terminating each
gable, or hopping saucily about the porch--that never-failing adjunct
to these homely dwellings. Here, on a well-scoured bench, the master
of the house would sit in converse with his family or his guests,
enjoying the fresh and cheering breeze, without being fully exposed to
its effects. The porch was universally adopted as a protection to the
large flagged hall called the "house-part," which otherwise might have
been seriously incommoded by the inclement atmosphere of these bleak
districts. On one side of the hall, containing the great fireplace,
was the "guest parlour." Here the best bed was usually fixed; and
here, too, all great "occasions" took place. Births, christenings,
burials--all emanated from, or were accomplished in, this family
chamber. Every member was there transmitted from the cradle to the
grave. The low wide oaken stairs, to the first bending of which an
active individual might have leaped without any such superfluous
media. The naked gallery, with its little quaint doors on each side,
hatched in the usual fashion, this opening into the store-room, that
into the servants' lodging, another into the closet where the choicest
confections were kept. Opposite were the bed-chambers, and at the
extremity of the gallery a ladder generally pointed the way to a loft,
where, amongst heaps of winter stores, dried roots, and other
vegetables, probably reposed one or two of the male servants on a
straw mattress, well fortified from cold by an enormous quilt.

Our description will apply with little variation to all. We love
these deserted mansion-houses that speak of the olden time, its good
cheer and its rude but pleasant intercourse; times and seasons that
are for ever gone, though we crave pardon for indulging in what may
perhaps find little favour in the eyes of this generation, whose hopes
and desires are to the future, who say the past is but the childhood
of our existence: it is gone, and shall not return. But there are yet
some who love to linger on the remnants, the ruins of a former state,
who look at these time-honoured relics but as links that bring them
into closer communion with bygone ages, and would fain live in the
twilight of other years rather than the meridian splendour of the
present. But we must not be seduced any further by these reflections;
our present business concerns the legend whose strange title stands at
the head of this article.

In one of the upper chambers at Buckley Hall before named, and not
long ago, was an iron ring fixed to a strong staple in the wall; and
to this ring a fearful story is still attached. The legend, as it is
often told, is one of those wild improbable fictions, based on facts
distorted and embellished to suit the taste of the listener or the
fancy of the narrator. It will be our task to make out from these
imaginative materials a narrative divested as much as possible of the
marvellous, but at the same time retaining so much as will interest
and excite the reader and lover of legendary lore.

It was in one of those genial, mellow, autumnal evenings--so dear to
all who can feel their influence, and so rare a luxury to the
inhabitants of this weeping climate--when all living things wear the
hue and warmth of the glowing atmosphere in which they are enveloped,
that two lovers were sauntering by the rivulet, a "wimpling burn"
that, rising among the bare and barren moorlands of this uncultivated
region, runs past Buckley Hall into the valley of the Roch.

It was near the close of the sixteenth century, in the days of good
Queen Bess, yet their apparel was somewhat homely even for this era of
stuffed doublets and trunk-hose. Such unseemly fashions had hardly
travelled into these secluded districts; and the plain, stout, woollen
jacket of their forefathers, and the ruffs, tippets, stays, and
stomachers of their grandmothers, formed the ordinary wear of the
belles and beaux of the province. Fardingales, or hooped petticoats,
we are happy to say, for the sake of our heroine, were unknown.

"Be of good cheer," said the lover; "there be troubles enow, believe
me, without building them up out of our own silly fears--like boys
with their snow hobgoblins, terrible enough in the twilight of fancy,
but a gleam of sunshine will melt and dissipate them. Thou art sad
to-night without reason. Imaginary fears are the worst to cope withal;
having nor shape nor substance, we cannot combat with them. 'Tis hard,
indeed, fighting with shadows."

"I cannot smile to-night, Gervase; there's a mountain here--a
foreboding of some deadly sort. I might as soon lift 'Robin Hood's
Bed' yonder as remove it."

"No more of this, my dearest Grace; at least not now. Let us enjoy
this bright and sunny landscape. How sharply cut are those crags
yonder on the sky. Blackstonedge looks almost within a stride, or at
least a good stone's-throw. Thou knowest the old legend of Robin Hood;
how that he made yonder rocks his dormitory, and by way of amusement
pitched or quoited huge stones at a mark on the hill just above us,
being some four or five miles from his station. It is still visible
along with several stones lying near, and which are evidently from the
same rock as that on which it is said he slept."

"I've heard such silly tales often. Nurse had many of these old
stories wherewith to beguile us o' winter nights. She used to tell,
too, about Eleanor Byron, who loved a fay or elf, and went to meet him
at the fairies' chapel away yonder where the Spodden gushes through
its rocky cleft,--'tis a fearful story,--and how she was delivered
from the spell. I sometimes think on't till my very flesh creeps, and
I could almost fancy that such an invisible thing is about me."

With such converse did they beguile their evening walk, ever and anon
making the subject bend to the burden of their own sweet ditty of
mutual _unchanging_ love!

Grace Ashton was the only daughter of a wealthy yeoman, one of the
gentry of that district, residing at Clegg Hall, a mile or two
distant. Its dark low gables and quiet smoke might easily be
distinguished from where they stood. It was said that the Cleggs, its
original owners, had been beggared and dispossessed by vexatious and
fraudulent lawsuits; and the Ashtons had achieved their purpose by
dishonesty and chicane. However this might be, busy rumour gave
currency and credit to the tale, though probably it had none other
foundation than the idle and malevolent gossip of the envious and the
unthinking.


[Illustration "THE THRUTCH," NEAR ROCHDALE.
_Drawn by G. Pickering._
_Engraved by Edw^d Finden._]


They had toiled up a narrow pathway on the right of a woody ravine,
where the stream had evidently formed itself a passage through the
loose strata in its course. The brook was heard, though hidden by the
tangled underwood, and they stopped to listen. Soothing but melancholy
was the sound. Even the birds seemed to chirp there in a sad and
pensive twitter, not unnoticed by the lovers, though each kept the
gloomy and fanciful apprehensions untold.

Soon they gained the summit of a round heathery knoll, whence an
extensive prospect rewarded their ascent. The squat, square tower of
Rochdale Church might be seen above the dark trees nestling under its
grey walls. The town was almost hidden by a glowing canopy of smoke
gleaming in the bright sunset--towards the north the bare bleak hills,
undulating in sterile loneliness, and associating only with images of
barrenness and desolation. Easterly, a long, level burst of light
swept across meadow, wood, and pasture; green slopes dotted with
bright homesteads, to the very base apparently of, though at some
distance from, Blackstonedge, now of the deepest, the most intense
blue. Such a daring contrast of colour gave a force and depth to the
landscape, which, had it been portrayed, would, to critical eyes
perhaps, have outraged the modesty of Nature.

The sky was already growing cold and grey above the ridge opposed to
the burning brightness of the western horizon, and Grace Ashton
pointed out the beautiful but fleeting hues of the landscape around
them. Her companion, however, was engrossed by another object. Before
them was an eminence marking the horizon to the north-west, though not
more than a good bowshot from where they stood. Between this and
their present standing was a little grassy hollow, through which the
brook we have described trickled rather than ran, amidst moss and
rushes, rendering the ground swampy and unsafe. On this hill stood
"Robin Hood's coit-stones;" and on the largest, called the
"marking-stone," a wild-looking and haggard figure was crouched. Her
garments, worn and tattered, were of a dingy red; and her cap, or
_coiffure_ as it was then called, was of the same colour. Her head was
bent forward beyond the knee, as though she were listening towards
the ground, or was expecting the approach of the individuals who now
came suddenly, and to themselves unexpectedly, in view. Her figure, in
the glow of that rich autumnal sky, looked of the deepest crimson, and
of a bloody and portentous aspect.

"What strange apparition is yonder," said Gervase Buckley, "on the
hill-top there before us? Beshrew me, Grace, but it hath an evil and a
rancorous look."

But Grace, along with a short scream of surprise, betrayed, too, her
recognition of the object, and clung with such evident terror to her
companion that he turned from the object of his inquiries to gaze on
his mistress.

"What!" said he, "hath yonder unknown such power? Methinks it hath
moved thee strangely. Speak, Grace; can that hideous appearance in any
way be linked with our destiny?"

"I am ignorant as thou. But its coming, as I have heard, always
forebodes disaster to our house. Hast not heard of a Red Woman that
sometimes haunts this neighbourhood? I never saw her until now, but
I've heard strange and fearful stories of her appearing some years
ago, and blighting the corn, poisoning the cattle, with many other
diabolical witcheries. She is best known by the name of 'Mother
Red-Cap.'"

"I've heard of this same witch in my boyhood. But what should we fear?
She is flesh and blood like ourselves; and, in spite of the prevailing
belief, I could never suppose power would be granted to some,
generally the most wicked and the most worthless, which from the rest
of mankind is capriciously withholden."

"Hush, Gervase; thou knowest not how far the arch-enemy of mankind may
be permitted to afflict bodily our guilty race. I could tell thee such
tales of yonder creature as would stagger even the most stubborn of
unbelievers."

"I will speak to her, nevertheless. Tarry here, I prithee, Grace. It
were best I should go alone."

"Oh, do not--do not! None have sight of her, as I've heard, but
mischief follows. What disaster, then, may we not expect from her evil
tongue? I shudder at the anticipation. Stay here. I will not be left;
and I cannot cross this dangerous swamp."

Buckley was, however, bent on the adventure. His natural curiosity,
inflamed by forbidden longing after the occult and the mysterious, to
which he was too prone, even though sceptical as to their existence,
rendered him proof against his mistress' entreaties.

Probably from situation, or rather, it might be, the distance was
judged greater than in reality it proved, but the form before them
looked preternaturally enlarged, and as she raised her head her arms
were flung out high above it like withered and wasted branches on each
side. Trembling in every limb, Grace clung to her lover, and it was
after long persuasion that she suffered him to lift her over the
morass, and was dragged unwillingly up the hill. As though she were
the victim of some terrible fascination, her eyes were constantly
riveted on the object. A raven wheeled round them, every moment
narrowing the circle of its flight, and the malicious bird looked
eager for mischief.

As they approached nearer to the summit, this ill-omened thing, after
having brushed so close that they felt the very breath from its wings,
alighted beside the Red Woman, who hardly seemed to notice, though
well aware of their proximity.

They paused when several paces distant, and she rose up suddenly,
extending both arms, apparently to warn them from a nearer approach.
Her skinny lips, rapidly moving to and fro, and her dark withered,
bony, and cadaverous features, gave her more the appearance of a
living mummy or a resurrection from the charnel-house than aught
instinct with the common attributes of humanity.

Buckley was for a moment daunted. The form was so unlike anything he
had ever seen. He was almost persuaded of the possibility that it
might be some animated corpse doomed to wander forth either for
punishment or expiation. Her lips still moved. A wild glassy eye was
fixed upon them, and as she yet stood with extended arms, Gervase,
almost wrought to desperation, cried out--

"Who art thou? Thy business here?"

A hollow sound, hardly like the tones of a human voice, answered in a
slow and solemn adjuration--

"Beware, rash fools! None approach the Red Woman but to their
undoing."

"I know no hindrance to my free course in this domain. By whose
authority am I forbidden?" said he, taking courage.

"Away--mine errand is not to thee unless provoked."

"Unto whom is thy message?"

"To thy leman--thy ladye-love, whom thou wilt cherish to thine hurt.
Leave her, ay, though both hearts break in the separation."

"I will not."

"Then be partaker of the wrath that is just ready to burst upon her
doomed house."

"I told thee," said Grace, "she is the herald of misfortune! What woe
does she denounce? What cruel judgment hast thou invoked upon our
race?" cried she to this grim messenger of evil.

"Evil will--evil must! I will cling to ye till your last sustenance be
dried up, and your inheritance be taken from ye."

"Her fate be mine," said Buckley, indignantly. "Her good or evil
fortune I will share."

"Be it so. Thou hast made thy choice, and henceforth thou canst not
complain."

She stretched out her two hands, one towards Clegg Hall, the abode of
the maiden, and the other towards Buckley, her lover's paternal roof,
from which a blue curl of smoke was just visible over the rising
grounds beneath them.

"A doom and a curse to each," she muttered. "Your names shall depart,
and your lands to the alien and the stranger. Your honours shall be
trodden in the dust, and your hearths laid waste, and your habitations
forsaken."

In this fearful strain she continued until Buckley cried out--

"Cease thy mumbling, witch. I'll have thee dealt with in such wise thy
tongue shall find another use."

Turning upon him a look of scorn, she seemed to grow fiercer in her
maledictions.

"Proud minion," she cried, "thou shall die childless and a beggar!"

The cunning raven flapped his great heavy wings and seemed to croak an
assent. He then hopped on his mistress' shoulder, and apparently
whispered in her ear.

"Sayest thou so?" said the witch. "Then give it to me, Ralph."

The bird held out his beak, and out popped a plain gold ring.

"Give this to thy mother, Dame Buckley. Say 'tis long since they
parted company; and ask if she knows or remembers aught of the Red
Woman. Away!"

She threw the ring towards them. Both stooped to pick it up. They
examined it curiously for a short space.

"'Tis a wedding-ring," said Buckley, "but not to wed bride of mine.
Where was this"----

He stopped short in his inquiry, for lifting up his eyes he found the
donor was gone!

Neither of them saw the least trace of her departure. The stone
whereon she sat was again vacant. All was silent, undisturbed, save
the night breeze that came sighing over the hill, moaning and
whistling through the withered bent and rushes at their feet.

The shadows of evening were now creeping softly around them, and the
valley below was already wrapped in mist. The air felt very chill.
They shuddered, but it was in silence. This fearful vision, for such
it now appeared to have been, filled them with unspeakable dread.

Gervase yet held the ring in his hand. He would have thrown it from
him, but Grace Ashton forbade.

"Do her bidding in this matter," said she. "Give it thy mother, and
ask counsel of the sage and the discreet. There is some fearful
mystery--some evil impending, or my apprehensions are strangely
misled."

They returned, but he was more disturbed than he cared to acknowledge.
He felt as though some spell had been cast upon him, and cowed his
hitherto undaunted spirit.

They again wound down beside the rivulet into the meadows below, where
the mist alone pointed out the course of the stream. The bat and the
beetle crossed their path. Evil things only were abroad. All they saw
and felt seemed to be ominous of the future. As they passed through a
little wicket to the hall-porch, Nicholas Buckley the father met them.

"Why, how now, loiterers? The cushat and the curlew have left the
hill, and yet ye are abroad. 'Tis time the maiden were at home and
looking after the household."

"We've been hindered, good sir. We will just get speech of our dame,
and then away home with the gentle Grace. Half-an-hour's good speeding
will see her safe."

"Ay--belike," said the old man. "Lovers and loiterers make mickle
haste to part. Our dame is with the maids and the milkpans i' the
dairy."

The elder Buckley was a hale hearty yeoman, of a ruddy and cheerful
countenance. A few wrinkles were puckered below the eyes; the rest of
his face was sleek and comfortably disposed. A beard, once thick and
glossy, was grown grey and thin, curling up short and stunted round
his portly chin. Two bright twinkling eyes gave note of a stirring and
restless temper--too sanguine, maybe, for success in the great and
busy world, and not fitted either by education or disposition for its
suspicions or its frauds. Yet he had the reputation of a clever
merchant. Rochdale, even at that early period, was a well-known mart
for the buyers and sellers of woollen stuffs and friezes. Many of the
most wealthy merchants, too, indulged in foreign speculations and
adventures, and amongst these the name of Nicholas Buckley was not the
least conspicuous.

They passed on to the dairy, where Dame Eleanor scolded the maids and
skimmed the cream at the same moment, by way of economy in time.

"What look ye for here?" was her first inquiry, for truly her temper
was of a hasty and searching nature; somewhat prone, as well, to
cavilling and dispute, requiring much of her husband's placidity to
furnish oil for the turbulent waters of her disposition.

"Thou wert better at thy father's desk than idling after thine
unthrifty pleasures: to-morrow, maybe, sauntering among the hills with
hound and horn, beating up with all the rabble in the parish."

"Nay, mother, chide not: I was never made for merchandise and
barter--the price of fleeces in Tod Lane, and the broad ells at
Manchester market."

"And why not?" said the dame, sharply; "haven't I been the prop and
stay of the house? Haven't I made bargains and ventures when thou hast
been idling in hall and bower with love-ditties and ladies' purfles?"

She was now moved to sudden choler, and Gervase did not dare to thwart
her further--letting the passion spend itself by its own efforts, as
he knew it were vain to check its torrent.

Now Dame Eleanor Buckley was of a sharp and florid
countenance--short-necked and broad-shouldered, her nose and chin
almost hiding a pair of thin severe lips, the two prominences being
close neighbours, especially in anger. In truth she guided, or rather
managed, the whole circle of affairs; aiding and counselling the
speculations of her husband, who had happily been content with the
produce and profit of his paternal acres, had not his helpmate, who
inherited this mercantile spirit from her family, urged her partner to
such unwonted lust and craving for gain.

A huge bundle of keys hung at her girdle, which, when more than
usually excited, did make a most discordant jingle to the tune that
was a-going. Indeed, the height and violence of her passion might be
pretty well guessed at by this index to its strength.

When the storm had in some degree subsided, Gervase held up the ring.

"What's that, silly one? A wedding-ring!"

She grew almost pale with wrath. "How darest thou?--thee!--a ring!--to
wed ere thou hast a home for thy pretty one. Ye may go beg, for here
ye shall not tarry. Go to the next buckle-beggar! A pretty wedding
truly! When thou hast learned how to keep her honestly 'twill be time
enough to wed. But thou hast not earned a doit to put beside her
dower, and all our ready moneys, and more, be in trade; though, for
the matter o' that, the pulling would be no great business either. But
I tell thee again, thy father shall not portion an idler like thyself
and pinch his trade. Marry, 'tis enough to do, what with grievous sums
lost in shipwrecks, and the time we have now to wait our returns from
o'er sea."

She went on at this rate for a considerable space, pausing at last,
more for lack of breath than subject-matter of discourse.

"Mother," said he, when fairly run down; "'tis not a purchase--'tis a
gift."

"By some one sillier than thyself, I warrant."

"I know not for that; I had it from a stranger."

"Stranger still," she replied sharply, chuckling at her own conceit.

"Look at it, mother. Know you such a one?"

The dame eyed it with no favour, but she turned it over with a curious
look, at the same time lifting her eyes now and then towards the
ceiling, as some train of recollection was awakening in her mind.

"Where gat ye this?" said Dame Eleanor, in a subdued but still
querulous tone.

"On the hill-top yonder."

"Treasure-trove belongs to Sir John Byron.[21] The lord of the manor
claims all from the finders."

"It was a gift."

"Humph. Hast met gold-finders on the hills, or demons or genii that
guard hidden treasure?"

"We've seen the Red Woman!"

Had a sudden thunder-clap burst over them, she could not have been
more startled. She stood speechless, and seemingly incapable of reply.
Holding the ring in one hand, her eyes were intently fixed upon it.

"What is it that troubles you?" said Gervase. "Yon strange woman bade
me give you the ring, and ask if so be that you remembered her."

The dame looked up, her quick and saucy petulance exchanged for a
subdued and melancholy air.

"Remember thee! thou foul witch? ay long, long years have passed; I
thought thy persecutions at an end; thy prediction was nigh forgotten.
It was my wedding-ring, Gervase!"

"More marvellous still."

"Peace, and I'll tell thee. Grace Ashton, come forward. I know thine
ears are itching for the news. Well, well, it was when thou wast but a
boy, Gervase, and I remember an evening just like this. I was standing
by the draw-well yonder, looking, I now bethink me, at the dovecot,
where I suspected thieves; and in a humour somewhat of the sharpest, I
trow. By-and-by comes, what I thought, an impudent beggar-woman for an
alms. Her dress was red and tattered, with a high red cap to match. I
chided her it might be somewhat harshly, and I shall not soon forget
the malicious look she put on. 'I ask not, I need not thy benison,'
she said; 'I would have befriended thee, but I now curse thee
altogether:' and stretching out her shrivelled arm, dry and bare, she
shook it, threatening me with vengeance. Suddenly, or ere I was aware,
she seized my left hand, drew off my wedding-ring; breathing upon it
and mumbling a spell, she held it as though for me to take back, but
with such a fiendish look of delight that I hesitated. All on a sudden
I remembered to have heard my grandmother say that should a witch or
warlock get your wedding-ring, and have time to mutter over it a
certain charm, _so long as that ring is above ground_ so long misery
and misfortune do afflict the owner. Lucky it was I knew of this, for
instead of replacing it I threw it into the well, being the nearest
hiding-place. And happy for me and thee it was so near; for, would you
believe, though hardly a minute's space in my hand, the black heifer
died, the red cow cast her calf, and a large venture of merchandise
was wrecked in a fearful gale off the gulf. I had no sooner thrown it
into the well than the witch looked more diabolical than ever. 'It
will come again, dame,' said she, 'and then look to it;' and with this
threat she departed. But what am I doing? If it be the ring, which I
doubt not, I've had it o'er long in my keeping. Even now disaster may
be a-brewing; and is there not a richly-freighted ship on its passage
with silks and spices? I'll put it out of her reach this time anyhow.
No! I'll hide it where never a witch in Christendom shall poke it
out."

Dame Eleanor went to the little burn below. Stooping, she scooped a
hole in the gravel under water; there she laid the ring, and covered
it over with stones.

"Thou'rt always after some of thy megrims, dame," said the elder
Buckley, who had been watching her from the porch. "Some spell or
counter-charm, I'se warrant."

With a look of great contempt for the incredulity of her spouse, she
replied--

"Ay, goodman, sit there and scoff your fill. If't hadn't been for my
care and endeavours you had been penniless ere now. But so it is, I
may slave night and day, I reckon. The whole roof-tree, as a body may
say, is on my shoulders, and what thanks? More hisses than thanks,
more knocks than fair words."

Never so well pleased as when opportunity was afforded for grumbling,
the dame addressed herself again to her evening avocations.

Pondering deeply what should be the issue of these things, Gervase set
out with Grace Ashton to her house at Clegg Hall, a good mile distant.
Evening had closed in--a chill wind blew from the hills. The west had
lost its splendour, but a pure transparent brightness filled its
place, across which the dark wavy outline of the high moorlands rested
in deep unvarying shadow. In these bright depths a still brighter star
hung, pure and of a diamond-like lustre, the precursor, the herald of
a blazing host just rising into view.

As they walked on, it may well be supposed that the strange
occurrences of the last few hours were the engrossing theme of their
discourse.

"My mother is a little too superstitious, I am aware," said Gervase;
"but what I have witnessed to-night has rendered me something more
credulous on this head than aforetime."

"I don't half like this neighbourhood," said his companion, looking
round. "It hath an ill name, and I could almost fancy the Red Woman
again, just yonder in our path."

She looked wistfully; it was only the mist creeping lazily on with the
stream.

They were now ascending the hill towards Beil or Belfield, where the
Knights Templars had formerly an establishment. Not a vestage now
remains, though at that period a ruinous tower covered with ivy, a
gateway, and an arch, existed as relics of their former grandeur.

"Here lived the Lady Eleanor Byron," said Grace, pointing to the old
hall close by, and as though an unpleasant recollection had crossed
her. She shuddered as they passed by the grim archway beneath the
tower. Whether it was fancy or reality she knew not, but as she looked
curiously through its ivied tracery she thought the Red Woman was
peering out maliciously upon them. She shrank aside, and pointed to
the spot; but there was nothing visible save the dark and crumbling
ruins, from which their steps were echoed with a dull and sullen
sound.

