The Lancashire Witches by William Harrison Ainsworth

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"You are right, father," replied the abbot. "Be seated, I pray you, and
listen to me, for I have much to tell. Thirty and one years ago I was
prior of this abbey. Up to that period my life had been blameless, or,
if not wholly free from fault, I had little wherewith to reproach
myself--little to fear from a merciful judge--unless it were that I
indulged too strongly the desire of ruling absolutely in the house in
which I was then only second. But Satan had laid a snare for me, into
which I blindly fell. Among the brethren was one named Borlace Alvetham,
a young man of rare attainment, and singular skill in the occult
sciences. He had risen in favour, and at the time I speak of was elected
sub-prior."

"Go on," said the monk.

"It began to be whispered about within the abbey," pursued Paslew, "that
on the death of William Rede, then abbot, Borlace Alvetham would succeed
him, and then it was that bitter feelings of animosity were awakened in
my breast against the sub-prior, and, after many struggles, I resolved
upon his destruction."

"A wicked resolution," cried the monk; "but proceed."

"I pondered over the means of accomplishing my purpose," resumed Paslew,
"and at last decided upon accusing Alvetham of sorcery and magical
practices. The accusation was easy, for the occult studies in which he
indulged laid him open to the charge. He occupied a chamber overlooking
the Calder, and used to break the monastic rules by wandering forth at
night upon the hills. When he was absent thus one night, accompanied by
others of the brethren, I visited his chamber, and examined his papers,
some of which were covered with mystical figures and cabalistic
characters. These papers I seized, and a watch was set to make prisoner
of Alvetham on his return. Before dawn he appeared, and was instantly
secured, and placed in close confinement. On the next day he was brought
before the assembled conclave in the chapter-house, and examined. His
defence was unavailing. I charged him with the terrible crime of
witchcraft, and he was found guilty."

A hollow groan broke from the monk, but he offered no other
interruption.

"He was condemned to die a fearful and lingering death," pursued the
abbot; "and it devolved upon me to see the sentence carried out."

"And no pity for the innocent moved you?" cried the monk. "You had no
compunction?"

"None," replied the abbot; "I rather rejoiced in the successful
accomplishment of my scheme. The prey was fairly in my toils, and I
would give him no chance of escape. Not to bring scandal upon the
abbey, it was decided that Alvetham's punishment should be secret."

"A wise resolve," observed the monk.

"Within the thickness of the dormitory walls is contrived a small
singularly-formed dungeon," continued the abbot. "It consists of an
arched cell, just large enough to hold the body of a captive, and permit
him to stretch himself upon a straw pallet. A narrow staircase mounts
upwards to a grated aperture in one of the buttresses to admit air and
light. Other opening is there none. '_Teter et fortis carcer_' is this
dungeon styled in our monastic rolls, and it is well described, for it
is black and strong enough. Food is admitted to the miserable inmate of
the cell by means of a revolving stone, but no interchange of speech can
be held with those without. A large stone is removed from the wall to
admit the prisoner, and once immured, the masonry is mortised, and made
solid as before. The wretched captive does not long survive his doom, or
it may be he lives too long, for death must be a release from such
protracted misery. In this dark cell one of the evil-minded brethren,
who essayed to stab the Abbot of Kirkstall in the chapter-house, was
thrust, and ere a year was over, the provisions were untouched--and the
man being known to be dead, they were stayed. His skeleton was found
within the cell when it was opened to admit Borlace Alvetham."

"Poor captive!" groaned the monk.

"Ay, poor captive!" echoed Paslew. "Mine eyes have often striven to
pierce those stone walls, and see him lying there in that narrow
chamber, or forcing his way upwards, to catch a glimpse of the blue sky
above him. When I have seen the swallows settle on the old buttress, or
the thin grass growing between the stones waving there, I have thought
of him."

"Go on," said the monk.

