perish in your sins,” cried Demdike, “I will not give you an hour’s respite.”
“Yo’n be sorry when it’s too late,” said Hal.
“Tush!” cried Demdike, “my only regret will be that Uriel’s slaughter is paid for by such a worthless life as thine.”
“Then whoy tak it?” demanded Hal. “‘Specially whon yo’n lose your chilt by doing so.”
“My child!” exclaimed Demdike, surprised. “How mean you, sirrah?”
“Ey mean this,” replied Hal, coolly; “that if ey dee to-morrow mornin’ your chilt dees too. Whon ey ondertook this job ey calkilated mey chances, an’ tuk precautions eforehond. Your chilt’s a hostage fo mey safety.”
“Curses on thee and thy cunning,” cried Demdike; “but I will not be outwitted by a hind like thee. I will have the child, and yet not be baulked of my revenge.”
“Yo’n never ha’ it, except os a breathless corpse, ‘bowt mey consent,” rejoined Hal.
“We shall see,” cried Demdike, rushing forth, and bidding the guards look well to the prisoner.
But ere long he returned with a gloomy and disappointed expression of countenance, and again approaching the prisoner said, “Thou hast spoken the truth. The infant is in the hands of some innocent being over whom I have no power.”
“Ey towdee so, wizard,” replied Hal, laughing. “Hoind os ey be, ey’m a match fo’ thee,—ha! ha! Neaw, mey life agen t’ chilt’s. Win yo set me free?”
Demdike deliberated.
“Harkee, wizard,” cried Hal, “if yo’re hatching treason ey’n dun. T’ sartunty o’ revenge win sweeten mey last moments.”
“Will you swear to deliver the child to me unharmed, if I set you free?” asked Demdike.
“It’s a bargain, wizard,” rejoined Hal o’ Nabs; “ey swear. Boh yo mun set me free furst, fo’ ey winnaw tak your word.”
Demdike turned away disdainfully, and addressing the arquebussiers, said, “You behold this warrant, guard. The prisoner is committed to my custody. I will produce him on the morrow, or account for his absence to the Earl of Derby.”
One of the arquebussiers examined the order, and vouching for its correctness, the others signified their assent to the arrangement, upon which Demdike motioned the prisoner to follow him, and quitted the chamber. No interruption was offered to Hal’s egress, but he stopped within the court-yard, where Demdike awaited him, and unfastened the leathern thong that bound together his hands.
“Now go and bring the child to me,” said the wizard.
“Nah, ey’st neaw bring it ye myself,” rejoined Hal. “Ey knoas better nor that. Be at t’ church porch i’ half an hour, an t’ bantlin shan be delivered to ye safe an sound.”
And without waiting for a reply, he ran off with great swiftness.
At the appointed time Demdike sought the church, and as he drew near it there issued from the porch a female, who hastily placing the child, wrapped in a mantle, in his arms, tarried for no speech from him, but instantly disappeared. Demdike, however, recognised in her the miller’s daughter, Dorothy Croft.
Chapter 8.
The Executioner
Dawn came at last, after a long and weary night to many within and without the abbey. Every thing betokened a dismal day. The atmosphere was damp, and oppressive to the spirits, while the raw cold sensibly affected the frame. All astir were filled with gloom and despondency, and secretly breathed a wish that, the tragical business of the day were ended. The vast range of Pendle was obscured by clouds, and ere long the vapours descended into the valleys, and rain began to fall; at first slightly, but afterwards in heavy continuous showers. Melancholy was the aspect of the abbey, and it required no stretch of imagination to fancy that the old structure was deploring the fate of its former ruler. To those impressed with the idea—and many there were who were so—the very stones of the convent church seemed dissolving into tears. The statues of the saints appeared to weep, and the great statue of Saint Gregory de Northbury over the porch seemed bowed down with grief. The grotesquely carved heads on the spouts grinned horribly at the abbot’s destroyers, and spouted forth cascades of water, as if with the intent of drowning them. So deluging and incessant were the showers, that it seemed, indeed, as if the abbey would be flooded. All the inequalities of ground within the great quadrangle of the cloisters looked like ponds, and the various water-spouts from the dormitory, the refectory, and the chapter-house, continuing to jet forth streams into the court below, the ambulatories were soon filled ankle-deep, and even the lower apartments, on which they opened, invaded.
Surcharged with moisture, the royal banner on the gate drooped and clung to the staff, as if it too shared in the general depression, or as if the sovereign authority it represented had given way. The countenances and deportment of the men harmonized with the weather; they moved about gloomily and despondently, their bright accoutrements sullied with the wet, and their buskins clogged with mire. A forlorn sight it was to watch the shivering sentinels on the walls; and yet more forlorn to see the groups of the abbot’s old retainers gathering without, wrapped in their blue woollen cloaks, patiently enduring the drenching showers, and awaiting the last awful scene. But the saddest sight of all was on the hill, already described, called the Holehouses. Here two other lesser gibbets had been erected during the night, one on either hand of the loftier instrument of justice, and the carpenters were yet employed in finishing their work, having been delayed by the badness of the weather. Half drowned by the torrents that fell upon them, the poor fellows were protected from interference with their disagreeable occupation by half a dozen well-mounted and well-armed troopers, and by as many halberdiers; and this company, completely exposed to the weather, suffered severely from wet and cold. The rain beat against the gallows, ran down its tall naked posts, and collected in pools at its feet. Attracted by some strange instinct, which seemed to give them a knowledge of the object of these terrible preparations, two ravens wheeled screaming round the fatal tree, and at length one of them settled on the cross-beam, and could with difficulty be dislodged by the shouts of the men, when it flew away, croaking hoarsely. Up this gentle hill, ordinarily so soft and beautiful, but now abhorrent as a Golgotha, in the eyes of the beholders, groups of rustics and monks had climbed over ground rendered slippery with moisture, and had gathered round the paling encircling the terrible apparatus, looking the images of despair and woe.
Even those within the abbey, and sheltered from the storm, shared the all-pervading despondency. The refectory looked dull and comfortless, and the logs on the hearth hissed and sputtered, and would not burn. Green wood had been brought instead of dry fuel by the drowsy henchman. The viands on the board provoked not the appetite, and the men emptied their cups of ale, yawned and stretched their arms, as if they would fain sleep an hour or two longer. The sense of discomfort, was heightened by the entrance of those whose term of watch had been relieved, and who cast their dripping cloaks on the floor, while two or three savage dogs, steaming with moisture, stretched their huge lengths before the sullen fire, and disputed all approach to it.
Within the great hall were already gathered the retainers of the Earl of Derby, but the nobleman himself had not appeared. Having passed the greater