The night wind sighed round the grey battlements, and from its hidden
recesses came moans and whispers--at least so it seemed to their
heated imaginations.

"Let us hasten hence," said Grace; "I like not this lonely spot. There
was always a fear and a mystery about it. The tale of the invisible
sylphid and Eleanor Byron's elfish lover haunts me whenever I pass by,
and I feel as though something was near, observing and influencing
every movement and every thought."

"Come, come, a-done I pray. Let not fear o'ermaster reason, else we
shall see bogles in every bush."

Above the gateway, in the little square tower now pulled down, was a
loophole, nearly concealed by climbing shrubs, which rendered it easy
for a person within to look out without being observed. As they passed
a low humming din was heard. Then a rude ditty trolled from some not
unskilful performer. The lovers stayed to listen, when a dark figure
issued out of the gateway singing--

         "The bat haunts the tower,
         And the redbreast the bower,
     And the merry little sparrow by the chimney hops,
         Good e'en, hoots master owl,
         To-whoo, to-whoo, his troll,
     Sing heigho, swing the can with"----

"What, thee, Tim! Is that thy stupid face?" said Gervase, breaking in
upon his ditty, and right glad to be delivered from supernatural
fears, though the object of them proved only this strolling minstrel.
"Thou might as well kill us outright as frighten us to death."

He that stood before them was one of those wandering musicians that
haunt fairs and merry-makings, wakes, and such like pastimes; playing
the fiddle and jewtrump too at weddings and alehouses; in short, any
sort of idleness never came amiss to these representatives of the old
Troubadours. A tight oval cap covered his shaggy poll; he was clad in
a coarse doublet or jerkin slashed in the fashion of the time, while
his nether integuments were fastened in the primitive mode by a wooden
skewer. He could conjure too, and play antics to set the folks agape;
but as to his honesty, it was of that dubious sort that few cared to
have it in trust. He was apt at these alehouse ditties--many of them
his own invention. He knew all the choicest ballads too, so that his
vocation was much akin to the _jogleurs_ or _jongleurs_ of more
ancient times, when Richard of the Lion's Heart and other renowned
monarchs disdained not "_the gentle craft of poesie_."

Wherever was a feast, let it be a wedding or a funeral, Tim, like the
harpies of old, scented the meat, and some of his many vocations were
generally in request.

This important functionary now stood whistling and singing by turns
with the most admired unconcern.

"What's thy business here?" cried Gervase, approaching him.

     "The maid was fair, and the maid was coy,
     But the lover left, and the maid said 'Why?'
         Sing O the green willow!"

"Answerest thou me with thy trumpery ditties? I'll have thee put i'
the stocks, sirrah."

"Oh, ha' mercy, master! there's naught amiss 'at I know. I'm but
takin' roost here wi' the owls an' jackdaws a bit, maybe for want o'
better lyin'."

"It were hard to have a better knack at lying than thou hast already.
Hast gotten the weather into thy lodgings? When didst flit to thy new
quarters?"

"Th' hay-mow at Clegg is ower savoured wi' the new crop, an' I want
fresh air for my studies."

"Now art thou lying"----

"Like a lover to his sweetheart," said Tim, interrupting him, and
finishing the sentence.

"Peace, knave! There's some mischief i' the wind. Thou'rt after no
good, I trow."

"What te dickons do I ail here? Is't aught 'at a man can lift off but
stone wa's an' ivy-boughs? Marry, my little poke man ha' summut else
to thrive on nor these."

"There's been great outcry about poultry an' other farmyard
appendances amissing of late, besides eggs and such like dainties enow
to furnish pancakes and fritters for the whole parish. Hast gotten
company in thy den above there?"

"Jacks an' ouzles, if ye like, Master Gervase. Clim' up, clim' up,
lad, an there'll be a prial on us. Ha, ha! What! our little sweetheart
there would liefer t' be gangin.' Weel, weel, 'tis natural, as a body
may say--

     "One is good, and two is good,
     But three's no company."

"Answer me quick, thou rogue. Is there any other but thyself yonder
above?"

"When I'm there I'm not here, an' when I'm here"----

"Sirrah, I'll flog the wind out o' thy worthless carcase. Hast any
pilfering companions about thee? I do smell a savoury
refection--victuals are cooking, or my nose belies its office."

"Fair speech, friend, wins a quiet answer; a soft word and a smooth
tongue all the world over. What for mayn't I sup as well as my
betters?"

"As well?--better belike. There's no such savour in our hall at
eventide, nor in the best kitchen in the parish."

"It's not my fau't, is't?"

"By'r lady, there's somebody in the chamber there. I saw the leaves
fluttering from the loophole. Villain, who bears thee company?"

"Daft, daft. What fool would turn into roost wi' me? Clean gone crazy,
sure as I'm livin'."

"Nay, nay, there's some plot here--some mischief hatching. I'll see,
or"----

He was just going to make the attempt; but Tim withstood him, and in a
peremptory manner barred the way.

"How! am I barred by thee, and to my face?"

"It's no business o' thine, Master Gervase. What's hatching there
concerns not thee. Keep back, I say, or"----

"Ha! Thou jingle-pated rascal, stand off, or I'll wring thy neck round
as I would a Jackdaw."

"Do not, do not, Gervase!" said Grace Ashton, fearful of some unlucky
strife. "Let us begone. We are too late already, and 'tis no business
of ours."

"What! and be o'erfoughten by this scurvy lack-wit. Once more, who is
there above?"

"An' what if I shouldn't tell thee?"

"I'll baste thy carcase to a mummy; I'll make thee tender for the
hounds."

"Another word to that, master, an' it's a bargain."

"Let me pass."

"Not without my company."

He whistled, and in a moment Gervase felt himself pinioned from
behind. Looking round, he saw two stout fellows with their faces
covered; and any other possibility of recognition was impracticable in
the heavy twilight.

"Who's i' t' stocks now?" cried the malicious rogue, laughing.

"Unhand me, or ye'll rue that ever ye wrought this outrage."

"Nay, nay, that were a pretty stave, when we've gotten the bird, to
open the trap," said Tim.

Gervase immediately saw that another party had seized Grace Ashton. He
raved and stamped until his maledictions were put an end to by an
effectual gag, and he did not doubt but she had suffered the same
treatment, for a short sharp scream only was heard. Being immediately
blindfolded, he could only surmise that her usage was of a similar
nature.

He was so stupefied with surprise that for a short period he was
hardly sensible to their further proceedings. When able to reflect, he
found himself pinioned, and in a sitting posture. A damp chill was on
his forehead. He had been dragged downwards, and, from the motion,
steps were the medium of descent. A door or two had been raised or
opened, a narrow passage previously traversed, and a short time only
elapsed from the cool freshness of the evening air to the damp and
stifling atmosphere that he now breathed. What could be the cause of
his seizure he was quite incompetent to guess. He could not recollect
that he had either pique or grudge on his hands; and what should be
the result he only bewildered and wearied himself by striving to
anticipate.

It was surely a dream. He heard a voice of ravishing sweetness; such
pure and silvery tones, that aught earthly could have produced it was
out of the question; it was like the swell of some Æolian lyre--words,
too, modifying and enhancing that liquid harmony. It was a hymn, but
in a foreign tongue. He soon recognised the evening hymn to the
Virgin--

     "Mater amata, intemerata,
       Ora, ora, pro nobis."

So sweetly did the music melt into his soul, that he quite forgot his
thrall, and every sense was attuned to the melody. When the sound
ceased he made an effort to get free. He loosened his hands, and
immediately tore off the bandage from his eyes. A few seconds elapsed,
when he saw a light streaming through a crevice. Looking through, he
saw a taper burning before a little shrine, where two females in white
raiment, closely veiled, were kneeling.

The celebration of such rites, at that time strictly prohibited,
sufficiently accounted for their concealment, and plainly intimated
that the parties were not of the Reformed faith.

By the light which penetrated his cell from this source he saw it was
furnished with a stone bench, and a narrow flight of steps in one
corner communicated with a trap-door above.

The old mansion at Belfield, contiguous to these ruins, once belonging
to the Knights of St John, had been for some years untenanted, and, as
often happens to the lot of deserted houses, strange noises, sights,
and other manifestations of ghostly occupants were heard and seen by
passers-by, rendering it a neighbourhood not overliked by those who
had business that way after nightfall.

Gervase Buckley was pretty well assured that he had been conveyed into
some concealed subterranean chamber, but for what purpose he could not
comprehend. He was not easily intimidated; and though in a somewhat
sorry plight, he now felt little apprehension on the score of
supernatural visitations: but his seizure did not hold out an
immunity as regards corporeal disturbers. He had not long to indulge
these premonitory reflections ere a door was opened. A figure,
completely enveloped in a black cloak, on which a red cross was
conspicuously emblazoned, stood before him. He carried a torch, and
Gervase saw a short naked sword glittering in his belt.

"Follow me," said the intruder; and, without further parley, pointed
to where another door was concealed in the pavement. This being
opened, Gervase beheld, not without serious apprehension, a flight of
steps evidently communicating with a lower dungeon. His conductor
pointed to the descent, and it would have been useless folly to
disobey. A damp and almost suffocating odour prevailed, as though from
some long-pent-up atmosphere, which did not give the prisoner any
increasing relish or affection for the enterprise. He looked at his
conductor, whose face and person were yet covered. Had he been a
familiar of the Holy Inquisition, he could not have been more careful
of concealment. Gervase looked now and then with a wistful glance
towards his companion's weapon. Being himself unarmed, it would have
been madness to attempt escape. He merely inquired in his descent--

"Whence this outrage? I am unarmed, defenceless." But there was no
reply. The guide, with an inclination of the head, pointed with his
torch to the gulf his victim was about to enter. There was little use
in disputation where the opposite party had so decided an advantage,
and he thought it best to abide the issue without further impediment.
He accordingly descended a few steps. His conductor fastened the door
overhead, and they soon arrived at the bottom, at a low arched
passage, where his guide dashed his flambeau against the wall, and it
was immediately extinguished.

Gervase was left once more in doubt and darkness. There was little
space for explanation. He felt himself seized by an invisible hand,
hurried unresistingly on, till, without any preparation, a blaze of
light burst upon him.

It was for a moment too overpowering to enable him to distinguish
objects with any certainty. Soon, however, he saw a tolerably spacious
vault or crypt, supported by massy pillars. He had often heard there
existed many unexplored subterranean passages reaching to an
incredible distance, made originally by the Knights Templars for their
private use. One of these, it was said, extended even to the chantry
just then dissolved at Milnrow, more than a mile distant. Many
strange stories he had been told of these warrior monks. But centuries
had elapsed since their suppression. For a moment he almost believed
they were permitted to reappear, doomed at stated periods to re-enact
their unhallowed orgies, their cruelties, and their crimes. The
chamber was lighted by three or four torches, their lurid unsteady
life giving an ever-varying character to the surrounding objects.

Opposite the entrance was a stone bench, occupied by several figures
attired in a similar manner to his conductor. An individual in the
centre wore in addition a belt covered by some cabalistic devices. The
scene was sufficiently inexplicable, and not at all elucidated by the
following interrogation:--

"Thou hast been cited to our tribunal," said the chief inquisitor.

"I know ye not," said Gervase, with great firmness, though hardly
aware of the position he occupied.

"Why hast thou not obeyed our summons?"

"I have not heard of any such; nor in good sooth should I have been
careful to obey had your mandate been delivered."

"Croix Rouge," said the interrogator, "has this delinquent been
cited?"

The person he addressed arose, bowed, and presented a written answer.

"I have here," continued the chief, "sufficient proof that our summons
hath been conveyed to thee, and that hitherto thine answer hath been
contumaciously withheld. What sayest thou?"

"I have yet to learn, firstly," said Gervase, with more indignation
than prudence, "by what authority you would compel me to appear; and
secondly, how and in what form such mandate had been sent?"

"Bethink thee, is our answer to the last: the first will be manifested
in due time. We might indeed leave thee ignorant as to what we
require, but pity for thy youth and inexperience forbids. Clegg Hall
is, thou knowest, along with the estate, now unlawfully holden by the
Ashtons."

"I know that sundry Popish recusants, plotting the overthrow of our
most gracious Queen, do say that other and more legitimate rights are
in abeyance only; but the present owners are too well fortified to be
dispossessed by hearsay."

"In the porch at Clegg thou wast accosted not long ago by a mendicant
who solicited an alms."

"Probably so."

"Did he not hold out to thee the sign of the Rosy Cross, the token of
our all-powerful fraternity of Rosicrucians?"

"I do remember such a signal; and furthermore, I drove him forth as an
impostor and a pretender to forbidden arts."

"He showed thee the sign, and bade thee follow?"

"He did."

"And why was our summons disobeyed?"

"Because I have yet to learn what authority you possess either for my
summons or detention."

"The brotherhood of the Red Cross are not disobeyed with impunity."

"I have heard of such a fraternity--as well too that they be idle
cheats and lying impostors."

"We challenge not belief without sufficient testimony to the truth of
our mission. In pity to man's infirmity this indulgence is permitted.
We unfold the hidden operations, the very arcana of Nature, whom we
unclothe as it were to her very nakedness. Our doctrines thereby carry
credence even to the most impious and unbelieving. Ere we command thy
submission, it is permitted to behold some manifestation of our power.
By means derived from the hidden essences of Nature, the first
principles which renovate and govern all things, the very elements of
which they consist, we arrive at the incorporeal essence called
spirit, holding converse with it undebased, uninfluenced by the
intervention of matter. Thus we converse in spirit with those that be
absent, even though they were a thousand leagues apart."

"And what has this jargon to do with my being despatched hither?"

"Listen, and reply not; the purport will be vouchsafed to thee anon.
We can compel the spirits even of the absent to come at our bidding by
subtle spells that none have power to disobey. We too can renew and
invigorate life, and by the universal solvent bring about the
renovation of all things--renovation and decay being the two
antagonist principles, as light and darkness. As we can make darkness
light, and light darkness at our pleasure, so can we from decay bring
forth life, and the contrary. Seest thou this dead body?"

A black curtain he had not hitherto observed was thrown aside, and he
beheld the features of Grace Ashton, or he was strangely deceived. She
was lying on a little couch, death visibly imprinted on her collapsed
and sunken features.

"Murderers! I will have ye dealt with for this outrage." Maddened
almost to frenzy, he would have rushed towards her, but he was firmly
holden by a power superior to his own.

"She is now in the first region of departed spirits," said the chief.
"We have power to compel answer to our interrogatories. Listen,
perverse mortal. We are well assured that a vast treasure is concealed
hereabouts, hidden by the Knights of St John. 'Tis beyond our
unassisted power to discover. We have asked counsel of one whom we
dare not disobey, and she it is hath commanded that we cite thee and
Grace Ashton to the tribunal of the Rosy Cross. This corporeal
substance now before us, by reason of its intimate union with the
spirit, purged from the dross of mortality, will answer any question
that may be propounded, and will utter many strange and infallible
prophecies. It will solve doubtful questions, and discourse of things
past, present, and to come, seeing that she is now in spirit where all
knowledge is perfect, and hath her eyes and understanding cleared from
the gross film of our corruption. But as spirit only hath power over
those of its own nature by the law of universal sympathy, so she
answers but to those by whom she is bidden that are of the same
temperament and affinity, which is shown by your affiance and love
towards each other."

The prisoner heard this mystic harangue with a vacant and fixed
expression, as though his mind were wandering, and he hardly
understood the profundity of the discourse. Every feeling was absorbed
in the conviction that some horrid incantation had for ever deprived
him of his beloved. Then he fancied some imposition had been practised
upon him. Being prevented from a closer examination, at length he felt
some relief in the idea that the form he beheld might possibly be a
counterfeit. He knew not what to say, and the speaker apparently
waited his reply. Finding he was still silent, the former continued
after a brief space:--

"Our questions to this purport must necessarily be propounded by thee.
Art thou prepared?"

"Say on," said Gervase, determined to try the issue, however repugnant
to his thoughts.

Two of them now arose and stood at each end of the couch. The superior
first made the sign of the cross. He then drew a book from his girdle,
and read therein a Latin exorcism against the intrusion of evil
spirits into the body, commanding those only of a heavenly and benign
influence to attend. He lighted a taper compounded of many strange
ingredients emitting a fragrant odour, and as the smoke curled heavily
about him, flickering and indistinct, he looked like some necromancer
about to perform his diabolical rites.

The occupant of that miserable couch lay still as death.

"The first question," cried out the chief; and he looked towards the
prisoner, who was now suffered to approach within a few paces of the
bed.

"Is there treasure in this place?"

Gervase tried to repeat the question, but his tongue clave to his
mouth. For the first time probably in his life he felt the sensation
of horrible, undefined, uncontrollable fear--that fear of the unknown
and supernatural, that shrinking from spiritual intercourse even with
those we have loved best. It seemed as though he were in communion
with the invisible world--that awful, incomprehensible state of
existence; and with beings whose power and essence are yet unknown,
armed, in imagination, with attributes of terror and of vengeance.

With a desperate effort, however, he repeated the question.
Breathless, and with intense agony, he awaited the response. It came!
A voice, not from the lips of the recumbent victim, but as though it
were some inward afflatus, hollow and sepulchral. The lips did not
move, but the following reply was given:--

"There is."

Even the guilty confederates started back in alarm at the success of
their own experiment. All was, however, still--silent as before.

Taking courage, the next question was put in like manner.

"In what direction?"

"Under the main pillar of the south-eastern corner of the vault."

After another pause, the following questions were asked:--

"How may we obtain the treasure sought?"

"By diligence and perseverance."

"At what time?"

"When the moon hath trine to Mercury in the house of Saturn."

"Is it guarded?"

"It is."

"By whom?"

"By a power that shall crush you unless propitiated."

"Show us in what manner."

"I may not; my lips are sealed. That power is superior to mine; the
rest is hidden from me."

The treasure-seekers were silent, as though disappointed at this
unexpected reply. Another attempt was, however, made.

"Shall we prosper in our undertaking?"

"My time is nigh spent. I beseech you that I may depart, for I am in
great torment."

"Thou shall not, until thou answer."

"Beware!"

But this admonition was from another source, and in a different
direction. The obscurity and smoke from the torches made it impossible
to judge with any certainty whence the interruption proceeded.

Gervase started and turned round. It might be fancy, but he was
confident the features of the Red Woman were present to his
apprehension. Horrors were accumulating. Even the united brotherhood
seemed to tremble as though in the presence of some being of whom they
stood in awe. They awaited her approach in silence.

"Fool! Did I not warn thee to do _my_ bidding only? And thou art
hankering again, pampering thy cruel lust for gold. How darest thou
question the maiden for this intent? Hence, and thank thy stars thou
art not even now sent howling to thy doom!"

This terrible and mysterious woman came forward in great anger, and
the Rosicrucian brotherhood were thereby in great alarm. "The maid is
mine--begone!" said she, pointing the way.

Like slaves under their master's frown, they crouched before this
fearful personification of their unhallowed and forbidden practices,
and departed.

"Gervase Buckley," she cried, "thou art betrothed to the heiress of
yon wide possessions."

"I am," said he, roused either to courage or desperation, even in the
presence of a being whose power he felt conscious was not derived from
one common source with his own.

"Dost thou confirm thy troth?"

"I do; in life and in death she is mine."

"Pledge thyself, body and soul, to her."

"I am hers whilst I live, body and soul. Nothing but death shall part
us."

"On thy soul's hope thou wilt fulfil this pledge!"

"I will." Gervase looked wistfully towards his beloved. The inanimate
form was yet pale and still; but a vague hope possessed him that the
witch would again quicken her.

"'Tis enough. But it must be sealed with blood!"

He felt her clammy hand on his arm, and a sharp pain as though from a
puncture. He quickly withdrew it, and a blood-drop fell on the floor.

"Thou art mine--for ever!"

A loud yell rang through the vaults, and Gervase felt as though the
doom of the lost spirits were his--that a whole troop of fiery demons
had assailed him, and that he was borne away to the pit of torment.
Happily his recollection forsook him, and he became unconscious of
future suffering.




PART THE SECOND.


Morning rose bright and ruddy above the hills. The elder Buckley was
up and stirring betimes. Agreeably to his usual practice, he had
retired early to bed, leaving the household cares and duties to his
helpmate. He was sitting in the porch when his dame, with a disturbed
and portentous aspect, accosted him:--

"I know not what hath come to the lad."

"Gervase--what of him?" said Nicholas, carelessly.

"He came home very late yesternight. But he did not speak, and he
looked so wan and woe-begone that I verily thought he had seen a ghost
or some uncanny thing yonder on his road home. I've just now been to
rouse him, but he will not answer. Prithee go and get speech of him,
good or bad. I think i' my heart the lad's bewitched."

Nicholas Buckley was a man of few words, especially in the presence of
his helpmate, so he merely groaned out an incredulous wonder, and went
off as he was bidden. He saw Gervase evidently under the influence of
some stupefying spell. His eyes were open, but he noticed neither the
question nor the person who accosted him. There was something so
horrible and mysterious in his whole appearance that the good man felt
alarmed, and went back to his dame with all possible expedition. What
_could_ have happened? They guessed, and made a thousand odd surmises,
improbable enough the greater part, but all merging in the prevailing
bugbear of the day--witchcraft, which was resorted to as a
satisfactory explanation under every possible difficulty. Had his
malady any connection with the unexpected appearance of the Red Woman
and the ring? It was safe buried, however, and that was a comfort. But
after all, her thoughts always involuntarily recurred to this
unpleasant subject. She could not shake off her suspicions, and there
was little use in attempting further measures unless she could fight
the Evil One with his own weapons. To this end, she began to cast
about for some cunning wizard who might countervail the plots of this
malicious witch.

Now at this period, Dr Dee, celebrated for his extraordinary
revelations respecting the world of spirits, had been promoted by
Queen Elizabeth (a firm believer in astrology and other recondite
pursuits) to the wardenship of the Collegiate Church at Manchester.
His fame had spread far and wide. He had not long been returned from
his mission to the Emperor Rodolph at Prague, and his intercourse with
invisible things was as firmly believed as the common occurrences of
the day, and as well authenticated.

The character of Dee has both been underrated and misunderstood. By
most, if not all, he has been looked upon merely as a visionary and an
enthusiast--credulous and ambitious, without the power, though he had
sufficient will, to compass the most mischievous designs. But under
these outward weaknesses and superstitions, tinctured and modified by
the prevailing belief in supernatural interferences, there was a bold
and vigorous mind, frustrated, it is true, by circumstances which he
could not control. Dee aimed at the entire change and subjugation of
affairs, ecclesiastical and political, to the dominion of an unseen
power--a theocracy or millennium--himself the sole medium of
communication, the high priest and lawgiver. To this end he sought the
alliance and support of foreign potentates; and his diary, published
by Casaubon, the original of which is in the British Museum, is a
remarkable and curious detail of the intrigues resorted to for this
purpose. His mission to the Emperor Rodolph, offering him the sceptre
of universal dominion, is told with great minuteness; and there is
little doubt that Elizabeth herself did not disdain to converse and
consult with him on this extraordinary project. Her visits to his
house at Mortlake are well known. He had been consulted as to a
favourable day for her coronation, and received many splendid
promises of preferment that were never realised. At length,
disappointed and hopeless as to the success of his once daring
expectations, he settled down to the only piece of preferment within
his reach--to wit, the wardenship of the Collegiate Church of
Manchester, where he arrived with his family in the beginning of
February 1596. His advice and assistance were much resorted to, and
particularly in cases of supposed witchcraft and demoniacal
possession--articles of unshaken belief at that period with all but
speculatists and optimists, the Sadducees of their day and generation.
His chief colleague throughout his former revelations had been one
Edward Kelly, born at Worcester, where he practised as an apothecary.
In his diary Dee says they were brought together by the ministration
of the angel Uriel. He was called Kelly the Seer. This faculty of
"_seeing_" by means of a magic crystal not being possessed by the
Doctor, he was obliged to have recourse to Kelly, who had, or
pretended to have, this rare faculty. Afterwards, however, he found
out that Kelly had deceived him; those spirits which ministered at his
bidding not being messengers from the Deity, as he once supposed, but
lying spirits sent to deceive and to betray.