"I scarce can proceed," rejoined Paslew. "Little time was allowed
Alvetham for preparation. That very night the fearful sentence was
carried out. The stone was removed, and a new pallet placed in the cell.
At midnight the prisoner was brought to the dormitory, the brethren
chanting a doleful hymn. There he stood amidst them, his tall form
towering above the rest, and his features pale as death. He protested
his innocence, but he exhibited no fear, even when he saw the terrible
preparations. When all was ready he was led to the breach. At that awful
moment, his eye met mine, and I shall never forget the look. I might
have saved him if I had spoken, but I would not speak. I turned away,
and he was thrust into the breach. A fearful cry then rang in my ears,
but it was instantly drowned by the mallets of the masons employed to
fasten up the stone."

There was a pause for a few moments, broken only by the sobs of the
abbot. At length, the monk spoke.

"And the prisoner perished in the cell?" he demanded in a hollow voice.

"I thought so till to-night," replied the abbot. "But if he escaped it,
it must have been by miracle; or by aid of those powers with whom he was
charged with holding commerce."

"He did escape!" thundered the monk, throwing back his hood. "Look up,
John Paslew. Look up, false abbot, and recognise thy victim."

"Borlace Alvetham!" cried the abbot. "Is it, indeed, you?"

"You see, and can you doubt?" replied the other. "But you shall now hear
how I avoided the terrible death to which you procured my condemnation.
You shall now learn how I am here to repay the wrong you did me. We have
changed places, John Paslew, since the night when I was thrust into the
cell, never, as you hoped, to come forth. You are now the criminal, and
I the witness of the punishment."

"Forgive me! oh, forgive me! Borlace Alvetham, since you are, indeed,
he!" cried the abbot, falling on his knees.

"Arise, John Paslew!" cried the other, sternly. "Arise, and listen to
me. For the damning offences into which I have been led, I hold you
responsible. But for you I might have died free from sin. It is fit you
should know the amount of my iniquity. Give ear to me, I say. When first
shut within that dungeon, I yielded to the promptings of despair.
Cursing you, I threw myself upon the pallet, resolved to taste no food,
and hoping death would soon release me. But love of life prevailed. On
the second day I took the bread and water allotted me, and ate and
drank; after which I scaled the narrow staircase, and gazed through the
thin barred loophole at the bright blue sky above, sometimes catching
the shadow of a bird as it flew past. Oh, how I yearned for freedom
then! Oh, how I wished to break through the stone walls that held me
fast! Oh, what a weight of despair crushed my heart as I crept back to
my narrow bed! The cell seemed like a grave, and indeed it was little
better. Horrible thoughts possessed me. What if I should be wilfully
forgotten? What if no food should be given me, and I should be left to
perish by the slow pangs of hunger? At this idea I shrieked aloud, but
the walls alone returned a dull echo to my cries. I beat my hands
against the stones, till the blood flowed from them, but no answer was
returned; and at last I desisted from sheer exhaustion. Day after day,
and night after night, passed in this way. My food regularly came. But I
became maddened by solitude; and with terrible imprecations invoked aid
from the powers of darkness to set me free. One night, while thus
employed, I was startled by a mocking voice which said,

"'All this fury is needless. Thou hast only to wish for me, and I come.'

[Illustration: ALVETHAM AND JOHN PASLEW.]

"It was profoundly dark. I could see nothing but a pair of red orbs,
glowing like flaming carbuncles.

"'Thou wouldst be free,' continued the voice. 'Thou shalt be so. Arise,
and follow me.'

"At this I felt myself grasped by an iron arm, against which all
resistance would have been unavailing, even if I had dared to offer it,
and in an instant I was dragged up the narrow steps. The stone wall
opened before my unseen conductor, and in another moment we were upon
the roof of the dormitory. By the bright starbeams shooting down from
above, I discerned a tall shadowy figure standing by my side.

"'Thou art mine,' he cried, in accents graven for ever on my memory;
'but I am a generous master, and will give thee a long term of freedom.
Thou shalt be avenged upon thine enemy--deeply avenged.'