Kelly was an undoubted impostor, though evidently himself a believer
in magic and the black art. Addicted to diabolical and mischievous
practices, he was a fearful ensample of those deluders given up to
their own inventions to believe the very lies wherewith they attempted
to deceive.

He was a great treasure-hunter and invoker of demons, and it is said
would not scruple to have recourse to the most disgusting brutalities
for the gratification of his avarice and debauchery. In Weaver's
_Funereal Monuments_, it is recorded that Kelly, in company with one
Paul Waring, went to the churchyard of Walton-le-Dale, near Preston,
where a person was interred at that time supposed to have hidden a
large sum of money, and who had died without disclosing the secret.
They entered precisely at midnight, the grave having been pointed out
to them the preceding day. They dug down to the coffin, opened it, and
exorcised the spirit of the deceased, until the body rose from the
grave and stood upright before them. Having satisfied their inquiries,
it is said that many strange predictions were uttered concerning
divers persons in the neighbourhood, which were literally and
remarkably fulfilled.

At the date of our legend Kelly had been parted from the Doctor for a
considerable time. The Doctor having found out his proneness to these
evil courses, Kelly bore no good-will to his former patron and
associate.

We have not space, or it would be an interesting inquiry, as connected
with the superstitions of our ancestors, to trace the character and
career of these individuals--men once famous amongst their
contemporaries, forming part of the history of those times, and
exerting a permanent influence immediately on the national character,
and remotely on that of a future and indefinite period.

Dame Eleanor Buckley was morally certain, firstly, that her son was
witched; and secondly, that no time should be lost in procuring
relief. Nicholas therefore took horse for Manchester that very
forenoon, with the intention of consulting the learned Doctor
above-named on his son's malady. Ere he left, however, there came
tidings that Grace Ashton had not returned home, and was supposed to
have tarried at Buckley for the night.

Trembling at this unexpected news, the dame once more applied to her
son. He was still wide awake on the couch, in the same position, and
apparently unconscious of her presence. In great anxiety she conjured
him to say if he knew what had befallen Grace Ashton.

"She is dead!" was his reply, in a voice strangely altered from his
usual careless and happy tone. Nothing further, however, could be
drawn from him, but shortly after there came one with additional
tidings.

"Inquiry has been set on foot," said the messenger, "and Tim, well
known at wakes and merry-makings, doth come forward with evidence
which justifies a suspicion that is abroad--to wit, that she has met
death by some unfair dealing; and further, he scruples not to throw
out dark and mysterious hints that implicate your son as being privy
to her disappearance."

At this unlooked-for intelligence the mother's fortitude gave way.
Tribulation and anguish had indeed set in upon them like a flood. The
ring, so unaccountably brought back by the Red Woman, was beyond doubt
the cause of all their misfortunes--its reappearance, as she
anticipated, being the harbinger of misery. What should be the next
arrow from her quiver she trembled to forebode. But in the midst of
this fever of doubt and apprehension one hope sustained her, and that
was the result of her husband's mission to Dr Dee, who would doubtless
find out the nature of the spell, and relieve them from its curse.

Let us follow the traveller to Dee's lodgings in the Deanery, where at
that time this renowned astrologer was located. Nicholas Buckley found
him sitting in a small dismal-looking study, where he was introduced
with little show either of formality or hesitation. The Doctor was now
old, and his sharp, keen, grey eyes had suffered greatly by reason of
rheum and much study. Pale, but of a pleasant countenance, his manner,
if not so grave and sedate as became one of his deep and learned
research, yet displaying a vigour and vivacity the sure intimation of
that quenchless ardour, the usual concomitant of all who are destined
to eminence, or to any conspicuous part in the age on which they are
thrown;--not idle worthless weeds on the strand of time, but landmarks
or beacons in the ocean of life, to warn or to direct.

He was short in stature, and somewhat thin. A rusty black velvet cap,
without ornament, surmounted his forehead, from which a few straggling
grey hairs crept forth, rivalling his pale, thoughtful brow in
whiteness.

He sat in a curiously embossed chair, with a brown-black leathern
cushion, beside an oaken table or tressel, groaning under the weight
of many ponderous volumes of all hues and subjects. Divers and occult
were the tractates there displayed, and unintelligible save to the
initiated. Alchemy was just then his favourite research, and he was
vainly endeavouring to master the jargon under which its worthlessness
and folly were concealed.

Nicholas Buckley related his mishap, and, as far as he was able, the
circumstances connected with it. The Doctor then erected a horoscope
for the hour. After consulting this, he said--

"I will undertake for thee, if so be that my poor abilities, hitherto
sorely neglected, and I may say despised, can bring thee any succour.
Indeed the land groans by reason of the sin of witchcraft--a noisome
plague now infesting this afflicted realm, and a grievous scandal to
the members and ministers of our Reformed Church. The ring is of a
surety bewitched, and by one more powerful and wicked than thou canst
possibly imagine. I tell thee plainly, that unless the charm be
broken, the recovery of the young man were vain--nay, in all
likelihood, thine own ruin will be the result."

The merchant groaned audibly at this doleful news. He thought upon his
merchandise and his adventures o'er sea--his treasures and his
argosies, committed to the tender mercies of the deep; and he
recounted them in brief.

"Cannot these be rescued from such disaster?" inquired he dolefully.

"I know not yet," was the reply. "Saturn, that hath his location here,
governing these expected treasures, now beholds the seventh house of
the figure I have just erected with a quartile aspect. They be evil
tokens, but as regards this same Mother Red-Cap or the Red Woman, who
hath doubtless brought you into grievous trouble, I know her. Nay,
look not incredulous. How, it is not needful to inquire. Suffice it
that she hath great power, through from a different source from mine.
She is of the Rosicrucian order, one of the sisters, of which there
are five throughout Europe and Asia. They have intercourse with
spirits, communicating too with each other, though at never so great a
distance, by means of this mystical agency. She hath been here, ay,
even in the very place where thou sittest."

The visitor started from his chair.

"And I am not ignorant of her devices. She is of a papistical breed;
and the recusant priests, if I mistake not, are at the working of some
diabolical plot; it may be against the life and government of our
gracious Queen! They would employ the devil himself, if need were, to
compass their intent. She hath travelled much, and doubtless hath
learned marvellous secrets from the Moors and Arabian doctors. It is,
however, little to the purpose at present that we continue this
discourse. What more properly concerns thee is how to get rid of this
grievous visitation, which, unless removed, will of a surety fall out
to thine undoing. By prayer and fasting much may be accomplished,
together with the use of all lawful means for thy release."

"Alas!" said Buckley, "I fear me there is little hope of a favourable
issue, and I may not be delivered from this wicked one!"

"Be of good heart; we will set to work presently, and, if it be
possible, counterplot this cunning witch. But to this end it is
needful that I visit the young man, peradventure we may gather tidings
of her. I know not any impediment to my journey this very day. Ay!
even so," said he, poring over some unimaginable diagrams. "Good!
there is a marvellous proper aspect for our enterprise thirty minutes
after midnight. Thou hast doubtless taken horse with thy servant
hither. I will take his place and bear thee company."

The Doctor was soon equipped for travel, much to the comfort of the
afflicted applicant, who was like to have taken his departure with a
sorry heart, and in great disquietude. On their arrival at Buckley,
Dee would needs see the patient instantly. No change had taken place
since morning, and he still refused any sustenance that might be
offered. The Doctor examined him narrowly, but refrained from
pronouncing on his case.

It was now evening. The sun shot a languid and fitful ray athwart the
vapours gathering to receive him, and its light shone on the full
couch of the invalid. The astrologer was sitting apart, in profound
meditation. Dame Eleanor suddenly roused him.

"He has just asked for the Red Woman," said she, "and I heard him
bemoaning himself, saying that he is betrothed to her, and that she
will come ere long to claim his pledge. Hark, he mutters again!"

Dee immediately went to the bedside.

"I did not kill her," said the victim, shuddering. He dashed the cold
sweat from his forehead with some violence. He then started up. "Is
she come?" said he in a low, hollow voice, and he sat up in the
attitude of intense expectation. "Not yet, not yet," he uttered with
great rapidity, and sank down again as though exhausted.

A stormy and lowering sky now gathered above the sun's track, and the
chamber suddenly grew dark. The inmates looked as though expecting
some terrific, some visible manifestation of their tormentor. Dee
looked out through the window. There was nothing worthy of remark,
save an angry heap of clouds, rolling and twisting together--the sure
forerunner of a tempest.

"The whole country is astir," said Dame Eleanor. "They are seeking for
the body of Grace Ashton in pits and secret places. Woe is me that I
should live to see the day;--the poor lad there is loaden with curses,
and fearful threatenings are uttered against us. We are verily in
jeopardy of our lives."

Hereat she fell a-weeping, and truly it was piteous to behold.

"We must first get an answer from him," said the Doctor, "ere measures
can be devised for his recovery."

"'Tis said there will be a warrant for his apprehension on the
morrow," said the elder Buckley.

"There is some terrible perplexing mystery, if not knavery, in this
matter," said Dee; "and I have been thinking--nay, I more than
suspect--that rascal Kelly hath a hand in it. He is ever hankering
after forbidden arts, and many have fallen the innocent victims to his
diabolical intrigues. He hath become a great adept of late, too, as I
am told, in this Rosicrucian philosophy; and if we have here a clue to
our labyrinth, depend on it we'll get to the end speedily. To spite
and frustrate that juggling cheat I will spare neither pains nor
study; though of a surety we only use lawful and appointed means.
Prayers and exorcisms must be resorted to, and help craved from a
higher source than theirs."

At length the forms and usages generally resorted to on such occasions
were entered upon. Loud and fervent were the responses, continuing
even to a late hour, but without producing any change.

The wind, hitherto rushing only in short fierce gusts through the
valley, now gathered in loud heavy lunges against the corner of the
house, almost extinguishing the solitary light on the table near to
which Dee sat; the casements rattled, and the whole fabric shook as
they passed by. At length there came a lull, fearful in its very
silence, as though the elements were gathering strength for one mighty
onslaught. On it came like an overwhelming surge, and for a moment
threatened them with immediate destruction. Dust, pebbles, and dead
branches were flung on the window, as though bursting through, to the
great terror of the inmates. Again it drew back, and there was
stillness so immediate, it was even more appalling than the loudest
assaults of the tempest. The household, too, were silent. Even Dee was
evidently disturbed, and as though in expectation of some
extraordinary occurrence.

A sharp quick tapping was heart at the casement.

"What is that?" was the general inquiry. Gervase evidently heard it
too, and was apparently listening.

Dee arose. He went slowly towards the window, as if carefully
scrutinising what might present itself. He put his face nearly close
to the glass, and manifestly beheld some object which caused him to
draw back. His forehead became puckered by intense emotion, either
from surprise or alarm. He put one finger on his brow, as though
taking counsel from his own thoughts, deliberating for a moment what
course to pursue. At length, much to the astonishment of his
companions, he opened the latch of the casement, when, with a dismal
croak, a raven came hopping in. With outstretched wings he jumped down
on the floor, and would have gone direct to the bed, but the Doctor
caught him, and by main force held him back.

Fluttering and screaming, the bird made every effort to escape, but
not before Dee was aware of a label tied round his neck. This he
quickly detached; after which the winged messenger flew back through
the open window, either having finished his errand, or not liking his
entertainment. Dee opened the billet--a bit of parchment--and out
dropped the ring! In the envelope was a mystical scroll, encompassed
with magic emblems, wherein was written the following doggerel, either
in blood or coloured so as to represent it:--

     "By this ring a charm is wound,
     Rolling darkly round and round,
     Ne'er beginning--ending never;
     Woe betide this house for ever!
     Thou art mine through life--in death
     I'll receive thy latest breath.
     Plighted is thy vow to me,
     Mine thy doom, thy destiny,
     Sealed with blood; this endless token,
     Like the spell, shall ne'er be broken."

Alarm was but too legible on the Doctor's brow. He was evidently taken
by surprise. He read it aloud, while fearful groans responded from the
victim.

"'Tis a case of grievous perplexity," said he, "and I am sore
distraught. If he have sworn his very soul to her, as this rhyme doth
seem to intimate, I am miserably afflicted for his case. Doubtless
'tis some snare which hath unwillingly been thrown about him.
Nevertheless, I will diligently and warily address myself to the task,
and Heaven grant us a safe deliverance. Yet I freely own there is both
danger and extremity in the attempt. She will doubtless appear and
claim the fulfilment of his pledge. But I must cope with her alone;
none else may witness the conflict. It is not the first time that I
have battled with the powers of darkness."

"But what motive hath she for this persecution? it is not surely out
of sheer malice," said the dame, weeping.

"Belike not," replied Dee thoughtfully. "It doth savour of those
incantations whereof I oft read in diverse tractates, whereby she
expects to gain advantage or deliverance if she sacrifice another
victim to the demon whereunto she hath sold herself. Indeed, we hear
of some whose tenure of life can only be renewed by the yearly
substitution of another; and it is to this possible danger that our
feeble efforts must be directed. But I trust in aid stronger than the
united hosts of the Prince of Darkness. This very night, I doubt not,
will come the final struggle."

The wind was now still, but ever and anon bursts of hail hurtled on
the window. Thunder growled in the distance, waxing louder and louder,
until its roar might have appalled the stoutest heart.

With many anxious wishes and admonitions the distressed parents left
the Doctor to himself.

He took from his pocket an hour-glass, a Bible, and a Latin
translation from the Arabic, being a treatise on witches, genii,
demons, and the like, together with their symbols, method of
invocation, and many other subjects equally useful. Intent on his
studies, he hardly looked aside save for the purpose of turning the
glass, when he immediately became absorbed as before.

Now and then he cast a glance towards the bed. His patient lay
perfectly quiet, but the Doctor fancied he was listening.

About midnight he heard a groan; he shut his book, and, looking aside,
beheld the terrible eye and aspect of the Red Woman glaring fiercely
upon him. She had in all likelihood been concealed somewhere within
hearing; for a closet-door, on one side of the chamber, stood open as
though she had just issued from it.

With great presence of mind he adjured her that she should declare her
errand.

"I am here on my master's business; mine errand concerns not thee,"
was the reply. Her terrible eyes glanced, as she spoke, towards the
bed where the unfortunate Gervase Buckley lay writhing as though in
torment.

"By what compact or agreement is he thine, foul sorceress? Knowest
thou not that there are bounds beyond which ye cannot prevail?"

"He hath sworn--the compact is sealed with blood, and must be
fulfilled. I am here to claim mine own; and it is at thy peril thou
prevent me."

"I fear thee not, but am prepared to withstand _thee_ and all thy
works."

"Beware! There's a black drop in thine own cup," said she. "Thou
thyself hast sought counsel by forbidden arts, and I can crush thee in
a moment."

Dee looked as though vanquished on the sudden. He was not altogether
clear from this charge, having, though at Kelly's instigation, been
led somewhat farther than was advisable into practices which in his
heart he condemned. He, however, now felt convinced that Kelly had
some hand in the business, knowing, too, that he would associate with
the most wicked and abandoned, if so be that he might compass his
greedy and unhallowed desire.

"Depart whilst thou may," she continued. "I warn thee. Yonder
inheritance is mine, though the silly damsel they have lost be the
reputed heir. Aforetime I have told thee. Wronged of our rights, I
have sold myself--ay, body and soul--for revenge! By unjust
persecutions we have been proscribed, those of the true faith have
been forced to fly, and even our lands and our patrimony given to yon
graceless heretics."

"But why persecute this unoffending house?--they have not done _thee_
wrong."

"It is commanded--the doom must be fulfilled. One condition only was
appointed. A hard task, to wit--but what cannot power and ingenuity
compass?--'When one shall pledge himself thine and for ever, then the
inheritance thou seekest is thine also, which none shall take from
thee. But he too must be rendered up to me.' This was the doom! 'Tis
fulfilled. He hath pledged himself body and soul, and that ring, if
need be, is witness to his troth."

"Is Grace Ashton living or dead?" inquired Dee, with a firm and
penetrating glance.

"When he hath surrendered to his pledge it shall be told thee."

"Wicked sorceress," said the Doctor, rising in great anger, "he shall
not be thy victim; thine arts shall be countervailed. The powers of
darkness are not, in the end, permitted to prevail, though for a time
their devices seem to prosper. Listen, and answer me truly, or I will
compel thee in such wise that thou darest not disobey. Was there none
other condition to thy bond?"

The weird woman here broke forth into a laugh so wild and scornful
that the arch-fiend himself could hardly have surpassed it in malice.

"Fret not thyself," she said, "and I will tell thee. Know, then, I am
scathless from all harm until that feeble ring shall be able to bind
me; none other bonds may prevail."

"This ring bind thee?"

"Even so; and as a blade of grass I could rend it! Judge, then, of my
safety. Fire, air, and water--all the elements--cannot have the power
to hurt me; I hold a charmed life. The price is paid!"

Dee looked curiously round the little thin ring which he held, and
indeed it were hopeless to suppose so frail a fetter could restrain
her.

"Thou hast told me the truth?"

"I have--on my hope of prospering in this pursuit of our patrimony."

"And what is thy purpose with the lad?"

"I have need of him. He is my hostage to him whom I serve."

"Thou wilt not take him by force!"

"I will not. He will follow whithersoever I lead. He has neither will
nor power to disobey."

"Grant a little space, I prithee. 'Tis a doleful doom for one so
young."

"To-morrow my time hath expired. Either he or I must be surrendered
to"----Here she pointed downwards.

"Agreed. To-morrow at this hour. We will be prepared."

The witch unwillingly departed as she came. The closet-door was shut
as with a violent gust of wind, after which Dee sat pondering deeply
on the matter, but unable to come to any satisfactory conclusion. He
never suspected for one moment what in this evil and matter-of-fact
generation would have occurred even to the most credulous--to wit,
that either insanity or fanaticism, aided by fortuitous events, if we
may so speak, was the cause of this delusion, at least to the unhappy
woman now the object of Dee's most abstruse speculations. His
thoughts, however, would often recur to his quondam associate, Kelly,
and, if in the neighbourhood, which he suspected, an interview with
him might possibly be of use, and afford some clue to guide their
proceedings.

Committing himself to a short repose, he determined to make diligent
search for this mischievous individual--having comforted in some
measure the unhappy couple below stairs, who were in a state of great
apprehension lest their son had already fallen a victim, and were
ready to give up all for lost.

Early on the ensuing day the Doctor bent his steps towards Clegg Hall,
whence the old family of that name had been dispossessed, and from
whom that mysterious individual, the Red Woman, claimed descent.

The air was fresh and bracing after the night's tempest. Traces of
its fury, however, were plainly visible. Huge trees had been swept
down, as though some giant hand had crushed them. Rising the hill
towards Belfield, he stayed a moment to look round him. There was
something in the loneliness and desertion of the spot that was
congenial to his thoughts. The rooks cawed round their ancient
inheritance, but all was ruin and disorder. His curiosity was excited;
he had sufficient local knowledge to remember it was once an
establishment of the Knights of St John some centuries before, and he
remembered too, that according to vulgar tradition, great riches were
buried somewhere in the vaults. A thought struck him that it was not
an unlikely spot for the operations of Master Kelly. Impressed with
this idea, a notion was soon engendered that his errand need not carry
him farther. He drew near to the ivied archway beneath the tower. The
mavis whistled for its mate, and the sparrow chirped amongst the
foliage. All else was silent and apparently deserted. He entered the
gateway. Inside, on the right hand, was a narrow flight of steps, and,
impelled by curiosity, he clambered, though with some difficulty, into
a dilapidated chamber above. Here the loopholes were covered with ivy,
but it was unroofed, and the floor was strewn with rubbish, the
accumulation of ages. Through a narrow breach at one corner he saw
what had once been a concealed passage, evidently piercing the immense
thickness of the walls, and leading probably to some secret chambers
not ordinarily in use. He now heard voices below, and taking advantage
thereby, crept into the passage, probably expecting to gather some
news by listening to the visitors if they approached. Two of these
ascended the broken steps, and every word was audible from his place
of concealment. He instantly recognised the voice of Kelly. The other
was a stranger.

"Ah, ah! old Mother Red-Cap, I tell thee, says we can never get the
treasure. By this good spade, and a willing arm to wit, the gold is
mine ere two hours older," said Kelly.

"I am terribly afeard o' these same boggarts," replied his companion.
"T'owd an--'ll come sure enough among us, sure as my name's Tim, some
time or another."

"Never fear, nunkey; thee knows what a lump I've promised thee; an' as
for the old one, trust me for that; I can lay him in the Red Sea at
any time. Haven't I and that old silly Doctor, who pretends, forsooth,
to have conscience qualms when there's aught to be gotten, though as
fond o' the stuff as any of us--haven't we, I say, by conjurations
and fumigations, raised and laid a whole legion o' them? Why, man, I'm
as well acquainted with the kingdom of Beelzebub, and his ministers to
boot, as I am with my own."

"Don't make sich an ugly talk about 'em, prithee, good sir. I thought
I heard some'at there i' the passage, an' I think i' my heart I darna
face 'em again for a' th' gowd i' th' monk's cellar."

"Tush, fool! If we get hold on 't now it shall be ours, and none o'
the rest of our brethren o' the Red Cross need share, thee knows. But
thou be'st but newly dubbed an' hardly initiated yet in our sublime
mysteries. Nevertheless, I will be indifferent honest too, and for thy
great services to us and to our cause I do promise thee a largess when
it comes to our fingers--that is to say, one-fifth to thee, and
one-fifth to me; the other three shares do go to the general
treasure-house of the community, of which I take half."

"A goodly portion, marry--but I'd liefer 't not gang ony farther."

"Villain! thou art bent on treachery; if thou draw back I'll ha' thee
hanged or otherwise punished for what thou hast done. Remember, knave,
thou art in my power."

The guilty victim groaned piteously, but he was irretrievably
entangled. The toils had been spread by a master-hand. He saw the gulf
to which he was hurried, but could not extricate himself.

"Yonder women, plague take 'em," said Tim; "what's up now? I know this
owd witch who's sold hersel' to--to--Blackface I'm afeard, is th'
owner o' many a good rood o' land hereabout, an' t'owd Ha' too, wi'
its 'purtenances. But she's brought fro' Spain or Italy, as I be
tou'd, a main lot o' these same priest gear; an' they're lurkin'
hereabout like, loike rabbits in a warren, till she can get rid o'
these Ashtons. Mony a year long past I've seen her prowling about, but
she never could get her ends greadly till now."

"By my help she shall," said Kelly; "it's a bargain between us. She's
brought her grandchildren too, who left England in their youth, being
educated in a convent o'er seas. They're just ready to drop into
possession."

"But poor Grace Ashton; she's gi'en me mony a dish of hot porritch an'
bannocks. She shauna be hurt if I can help it."

"Fool!--the wench must be provided for. Look thee--if she get away,
she'll spoil all. When dead, young Buckley must be charged with the
murder."