"'Grant this, and I am thine,' I replied, a spirit of infernal vengeance
possessing me. And I knelt before the fiend.

"'But thou must tarry for awhile,' he answered, 'for thine enemy's time
will be long in coming; but it _will_ come. I cannot work him immediate
harm; but I will lead him to a height from which he will assuredly fall
headlong. Thou must depart from this place; for it is perilous to thee,
and if thou stayest here, ill will befall thee. I will send a rat to thy
dungeon, which shall daily devour the provisions, so that the monks
shall not know thou hast fled. In thirty and one years shall the abbot's
doom be accomplished. Two years before that time thou mayst return. Then
come alone to Pendle Hill on a Friday night, and beat the water of the
moss pool on the summit, and I will appear to thee and tell thee more.
Nine and twenty years, remember!'

"With these words the shadowy figure melted away, and I found myself
standing alone on the mossy roof of the dormitory. The cold stars were
shining down upon me, and I heard the howl of the watch-dogs near the
gate. The fair abbey slept in beauty around me, and I gnashed my teeth
with rage to think that you had made me an outcast from it, and robbed
me of a dignity which might have been mine. I was wroth also that my
vengeance should be so long delayed. But I could not remain where I was,
so I clambered down the buttress, and fled away."

"Can this be?" cried the abbot, who had listened in rapt wonderment to
the narration. "Two years after your immurement in the cell, the food
having been for some time untouched, the wall was opened, and upon the
pallet was found a decayed carcase in mouldering, monkish vestments."

"It was a body taken from the charnel, and placed there by the demon,"
replied the monk. "Of my long wanderings in other lands and beneath
brighter skies I need not tell you; but neither absence nor lapse of
years cooled my desire of vengeance, and when the appointed time drew
nigh I returned to my own country, and came hither in a lowly garb,
under the name of Nicholas Demdike."

"Ha!" exclaimed the abbot.

"I went to Pendle Hill, as directed," pursued the monk, "and saw the
Dark Shape there as I beheld it on the dormitory roof. All things were
then told me, and I learnt how the late rebellion should rise, and how
it should be crushed. I learnt also how my vengeance should be
satisfied."

Paslew groaned aloud. A brief pause ensued, and deep emotion marked the
accents of the wizard as he proceeded.

"When I came back, all this part of Lancashire resounded with praises of
the beauty of Bess Blackburn, a rustic lass who dwelt in Barrowford. She
was called the Flower of Pendle, and inflamed all the youths with love,
and all the maidens with jealousy. But she favoured none except Cuthbert
Ashbead, forester to the Abbot of Whalley. Her mother would fain have
given her to the forester in marriage, but Bess would not be disposed of
so easily. I saw her, and became at once enamoured. I thought my heart
was seared; but it was not so. The savage beauty of Bess pleased me more
than the most refined charms could have done, and her fierce character
harmonised with my own. How I won her matters not, but she cast off all
thoughts of Ashbead, and clung to me. My wild life suited her; and she
roamed the wastes with me, scaled the hills in my company, and shrank
not from the weird meetings I attended. Ill repute quickly attended her,
and she became branded as a witch. Her aged mother closed her doors upon
her, and those who would have gone miles to meet her, now avoided her.
Bess heeded this little. She was of a nature to repay the world's
contumely with like scorn, but when her child was born the case became
different. She wished to save it. Then it was," pursued Demdike,
vehemently, and regarding the abbot with flashing eyes--"then it was
that I was again mortally injured by you. Then your ruthless decree to
the clergy went forth. My child was denied baptism, and became subject
to the fiend."

"Alas! alas!" exclaimed Paslew.

"And as if this were not injury enough," thundered Demdike, "you have
called down a withering and lasting curse upon its innocent head, and
through it transfixed its mother's heart. If you had complied with that
poor girl's request, I would have forgiven you your wrong to me, and
have saved you."

There was a long, fearful silence. At last Demdike advanced to the
abbot, and, seizing his arm, fixed his eyes upon him, as if to search
into his soul.

"Answer me, John Paslew!" he cried; "answer me, as you shall speedily
answer your Maker. Can that malediction be recalled? Dare not to trifle
with me, or I will tear forth your black heart, and cast it in your
face. Can that curse be recalled? Speak!"

"It cannot," replied the abbot, half dead with terror.

"Away, then!" thundered Demdike, casting him from him. "To the
gallows!--to the gallows!" And he rushed out of the room.

CHAPTER VII.--THE ABBEY MILL.

For a while the abbot remained shattered and stupefied by this terrible
interview. At length he arose, and made his way, he scarce knew how, to
the oratory. But it was long before the tumult of his thoughts could be
at all allayed, and he had only just regained something like composure
when he was disturbed by hearing a slight sound in the adjoining
chamber. A mortal chill came over him, for he thought it might be
Demdike returned. Presently, he distinguished a footstep stealthily
approaching him, and almost hoped that the wizard would consummate his
vengeance by taking his life. But he was quickly undeceived, for a hand
was placed on his shoulder, and a friendly voice whispered in his ears,
"Cum along wi' meh, lort abbut. Get up, quick--quick!"

Thus addressed, the abbot raised his eyes, and beheld a rustic figure
standing beside him, divested of his clouted shoes, and armed with a
long bare wood-knife.

"Dunna yo knoa me, lort abbut?" cried the person. "Ey'm a freent--Hal o'
Nabs, o' Wiswall. Yo'n moind Wiswall, yeawr own birthplace, abbut? Dunna
be feert, ey sey. Ey'n getten a steigh clapt to yon windaw, an' you con
be down it i' a trice--an' along t' covert way be t' river soide to t'
mill."

But the abbot stirred not.

"Quick! quick!" implored Hal o' Nabs, venturing to pluck the abbot's
sleeve. "Every minute's precious. Dunna be feert. Ebil Croft, t' miller,
is below. Poor Cuthbert Ashbead would ha' been here i'stead o' meh if he
couldn; boh that accursed wizard, Nick Demdike, turned my hont agen him,
an' drove t' poike head intended for himself into poor Cuthbert's side.
They clapt meh i' a dungeon, boh Ebil monaged to get me out, an' ey then
swore to do whot poor Cuthbert would ha' done, if he'd been livin'--so
here ey am, lort abbut, cum to set yo free. An' neaw yo knoan aw abowt
it, yo con ha nah more hesitation. Cum, time presses, an ey'm feert o'
t' guard owerhearing us."

"I thank you, my good friend, from the bottom of my heart," replied the
abbot, rising; "but, however strong may be the temptation of life and
liberty which you hold out to me, I cannot yield to it. I have pledged
my word to the Earl of Derby to make no attempt to escape. Were the
doors thrown open, and the guard removed, I should remain where I am."

"Whot!" exclaimed Hal o' Nabs, in a tone of bitter disappointment; "yo
winnaw go, neaw aw's prepared. By th' Mess, boh yo shan. Ey'st nah go
back to Ebil empty-handed. If yo'n sworn to stay here, ey'n sworn to set
yo free, and ey'st keep meh oath. Willy nilly, yo shan go wi' meh, lort
abbut!"

"Forbear to urge me further, my good Hal," rejoined Paslew. "I fully
appreciate your devotion; and I only regret that you and Abel Croft have
exposed yourselves to so much peril on my account. Poor Cuthbert
Ashbead! when I beheld his body on the bier, I had a sad feeling that he
had died in my behalf."

"Cuthbert meant to rescue yo, lort abbut," replied Hal, "and deed
resisting Nick Demdike's attempt to arrest him. Boh, be aw t' devils!"
he added, brandishing his knife fiercely, "t' warlock shall ha' three
inches o' cowd steel betwixt his ribs, t' furst time ey cum across him."

"Peace, my son," rejoined the abbot, "and forego your bloody design.
Leave the wretched man to the chastisement of Heaven. And now, farewell!
All your kindly efforts to induce me to fly are vain."