"Weel, weel; but I'll ha' nought more to do wi 't. E'en tak' your own
fling--I'll wash my hands on't altogether, an' so"----

"I want help, thou chicken-faced varlet--come, budge--to thy work; we
may have helpers to the booty, if time be lost."

"Mercy on us!" said Tim, in great dolour, "I wish I had ne'er had
aught to do wi' treasure-hunting an' sich-like occupation. If ever I
get rid of this job, if I don't stick to my old trade, hang me up to
dry."

"Hold thy peace, carrion! and remember, should a whisper even escape
thee, I will have thee hanged in good earnest."

"Ay, ay; just like Satan 'ticing to iniquity, an' then, biggest rogue
al'ays turns retriever."

"None o' thy pretences: thou hast as liquorish a longing after the
gold as any miser in the parish, and when the broad pieces and the
silver nobles jingle in thy fob, thoul't forget thy qualms, and thank
me into the bargain. Now to work. Let me see, what did the sleeping
beauty say? Humph--'Under the main pillar at the south-east corner.'
Good. Nay, man, don't light up yet. Let us get fairly underground
first, for fear of accidents."

To the great alarm of Dr Dee, who heard every word, these two worthies
came straight towards the opening. He drew on one side at a venture.
Luckily it proved the right one; they proceeded up the passage in the
opposite direction. He heard them groping at the further end. A
trap-door was evidently raised, and he was pretty well convinced they
had found the way to the vaults; probably it had been blocked up for
ages until recently, and in all likelihood Tim had pointed it out, as
well as the notion that treasure was concealed somewhere in these
labyrinths.

How to make this discovery in some way subservient to his mission was
the next consideration; and with a firm conviction, generally the
forerunner of success, he determined to employ some bold stratagem for
their detection. They were now fairly in the trap, and he hoped to
make sure of the vermin. For this end he cautiously felt his way to
the opposite extremity of the passage, where he found the floor
emitted a hollow sound. This was assuredly the entrance; but he tried
in vain--it resisted every effort. Here, however, he determined to
keep watch and seize them if possible on their egress, trusting to his
good fortune or his courage for help in any emergency that might
ensue. At times he laid his ear to the ground, but nothing was
audible as to their operations below. This convinced him they were at
a considerable distance from the entry, but he felt assured that ere
long they must emerge from their den, when, taken by surprise, he
should have little difficulty in securing the first that came forth,
keeping fast the door until he had made sure of his captive.

He watched patiently for some time, when all on a sudden he heard a
rumbling subterraneous noise, and he plainly felt the ground tremble
under his feet. A loud shriek was heard below, and presently footsteps
approaching the entrance. He had scarcely time to draw aside ere the
door was burst open, and some one rushed forth. The Doctor seized him
by the throat, and ere he had recovered from his consternation,
dragged him out of the passage.

"Villain! what is it ye are plotting here about? Confess, or I'll have
thee dealt with after thy deserts."

"Oh!--I'll--tell--all--I will"--sobbed out the delinquent, gasping
with terror. Tim, for it was none other, fell on his knees crying for
mercy. "Whoever thou art," continued he, "come and help--help for one
that's fa'n under a heavy calamity. Bad though he be, we maunna let
him perish for lack o' lookin' after."

"Hast got a light, knave?"

"I'll run an' fetch one."

"Nay, nay; we part not company until better acquainted. Is there not a
candle below?"

"Alas! 'tis put out--and--oh! I'd forgotten; here's t' match-box i' my
pocket."

He drew forth the requisite materials, and they were soon equipped,
exploring the concealed chambers we have before described. With
difficulty they now found their way, by reason of the dust arising
from the recent catastrophe. Dee followed cautiously on, keeping a
wary eye on his leader lest some deceit or stratagem should be
intended.

They now approached a heap of ruins almost choking the entrance to the
larger vault. He thought groans issued from beneath.

"He's not dead yet," said Tim. "Here, here, good sir; help me to shift
this stone first."

They set to work in good earnest, and, with no little difficulty and
delay, at length succeeded in releasing the unfortunate
treasure-hunter. Eager to possess the supposed riches, they had
incautiously undermined one of the main supports of the roof, and
Kelly was buried under the ruins. Fortunately he lay in the hollow he
had made, otherwise nothing but a miracle could have saved him from
immediate death. He was terribly bruised, nevertheless, and presented
a pitiable spectacle. Bleeding and sore wounded, he was hardly
sensible as they bore him out into the fresh air. Apparently unable to
move, they laid him on the ground until help could be obtained. In a
while he recovered.

"Thou art verily incorrigible," said the Doctor to his former
associate. "Where is the maiden ye have so cruelly conveyed away?"

But Kelly was dogged, and would not answer.

"I have heard and know all," continued Dee; "so that, unless thou wilt
confess, assuredly I will have thee lodged in the next jail on
accusation of the murder. Thy diabolical practices will sooner or
later bring thee to punishment."

"Promise not to molest me," said Kelly, who feared nothing but the
strong arm of the law, so utterly was he given over to a reprobate
mind, even to commit iniquity with greediness.

"What! and let thee forth to compass other and maybe more heinous
mischief! I promise nothing, save that thou be prevented from such
pursuits. Thou hast entered into covenant with the woman whom it is
our purpose in due time to deliver up to the secular arm. You think to
compass your mutual ends by this compact; but be assured your schemes
shall be frustrated, and that speedily."

At this Kelly again fell into a sulky mood, maimed and helpless though
he was; and revenge, dark and deadly, distorted his visage.

Tim here stepped forward.

"I do repent me of this iniquity, an' if ever I'm catched meddling wi'
sich tickle gear again, I'll gie ye leave to hang me up without judge
or jury."

"The best proof of repentance is restitution," said the Doctor.
"Knowest thou aught of the maiden?"

"I'll find her, if ye can keep that noisome wizard frae hurting me. He
swears that if I tell, e'en by nods, winks, or otherwise, he'll send
me to ---- in a whirlwind."

"I will give thee my pledge, not a hair of thy head shall be damaged."

"He has the key in his pocket."

"What of that?"

"It's the key to the old house door yonder, an' she's either there or
but lately fetched away."

The Doctor proceeded, though not without opposition, to the search.
The key was soon produced, and accompanied by the repentant
ballad-monger, he approached the mansion, which, as we have before
noticed, was near at hand, apparently untenanted.

"Yonder knave, I think, cannot escape," said Dee.

"No, no," said his conductor, "unless some'at fetches him; he's too
well hampered for that. His legs are aw smashed wi' that downfa'."

They entered a little court almost choked up with leaves and long
grass. The door was unlocked, and a desolate scene presented itself.
The hall was covered with damp and mildew--all was rotting in ruin and
decay. Tim led the way up-stairs. The same appearances were still
manifest. The dark shadow of death seemed to brood there--an
interminable silence. They entered a small closet, nearly dark; and
here, on a miserable pallet, lay the form of Grace Ashton, now, alas!
pale and haggard. She seemed altogether unconscious of their presence.
The horrible events of the preceding night had brought on mental as
well as bodily disease. It was the practice of these treasure-seekers
either to raise up a dead body for the desired information, or to
throw the living into such a state of mental hallucination that they
should answer dark and difficult questions whilst in that condition.
It not unfrequently happened, however, that the unfortunate victims to
these horrid rites either lost their lives or their reason during the
experiment.

We will not pursue the recital in the present case: suffice it to say,
that Grace Ashton was immediately removed and placed under the care of
her friends; the Doctor went back to Kelly for further disclosures,
but what was his surprise to find that by some means or another he had
escaped. He now lost no time in returning to Buckley, communicating
the painful, though in some degree welcome, intelligence that Grace
Ashton had been rescued from her persecutors.

It was now time to adopt measures for their reception of the witch,
who would doubtless not fail in her appointment.

Dee was yet in doubt as to the issue, and he thought it needful to
acquaint them with the only method by which the spell could be broken.
How it were possible that the ring should ever bind her was a mystery
that at present he could not solve. Dame Eleanor listened very
attentively, then sharply replied--

"I have heard o' this charm aforetime, or----By'r lady, but I have
it!"

She almost capered for joy.

We will not, however, anticipate the result, but entreat our readers
to suspend their guesses, and again accompany us to the chamber where
lay the heir of Buckley, still grievously tormented.

Midnight again approached. Dee was sitting at the table, apparently in
deep study. He had examined the closet, and found it communicated by
another passage to an outer door; and it was through this that the Red
Woman had contrived to enter without being observed. The learned
Doctor was evidently awaiting her approach with no little anxiety.
Once or twice he fancied some one tapped at the casement, but it was
only the wind rushing by in stormy gusts, increasing in strength and
frequency as the time drew nigh.

Hark! was not that a distant shriek? It might be the creaking of the
boughs and the old yew-tree by the door, thought Dee; and again, in a
while, he relapsed into a profound reverie. Another! He heard the
jarring of rusty hinges; a heavy step; and--the Red Woman stood beside
him; but with such a malevolent aspect that he was somewhat startled
and uneasy at her presence.

"I am beguiled of my prey!--mocked--thwarted. But beware, old man; thy
meddling may prove dangerous. I will possess the inheritance, though
every earthly power withstood me! That boy is mine. He hath sworn
it--sealed it with his heart's blood--and I demand the pledge." The
victim groaned. "Hearest thou that response? 'Tis an assent. He is
mine in spite of your stratagems."

This was probably but the raving of a disordered intellect, but Dee
was too deeply imbued with the superstitions of the age to suppose for
a moment that it was not a case of undisguised witchcraft, or that
this wicked hag was not invested with sufficient power to execute
whatever either anger or caprice might suggest.

"What is thy will with the wretched victim thou hast ensnared?" he
inquired.

"I have told thee."

"Thou wilt not convey him away bodily to his tormentors?"

"Unless they have a victim the inheritance may not be mine." She said
this with such a fiendish malice that made even the exorcist tremble.
His presence of mind, however, did not forsake him.

"The ring--I remember--there was a condition in the bond. In all such
compacts there is ever a loophole for escape."

"None that thou canst creep through," she said, with a look of scorn.

"It is not permitted that the children of men be tempted above
measure."

"When that ring shall have strength to bind me, and not till then. All
other bonds I rend asunder. Even adamant were as flaming tow."

"Here is a ring of stout iron," said Dee, pointing to an iron ring
fixed by a stout staple in the wall. "I think it would try thy boasted
strength."

"I could break it as the feeble reed."

The Doctor shook his head incredulously.

"Try me. Thou shall find it no empty boast."

She seemed proud that her words should be put to the test; and even
proposed that her arms should be pinioned, and her body fastened with
stout cords to the iron ring which had been prepared for this purpose.

"Thou shalt soon find which is the strongest," said she, exultingly.
"I have broken bonds ere now to which these are but as a thread."

She looked confident of success, and surveyed the whole proceeding
with a look of unutterable scorn.

"Now do thy worst, thou wicked one," said Dee, when he had finished.

But lo! a shriek that might have wakened the dead. She was unable to
extricate herself, being held in spite of the most desperate efforts
to escape. With a loud yell she cried out--

"Thou hast played me false, demon!"

"'Tis not thy demon," said Dee; "it is I that have circumvented thee.
In that iron ring is concealed the charmed one, wrought out by a
cunning smith to this intent--to wit, the deliverance of a persecuted
house."

The Red Woman now appeared shorn of her strength. Her charms and her
delusions were dispelled. She sank into the condition of a hopeless,
wretched maniac, and was for some time closely confined to this
chamber.

Buckley, recovering soon after, was united to Grace Ashton, who, it is
confidently asserted, and perhaps believed, was restored to immediate
health when the charm was broken.

     [20] Within the last few years, since this story
     was written, the old house itself has been levelled with the
     ground.

     [21] In the 39th of Eliz. Sir John Biron held the
     manor of Rochdale, subsequently held by the Ramsays; but in the
     13th of Charles I. it was reconveyed. The Biron family is more
     ancient than the Conquest. Gospatrick held lands of Ernais de
     Buron in the county of York, as appears by Domesday Book. Sir
     Nicholas Byron distinguished himself in the civil wars of
     Charles I.; and in consequence of his zeal in the royal cause
     the manor of Rochdale was sequestered. After the Restoration it
     reverted to the Byrons. Sir John, during these troubles, was
     made a peer, by the title of Baron Byron of Rochdale. In 1823
     the late Lord Byron sold the manor, after having been in
     possession of the family for nearly three centuries.




THE DEATH-PAINTER;

OR, THE SKELETON'S BRIDE.


"This will hardly keep body and soul together," said Conrad Bergmann,
as he eyed with a dissatisfied countenance some score of dingy
kreutzers thrust into his palm by a "patron of early genius,"--one of
those individuals who take great merit to themselves by just keeping
their victims in that enviable position between life and death,
between absolute starvation and hopeless, abject poverty, which
effectually represses all efforts to excel, controls and quenches all
but longings after immortality--who just fan the flame to let it smoke
and quiver in the socket, but sedulously prevent it rising to any
degree of steadiness and brilliance.

Conrad that morning had taken home a picture, his sole occupation for
two months, and this patron, a dealer in the "fine arts," dwelling in
the good, quiet city of Mannheim, had given him a sum equivalent to
thirty-six shillings sterling for his labour. Peradventure, it was not
in the highest style of art; but what Schwartzen Bären or Weisse
Rösse--Black Bears, White Horses, Spread Eagles, and the like, the
meanest, worst-painted signs in the city--would not have commanded a
higher price?

In fact, Conrad had just genius enough to make himself miserable--to
wit, by aspiring after those honours it was impossible to attain,
keeping him thereby in a constant fret and disappointment, instead of
being content with his station, or striving for objects within his
reach. Could he have drudged on as some dauber of sign-posts, or taken
to useful employment, he might doubtless have earned a comfortable
sustenance. He had, however, like many another child of genius, a soul
above such vulgarities; yearning after the ideal and the vain; having
too much genius for himself and too little for the world; suspended in
a sort of Mahomet's coffin between earth and heaven--contemned,
rejected, by "gods, men, and columns."

Conrad Bergmann was about two-and-twenty, of good figure and
well-proportioned features, complexion fair, bright bluish-grey eyes,
whiskers well matched with a pale, poetical, it might be sickly hue of
countenance, and an expression more inclining to melancholy than
persons of such mean condition have a right to assume. His father had
brought him up to a trade--an honest thriving business--to wit, that
of _knopfmacher_ (button-maker). But Conrad, the youngest, and his
mother's favourite, happened to be indulged with more idle time than
the rest, which, for the most part, was laudably expended in scrawling
sundry hideous representations--all manner of things on walls and
wainscots. Persevering in this occupation he was forthwith pronounced
a genius. About the age of fifteen, Conrad saw a huge "St
Christopher," by a native artist, and straightway his destiny was
fixed. He struggled on for some years with little success save being
pronounced by the gossips "marvellously clever." His performances
wanted that careful and elaborate course of study indispensable even
to the most exalted genius. They were not only glaring, tawdry, and
ill-drawn, but worse conceived; flashy, crude accumulations of colour
only rendering their defects more apparent. He was in a great measure
self-taught. His impetuous, ardent imagination could not endure the
labour requisite to form an artist. He would fain have read ere he had
learned to spell; and the result might easily have been foretold.

His father died, and the family were but scantily provided for. Conrad
was now forced to make, out a livelihood by what was previously an
amusement, not having "a trade in his fingers;" and he toiled on,
selling his productions for the veriest trifle. He had now no leisure
for improvement in the first elements of his art.

"Better starve or beg, better be errand-boy or lackey, than waste my
talents on such an ungrateful world. I'll turn
conjurer--fire-eater--mountebank; set the fools agape at fairs and
pastimes. Anything rather than killing--starving by inches. Why, the
criminals at hard labour in the fortress have less work and better
fare. I wish--I wish"----

"What dost wish, honest youth?" said a tall, heavy-eyed,
beetle-browed, swarthy personage, who poked his face round from
behind, close to that of the unfortunate artist, with great freedom
and familiarity.

"I wish thou hadst better manners, or wast i' the stocks, where every
prying impertinent should be," replied Conrad, being in no very
placable humour with his morning's work. The stranger laughed, not at
all abashed by this ill-mannered, testy rebuke, replying
good-humouredly--

"Ah, ah! master canvas-spoiler. Wherefore so hasty this morning? My
legs befit not the gyves any more than thine own. But many a man
thrusts his favours where they be more rare than welcome. I would do
thee a service."

"'Tis the hangman's, then, for that seems the only favour that befits
my condition."

"Thou art cynical, bitter at thy disappointment. Let us discourse
together hard by. A flask of good Rhenish will soften and assuage thy
humours. A drop of _kirchenwasser_, too, might not be taken amiss this
chill morning."

Nothing loth, Conrad followed the stranger, and they were soon
imbibing some excellent _vin du pays_ in a neighbouring tavern.

"Conrad Bergmann," began the stranger. "Ay, thou art surprised; but I
know more than thy name. Wilt that I do thee a good office?"

"Not the least objection, friend, if the price be within reach.
Nothing pay, nothing have, I reckon."

"The price? Nothing. At least nothing thou need care for. Thou art
thirsting for fame, riches; for the honours of this world;
for--for--the hand--the heart of thy beloved."

Amongst the rest of Conrad's calamities he had the misfortune to be in
love.

"Thou art mighty fluent with thy guesses," replied he, not at all
relishing these unpleasant truths; "and what if I am doomed to pine
after the good I can never attain? I will bear my miseries, if not
without repining, at least without thy pity;" and he arose to depart.

"All that thou pinest after is thine. All!" said the stranger.

"Mine! By what process?--whose the gift? Ha, ha!" and he drained the
brimming glass, waiting a solution of his interrogatory.

"I will be thy instructor. Behold the renowned Doctor Gabriel Ras
Mousa, who hath studied all arts and sciences in the world, who hath
unveiled Nature in her most secret operations, and can make her
submissive as a menial to his will. In a period incredibly short I
engage to make thee the most renowned painter in Christendom."

"And the time requisite to perform this?"

"One month! Ay, by the wand of Hermes, in one month, under my
teaching, shalt thou have thy desire. I watched thy bargain with the
dealer yonder, and have had pity on thy youth and misfortunes."

"Humph--compassion! And the price?" again inquired Conrad, with an
anxious yet somewhat dubious expression of tone.

"The price? Once every month shalt thou paint me a picture."

"Is that all?"

"All."

Now Conrad began to indulge some pleasant fancies. Dreams of hope and
ambition hovered about him; but he soon grew gloomy and desponding as
heretofore. He waxed incredulous.

"One month? Nothing less than a miracle! The time is too short.
Impossible!"

"That is my business. I have both the will and the power. Is it a
bargain?"

Conrad again drained the cup, and things looked brighter. He felt
invigorated. His courage came afresh, and he answered firmly--

"A bargain."

"Give me thy hand."

"O mein Herr--not so hard. Thy grip is like a smithy vice."

"Beg pardon of thy tender extremities. To-morrow then, at this hour,
we begin." Immediately after which intimation the stranger departed.

Conrad returned to his own dwelling. He felt restless, uneasy.
Apprehensions of coming evil haunted him. Night was tenfold more
appalling. Horrid visions kept him in continual alarm.

He arose feverish and unrefreshed. Yesterday's bargain did not appear
so pleasant in his eyes; but fear gave way apace, and ere the
appointed hour he was in his little workroom, where the mysterious
instructor found him in anxious expectation. He drew the requisite
materials from under his cloak, a well-primed canvas already prepared.
The pallet was covered, and Conrad sat down to obey his master's
directions.

"What shall be our subject?" inquired the pupil.

"A head. Proceed."

"A female?"

"Yes. But follow my instructions implicitly."

Conrad chalked out the outline. It was feebly, incorrectly drawn: but
the stranger took his crayon, and by a few spirited touches gave life,
vigour, and expression to the whole. Conrad was in despair.

"Oh that it were in my power to have done this!" he cried, putting one
hand on his brow, and looking at the picture as though he would have
devoured it.

"Now for colour," said the stranger; and he carefully directed his
pupil how to lay in the ground, to mingle and contrast the different
tints, in a manner so far superior to his former process, that Conrad
soon began to feel a glow of enthusiasm. His fervour increased, the
latent spark of genius was kindled. In short, the unknown seemed to
have imbued him with some hitherto unfelt attributes--invested him
either with new powers, or awakened his hitherto dormant faculties. As
before, by a few touches, the crude, spiritless mass became living and
breathing under the master's hand. Not many hours elapsed ere a pretty
head, respectably executed, appeared on the canvas. Conrad was in high
spirits.

He felt a new sense, a new faculty, as it were, created within him. He
worked industriously. Every hour seemed to condense the labour and
experience of years. He made prodigious advances. His master came
daily at the same time, and at length his term of instruction drew to
a close. The last morning of the month arrived; and Conrad, unknown to
his neighbours, had attained to the highest rank in his profession.
His paintings, all executed under the immediate superintendence of the
stranger, were splendid specimens of art.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the year ----, all Paris was moved with the extraordinary
performances of a young artist, whose portraits were the most
wonderful, and his miniatures the most exquisite, that eyes ever
beheld. They looked absolutely as though endowed with life--real flesh
and blood to all appearance; and happy were those who could get a
painting from his hand. The price was enormous, and the marvellous
facility with which they were despatched was not the least
extraordinary part of the business. There was a mystery, too, about
him, provokingly delightful, especially to the female portion of the
community. In place of living in a gay and fashionable part of the
city, his lodging was in a miserable garret, overlooking one of the
gloomiest streets of the metropolis. His manners, too, were forbidding
and reserved. Instead of exhibiting the natural buoyancy of his years,
he looked careworn and dejected; nor was he ever known to smile.

After a period whispers got abroad that several of his female subjects
came to strange and untimely deaths. They were seized with some
dangerous malady, accompanied by frightful delusions. In general they
fancied themselves possessed. Wailings, shrieks, and horrible
blasphemies proceeded from the lips of the sufferers. These reports
were doubtless exaggerated, the marvellous being a prodigiously
accumulative and inventive faculty; yet enough remained, apparently
authentic, to justify the most unfavourable suspicions.

About this time a young Italian lady of a noble house arrived on a
visit to her brother in the suite of the Florentine embassy. This
princely dame, possessed of great wealth and beauty, was not long
unprovided with lovers; one especially, a handsome official in the
royal household, De Vessey by name, and as gallant a cavalier as ever
lady looked upon. But her term of absence being nigh expired, the
lovers were in great perplexity; and nothing seemed so likely to
contribute to their comfort during such unavoidable separation as a
miniature portrait of each from the hands of this inimitable painter.
Leonora sat first, and the lover was in raptures. Hour by hour he
watched the progress of his work in a little gloomy chamber, where the
artist, like some automaton fixture, was always found in the same
place, occupied too as it might seem without intermission.

"The gaze of that strange painter distresses me inexpressibly," said
Leonora to her companion, as they went for the last time to his
apartment. "I have borne it hitherto without a murmur, but words
cannot describe the reluctance with which I endure his glance; yet
while I feel as though my very soul abhorred it, it penetrates--nay,
drinks up and withers my spirit. Though I shrink from it, some
influence or fascination, call it as thou wilt, prevents escape; I
cannot turn away my eyes from his terrible gaze."

"Thou art fanciful, my love," said De Vessey; "the near prospect of
our parting makes thee apt to indulge these gloomy impressions. Be of
good cheer; nothing shall harm thee in my presence. 'Tis the last
sitting; put on a well-favoured aspect, I beseech thee. Remember, this
portraiture will be my only solace during the long long hours of thine
absence."