"Yo winnaw go?" cried Hal o'Nabs, scratching his head.

"I cannot," replied the abbot.

"Cum wi' meh to t' windaw, then," pursued Hal, "and tell Ebil so. He'll
think ey'n failed else."

"Willingly," replied the abbot.

And with noiseless footsteps he followed the other across the chamber.
The window was open, and outside it was reared a ladder.

"Yo mun go down a few steps," said Hal o' Nabs, "or else he'll nah hear
yo."

The abbot complied, and partly descended the ladder.

"I see no one," he said.

"T' neet's dark," replied Hal o' Nabs, who was close behind him. "Ebil
canna be far off. Hist! ey hear him--go on."

The abbot was now obliged to comply, though he did so with, reluctance.
Presently he found himself upon the roof of a building, which he knew to
be connected with the mill by a covered passage running along the south
bank of the Calder. Scarcely had he set foot there, than Hal o' Nabs
jumped after him, and, seizing the ladder, cast it into the stream, thus
rendering Paslew's return impossible.

"Neaw, lort abbut," he cried, with a low, exulting laugh, "yo hanna
brok'n yor word, an ey'n kept moine. Yo're free agen your will."

"You have destroyed me by your mistaken zeal," cried the abbot,
reproachfully.

"Nowt o't sort," replied Hal; "ey'n saved yo' fro' destruction. This
way, lort abbut--this way."

And taking Paslew's arm he led him to a low parapet, overlooking the
covered passage before described. Half an hour before it had been bright
moonlight, but, as if to favour the fugitive, the heavens had become
overcast, and a thick mist had arisen from the river.

"Ebil! Ebil!" cried Hal o' Nabs, leaning over the parapet.

"Here," replied a voice below. "Is aw reet? Is he wi' yo?"

"Yeigh," replied Hal.

"Whot han yo dun wi' t' steigh?" cried Ebil.

"Never yo moind," returned Hal, "boh help t' abbut down."

Paslew thought it vain to resist further, and with the help of Hal o'
Nabs and the miller, and further aided by some irregularities in the
wall, he was soon safely landed near the entrance of the passage. Abel
fell on his knees, and pressed the abbot's hand to his lips.

"Owr Blessed Leady be praised, yo are free," he cried.

"Dunna stond tawking here, Ebil," interposed Hal o' Nabs, who by this
time had reached the ground, and who was fearful of some new
remonstrance on the abbot's part. "Ey'm feerd o' pursuit."

"Yo' needna be afeerd o' that, Hal," replied the miller. "T' guard are
safe enough. One o' owr chaps has just tuk em up a big black jack fu' o'
stout ele; an ey warrant me they winnaw stir yet awhoile. Win it please
yo to cum wi' me, lort abbut?"

With this, he marched along the passage, followed by the others, and
presently arrived at a door, against which he tapped. A bolt being
withdrawn, it was instantly opened to admit the party, after which it
was as quickly shut, and secured. In answer to a call from the miller, a
light appeared at the top of a steep, ladder-like flight of wooden
steps, and up these Paslew, at the entreaty of Abel, mounted, and found
himself in a large, low chamber, the roof of which was crossed by great
beams, covered thickly with cobwebs, whitened by flour, while the floor
was strewn with empty sacks and sieves.

The person who held the light proved to be the miller's daughter,
Dorothy, a blooming lass of eighteen, and at the other end of the
chamber, seated on a bench before a turf fire, with an infant on her
knees, was the miller's wife. The latter instantly arose on beholding
the abbot, and, placing the child on a corn bin, advanced towards him,
and dropped on her knees, while her daughter imitated her example. The
abbot extended his hands over them, and pronounced a solemn benediction.

"Bring your child also to me, that I may bless it," he said, when he
concluded.