As they entered the artist's chamber, the picture lay before him,
which he seemed to contemplate with such absorbing intensity that he
was hardly aware of their entrance. He did not weep, but grief and
pity were strangely mingled in his glance. It was but for a moment; he
quickly resumed his usual attitude and expression. Whether the
previous conversation had made her lover liable to take the tone and
character of her own thoughts, we know not; but for the first time he
fancied Leonora's apprehensions were not entirely without excuse. He
looked on the artist, and it excited almost a thrill of apprehension.
But speedily chiding himself for these untoward fancies, he felt that
little was apparent either in look or manner but what the painter's
peculiar and unexampled genius might sufficiently explain.

Suddenly his attention was riveted on the lady. He saw her lips quiver
and turn pale as though she would have swooned. In a moment he was at
her side. The support seemed to re-animate the fainting maiden, her
head drooping on his shoulder. Almost gasping for utterance, she
whispered, "Take me hence, I want breath--air, air!" De Vessey lifted
her in his arms and bore her forth into the open doorway. Trembling,
shuddering, and looking round, the first words she uttered were--

"We are watched--by some unseen being in yonder chamber, I am
persuaded. Didst not mark an antique, dismal-looking ebony cabinet
immediately behind the painter?"

"I did, and admired its exquisite workmanship, as though wrought by
some cunning hand."

"As I fixed my eyes on those little traceries, it might be fancy, but
methought I saw the bright flash of a human eye gazing on me."

"Oh! my Leonora, indulge not these gloomy impressions. Throw off thy
wayward fancies. 'Tis but the reflex image the mind mistakes for
outward realities. When disordered she discerns not the substance from
the shadow. Thou art well-nigh recovered. Come, come, let us in.
To-day is the last of our task; prithee take courage and return."

"On one condition only; if thou take the chair first, and note well an
open scroll to the right where those fawns and satyrs are carved."

"Agreed. And now shake off thy fears, my love."

De Vessey led her again to the apartment, and as though without
consideration sat down, his face directly towards the cabinet. He
fixed his eyes thereon a few seconds only, when Leonora saw him start
up suddenly with a troubled aspect and grasp the hilt of his sword.
Then turning to the painter he said, sternly--

"So!--We have intruders here, I trow."

"Intruders? None!" was the artist's reply, without betraying either
surprise or alarm.

"That we'll see presently," said the cavalier, hastening to the
cabinet; which, with hearty good-will, he essayed to open.

"Why this outrage?" inquired the painter, colouring with a hectic
flush.

"Because 'tis my good pleasure," was the haughty reply. The door
resisted his utmost efforts. "Doubtless held by some one within. Open,
or by this good sword I'll make a passage through both door and
carcase."

The hinges slowly gave way, the folding-doors swung open, and
displayed a grinning skeleton.

"Ah! what lodger is this?"

"Mine art requires it," said the painter, with a ghastly smile; but in
that smile was an expression so fearful, yet mysterious, that even De
Vessey quailed before it. Another miniature portrait, a precise copy
of the one in hand, hung from the neck of the skeleton.

Leonora, with a loud shriek, covered her face; but the lover, though
far from satisfied himself, strove to assure his mistress, and
besought her not to indulge any apprehension.

"You are disturbed, lady," said the artist. "'Tis but a harmless piece
of earth, a mouldering fabric of dust, a thing, a form we must all one
day assume. But to-morrow, to-morrow, if you will, we resume our
work."

Leonora, relieved by the intimation, gladly consented, fain for a
while to escape from this terrible chamber.

"Nought living was there, of a truth," said the cavalier, in evident
perplexity, as they regained their coach. "But I saw plain enough, or
imagination played me the prank, a semblance of a bright and flashing
eye on the spot pointed out. Something incomprehensible hangs about
the whole!"

Leonora agreed in this conclusion, expressing a fear lest harm should
happen to themselves thereby. They were not ignorant of the whispers
afloat, but hitherto treated them either with ridicule or
indifference. Suspicion, however, once awake, mystery once
apprehended, every circumstance, even the most trivial, is seized
upon, the mind bending all to one grand object which haunts and
excites the imagination.

Having left his companion at her brother's dwelling, De Vessey came to
his own, moody and dispirited. A vague sense of some grievous but
impending misfortune hung heavily upon him. Night brought no
mitigation of his fears. Spectres, skeletons, and demon-painters
haunted his slumbers. He awoke in greater torment than ever. The
duplicate portrait was brought to his remembrance with a vividness, an
intensity so appalling, that he almost expected to behold the skeleton
wearer at his bedside.

Involved in a labyrinth of inextricable surmises, and not knowing what
course to pursue, he arose early, and walked forth without aim or
design towards the church of Notre Dame.

The red sun was just bursting through a thick atmosphere of mist,
illuminating its two dark western towers, which looked even more
gloomy under a bright and glowing sky, like melancholy in immediate
contrast with hilarity and joy.

He passed the Morgue, or dead-house, where bodies found in the Seine
are exposed, in order that they may be owned or recognised. Impelled
by curiosity, he entered. One space alone was occupied. He could not
surely be deceived when he saw the body of the unfortunate painter!
Those features were too well remembered to be mistaken. Here was new
ground for conjecture, fresh wonder and perplexity. He left this
melancholy exhibition and entered the cathedral. Mass was celebrating
at one of the altars. De Vessey joined in adoration, strolling away
afterwards towards the vaults: one of them was open. From some vague,
unaccountable impulse, he thus accosted the sexton:--

"Whose grave is this, friend?"

"A maid's--mayhap."

"Her name?"

"The only remaining descendant of the Barons Montargis."

"I have some knowledge of that noble gentlewoman; she was just about
to be married. What might be the nature of her malady?"

"Why, verily there be as many guesses as opinions. The doctors were
all at fault, and, 'tis said, even now in great dispute. The king's
physician tried hard to save her. Old Frère Jeronymo, the confessor,
will have it she was possessed; but all his fumigations, exorcisms,
paters, and holy water could not cast out the foul fiend. She died
raving mad!"

"A miserable portion for one so young and high-born. Was there no
visible cause?"

"Cause!--Ay, marry; if common gossip be not an arrant jade. Her
portrait had been taken by that same limner who, they say, has been
taught in the devil's school, and can despatch a likeness with the
twirl of his brush."

"And what of that?" cried De Vessey, in an agony of impatience.

"Why, the same fate has happened to several of our city dames. That is
all."

"What has happened?"

"They have gone mad, and either felt or fancied some demon had gotten
them in keeping. For my part, I pretend not to a knowledge of the
matter. But you seem strangely moved, methinks."

The cavalier was nigh choking with emotion. Sick at heart, and with a
fearful presentiment of impending evil, he turned suddenly away.

His next visit, as may be supposed, was to his mistress. He found her
in great agitation. The portrait had been sent home the preceding
night, and completely finished, lay before her--an exquisite--nay,
marvellous--specimen of art. She was gazing on her own radiant
counterpart as he entered. They both agreed that something more than
ordinary ran through the whole proceedings, though unable to
comprehend their meaning. De Vessey related his discovery in the
Morgue, but not his subsequent interview with the sexton.

Ere night, Leonora was seized with a strange and frightful disease.
Symptoms of insanity were soon developed. She uttered fearful cries;
calling on the painter in language wild and incoherent, but of
terrific import.

The lover was at his wits' end. He vowed to spare no efforts to save
her, though scarcely knowing what course to pursue, or in what quarter
to apply for help.

His first care was to seek the dwelling of a certain renowned doctor,
a German, whose extraordinary cures and mode of treatment had won for
him great wealth and reputation. Though by some accounted a quack and
impostor, nevertheless De Vessey hoped, as a last resource, so cunning
a physician might be able to point at once to the source and cure of
this occult malady.

Doctor Herman Sichel lived in one of those high, antique,
dreary-looking habitations, now pulled down, situate in the Rue
d'Enfer. A common staircase conducted to several suites of apartments,
tenanted by various occupants, and at the very summit dwelt this
exalted personage.

A pull at the ponderous bell-handle gave notice of De Vessey's
approach, when, after due deliberation, it might seem, and a long
trial to the impatient querent, a little wicket was cautiously slid
back, behind a grating in the door. A face, partially exhibited,
demanded his errand.

"Thy master, knave!"

"He is in the very entrails of a sublime study. Not for my beard, grey
though it be, dare I break in upon him."

"Mine errand is urgent," said De Vessey; "and, look thee, say a noble
cavalier hath great need of succour at his hands."

"Grammercy, Sir Cavalier, and hath not everybody an errand of like
moment?--thy business, peradventure, less urgent than fifty others
whose suit I have denied this blessed day. I tell thee, my master may
not be disturbed!"

De Vessey held up a coin temptingly before the grating. It would not
go through, and the crusty Cerberus gently undid a marvellous array of
chains, bars, and other ingenious devices, opening a slit wide enough
for its insertion.

"Wider! thou trusty keeper," said the artful suitor outside. "I cannot
fly through a key-hole!"

A hand was carefully protruded. The cavalier, espying his opportunity,
thrust first his sword, afterwards himself, through the aperture, in
spite of curses and entreaties from the greedy porter. He was
immediately within a dark entrance or vestibule; the astonished and
angry menial venting his wrath in no measured phrases on the intruder.
De Vessey, in a peremptory tone, demanded to be led forthwith into the
doctor's presence. The old man delayed for a while, almost speechless
from several causes. His breath was nigh spent. Wrath on the one hand,
fear of his master's displeasure on the other, kept him, like
antagonistic forces, perpetually midway between both.

"Lead the way, knave, or, by the beard of St Louis, I'll seek him
through the house! Quick! thou hast legs; if not, speak! Mine errand
is urgent, and will not wait."

A stout and determined cavalier, with a strong gripe, and a sword none
of the shortest, was not to be trifled with; and, after many
expostulations, warnings, threats, had failed of their effect, he at
length doggedly consented.

"Thou wilt give me the coin, then, Sir Cavalier?"

"Ay, when thou hast earned it. Away!"

Passing through a narrow passage, lighted from above, his conductor
paused before a curiously-carved oaken door, at which three taps
announced a message.

"Now enter, and pray for us both a safe deliverance. But, prithee,
tell him it was not my fault thou hast gotten admission."

The door slowly opened, as though without an effort, and De Vessey was
immediately in the presence of the physician, evidently to the
surprise of the learned doctor himself, who angrily demanded his
business and the ground of his intrusion.

"Mine hour is not yet come, young man. Wherefore shouldst thou, either
by stratagem or force, thrust thyself, unbidden, into our presence?"

"To buy or beg thine aid, if it be possible. The case admits not of
delay. I crave thy pardon, most reverend doctor, if that content thee;
and, rest assured, no largess, no reward shall be too great, if thou
restore one, I fear me, beyond earthly aid."

"Thus am I ever solicited," replied the sage, with a portentous scowl.
He was clad in a gown of dark stuff, with slippers to match; his poll
surmounted by a small black velvet skull-cap, from which his white,
intensely white, hair escaped in great profusion. His visage was not
swarthy, but of a leaden, pale complexion, where little could be
discerned of the wondrous misrocosm within. Books, and manuscripts of
ancient form and character, emblazoned in quaint and mystic devices,
lay open on a long oak table, on which rested one elbow of the wise
man; the other was thrown over an arm of the high-backed chair whereon
he sat. The room contained plenty of litter in the shape of phials,
boxes, and other strange furniture. A cupola furnace was just heated,
the doctor apparently concocting some subtle compound.

"I am expected to wrest these helpless mortals even from the ravening
jaws of the grave! My skill never tried until beyond other aid!"

"But this disorder is of a sudden emergency. A lady of high birth and
lineage, a few hours since, was seized with a raging frenzy."

"A female, then?"

"Ay, and of such sweet temper and excellent parts, there be none to
match with her, body or mind, in Christendom."

"When did this malady attack her?"

"Almost immediately after a portrait, made by the celebrated painter,
was finished. Of him thou hast doubtless heard."

"The painter--ay! There be more than thou have rued his skill. Young
man, thy pretty one is lost!"

"Lost? Oh, say not so! I will give thee thine utmost
desire--riches--wealth thou hast never possessed, if thou restore
her!"

"She is beyond my skill. Hast visited him since?"

"I have seen him. She is the last victim, if such be her fate. This
very morning, betimes, I saw his body in the Morgue."

"They have found him, then?" said the doctor, sharply. "Yet our bodies
are but exuviæ. When cast off, this thinking, sentient principle
within has another tabernacle assigned to it, until the great
consummation of all things. But these are fables, idle tales, to the
unlearned. Nevertheless, I pity thy cruel fate, and, if aid can be
afforded, will call another to thine help. Hence! Thou shalt hear from
me anon."

"And without loss of time; for every moment, methinks, our succour may
come too late."

"I will forthwith seek out one whom I have heretofore taken knowledge
of. Every science has its votaries--its adepts; and this evil case
hath its remedy only by those skilled in arts called, however falsely,
supernatural. Even now there be intelligences around us which the
corporeal eye seeth not, nor can see, unless purged from the dross,
the fumes of mortality. Some, peradventure, by long and patient study,
have arrived on the very borders, the confines that separate visible
from invisible things, and become, as it were, the medium of
intercourse for mortals, who are by this means mightily aided in
matters beyond ordinary research. Put thine ear to this shell. Mark
its voice, like the sound of many waters. Are not these the invisible
source, the essence of its being? Has not everything in like manner,
even the most inanimate, a tongue, a language, peculiar to itself--a
soul, a spirit, pervading its form, which moulds and fashions every
substance according to its own nature? Now, this voice thou canst not
interpret, being unskilled--knowing not the languages peculiar to
every form and modification of matter; else would this beautiful type
of the ever-rolling sea discourse marvellously to thine ear. But thou
hast not the key to unclose its mystic tongue; hence, like any other
unknown speech, 'tis but a confused jumble of unmeaning sound. I have
little more knowledge than thyself, but there be those who can
interpret. Vain man--presumptuous, ignorant--scoffs at knowledge
beyond his reach, and thinks his own dim, nay, darkened reason,
glimmering as in a dungeon, the narrow horizon that circumscribes his
vision, the utmost boundary of all knowledge and existence, while
beyond lies the infinite and unknown, utterly transcending his
capacity and comprehension."

De Vessey drank up every word of this harangue; and something akin to
hope rose in his bosom as he withdrew.

"Thou wilt have a message ere nightfall. An awful trial awaits thee
ere the spell can be countervailed."

The cavalier withdrew, suffering many wistful remarks from the old
doorkeeper, who marvelled greatly at the interview so graciously
conceded by his master; while at the same time holding out his palm
for the promised largess.

De Vessey waited impatiently at his own dwelling for the expected
message. Evening drew on, dark and stormy. The wind roared along the
narrow streets in sharp and irregular gusts; while, pacing his chamber
in an agony of suspense, he fancied every sound betokened the
approaching communication. At length, when expectation was almost
weary, a louder rumbling was heard; a coach drew up at the door; a
hasty knock, and a heavy tramp; then footsteps ascending the
staircase. The door opened, and two _gens-d'armes_ entered.

"We have authority and instructions for the arrest of one Sigismund de
Vessey, on a charge of murder, made this day by deposition before the
Mayor and Prefecture of the Ville de Paris. The individual so named,
we apprehend, is before us."

"The same; though assuredly there is some mistake. Of whose death am I
accused?"

"Of one Conrad Bergmann, a painter, whose body, last night thrown into
the Seine, was to-day exposed in the Morgue. The rest will be
explained anon."

"But an engagement--one, too, of a most important nature--demands my
presence."

"No discretion is allowed us in this matter. The carriage waits."

However reluctant, De Vessey was forced to obey. Though confident of a
speedy release, this arrest at so important a juncture was provoking
enough. Leonora's recovery might probably depend on his exertions for
the next few hours, which were now suddenly wrested from him.

Leaving word that he would shortly return, the cavalier stept into the
vehicle, which immediately drove off.

In a little space the coach stopped, and De Vessey was invited to
alight. He was led up a narrow staircase; a door flew open. He
entered. Could it be; surely imagination betrayed his senses! He could
scarcely believe himself once more in the apartment of the painter!
Yet there was no mistaking what he saw. The ebony cabinet, the easel,
table, chair--all left as he saw them yesterday. But the living
occupants were strangely diverse. Two or three functionaries of the
civil power; and in one corner a black cloth, spread on the floor,
concealed some unknown object. The whole was lighted by a feeble lamp
from the ceiling. A dusky haze from the damp, foggy atmosphere
rendered objects ill-defined, indistinct, almost terrific to an
excited imagination. In addition to the usual articles of furniture
was a desk, with writing materials, at which one of the officers of
justice appeared dictating something to his secretary.

On De Vessey's entrance, the scribe made some minute preparatory to
his examination, which commenced as follows:--

"Sigismund de Vessey?"

"The same."

"Being accused upon oath before us of murder, thou art brought hither
to confront thine accusers, and to answer this heinous charge. First,
let the body be produced."

The cloth was removed, and De Vessey beheld the corpse lying on a
mattress.

"Knowest thou this body?"

"I do," said the cavalier, firmly.

"When was he seen by thee alive, the last time?"

"Yesterday, about noon."

"Where?"

"In this chamber."

"Not since?"

"Yes, but not living."

"Dead, sayest thou?"

"This morning in the Morgue."

"Not previously?"

"I have not. But pray to what purport this examination?"

"This will appear presently. When taken out of the river marks were
found upon the throat, as though from strangulation. Knowest thou
aught of these?"

"I do not," said the accused, indignantly.

This answer being written down, the examination was resumed.

"We have testimony that the unfortunate victim and thyself were seen
together about midnight; and, further, a short but violent struggle
was heard, and a heavy plunge; afterwards an individual, with whom
thou art identified, was seen departing in great haste, and entering
the house well known as thy residence in the Rue de" ----

"A most foul and wicked fabrication, for purposes of which as yet I am
ignorant. Of such charges I hardly need affirm that I am innocent."

"Let the accuser stand forth."

To the surprise and horror of De Vessey there appeared from a recess
the German doctor, Hermann Sichel, who, without flinching,
recapitulated the foregoing accusation. Moreover, he swore in the most
positive terms to his identity, and that not a doubt rested on his
mind but De Vessey was the murderer.

"In this very apartment," said the witness, "he, De Vessey, drew his
sword upon the painter yesterday, doubtless either from grudge or
jealousy; being enamoured of a fair Italian dame, Leonora da Rimini."

"Most abominable of liars!" said the accused, eyeing him with a
furious look. "How darest thou to my face bring this foul accusation.
Thou shalt answer for it with thy blood!"

"Hear him! What need of further testimony? His own betrays him," said
the doctor, with unblushing effrontery.

"We have other witness thou wilt not dare to gainsay," said the
presiding officer. "This learned person is amply corroborated by
evidence that must effectually silence all denial. He hath referred us
to her who was present, Leonora da Rimini."

"Leonora! what, my own--my betrothed? She my accuser?"

"Spare thy speech and listen. We could not bring the maiden hither,
insomuch as the nature of her malady admits not of removal: but her
evidence and accusation are duly attested, taken at her own request,
not many hours ago. The substance of her deposition is as follows:--A
confession to her of thine intention to murder Conrad Bergmann, the
artist aforesaid, being jealous of his attentions; and furthermore, in
the agony of guilt, thou didst confess in her presence, having first
strangled, and afterwards thrown him into the river, hoping thereby to
conceal thy crime; then forcing her to swear she would keep the matter
secret, and threatening her life in case it were divulged. This
outrage, and this alone, hath nigh driven her frantic; her life being
in jeopardy from thy violence. What sayest thou, Sigismund de
Vessey?"

"A lie, most foul and audacious, trumped up by that impostor! Leonora?
Impossible. I would not believe though it were from her own lips. Some
demon hath possessed her. This disorder is more than common madness."

He looked around. The whole was like the phantasma of some terrible
dream. Bewildered, and hardly knowing what course to pursue, in vain
he attempted to shake the testimony of the hoary villain before him;
and having at present none other means of rebutting the accusation, he
was ordered into close custody until the morrow.

Utterly unprepared with evidence, he knew not where to apply. That he
was the victim of some foul plot so far appeared certain; but for what
purpose, and at whose instigation, was inexplicable.

Ere an hour had elapsed De Vessey found himself in one of the cells of
a public dungeon, with ample leisure to form plans for proving his
innocence. He determined early on the morrow to acquaint his friends,
and employ a celebrated advocate to expose this villainous doctor, who
no doubt had designs either on his purse or person.

In a while the prisoner fell asleep from fatigue and exhaustion. He
was awakened by a sudden glare across his eyelids. At first, imagining
he was under the influence of some extravagant dream, he made little
effort to arouse himself. A figure stood beside the couch, a lamp
lifted above his head. A friar's cowl concealed his features; his
person, too, was enveloped in a coarse garment, with a huge rosary at
his girdle.

"Mortal, awake and listen," said the unknown visitor. "Art weary of
life, or does this present world content thee?"

"Who art thou?" said De Vessey, scarcely raising himself from the
pallet.

"I am thy friend, thy deliverer, an' thou wilt."

"Thanks!" said the knight, springing from his recumbent posture.

"Stay!" replied the intruder; "there be conditions ere thou pass
hence. Miserable offspring of Adam, ye still cling to your prison and
your clay. Wherefore shrink from the separation, afraid to shake off
your bonds, your loathsome carcase, and spring forth at once to life?
Art thou prepared to fulfil one--but one condition for thy release?"

"Name it. Manifest my innocence; and if it be gold, thou shalt have
thy desire. No hired advocate e'er yet held such a fee."

"Keep thy gold for baser uses; it buyeth not my benefits. But
remember, thy life is not worth a week's purchase, neither is thy
mistress's, forsooth, shouldest thou be witless enough to refuse. An
ignominious death, a base exit for thyself--for her, madness and a
speedy grave. One fate awaits ye both. Life and health, if thou
consent, are yours."

"Thou speakest riddles. It were vain trying to comprehend their
import. Name thy conditions. Aught that honour may purchase will I
give."

The stranger threw back his cowl, displaying the features of the
renowned Doctor Hermann Sichel. A gleam of lurid intelligence lighted
his grim grey eyes, that might betoken either insanity or excitement.

Without reflecting for one moment on the hazard or imprudence of his
conduct, De Vessey immediately rushed forward, grappled with his
adversary, and threw him.

"Now will I have deadly vengeance, fiend! Take that!" said he, drawing
forth a concealed poniard and thrusting with all his might. Scorn
puckered the features of the pretended monk. The weapon's point was
driven back, refusing to enter, as though his enemy held a charmed
existence.

"Put back thy weapon; thou wilt have need of it elsewhere, silly one."

De Vessey was confounded at this unlooked-for result. His foe seemed
invulnerable, and he slunk back.

"I forgive thee, poor fool! Put it back, I say. There--there; now to
work--time hastens, and there is little space for parley."

"What is thy will?"

"Thy welfare, thy life: listen. Yonder unhappy wretch I have loaden
with benefits, rescued from poverty, disgrace; lifted him to the
pinnacle of his ambition--the highest rank in art. Base ingrate, he
threatened to betray, to denounce, and I crushed the reptile. He is
now what thou shalt be shortly unless my power be put forth for thy
rescue. Not all the united efforts of man can deliver thee. Beyond
earthly aid, thou diest the death of a dog!"

"Why dost thou accuse me of a crime, knowing that I am innocent?"

"To drive thee, helpless, into my power. Think not to escape save on
one condition."

"Name it," said De Vessey.

"Self-preservation is the great, the paramount law of our nature; the
most powerful impulse implanted in our being. All, all obey this
impulse; and who can control or forbid its operation? Will not the
most timid, the most scrupulous, if no alternative be afforded, slay
the adversary who seeks his life; and does not the law both of earth
and heaven hold him guiltless? Thou art now denounced. Innocent, thy
life must be sacrificed. Thou diest, or another; there is no choice."

"But shall _I_ murder the innocent?"

"And suppose it be. What thinkest thou? Two persons, equally
guiltless, one of them must die. Self-preservation will prompt
instinctively to action. Does not the drowning man cling to his
companions; nay, rescue himself at the expense of another's life?"

De Vessey felt bewildered, if not convinced. Need we wonder if he
yielded. Life or death; honour, disgrace. His mistress restored; his
innocence proved. Life, with him, had scarcely been tasted. A glorious
career awaited him; his lady-love smiling through the bright vista of
the future; and----The tempter prevailed!

But who must be the victim? The appalling truth was not then
disclosed. De Vessey promised to obey.

"But remember, no power, not even flight, can screen thee from my
vengeance shouldst break thy vow. Take warning by the painter; the
poor fool but hesitated, and his doom was swift as it was sure. Take
this cowl and friar's garment; I was admitted by the jailer for thy
shrift. The lamp will guide thee. Be bold, and fear not. I will
remain; to-morrow they will find out their mistake, but I have other
means of escape."

"And Leonora. How shall she be recovered?"

"That is a work of peril, and will need thine utmost vigilance.
Rememberest thou the skeleton?"

"In the ebony cabinet?" inquired the cavalier, with a cold shudder.

"He hath her portrait, and will not lightly be persuaded to give his
prey. _Every month I am bound to furnish him a bride!_ My own life
pays the forfeit of omission. Leonora is the next victim, unless thou
prevail, betrothed to that grisly type of death!"

"Oh, horrible! Mine the bride of a loathsome skeleton! Of an atomy! A
fiend! Monster, I will denounce thee. I care not for my own life. Of
what worth if torn from hers. Wretch, give back my bride or"----

"Spare these transports. I am now thine only friend. Thou art now cut
off from thy kin, shunned by mankind. To whom, then, wilt thou turn
for help? Mine thou art for ever!"

De Vessey gasped for utterance.

"Nevertheless," continued his tormentor, "I will direct and help thee
in this matter also. But 'tis a fearful venture. Hast thou courage?"

"If to rescue her, aught that human arm can achieve shall be done."

"He holds the portrait, I tell thee, with a steady gripe. Those
skeleton fingers will be hard to unloose."

"I will break them or perish. This good"----

"Touch them not for thy life. Death, sure but lingering, awaits
whomsoever they fasten upon. Take this key. It will admit thee to the
apartment. To-night the deed must be accomplished, or to-morrow the
maiden is beyond succour."

"And how is this charmed picture to be wrested from him?"

"An ebony wand lies at his feet; he will obey its touch. But
whatsoever thou seest, be nothing daunted, nor let any silly terror
scare thee from thy purpose. Now to thy task. But keep these marvels
to thyself. If thou whisper--ay, to the winds--our compact, thou art
not safe."

Soon De Vessey, enveloped in his disguise, found egress without
difficulty. Once outside the prison, he hurried on, scarcely giving
himself time for reflection.

The night was dark and stormy. Torches, distributed about the streets,
rocked and swung to and fro in their sockets, the flames, with a
strange and flickering glare, giving an unnatural distorted appearance
to objects within reach; and to some solitary individual, at this late
hour hurrying alone, the grim aspect of a demon or a spectre to the
disturbed imagination of the lover. His courage, at times on the point
of deserting him, revived when he remembered that another's life,
dearer than his own, depended on his exertions. The streets, almost
deserted, swam with continually accumulating torrents; but he felt not
that terrible tempest; the turmoil, the conflict within, was louder
than the roar and tumult of outward elements.

Almost ere he was aware he found himself opposite the entrance of the
painter's habitation; a shudder, like a death-chill, shot through his
frame. He applied his key. A distant gleam, a dim lurid light, seemed
to quiver before him. He heard the quick jar, the withdrawing bolt,
that gave him admittance, as though it were a spectral voice warning
him to desist.

The unknown dangers he anticipated, rendered more terrific by their
vague indefinite character, were enough to appal a stouter bosom. De
Vessey would have faced and defied earthly perils, but these were
almost beyond his fortitude to endure. Love, however, gave excitement,
if not courage, and he resolved either to succeed or perish in the
attempt. The stairs were partially illumined by an uncertain glimmer
from a narrow window into the street. He felt his way, and every step
sent the life-blood curdling to his heart. He reached the topmost
stair; laid one hand on the latch. He listened; all was still save the
hollow gusts that rumbled round the dwelling.

With a feeling somewhat akin to desperation he entered. A lamp, yet
burning, emitted a feeble glare, but was well-nigh spent, giving a
more dismal aspect to this lonely chamber. It was apparently
unoccupied. The chair, the black funeral pall left by the officers of
justice over the pallet, the mysterious cabinet, the desk where the
painter usually sat, all remained undisturbed. De Vessey's attention
was more particularly directed towards the cabinet; there alone,
according to his instructions, were the means of deliverance. A cold,
clammy perspiration, a freezing shiver, came upon him as he
approached. He laid one hand on the latch; it resisted as before. He
tried force, a loud groan was heard in the chamber. Every fibre of his
frame seemed to grow rigid; every limb stiffened with horror; and he
drew back.

This was a sorry beginning to the adventure, and he inwardly repented
of his rashness. Looking round in extreme agony, his eyes rested on
the black pall. Could it be, or was it from the expiring glimmer of
the lamp? The drapery appeared to move. Another and a deeper groan! De
Vessey for a space was unable to move; but his courage came apace,
inasmuch as it was some relief, and a diversion from the awful
mysteries of that grim cabinet. He approached the pallet hastily,
throwing off the heavy coverlet. The recumbent body was yet beneath,
but convulsed, as though struggling to free itself from an oppressive
burden. De Vessey watched, while his blood froze with terror.
Gradually these convulsive movements extended to the features. The
lips quivered as though essaying to speak; the eye-balls rolling
rapidly under their lids. A slight flush dawned upon the cheek; the
hands were tightly closed, and another groan preceded one desperate
attempt to throw off the load which prevented returning animation. At
length the eyes opened with a ghastly stare; but evidently conveying
no outward impression to the inward sense. With a loud shriek the body
started up; then, uttering a wild and piercing cry, rolled on the
floor, foaming and struggling for life as though with some powerful
adversary.

"Save me!--save me!" was uttered in a tone so harrowing and dreadful,
more than mortal agony, that De Vessey would have fled, but his limbs
refused their office.

"He strangles me! Fiend--have--have mercy! Wilt thou not? Oh, mercy,
mercy, Heaven!" His senses, though evidently bewildered, resumed their
functions. With a glare of intense anguish he appeared as though
supplicating help and deliverance.

"Who art thou?" was the first inquiry and symptom of returning reason.
"I know thee, De Vessey. But why art thou here? Another victim. Yes,
to torture me. Where am I? In my own chamber! Oh--that horrid cabinet!
Yet--yet these cruel torments. Will they never end?"

De Vessey immediately perceived there was no delusion; the mortal form
of the artist was really before him. Terrible though it were, yet it
was a relief to have companionship with his kind, a being of flesh and
blood beside him. He might now peradventure accomplish his task.
Providence, maybe, had opened a way for his deliverance, and hope once
more dawned on his spirit. He helped the miserable artist to regain
his couch, and sought to soothe him, beseeching the helpless victim
not to give way to frenzy, doubtless resulting from his strange and
emaciated condition. A miracle or a spell had been wrought for his
resuscitation; but the events of the last few hours were alike
enigmas, beyond the common operations of nature to explain.

"Yesterday I attempted suicide," said the artist, "taking poison to
escape a life insupportable to me. Fain would I have broken the chain
which binds me to this miserable existence. But yon tyrant hath given
me a charmed life. I cannot even die!"

"Thy body was dragged from the Seine."

"How?" inquired the artist, with an incredulous look.

"And exposed this morning in the Morgue," continued De Vessey.

"When will my sufferings cease? How have I prayed for deliverance from
this infernal thraldom!"

"Yon deceiver hath doubtless thrown thee into the river, and supposing
thou wert dead, he designs me to supply thy place; to carry on the
dark mystery of iniquity, a glimpse of which hath already been
revealed."

"Would that I had been left to perish--that my doom were ended.
Avarice--ambition--how enslaved are your victims! How have I longed
for my miserable cottage, my poverty, my obscurity--cold and pinching
want, but a quiet conscience to season my scanty meal! I bartered all
for gold, for fame and--misery! A cruel bondage! compared to which I
could envy the meanest thing that crawls on this abject earth. In my
trance I dreamed of green fields and babbling streams; of my brethren,
my playmates, my days of innocence and sport, when all was freshness
and anticipation--life one bright vista beyond, opening to sunny
regions of rapture and delight. And now, what am I?--a wretch,
degraded, undone--a spectacle of misery beyond what human thought can
conceive. Doomed to years, ages it may be, of woe--to scenes of horror
such as tongue ne'er told, and even imagination might scarce endure,
and my miseries but a foretaste of that hereafter!"

Here the guilty victim writhed in a paroxysm of agony; his veins
swollen almost to bursting. Whether real or imaginary, whether a
victim to insanity or of some supernatural agent, its influence was
not the less terrible in its effects. Starting suddenly from his
grovelling posture, he cried, fixing his eyes on De Vessey with a
searching glance--

"What brings thee hither?"

"Leonora is in jeopardy by your spells. I seek her deliverance."

"She is beyond rescue. Leonora da Rimini is THE SKELETON'S BRIDE."

Here the painter threw such a repulsive glance towards the cabinet
that the cavalier shrank back as though expecting some grisly spectre
from its portals; yet, himself the subject of an extraordinary
fascination, he could not withdraw his gaze.

"Fly, fly, or thou art lost! My tormentor will be here anon--I would
have saved her, and he fixed his burning gripe here, I feel it still;
not a night passes that he comes not hither. Away! shouldest thou meet
him thy doom is fixed, and for ever. I would not that another fell
into his toils. Couldest thou know, ay, but as a whisper, the secrets
of this prison-house, thy spirit would melt, thy flesh would shrink as
though the hot wind of the desert had passed over it. What I have
endured, and what I must endure, are alike unutterable."

"Thy keeper comes not to-night. He hath sent me to this chamber of
death instead. He knows not thou art alive."

"Thee!--to--but I must not reveal; my tongue cleaves to my mouth. Nay,
nay, it cannot be; none but a fiend could do his behest. Away! for thy
life, away!"

De Vessey related the events of the last few hours. The artist
ruminated awhile, then abruptly exclaimed--

"He hath some diabolical design thereupon which I am not yet able to
fathom. That it is for thine undoing, Sir Knight, for thy misery here
and hereafter, doubt not. Thou hast promised, but not yet offered him
a victim. Thus far thou art safe; but he will pursue thee; and think
not to escape his vengeance. How to proceed is beyond my counsel.
Should midnight come, thou wouldest see horrors in this chamber that
might quail the stoutest heart. Thou art bereft of life or reason if
thou tarry."

"I leave not without an attempt, even should I fail, to wrench her,
who is dearer to me than either, from that demon's grasp. I will not
hence alone."

"Alas! I fear there is little hope; yet shall he not escape yonder
prison before to-morrow. Even his arts cannot convey him through its
walls; the magician's body, if such he be, is subject to like
impediments with our own. This night, for good or ill, is thine."

"To work, then, to work," said De Vessey, as though inspired with new
energy, "to the rescue, and by this good cross," kissing the handle of
his sword, "I defy ye!"

By main force he attempted, and in the end tore open the door of the
cabinet. The grinning skeleton was before him, the miniature in its
grasp. A moment's pause. The cavalier carefully surveyed his prize.
Suspended by an iron chain, the links entwined round its bony arm,
rendered the picture difficult, if not impossible, to detach without
touching the limbs. Gathering fresh courage from the countenance and
smile of his beloved, he snatched the portrait, but the wearer was too
tenacious of the charmed treasure, and resisted his utmost efforts. He
thought a savage, a malicious grin crept upon his features. A smile
more than usually hideous mocked him. From those hollow sockets too,
or his imagination played strange antics, a faint glare shot forth. A
dizzy terror crept over him. His brain reeled. His energies were
becoming prostrate; and unless one desperate attempt could be made,
all hopes of rescue were past. He sought the ebony wand, but forgetful
or incautious, laid hold of the chain which encircled the skeleton's
wrist. A bell answered to the pressure,--a deep hollow reverberation,
like a death-knell, in his ear.

"Hark! that iron tongue--lost--lost! Oh! mercy, mercy!" shrieked the
death-painter, covering his eyes.

At this moment De Vessey heard a noise like the jarring of bolts and
hinges. Ere he was aware the skeleton's arms were fastened round him;
the doors closed; the floor gave way under his feet. He felt the
pressure relaxing; he fell; the hissing wind rushed in his ears.
Stunned with his fall, he lay for a while in the dark, scarcely able
to move. It was not long ere he was able to grope about. Rotting
carcases and bones met his touch--a noisome charnel-house gorged with
human bodies in all the various stages of decay. His heart sickened
with a fearful apprehension that he was left to perish by a lingering
death, like those around him. Despair for the first time benumbed his
faculties. His courage gave way at the dreadful anticipation, and he
grasped the very carcase on which he trod for succour.

Suddenly, a loud yell burst above him. A blaze of burning timbers
flashed forth--crackling, they hissed, and fell into the vault.
Through an opening overhead he saw the skeleton seized by devouring
flames. They twined, they clung round it. Their forky tongues licked
the bones that appeared to writhe and crawl in living agony.

Soon the chain which held the portrait gave way, and it dropped at his
feet unhurt. A shriek issued from the flaming cabinet, and he saw the
painter with a burning torch above. A maniac joy lighted up his
features; he shouted to De Vessey, and with frantic gestures beckoned
that he should escape.

"If thou canst climb yonder stair," he cried, "before the flames cut
off thy retreat, thou art safe. See, Leonora is already free.
Haste--this way--there--there--now leap--mind thy footing--'tis too
frail--creep round--those rafters are unbroken; another spring, and
thou mayest reach them in safety."

The flames were close upon him. He was nigh suffocated. A perilous
attempt; but at length he gained the upper floor, and his deliverer
exclaimed--

"Thanks, thanks, he is safe! By this good hand, too, that wrought your
misery. Oh! that a life of penitence and prayer might atone for my
guilt. It was a thought inspired by Heaven, prompted me to set on fire
that insatiate demon, to whom my taskmaster offered those wretched
victims, and every month a bride, on pain of his own destruction. What
might be the nature of that skeleton form, or their compact, thou
canst neither know nor understand. Even I, though nightly witnessing
horrors which have given to youth the aspect and decrepitude of age,
cannot explain. A connection, if not inseparable, yet intimate as body
and soul, existed between those demon-haunted bones and yon monster
who sought and accomplished my ruin. What I have seen must not, cannot
be told. My lips are for ever sealed. But the flames are fast gaining
on us. Let us hasten ere they prevent our retreat. The whole fabric
will shortly be enveloped, and every record of this diabolical
confederacy consumed. Go to thy lady-love. She is recovered, and as
one newly-awakened from some terrific dream. With the earliest dawn
hie thee to the prison lest _he_ escape. Let him be instantly secured.
When summoned, I will not fail to confront, to denounce the wretch. He
cannot penetrate yonder walls save by fraud or stratagem. How I have
escaped death is one of the mysteries which time perchance may never
develop. One might fancy the cunning leech who supplied the drug did
play me false. Instead of poison, mayhap, one of those potions of
which we have heard, that so benumb and stupify the faculties that for
a space they mimic death, nor can anything rouse or recover from its
influence until the appointed time be past."

They hurried away as he spoke. De Vessey could scarcely wait until
daylight. His first care was to secure the old sorcerer. He sought aid
from the police, and, as far as might be, revealed the dreadful
secret.

An immediate visit was made to the cell. On entering, its inmate was
in bed--a scorched, a blackened corpse!

It may be supposed the lover was not long in attending on his
mistress. She was free from disorder, and happily unconscious of what
had passed during the interval, save that an ugly dream had troubled
her. Nor was she aware that more than one night had elapsed. In a few
days afterwards De Vessey led her to the altar.

The mystery was never fully penetrated. That imposture and partial
insanity might be involved, and have the greatest share in its
development, is beyond doubt; but they cannot explain the whole of
these diabolical proceedings. That the powers of darkness may have
power over the bodies of wicked and abandoned men cannot be denied.

Whether this narration discloses another instance of such mysterious
agency our readers must determine.

What the painter knew was buried in eternal silence. The monks of La
Trappe received a brother whose vows were never broken!




THE CRYSTAL GOBLET.

A TALE OF THE EMPEROR SEVERUS.[22]


It was midnight--yet a light was burning in a small chamber situated
in one of the narrowest and least frequented streets of Eboracum, then
the metropolis of the world. York at that period being the residence
of the Emperor Severus, his court and family were conveyed hither; and
the government of the world transferred to an obscure island in the
west, once the _ultima Thule_[vi] of civilisation, its native inhabitants
hardly yet emerged from a state of barbarism, and addicted to the most
gross and revolting superstitions.

A lamp of coarse earthenware was fastened on a bronze stand, having
several beaks, and of a boat-like shape. Near it stood the oil-vase
for replenishing, almost empty--while the wicks, charred and heavy
with exuviæ, looked as though for some time untrimmed. On the same
table was a Greek and a Coptic manuscript, an inkhorn, and the half of
a silver penny, the Roman _symbolum_. Breaking a peace of money as a
keepsake between two friends was, even at that period, a very ancient
custom. A brass rhombus, used by magicians, lay on a _cathedra_ or
easy chair, which stood as though suddenly pushed aside by its
occupier in rising hastily from his studies. An iron chest was near,
partly open, wherein papers and parchments lay tumbled about in
apparent disorder. Vellum, so white and firm as to curl even with the
warmth of the hand; purple skins emblazoned in gold and silver, and
many others, of rare workmanship, were scattered about with unsparing
profusion. It was evidently the study, the _librarium_ of some
distinguished person, and consisted of an inner chamber beyond the
court, having one window near the roof, and another opening into a
small garden behind. From the ceiling there hung a dried ape, a
lizard, and several uncouth, unintelligible reptiles, put together in
shapes that nature's most fantastic forms never displayed. Vases of
ointments, and unguents of strange odours, stood in rows upon a marble
slab on one side of the apartment. _Scrinia_, or caskets for the
admission of rolls and writing materials, were deposited on shelves,
forming a library of reference to the individual whose _sanctum_ we
are now describing: it was apparently undisturbed by any living
occupant save a huge raven, now roosting on a wooden perch, his head
buried under a glossy tissue of feathers, and to all appearance
immovable as the grinning and hideous things that surrounded him. A
magpie, confined in a cage above the door, was taught to salute those
who entered with the word "chaire" (Greek letters transcribed) a
Grecian custom greatly in vogue amongst the most opulent of the
Romans.

Ere long there came a footstep and a gentle summons at the door. The
bird gave the usual response; and straightway entered a stout muscular
figure, wrapped in a _chlamys_, fastened on the shoulder with a
richly-embossed _fibula_. Beneath was the usual light leathern
cuirass, covered with scales of shining metal; the centre, over the
abdomen, ornamented with a gorgon's head and other warlike devices; a
short sword being stuck in his girdle. From the lowest part hung
leathern straps, or _lambrequins_, highly wrought and embellished. He
wore breeches or drawers reaching to the knees, and his feet and the
lower part of the leg were covered with the _cothurnus_, a sort of
traveller's half-boot. A sumptuous mantle, made of leopard skin, was
thrown carelessly about his head, hardly concealing his features, for
the folds, relaxing in some measure as he entered, showed a youthful
countenance, yet dark and ferocious, indicating a character of daring
and vindictive energy, and a disposition where forgiveness or remorse
rarely tempered the fiercer passions. As he looked round the raven
raised his head on a sudden, and peering at him with that curious and
familiar eye so characteristic of the tribe, gave a loud and hollow
croak, which again arrested the notice of the intruder.

"Most auspicious welcome truly, ill-omened bird. Is thy master
visible?"

There was no reply; and the inquirer, after a cautious glance round
the chamber, sat down, evidently disconcerted by this unexpected
reception. Scarcely seated, he felt the clasp on his shoulder
suddenly risen, as though by an intruder from behind. Looking round,
he saw the raven with the bauble in his beak, hopping off with great
alacrity to his perch. The magpie set up a loud scream, as though
vexed he was not a participator in the spoil. The owner, angry at his
loss, pursued the thief, who defied every attempt to regain it,
getting far above his reach; ever and anon the same ominous croak
sounding dismally through the gloom by which he was concealed. Finding
it fruitless, the stranger gave up the pursuit, and again sat down,
examining carelessly the papers which lay open for perusal. But it
might seem these feathered guardians were entrusted with the care of
their master's chamber during his absence.

"Beware!" said the same querulous voice that before accosted him.
Looking up, he saw the magpie, his neck stretched to the utmost
through the bars of his cage, and in the act of repeating the
injunction.

"'Tis an ill augur to my suit," he muttered, hastily. "Destiny!"
Starting up at the word, which he spoke aloud, he clenched his hand.

"The inexorable gods may decree, but would it not be worthy of my
purpose to brave them; to render even fate itself subservient to me!"

He hurried to and fro across the chamber with an agitated step.
Suddenly he stood still in the attitude of listening. He drew the
folds of his mantle closer about his head, when, by another entrance,
there approached a tall majestic figure, clad in dark vestments, who,
without speaking, came near and stood before him. A veil of rich
net-work fell gracefully below his mantle, being in that era the
distinctive garb of soothsayers and diviners. His hair, for he was an
Asiatic, was twisted in the shape of a mitre, investing his form with
every advantage from outward appearances.

"I would know," said he, "by what right thou art at this untimely hour
an intruder on my privacy?"

"By a will which even thou darest not disobey," was the answer.

"It is past midnight. Knowest thou of my long watching, and the dark
portents of the stars?"

"Nay. But passing, I saw the door of the vestibule partly open. The
fates are propitious. I crossed the court, intending to consult the
most famous soothsayer in the emperor's dominions."

"Peradventure 'tis no accidental meeting. To-night I have read the
stars, the book of heaven. Comest thou not, blind mortal, at their
bidding?"

"I have neither skill nor knowledge in the art"----

The stranger hesitated, as though he had as lief the conversation was
resumed by the diviner himself.

"Thy father. What of him?" said the Chaldean, with a look as though he
had penetrated his inmost thoughts.

"True, 'tis mine errand," said the intruder. "But the event?"

"The augury is not complete!"

"Thine auguries are like my good fortune--long in compassing. The best
augur, I trow, is this good steel. I would sooner trust it than the
best thou canst bestow."

"Rash mortal! Impatience will be thy destruction. Listen!"

The raven hopped down upon his shoulder. A low guttural sound appeared
to come from this ill-omened bird. The augur bent his ear. Sounds
shaped themselves into something like articulation, and the following
couplet was distinctly heard:--

     "While the eagle is in his nest, the eaglet shall not prevail;
     Nor shall the eagle be smitten in his eyrie."

"Azor," said the warrior, clenching his sword, "these three times hast
thou mocked me, and by the immortal gods thou diest!"

"Impious one! I could strike thee powerless as the dust thou treadest
on. Give me the bauble," said he, addressing the raven. The bird
immediately gave the clasp he had purloined into his master's hand.