"It's nah my child, lort abbut," replied the miller's wife, taking up
the infant and bringing it to him; "it wur brought to me this varry neet
by Ebil. Ey wish it wur far enough, ey'm sure, for it's a deformed
little urchon. One o' its een is lower set than t' other; an t' reet
looks up, while t' laft looks down."

And as she spoke she pointed to the infant's face, which was disfigured
as she had stated, by a strange and unnatural disposition of the eyes,
one of which was set much lower in the head than the other. Awakened
from sleep, the child uttered a feeble cry, and stretched out its tiny
arms to Dorothy.

"You ought to pity it for its deformity, poor little creature, rather
than reproach it, mother," observed the young damsel.

"Marry kem eawt!" cried her mother, sharply, "yo'n getten fine feelings
wi' your larning fro t' good feythers, Dolly. Os ey said efore, ey wish
t' brat wur far enough."

"You forget it has no mother," suggested Dorothy, kindly.

"An naw great matter, if it hasn't," returned the miller's wife. "Bess
Demdike's neaw great loss."

"Is this Bess Demdike's child?" cried Paslew, recoiling.

"Yeigh," exclaimed the miller's wife. And mistaking the cause of
Paslew's emotion, she added, triumphantly, to her daughter, "Ey towd te,
wench, ot t' lort abbut would be of my way o' thinking. T' chilt has got
the witch's mark plain upon her. Look, lort abbut, look!"

But Paslew heeded her not, but murmured to himself:--

"Ever in my path, go where I will. It is vain to struggle with my fate.
I will go back and surrender myself to the Earl of Derby."

"Nah,--nah!--yo shanna do that," replied Hal o' Nabs, who, with the
miller, was close beside him. "Sit down o' that stoo' be t' fire, and
take a cup o' wine t' cheer yo, and then we'n set out to Pendle Forest,
where ey'st find yo a safe hiding-place. An t' ony reward ey'n ever ask
for t' sarvice shan be, that yo'n perform a marriage sarvice fo' me and
Dolly one of these days." And he nudged the damsel's elbow, who turned
away, covered with blushes.

The abbot moved mechanically to the fire, and sat down, while the
miller's wife, surrendering the child with a shrug of the shoulders and
a grimace to her daughter, went in search of some viands and a flask of
wine, which she set before Paslew. The miller then filled a
drinking-horn, and presented it to his guest, who was about to raise it
to his lips, when a loud knocking was heard at the door below.

The knocking continued with increased violence, and voices were heard
calling upon the miller to open the door, or it would be broken down. On
the first alarm Abel had flown to a small window whence he could
reconnoitre those below, and he now returned with a face white with
terror, to say that a party of arquebussiers, with the sheriff at their
head, were without, and that some of the men were provided with torches.

"They have discovered my evasion, and are come in search of me,"
observed the abbot rising, but without betraying any anxiety. "Do not
concern yourselves further for me, my good friends, but open the door,
and deliver me to them."

"Nah, nah, that we winnaw," cried Hal o' Nabs, "yo're neaw taen yet,
feyther abbut, an' ey knoa a way to baffle 'em. If y'on let him down
into t' river, Ebil, ey'n manage to get him off."

"Weel thowt on, Nab," cried the miller, "theawst nah been mey mon seven
year fo nowt. Theaw knoas t' ways o' t' pleck."

"Os weel os onny rotten abowt it," replied Hal o' Nabs. "Go down to t'
grindin'-room, an ey'n follow i' a troice."

And as Abel snatched up the light, and hastily descended the steps with
Paslew, Hal whispered in Dorothy's ears--

"Tak care neaw one fonds that chilt, Dolly, if they break in. Hide it
safely; an whon they're gone, tak it to't church, and place it near t'
altar, where no ill con cum to it or thee. Mey life may hong upon it."

And as the poor girl, who, as well as her mother, was almost frightened
out of her wits, promised compliance, he hurried down the steps after
the others, muttering, as the clamour without was redoubled--

"Eigh, roar on till yo're hoarse. Yo winnaw get in yet awhile, ey'n
promise ye."