"This shall witness between us," continued he. "Dare to lift thy hand,
the very palace shall bear testimony to thy treason--that thou hast
sought me for purposes too horrible even for thy tongue to utter.
Hence! When least expected I may meet thee. If it had not been for thy
mother's sake, and for my vow, the emperor ere this had been privy to
it."

Stung with rage and disappointment, he put back his weapon, and with
threats and imprecations departed.

On a couch inlaid with ivory and pearl, within a vaulted chamber in
the Prætorian Palace of the royal city, lay the emperor, in a coverlid
of rich stuff. Disease had crushed his body, but the indomitable
spirit was unquenched. Tossing and disturbed, at length he started
from his bed. Calling to his chamberlain, he demanded if there had not
been footsteps in the apartment. The ruler of the world, whose nod
could shake the nations, and whose word was the arbiter of life or
death to millions of his fellow-men, lay here--startled at the passing
of a sound, the falling of a shadow! His face, whose chief
characteristic was power--that strength and determination of spirit
which all acknowledge, and but few comprehend--was furrowed with
deeper marks than care had wrought. Sixty years had moulded the steady
and inflexible purpose of his soul in lines too palpable to be
misunderstood. His beard was short and grizzled; and a swarthy hue,
betraying his African birth, was now become sallow, and even sickly in
the extreme; but an eagle eye still beamed in all its fierceness and
rapacity from under his scanty brows. His nose was not of the Roman
sort, like the beak of that royal bird, but thick and even clumsy,
lacking that sharp and predacious intellect generally associated with
forms of this description.

Such was Septimus Severus, then styled on a coin just struck
"BRITANNICVS MAXIMVS," in commemoration of a great victory gained over
the Caledonians, whom he had driven beyond Adrian's Wall. Though
suffering from severe illness, he was carried in a horse-litter; and,
marching from York at the head of his troops, penetrated almost to the
extremity of the island, where he subdued that fierce and intractable
nation the Scots. Returning, he left his son Caracalla to superintend
the building of a stone wall across the island in place of the earthen
ramparts called Adrian's; a structure, when completed, that
effectually resisted the inroads of those barbarians for a
considerable period.

He called a third time to Virius Lupus, one, the most confidential of
his attendants, to whom many of the most important secrets of the
state were entrusted.

"Thrice have I heard it, Virius. Again and again it seems to mock and
elude my grasp." He paused, the officer yet listening with becoming
reverence. The emperor continued, more like one whose thoughts had
taken utterance than as if he were addressing the individual before
him.

"When I led the Pannonian legions to victory; when Rome opened her
gates at my command; when I fought my way through blood to the
throne--I quailed not then! Now--satiated with power, careless of
fame, the prospects of life closed, and for ever--when all that is
left for me to do is to die--behold, I tremble at the shaking of a
leaf! I start even at the footstep that awakes me!"

"Long live the emperor!" said the cringing secretary. Interrupting
him, as he would have proceeded with the customary adulations, the
emperor again continued as though hardly noticing his presence--

"Caracalla yet remains with the army. Once I censured the misguided
clemency of Marcus, who by an act of justice might have prevented the
miseries that his son Caligula brought upon the empire; and yet I,
even I," said the haughty monarch, bitterly, "nourish the very
weakness that in others I despise!"

He dashed away the sweat from his brow, ashamed of the weakness he
could not quell.

"He hath sought your life," said the wily sycophant.

"He hath. Traitor! parricide! the distinctions he would have earned.
But my better genius triumphed, and history hath been spared this
infamy. It may be, this temporary exile from our court with the
northern army shall tame his spirit to submission. My life or his,
once the bitter alternative, may yet be avoided."

"But may not his presence with the army be impolitic, should he turn
the weapon wherewith you have girded him to your own hurt?"

"'Tis an evil choice; whichever way I turn, mischief is before me."

"Were it not best that he be recalled?"

"What? To plot and practise against my life! To mount upon my reeking
body to the throne! He will not reign with Geta. The proud boy
disdains a divided empire. And was not mine own soul fashioned in the
same mould? When Niger would have ruled in Syria, and Albinus in
Britain, I scattered their legions to the winds, and levelled their
hopes with their pride. 'Tis nature; and shall I, the author of his
being, punish him for mine own gift?"

He raised himself on his couch. The fierce blaze of ambition broke the
dark cloud of bodily infirmities, and the monarch and the tyrant again
dilated his almost savage features.

The secretary, used to these fiery moods, stood awaiting his commands.
The emperor, as though exhausted, sank down on his pillow,
exclaiming--

"I have governed the world, but I cannot govern a wayward heart!"

Thus did he often lament, and provoke himself the more with these vain
regrets; forgetting that, if he had exercised the same firmness in his
private as public capacity, the government of his own house would have
been easy as the government of the world.

"Virius Lupus, there is danger--and to-night. As I have told thee, the
stars do betoken mischief. But the peril is at my threshold. Let
Caracalla remain; so shall we avert his weapon. Should the assassin
come, it will not be with the blow of a parricide. Thou mayest retire
to thy couch, but first let the guards be doubled, the watchword and
countersign changed. And, hark thee, tell the tribune that he look
well to the _tessera_, and have the right count from the inspectors.
Should despatches come from Rome, let the messenger have immediate
audience."

Again the emperor stretched himself on the couch, and again his
slumbers were interrupted. A murmur was heard along the halls and
passages where the guards were stationed. The noise grew louder,
approaching the very door of the royal chamber. The monarch started as
from a dream, and the door at that moment opened. The Chaldean
soothsayer stood before him.

"Azor!" said the emperor, "at this hour? What betides such unseemly
greeting?"

"Cæsar trembles on his throne; but the world quakes not! The angel of
death is at thy door. Caracalla hath returned."

"Returned? Surely thy wits are disturbed. Caracalla! Ay, even
yesterday, we had despatches from the camp."

"Howbeit, he is at thy threshold. The sound of his feet is behind me."

"Impossible! the mischief is not from him."

"Even now I looked in the crystal, and behold"----The soothsayer
paused. Horror was gathering on his features. The light suspended
above him began to quiver; and as it waved to and fro his countenance
assumed a tremulous and distorted expression.

Severus watched the result with no little anxiety. The magician drew a
crystal cup from his girdle. Looking in apparently with great alarm,
he presented it at arm's length to the emperor, who beheld a milky
cloud slowly undulating within the vessel.

"Take this," said the soothsayer, "and tell me what thou seest."

The monarch took it at his bidding. The cloud seemed to be clearing
away, as the morning mist before the sun.

"I see nothing," said the emperor, "but a silver clasp at the bottom."

"And the owner?"

"As I live," said the astonished parent, drawing forth a
curiously-embossed clasp from the goblet, and holding it out to the
light, "this token of rare workmanship did the empress present to
Caracalla ere he departed. Whence came it? and wherefore hast thou
brought it hither?"

"A silent witness to my word. Within the hour thy son returns;
and"----The seer's voice grew more ominous whilst he spake. "Beware!
there's mischief in the wind. The raven scents his prey afar off!"

"If in this thou art a true prophet I will give thee largess; but if a
lying spirit of divination possess thee, my power is swift to punish
as to reward."

"I heed not either. Do I serve thee for lucre? Look thee, in less time
than I would occupy in telling thee on't I could fill thy palace with
gold and silver!--and do I covet thy paltry treasures? The kingdoms of
this world are his whom I serve, and shall I seek thy perishing
honours? Behold, I leave this precious goblet as my pledge. I must
away. Thou shalt render it back on my return. I would not part with
that treasure for the dominion of the Cæsars. Beware thou let it not
forth from thy sight, for there be genii who are bound to serve its
possessor, and peradventure it shall give thee warning when evil
approaches."

The soothsayer departed, and the emperor laid the crystal goblet on a
table opposite his couch. He clapped his hands, and the chief
secretary approached.

"What said our messenger from the north? Read again the despatch they
brought yesterday."

The secretary drew forth a roll from his cabinet, and read as
follows:--

"Again the supreme gods have granted victory to our legions. Favoured
by the darkness and their boats, the barbarians attacked us from three
separate points. Led on by Fingal and his warriors, whom beforetime we
erroneously reported to be slain, they crossed over to the station
where we had pitched our tents. But the Roman eagle was yet watchful.
Though retreating behind our last defences, we left not the field
until a thousand, the choicest of our foes, bit the dust. Morning
showed us the red-haired chief and his bards, but they were departing,
and their spears were glittering on the mountains."

"Enough!" said the emperor. "Caracalla tarries yet with the camp. Our
person is not menaced by his hand. Prithee, send a brasier hither. The
night is far spent, and slumber will not again visit these eyelids."

A bronze tripod was brought supported by sphinxes, the worship of Isis
being a fashionable idolatry at that period. Charred wood was then
placed in a round dish pierced with holes, and perfumes thrown in to
correct the smell. The emperor commanded that he should be left alone.
Covering his shoulders with a richly-embroidered mantle, he took from
behind his pillow a Greek treatise on the occult sciences, to the
study of which he was passionately addicted.

It is said of him by historians that he was guided by his skill in
judicial astrology to the choice of the reigning empress, having lost
his first wife when governor of the Lyonnese Gaul. Finding that a lady
of Emesa in Syria, one Julia Domna, had what was termed "a royal
nativity," he solicited and obtained her hand, thus making the
prophecy the means of its accomplishment.

A woman of great beauty and strong natural acquirements, she was at
the same time the patron of all that was noble and distinguished in
the philosophy and literature of the age. It was even said that
secretly she was a favourer of the Christians. Be this as it may, we
do not find she ever became a professor of the faith.

Sleep, that capricious guest which comes unbidden but not invited, was
just stealing over the monarch's eyelids when the roll fell from his
grasp. The unexpected movement startled him. His eye fell on the
bright crystal opposite. He thought a glimmer was moving in the glass.
He remembered the words of the sage, and his eye was riveted on the
mystic goblet. A sudden flash was reflected from it. He started
forward, when a naked sword fell on the couch: the stroke he only
escaped by having so accidentally changed his place! The glass had
revealed the glitter of the blade behind him, and he was indebted to a
few inches of space for his life!

Looking round, he beheld a masked figure preparing to repeat the
stroke. Severus, with his usual courage and presence of mind, threw
his mantle across the assassin's sword. He cried out, and the chamber
was immediately filled with guards; but whether from treachery or
inadvertence, the traitor was nowhere to be found. He had escaped,
leaving his weapon entangled in the folds of the mantle. On
examination, the emperor's surprise was visibly increased when he
recognised the sword as one belonging to Caracalla! The soothsayer's
prediction was apparently fulfilled. To the emperor's superstitious
apprehensions the crystal goblet was charged with his safety. But lo!
on being sought for, the charmed cup was gone!

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning, as the sun was just rising over the green wolds, and
the fresh air came brisk and sharply on the traveller's cheek, a
stranger was noticed loitering through the narrow streets of the
imperial city. He had passed the great Galcarian or western gate, from
which the statue of the reigning emperor on that memorable morning was
found razed from its pedestal. The outer and inner faces of the gate
were whitened for the writing of edicts and proclamations by the
government scribes, and likewise for the public notices of minor
import, these being daubed on the walls with various degrees of skill,
in red or black pigments, according to the nature of the decrees that
were issued by the prætor, and the caprice of the artist.

On that morning a number of idlers had assembled about the gate. The
statue of the emperor, fallen prostrate, had been removed, and an
edict promptly supplied, to the purport that an impious hand, having
attempted the life of the monarch, a reward of one hundred thousand
_sestertia_ would be the price of his apprehension. Another reward of
the like sum was offered for the discovery of a crystal goblet stolen
from the emperor's chamber.

The individual we have just noticed wore the common sleeved tunic of
coarse wool; over it was a cloak buckled on the right shoulder, the
yarn being dyed in such wise that, when woven, it might resemble the
skin of a brindled ox--such was the dress of the ancient Britons. His
head was covered with a close cap, but his feet were naked; and the
only weapon he bore was a two-handed sword, stuck in his girdle.

Ere he passed the gate it might be supposed that his business and
credentials would have been rigidly scrutinised by the guards; but he
merely showed a large signet-ring to the superior officer, and was
immediately allowed to pass. He soon came to the wooden bridge over
the river, now kept by a body of the Prætorian guards. Here, on
attempting to pass, he was immediately seized. With an air of stupid
or affected concern, the prisoner drew the same signet from his hand,
the sight of which again procured him immediate access. The bridge was
crossed, and after passing along the narrow winding streets he came to
a small triumphal arch leading into the Forum. This was an area of but
mean extent, surrounded by a colonnade, serving as a market for all
sorts of wares, and the trades carried on under its several porticoes.
The outer walls behind the columns were painted in compartments, black
and red, and here a number of citizens were assembled. There was
hurrying to and fro. Soldiers and messengers, even so early, were
bustling about with ominous activity. The stranger looked on for a
while with a vacant sort of curiosity, then, turning to the left hand,
went forward towards the gate of the palace. On a corner of the
building he saw another edict to the same purport as before. Near it
was the announcement of a spectacle at the theatre, the gift of a
wealthy patrician for the amusement and gratification of the people.
Still the stranger passed on, apparently uninterested by all, until he
came to the outer gate, where he merely paused a few moments, as
though to observe the movements of the soldiers and the changing of
the guard. The sound of the trumpet seemed to attract especial notice
from this barbarian, whose uncouth air and rude manners drew upon him
the gaze of many as they passed by. He now turned into a narrower
street behind the palace, and here he sought out a common tavern,
where the chequers newly painted on the door-posts betokened good
entertainment for travellers. Having entered, the hostess, whose
tucked-up dress and general appearance Martial, in his epigrams, so
cunningly describes, brought him a vase or flagon of wine. It was not
of the true Falernian flavour, as may be readily surmised, but a
mixture of stuff which can hardly be described, of nauseous taste,
smelling abominably of resin or pitch, and flavoured with myrrh and
other bitters. Both hot and cold refections solicited the taste and
regaled the sight of the visitor. Flitches of bacon were suspended
from above, and firewood stuffed between the rafters, black and smoky
with the reeking atmosphere below. At his own request, the stranger
was installed in a small chamber behind the public room, where stood a
couch, a three-footed table, and a lavatory. Here he was served with
radishes, cheese, and roasted eggs in earthen vessels, with a relish
of cornels in pickle. Ere this refection was brought in the table was
rubbed over with a sprig of mint, and the coarse pottery betrayed an
exquisite odour of thyme and garlic.

After the needful refreshments and ablutions he sallied forth, first
inquiring for the residence of the Chaldean soothsayer, before whose
door, in due time, he arrived. The gate leading to the vestibule was
open, and he entered by a narrow passage terminated by a small inner
court. He paused, and looked round. No fountain played in the centre;
a clump of rank, unwholesome grass was the only decoration; but the
object of his search was a crooked wooden staircase, which led to a
sort of gallery above. After a little hesitation he ascended; his
country manners showing a determination to persevere, until fairly
delivered of his errand. A door at the extremity of the gallery stood
ajar, and through this he made bold to enter. A Numidian slave,
dwarfish and deformed, was sweeping his master's chamber. He stopped
short as the barbarian, with a stupid and wondering look, entered the
apartment. After surveying the new comer with an air of deliberate
scrutiny, the dwarf burst forth into a violent fit of laughter.

"Mercury hath sent us precious handsel this morning, truly," said he,
when his diversion was concluded. "A pretty hound to scent out
master's lost goods. The gods do verily mock us in thy most gracious
person."

The visitor looked on with dismay during this ungracious and taunting
speech. At length he stammered forth--

"Thy master, is he not the Chaldean to whom my mistress, knowing I was
bound for the city, hath sent me privily with a message?"

The Briton spoke this in a sort of guttural and broken Latin, which
the apish dwarf mimicked in the most mischievous and provoking way
imaginable. The messenger, irritated beyond endurance, placed both
hands on his weapon, but his antagonist, with little ado, tripped up
his heels, and the poor aborigine was completely at the mercy of this
grotesque specimen of humanity.

Grinning over him with spite and mischief in his looks, the dwarf
stamped on the floor; presently there came two slaves, who, without
further notice than a blow now and then when resistance was offered,
bound him with stout cords, and bade him lie there until he should be
further disposed of. Inquiry was vain as to the cause of this
treatment. Bound hand and foot, he was then tossed with little
ceremony and less compunction into a corner of the room, and there
left to bemoan his hard fate. Perched just above his head sat the
cunning raven, who eyed him as though with serious intentions of
pecking at him in his present defenceless condition. He was soon aware
of this additional source of alarm, and as the bird's eye brightened
and twinkled with greedy anticipation, he rubbed his rapacious beak on
the perch, apparently whetting it for the feast. He then jumped down
on the floor, and hopping close to his victim, gave a hoarse and
dismal croak, a death-warning, it might be, to the unfortunate
captive. He tried to burst his bonds, and shrieked out in the
extremity of his alarm. His struggles kept the bird at a distance, but
it continued to survey him with such a longing, liquorish eye, that
the poor culprit felt himself already writhing, like another
Prometheus, under the beak of his destroyer. His terror increased. It
might be some demon sent to torment him; and this conviction
strengthened when he saw the dismal and hideous things that surrounded
him. Just as his agony was wrought to the highest pitch he heard
footsteps. Even the sound was some relief. He knew not what further
indignities--not to say violence--he might expect; but at all events
there would be a change, and it was hailed as an alleviation to his
misery.

The soothsayer presented himself, attended by the ugly dwarf.

"A stupid barbarian thou sayest the Fates have sent us?" said the
Chaldean, as he entered. "Bridle thine impious tongue, Merodac; what
the dweller in immortal fire hath decreed will be accomplished, though
by weak and worthless creatures such as these. What ho! stranger,
whence art thou? and why art thou moved so early across our
threshold?"

"My lord," said the prisoner, in a tone of entreaty, "these bonds are
unlawful--I am a freed man. Though a Briton, I am no slave; and I
beseech you to visit this indignity on that rogue who hath so scurvily
entreated me."

"I was privy to it, else would he not have dared this."

"And to what end, good master?"

"That we may have an answer propitious to our suit."

"What! are ye about to sacrifice me to your infernal deities?" cried
the captive, almost frantic with the anticipation.

"My friend, thou art bound for another purpose--to wit, that through
thy instrumentality we may discover the divining cup the emperor hath
lost. Knowest thou aught of this precious crystal?" inquired the
Chaldean, with a searching look.

But it were vain to describe the astonishment of the victim. He looked
almost in doubt of his own identity, or as if he were trying to shake
off the impression of some hideous dream. At length he replied--

"'Tis some device surely that ye may slay me!"

He wept; and the tears trickling down his cheek were indeed piteous to
behold. "I know not," said he, "your meaning. Let me depart."

"Nay, said the soothsayer, "thou mayest content thyself as thou list,
but the cup shall be found, and that by thy ministry. The emperor hath
offered rewards nigh to the value of three silver talents for the
recovery, and assuredly thou shalt be held in durance until it be
regained."

"And by whose authority?" inquired the Briton.

"Why, truly, it becometh thee to ask, seeing thou art a party
interested in the matter. The emperor in whose care the jewel was
left, hath sworn by the river Styx that unless the cup be brought back
to the palace ere to-morrow's dawn, he will punish the innocent with
the guilty, and that with no sparing hand. He hath already laid hands
on some of the more wealthy citizens, and amerced them in divers sums;
others are detained as hostages for suspected persons who are absent
from the city. The loss of this cup being connected with a daring
attempt on the emperor's life by some unknown hand, he doth suspect
that the very palace wants purging from treason; yet where to begin,
or on whom to fasten suspicion, he knoweth not. Mine art has hitherto
failed me in the matter. The tools they work with baffle my skill,
save that the oracle I consult commanded that I should lay hold on the
first male person that came hither to-day, and by his ministry the
lost treasure should be restored. Shouldst thou refuse, thou art lost;
for assuredly the emperor will not be slow to punish thy contumacy."

The miserable captive fell into great perplexity at this discourse. He
vowed he knew no more of the lost cup than the very stones he trod on;
that he had come since nightfall from his master, Lucius Claudius,
lieutenant and standard-bearer of the sixth legion, then at
Isurium,[23] on a mere casual errand to the city; and that his
mistress, who was a British lady of noble birth, had instructed him,
at the same time, to consult the soothsayer on some matters relative
to her nativity, which the sage had calculated some years back. Almost
a stranger in these parts, how could he pretend to begin the search?
He begged piteously for his release; promising, and with great
sincerity, that he would never set foot in this inhospitable region
again. The magician inquired his name.

"Cedric with the ready foot," was the reply. Unmoved by his
entreaties, the soothsayer said he had the emperor's command for the
use of every method he could devise for the recovery of this precious
and priceless jewel; and that, furthermore, the safety and even lives
of many innocent persons depended on the stranger's exertions, and the
speedy execution of his mission. But how to begin, or in what quarter
to commence the search, was a riddle worthy of the Sphinx. A most
unexpected and novel situation for this rude dweller in woods and
morasses, to be suddenly thrust forth into a mighty city, without
guide or direction, more ignorant of his errand than any of its
inhabitants. Besides, he was not without a sort of incipient and
instinctive dread that the catastrophe might procure him an interview
with the emperor; and he was filled with apprehension lest his own
carcase might afford a special treat, a sacrifice to the brutal
appetite of the spectators in the amphitheatre, after the manner of
the _bestiarii_, or gladiators, of whom he had often heard. Even could
he have gotten word of this mishap to his master, he was by no means
certain it would be attended with any beneficial result. The time was
too short, and the will and mandate of the emperor would render futile
any attempt to obtain deliverance from this quarter.

A few moments sufficed for these considerations. The glance of the
mind, when on the rack for expedients, is peculiarly keen, and hath an
eagle-like perception that appears as though it could pierce to the
dim and distant horizon of its hopes and apprehensions.

"Unbind these withes," said the captive; "I cannot begin the search in
this extremity."

"Merodac, undo these bonds; and see thou guard thy prisoner strictly;
thy life answers for his safe keeping."

The dwarf, who seemed never so well pleased as when tormenting the
more fortunate and better shapen of his species, unloosed the cords
with something of the like feeling and intention as a cat when
liberating some unfortunate mouse from her talons.

"There's a chance of rare sport i' the shows to-morrow," said the ugly
jailer. "We are sure of _thee_, anyhow. Didst ever see the criminals
fight with wolves, Hyrcanian bears, and such like? I would not miss
the sight for the best feather in my cap."

The cruel slave here rubbed his hands, and his yellow eyes glistened
with the horrible anticipation. His victim groaned aloud.

"I'll tell thee a rare device," continued he, "whereby thou mayest
escape being eaten at least a full hour; and we shall have the longer
sport. Mind thee, the beasts do not always get the carcases for
dinner. If they be cowardly and show little fight, we give the dead
bestiarii to the dogs. I remember me well the last we threw into the
emperor's kennel, the dogs made such a fighting for the carrion that
he ordered each of us a flagellation for the disturbance. Let me see,
there was--ay"----Here the knave began to count the number of shows
and human sacrifices he had seen, recounting every particular with the
most horrible minuteness. Cedric felt himself already in the gripe of
the savages, and his flesh verily quivered on his bones.

Brutal and demoralising were those horrid spectacles. The people of
Rome, it has been well observed by a modern writer, were generally
more corrupt by many degrees than has been usually supposed possible.
Many were the causes which had been gradually operating towards this
result, and amongst the rest the continual exhibition of scenes where
human blood was poured forth like water. The continual excitement of
the populace demanded fresh sacrifices, until even these palled upon
the cruel appetites of the multitude. Even the more innocent
exhibitions, where brutes were the sufferers, could not but tend to
destroy all the finer sensibilities of the nature. "Five thousand
wild animals, torn from their native abodes in the wilderness and the
forest," have been turned out for mutual slaughter in one single
exhibition at the amphitheatre. Sometimes the _lanista_, or person who
exhibited the shows and provided the necessary supplies, by way of
administering specially to the gratification of the populace, made it
known, as a particular favour, that the whole of these should be
slaughtered. These, however, soon ceased to stimulate the appetite for
blood. From such combats "the transition was inevitable to those of
men, whose nobler and more varied passions spoke directly, and by the
intelligible language of the eye, to human spectators; and from the
frequent contemplation of these authorised murders, in which a whole
people--women as much as men, and children intermingled with
both--looked on with leisurely indifference, with anxious expectation,
or with rapturous delight, whilst below them were passing the direct
sufferings of humanity, and not seldom its dying pangs, it was
impossible to expect a result different from that which did, in fact,
take place--universal hardness of heart, obdurate depravity, and a
twofold degradation of human nature, the natural sensibility and the
conscientious principle." "Here was a constant irritation, a system of
provocation to the appetite for blood, such as in other nations are
connected with the rudest stages of society, and with the most
barbarous modes of warfare."

"Whither wilt thou that we direct our steps?" inquired Merodac, with
mock submission, when the cords were unloosed.

"Lead the way--I care not," said his moody victim; "'tis as well that
I follow."

A bitter and scornful laugh accompanied the reply of the dwarf.

"That were a pretty device truly--to let thee lag behind, and without
thy tether. Ah, ah," chuckled the squire as they left the chamber,
"Diogenes and his lantern was a wise man's search compared with ours."

How the slave came to be so learned in Grecian lore we know not. His
further displays of erudition were cut short by the soothsayer, who
cried out to him as they departed--

"Remember, thy carcase for his if he return not."

Now, in York, at this day, may be observed, where an angle of the
walls abuts on the "Mint Yard," a building named "the Multangular
Tower," and supposed to have been one of the principal fortifications
of the city. However this might be, its structure has puzzled not a
little even those most conversant with antiquities. The area was not
built up all round, but open towards the city. The foundations of a
wall have latterly been discovered, dividing it lengthwise through the
centre, and continued for some distance into the town; so that the
whole may not inaptly be represented by a Jewtrump--the tongue being
the division, the circular end the present Multangular Tower,
continued by walls on each side. This building, we have every reason
to conjecture, was the Greek _stadium_ or Roman circus, which authors
tell us was a narrow piece of ground shaped like a staple; the round
end called the barrier. The wall dividing it lengthwise is the
_spina_, or flat ridge running through the middle, which was generally
a low wall, and sometimes merely a mound of earth. This was usually
decorated with statues of gods, columns, votive altars, and the like.
As a corroboration of this opinion, there have been found here several
small statues, altars, and other figures, betokening a place of public
resort or amusement.

The circus was not used merely for horse and chariot races, but
likewise for wrestling--the _cæstus_, and other athletic games. It was
noted as the haunt of fortune-tellers, and thither the poorer people
used to resort and hear their fortunes told.[24]

Near this place stood the barracks, or _castra_. Long ranges of rooms
divided into several storeys, the doors of each chamber opening into
one common gallery, ascended by a wooden staircase.

Hither we must conduct our readers at the close of the day on whose
inauspicious morning "Cedric with the ready-foot" was placed in such
jeopardy.

The whole city meanwhile had been astir. The emperor's wrath and
desire of revenge were excited to the utmost pitch. He suspected
treachery even amongst the Prætorian guards--his favourite and
best-disciplined troops; and there was an apprehension of some
terrible disgrace attaching even to them. Still, nothing further
transpired implicating the soldiery, save that the assassin had
escaped, and apparently through the very midst of the guard; yet no
one chose to accuse his fellow, or say by whose means this mysterious
outlet was contrived. Not even to his most confidential minister did
the emperor reveal the discovery of his son's weapon. Neither that
son, nor his guilty accomplices, if any, could be found; and the day
was fast closing upon the monarch's threat, that on the morrow his
vengeance should have its full work unless the crystal goblet was
restored.

There had been a public spectacle at the theatre, but the emperor was
not present; and such was the consternation of the whole city that the
performance was but scantily attended. The city was apparently on the
eve of some sad catastrophe, and the whole population foreboding some
fearful event.

In the circus were yet some stray groups, who, having little
employment of their own, were listening for news, and loitering about
either for mischief or amusement.

In one part was exhibited a narrow wooden box, not unlike to our
puppet-show, wherein a person was concealed having figures made of
wood and earthenware that seemed to act and speak, to the great wonder
and diversion of the audience.

As the rays of the declining sun smote upon the city walls and the
white sails of the barks below, there came into the circus the dwarf
who had charge of Cedric. The captive now looked like a sort of
appendage to his person--being strapped to his arm by a stout thong of
bull's hide, such as was used for correcting refractory slaves. The
hours allotted for search were nearly gone. Day was drawing to a
close, and Cedric had done little else than bemoan his hard fate. The
whole day had been spent in wandering from place to place, urged on by
the scoffs and jeers of his companion. Some furtive attempts to escape
had been the cause of his present bondage. Hither, at length, they
arrived. Tired and distressed, he sat down on one of the vacant
benches, and gave vent to his sorrows in no very careful or measured
language.

"What can I do?" said he, "a stranger in this great city--to set me
a-finding what I never knew? A grain of wheat in a barn full of chaff,
mayhap--a needle in a truss of hay--anything I might find but what was
sheer impossible. And now am I like to be thrown to the dogs, like a
heap of carrion!"

"But the oracle, friend."

"Plague on the oracle, for"----Here his speech was interrupted; for
happening to look up, he saw, as he fancied, the eyes of one of the
little figures in the show-box ogling him, and making mouths in such
wise as to draw upon him the attention of the spectators, now roaring
with laughter at his expense. Reckless of consequences, and almost
furious from sufferings, he suddenly jumped up, and dragging the dwarf
along with him, made a desperate blow at the mimic, which, in a
moment, laid sprawling a whole company of little actors, together with
the prime mover himself, and the showman outside to boot. The fray, as
may readily be conceived, waxed loud and furious. The owners and
bystanders not discriminating as to the main cause of the attack,
would have handled both the keeper and the captive very roughly, had
not the noise awakened the attention of the soldiers in the
neighbouring barracks. Hearing the affray, a party ran to ascertain
the cause of the disturbance, and seeing two men whom a whole crowd
had combined to attack, concluded they were culprits, and forthwith
haled them before the captain of the guard, a centurion, Diogenes
Verecundus by name.

Cedric and the dwarf being rescued from a sound beating, began to
abuse one another as the cause of the disturbance; but the officer, by
dint of threats and inquiries, soon learned the truth of the matter.

"Thank the stars, I shall be rid of this pestilence to-morrow," said
Merodac; "my master could not have found me such another; and how the
Fates could pitch upon such a sorry cur for the business seems passing
strange. If he find the cup I'll be beaten to a jelly in it. Thy
carcase will be meat for the emperor's hounds to-morrow."

"If, as thou sayest," said the centurion, "thou art so mightily weary
of thy charge, leave him to my care; I would fain have some discourse
with him privily touching what thou hast spoken."

The slave hesitated.

"On the word of a Roman soldier he shall be forthcoming. Tell thy
master that Verecundus the centurion hath taken thy prisoner captive.
Here is money for thee."

The Ethiop showed his teeth like ivory studs on a coral band, while
the rings shook in his wrinkled ears as he took the largess. Yet his
brow contracted, and he hung his head. He hesitated to unloose the
bonds.

"By what token?" he at length inquired.

"By this!" said the centurion, taking up a thong for his correction.
"Stay," continued he, laying it down, "I will not punish thee
undeservedly. Take these; they will bear thee harmless with thy
master."

The dwarf took the writing thankfully, and made the best of his way to
the dwelling of the soothsayer.

The officer now beckoned Cedric that he should follow. In a low room
by the guard-chamber at the gate the following conversation took
place.

"There is evil denounced us of a truth," said Verecundus; "but it may
be the gods have sent thee hither for our rescue, as the oracle hath
said."

The Briton fixed his wondering eyes on the soldier whilst he
continued.

"I have pondered the words well, and if thou prove trusty, ere this
night pass the plot shall be discovered and the ringleaders secured.
We have need of such a one as thou--a stranger, whom they will not
suspect, and will use the intelligence he obtains with a vigilant and
cunning eye. There is work for thee, which, if well done, may bring
thee to great wealth and honour. If thou fail, we fall together in the
same ruin. There is a plot against the emperor; and one which hath its
being, ay in the very secrets of the palace. Those nearest him I am
well assured are the chief movers in the conspiracy. 'Tis this makes
it so perilous to discover, and without a fitting agent the mischief
will not be overcome. I have thought to throw myself at the emperor's
feet, but having no proof withal to support my suspicions, I should in
all likelihood fall a sacrifice to my own fidelity."

"But how," asked the bewildered Cedric, "shall I discover them? Verily
it doth seem that to-day I am destined to work out impossibilities.
How it comes to pass that a poor ignorant wretch like myself should
compass these things, it faileth my weak fancy to discover!"

"The soothsayer's speech is not lightly to be regarded. Hark thee,
knave! Is life precious unto thee?"

"Yea, truly is it. I have a wife and children, besides a few herds and
other live stock, likewise sundry beeves i' the forest. But unless I
can find favour in your eyes, my goods, alas! I am not like to see
again."

"Nor wilt thou peradventure again behold the light of yon blessed sun
which hath just gone down. The shades of evening are upon us, and the
shadows of death are upon thine eyelids; for, hark thee, I do suspect
some treasonable message in thine errand to the city."

Cedric, with a look of terror and incredulity, stammered out--

"As I live, I know not thy meaning!"

"Thou art in my power; and unless thou servest me faithfully, thou
diest a cruel and fearful death. What was the exact message wherewith
thou was entrusted?"

The Briton's countenance brightened as he replied--

"I give it to thee with right good-will. No treason lurks there, I
trow. 'Take this,' said my master, yesternight, giving me a signet
ring; 'take it to York by daybreak. At the gate show it to the guard.
If they let thee pass, well. If not, return, for there is mischief in
the city. At the bridge, shouldest thou get so far, again show it,
where, I doubt not, thou shalt find thereby a ready passage. Seek thee
out some by-tavern where thou mayest refresh; then about mid-day go
into the street called the Goldsmiths', and there inquire for one
Caius Lupus, the empress' jeweller. Show him the signet, and mark what
he shall tell thee.'"

"Thou hast given him the signet, then?" said the centurion, sharply.

"Nay. For my mistress, as ill-luck would have it, hearing of my
journey, and she having had some knowledge of the soothsayer's art
aforetime, bade me consult him ere my errand was ready with the
goldsmith, and deliver a pressing request for the horoscope which had
been long promised. What passed then, as thou knowest, is the cause of
my calamity."

"But didst thou not search out the dwelling of this same Caius, and do
thine errand?"

"I did. But in the straits which I endured I was not careful to note
the time. An hour past mid-day I sought out his dwelling; but he was
gone to the palace on urgent business with the empress, nor was it
known when he might return."

"Sayest thou so, friend? I would like to look at this same potent
talisman."

Cedric drew forth the ring. It was a beautiful onyx, on which,
engraven with exquisite workmanship, was a head of the youthful
Caracalla encircled by a laurel wreath, showing marks of the most
consummate skill.

"Was thine errand told to the soothsayer?" was the next inquiry.

"Verily, nay," said the messenger; "there was little space for parley
ere I was thrust forth."

"He saw not the signet, then?"

"Of a truth it has not been shown save to the guards for my passport."

"Now, knave, thy life hangs on a thread so brittle that a breath shall
break it. This same goldsmith I do suspect; but thou shalt see him,
and whatsoever he showeth I will be at hand that thou mayest tell me
privily. I will then instruct thee what thou shalt do. If thou fail
not in thy mission, truly thou shalt have great rewards from the
emperor. But if thou whisper--ay to the walls--of our meeting, thou
diest! Remember thou art watched. Think not to escape."

The poor wretch caught hold on this last hope of deliverance, and
promised to obey.

There was a narrow vault beneath the women's apartments in the palace,
communicating by many intricate passages with an outlet into the
Forum. Here, on this eventful night, was an unusual assemblage. The
vault was deep, even below the common foundations of the city, and
where the light of day never came. An iron lamp hung from one of the
massy arches of the roof; the damp and stagnant vapours lending an
awful indistinctness to the objects they surrounded. Chill drops lay
on the walls and on the slippery floor. The stone benches were green
with mildew; and it seemed as though the foot of man had rarely passed
its threshold.

In this chamber several individuals were now assembled in earnest
discourse, their conversation whispered rather than spoken; yet their
intrepid and severe looks, and animated gestures, ever and anon
betrayed some deep and resolute purpose more than usually portentous.

"An untoward event truly," said one of the speakers, Virius Lupus
himself, the emperor's private secretary. "If the old magician could
have been won, it had been well."

"He might have saved the encounter and hazard we must now undergo. But
let him hold his fealty. We have stout hearts and resolute hands enow
to bring the matter to a successful issue." Thus spoke Caracalla, the
unnatural eldest born of his father.

"And yet," replied the secretary, "he hath a ready admittance to his
person, and a great sway over thy father's councils."

"I heed him not, now that brave men work. It were time that our trusty
servant, the commander at Isurium, had sent the message, with the
token I left him on my departure. Ere this we ought to have known the
hour we may expect his troops to move on the capital. I had thought to
have made all safe--to have put it beyond the power of fate to
frustrate our purpose; but I was foiled like a beardless boy at his
weapons." He gnashed his teeth as he spoke; and this monster of
cruelty breathed a horrible threat against the life even of a parent
and a king.

"Here is the roll," said one, who from his inkhorn and reed-pen seemed
to be the scribe, and whose ambition had been lured by a promise that
he should have the office of sextumvir in the imperial city.

"Here be the names and disposition of the troops; the avenues and
gates to which they are appointed."

"We but wait a messenger from Isurium to make our plans complete,"
said Caracalla. "By the same courier I send back this cypher. Examine
it, Fabricius. The troops of Lucius Claudius are to march directly on
the Forum, and slay all who attempt resistance. Thou, Virius Lupus,
wilt guide them through the secret passage into the palace."

The secretary bowed assent.

"Though the empress knows not our high purpose, it is by her
connivance we are here, safe from the emperor's spies. Under her
mantle we are hidden. Suspicion hath crossed her that I am about to
head the troops; that my father, oppressed with age and infirmities,
will retire to Rome; and that I, Caracalla, rule in Britain."

"Then she knows not the mishap of yesternight?"

"She knows of the attempt, but not the agent. I would the messenger
were come. 'Tis an unforeseen delay. I pray the gods there be not
treachery somewhere. The officers and guards at the Calcarian gate and
the bridge are ours; they were instructed to obey the signet."

"We will vouch for the fidelity," said two or three of the
conspirators.

"Should he not arrive before midnight we must strike," said Fabricius.

"Ay, as before," said the more cautious secretary. "But we may now get
a broken head for our pains."

"The time brooks not delay," said Caracalla. "Every moment now is big
with danger to our enterprise."

"Be not again too hasty," replied the secretary; "there be none that
will divulge our plans. Let every part be complete before we act. We
cannot succeed should there be a disjointed purpose."

Caracalla, vehement, and unused to the curb, was about to reply, when
the door opened and a dumb slave slowly entered. He crossed his hands,
and pointed to the door.

"A messenger," said they all.

"The gods are at last propitious," said Caracalla. "Let him approach."

Soon one was led in by the sentinel, blindfolded, and the latter
immediately withdrew.

"The sign," cried the secretary.

The stranger, without hesitation, presented a ring.

"'Tis the same," said Caracalla. He touched a concealed spring in the
signet, and from underneath the gem drew forth a little paper with a
scrap of writing in cypher. It was held before the lamp, and the
intelligence it contained rendered their plot complete. Ere break of
day, the deed would be accomplished. The morning would see Caracalla
proclaimed, and Severus deposed.

"Have ye any token to my master?" inquired the messenger.

"Take back this writing," said Virius Lupus. "Thou wilt find him not
far from the city. We wait his coming."

"This leaden-heeled Mercury should have a largess," said the chief,
"but in this den we have not wherewithal to give him. Hold! here is a
good recompense, methinks," continued he, taking the crystal goblet
from a recess. "Take this to thy mistress, and tell her to buy it from
thee. We will see her anon. That charmed cup hath foiled me once, but
I will foil thee now, and the powers thou servest. Thou shall not
again cross my path!"

Cedric took the gift, wrapping it beneath his cloak.

"Thou mayest depart."

The dumb sentinel again took charge of him, and led him away by many
intricate passages towards the entrance, where it seems the goldsmith
had directed him on presenting the signet of Caracalla. The person who
took charge of him was a dumb eunuch, a slave in the service of the
empress.

But the terrors of death were upon the wretched victim. He knew the
centurion would assuredly be at hand to receive his report, and he
could not escape. He had not brought back one word of intelligence;
and being blindfolded, he knew not whither he had been taken. The
writing he carried would assuredly be unintelligible save to those for
whom it was intended. His mission, he could perceive, had utterly
failed. The centurion would not be able to profit by anything he had
brought back, and must inevitably, according to his pledge, at once
render him up to the soothsayer. Whilst ruminating on his hard fate a
sudden thought crossed him. There was little probability of success,
but at all events it might operate as a diversion in his favour, and
the design was immediately executed. Skulking for a moment behind the
slave, he tore off the bandage, and tripped up the heels of his
conductor. Before the latter could recover himself the Briton's gripe
was on his throat.

"Now, slave, thou art my prisoner! Lead on, or by this good sword,
thou diest!"

The torch he carried was luckily not extinguished in the fall. The
eunuch, almost choking, made a sign that he would obey. With the drawn
blade at his throat, the slave went on; but Cedrick, ever wary, and
with that almost instinctive sagacity peculiar to man in his
half-civilised state, kept a tiger-like watch on every movement of his
prisoner, which enabled him to detect the fingers of the slave
suddenly raised to his lips, and a shrill whistle would have consigned
him over to certain and immediate destruction; but he struck down the
uplifted hand with a blow which made his treacherous conductor crouch
and cringe almost to the ground.

"Another attempt," said Cedric, "and we perish together!"

The wily slave looked all penitence and submission. Silently
proceeding, apparently through the underground avenues of the palace,
Cedric was momentarily expecting his arrival at the place where the
centurion kept watch. A flight of steps now brought them to a spacious
landing-place. Suddenly a lamp was visible, and beneath it sat a
number of soldiers, the emperor's body-guard. They gave way as the
eunuch passed by, followed by Cedric, his sword still drawn. Several
of these groups were successively cleared: the guide, by a
countersign, was enabled to thread his way through every obstacle that
presented itself. The Briton's heart misgave him as they approached a
vestibule, before which a phalanx of the guards kept watch. Here he
thought it prudent to sheath his weapon, though he still followed the
eunuch, as his only remaining chance of escape. Even here they were
instantly admitted, and without any apparent hesitation. The door
turned slowly on its pivot, and Cedric found himself in a
richly-decorated chamber, where, by the light of a single lamp, and
with the smell of perfumed vapour in his nostrils, he saw a figure in
costly vestments reclining on a couch. The slave prostrated himself.

"What brings thee from thy mistress at this untimely hour? A message
from the empress?"

Here the speaker raised himself from the couch, and the slave, with
great vehemence, made certain signs, which the wondering Briton
understood not.

"Ah!" said the emperor, his eyes directly levelled at the supposed
culprit; "thou hast found the thief who, in the confusion of
yesternight, bore away the magic cup. Bring him hither that I may
question him ere his carcase be sent to the beasts."

The doomed wretch was now fairly in the paws of the very tyrant he had
so long dreaded. The death which by every stratagem he had striven to
avoid was now inevitable. He was betrayed by means of the very device
he had, as he thought, so craftily adopted; but still his natural
sagacity did not forsake him even in this unexpected emergency. As he
prostrated himself, presenting the cup he had stowed away safely in
his cloak, he still kept a wary eye on the slave who had betrayed him.
He saw him preparing to depart; and knowing that his only hope of
deliverance lay in preventing his guide from giving warning to the
conspirators they had just left, Cedric, with a sudden spring, leaped
upon him like a tiger, even in the presence of the monarch.

The latter, astounded at this unexpected act of temerity, was for a
few moments inactive. This pause was too precious to be lost.
Desperation gave him courage, and Cedric addressed the dread ruler of
the world even whilst he clutched the gasping traitor.

"Here, great monarch, here is the traitor; and if I prove him not
false, on my head be the recompense!"

He said this in a tone of such earnestness and anxiety that the
emperor was suddenly diverted from his purpose of summoning his
attendants. He saw the favourite slave of the empress writhing in the
gripe of the barbarian; but the events of the last few hours had
awakened suspicions which the lightest accusations might confirm. He
remembered his son's guilt; the facility of his escape; and it might
be that treason stood on the very threshold, ready to strike. He
determined to sift the matter; and the guard now summoned, the parties
were separated--each awaiting the fiat of the monarch.

"Where is Virius Lupus?" was the emperor's first inquiry.

"He hath not returned from the apartments of the empress."

"Let this slave be bound," cried Cedric. "Force him to conduct you
even to the place whence, blindfold, he hath just led me; and if you
find not a nest of traitors, my own head shall be the forfeit."

Dark and fearful was the flash that shot from the emperor's eye on the
devoted eunuch. Pale and trembling he fell on his knees, supplicating
with uplifted hands for mercy. He knew it was vain to dissemble.

"And what wert thou doing in such perilous company?" inquired the
emperor, turning to Cedric, and in a voice which made him shrink.

"Let the centurion, Diogenes Verecundus, be sought out. He waits my
return by the Forum gate. To him the city owes a discovery of this
plot, and Rome her monarch!"

The faithful centurion was soon found. The eunuch conducted them
secretly to the vault. The conspirators were seized in the very height
of their anticipated success. The roll containing the names of the
leaders, the plan of attack, and the disposition of the rebellious
troops, was discovered; and the morning sun darted a fearful ray on
the ghastly and bleeding heads uplifted on the walls and battlements
of the imperial palace.

But with misplaced clemency the monster Caracalla was again pardoned.
The centurion Diogenes Verecundus was raised to the dignity of
Sexumvir. The only reward claimed by the generous and sturdy Briton
was an act of immunity for his master, who was merely dismissed from
his post and banished the kingdom.

     [22] This tale was written for the _Traditions of
     the County of York_. It appeared by permission in an Annual
     entitled _The White Rose of York_: but having only had a local
     circulation at the time, and having been carefully revised by
     the author during the last winter of his life, it finds a place
     here.

     [23] Aldborough

     [24] Lubinus in Juven. p. 294.

       *       *       *       *       *

     [i]    Pile or Peel of Foundrey, both names are used.

     [ii]   This seems to be a slight misquote. Oliver Goldsmith's
            poem starts with "For still I tried each fickle art"
            and not "And".

     [iii]  The usual present-day form seems to be: "Non omnes qui
            habent citharam sunt citharoedi."

     [iv]   According to the OED one definition of "prog" could
            conceivably apply: a slang term for food. It also may
            be a typo for "grog".

     [v]    Probably "coranto": a baroque/renaissance dance style
            according to Wikipedia.

     [vi]   The spelling of "ultima Thule" instead of "Ultima Thule"
            has been noted, but not corrected.

END OF VOL. II.

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