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never, accursed being!” shrieked the abbot. “Thou mayst sacrifice her at thine own impious rites. But see, there is one poor wretch yet struggling with the foaming torrent. I may save him.”

      “That is John Braddyll, thy worst enemy,” replied Demdike. “If he lives he shall possess half Whalley Abbey. Thou hadst best also save Richard Assheton, who yet clings to the great stone below, as if he escapes he shall have the other half. Mark him, and make haste, for in five minutes both shall be gone.”

      “I will save them if I can, be the consequence to myself what it may,” replied the abbot.

      And, regardless of the derisive laughter of the other, who yelled in his ears as he went, “Bess shall see thee hanged at thy own door!” he dashed down the hill to the spot where a small object, distinguishable above the stream, showed that some one still kept his head above water, his tall stature having preserved him.

      “Is it you, John Braddyll?” cried the abbot, as he rode up.

      “Ay,” replied the head. “Forgive me for the wrong I intended you, and deliver me from this great peril.”

      “I am come for that purpose,” replied the abbot, dismounting, and disencumbering himself of his heavy cloak.

      By this time the two herdsmen had come up, and the abbot, taking a crook from one of them, clutched hold of the fellow, and, plunging fearlessly into the stream, extended it towards the drowning man, who instantly lifted up his hand to grasp it. In doing so Braddyll lost his balance, but, as he did not quit his hold, he was plucked forth from the tenacious mud by the combined efforts of the abbot and his assistant, and with some difficulty dragged ashore.

      “Now for the other,” cried Paslew, as he placed Braddyll in safety.

      “One-half the abbey is gone from thee,” shouted a voice in his ears as he rushed on.

      Presently he reached the rocky fragment on which Ralph Assheton rested. The latter was in great danger from the surging torrent, and the stone on which he had taken refuge tottered at its base, and threatened to roll over.

      “In Heaven’s name, help me, lord abbot, as thou thyself shall be holpen at thy need!” shrieked Assheton.

      “Be not afraid, Richard Assheton,” replied Paslew. “I will deliver thee as I have delivered John Braddyll.”

      But the task was not of easy accomplishment. The abbot made his preparations as before; grasped the hand of the herdsman and held out the crook to Assheton; but when the latter caught it, the stream swung him round with such force that the abbot must either abandon him or advance further into the water. Bent on Assheton’s preservation, he adopted the latter expedient, and instantly lost his feet; while the herdsman, unable longer to hold him, let go the crook, and the abbot and Assheton were swept down the stream together.

      Down—down they went, destruction apparently awaiting them; but the abbot, though sometimes quite under the water, and bruised by the rough stones and gravel with which he came in contact, still retained his self-possession, and encouraged his companion to hope for succour. In this way they were borne down to the foot of the hill, the monks, the herdsmen, and the men-at-arms having given them up as lost. But they yet lived—yet floated—though greatly injured, and almost senseless, when they were cast into a pool formed by the eddying waters at the foot of the hill. Here, wholly unable to assist himself, Assheton was seized by a black hound belonging to a tall man who stood on the bank, and who shouted to Paslew, as he helped the animal to bring the drowning man ashore, “The other half of the abbey is gone from thee. Wilt thou baptise my child if I send my dog to save thee?”

      “Never!” replied the other, sinking as he spoke.

      Flashes of fire glanced in the abbot’s eyes, and stunning sounds seemed to burst his ears. A few more struggles, and he became senseless.

      But he was not destined to die thus. What happened afterwards he knew not; but when he recovered full consciousness, he found himself stretched, with aching limbs and throbbing head, upon a couch in a monastic room, with a richly-painted and gilded ceiling, with shields at the corners emblazoned with the three luces of Whalley, and with panels hung with tapestry from the looms of Flanders, representing divers Scriptural subjects.

      “Have I been dreaming?” he murmured.

      “No,” replied a tall man standing by his bedside; “thou hast been saved from one death to suffer another more ignominious.”

      “Ha!” cried the abbot, starting up and pressing his hand to his temples; “thou here?”

      “Ay, I am appointed to watch thee,” replied Demdike. “Thou art a prisoner in thine own chamber at Whalley. All has befallen as I told thee. The Earl of Derby is master of the abbey; thy adherents are dispersed; and thy brethren are driven forth. Thy two partners in rebellion, the abbots of Jervaux and Salley, have been conveyed to Lancaster Castle, whither thou wilt go as soon as thou canst be moved.”

      “I will surrender all—silver and gold, land and possessions—to the king, if I may die in peace,” groaned the abbot.

      “It is not needed,” rejoined the other. “Attainted of felony, thy lands and abbey will be forfeited to the crown, and they shall be sold, as I have told thee, to John Braddyll and Richard Assheton, who will be rulers here in thy stead.”

      “Would I had perished in the flood!” groaned the abbot.

      “Well mayst thou wish so,” returned his tormentor; “but thou wert not destined to die by water. As I have said, thou shalt be hanged at thy own door, and my wife shall witness thy end.”

      “Who art thou? I have heard thy voice before,” cried the abbot. “It is like the voice of one whom I knew years ago, and thy features are like his—though changed—greatly changed. Who art thou?”

      “Thou shalt know before thou diest,” replied the other, with a look of gratified vengeance. “Farewell, and reflect upon thy fate.”

      So saying, he strode towards the door, while the miserable abbot arose, and marching with uncertain steps to a little oratory adjoining, which he himself had built, knelt down before the altar, and strove to pray.

1. A similar eruption occurred at Pendle Hill in August, 1669, and has been described by Mr. Charles Townley, in a letter cited by Dr. Whitaker in his excellent “History of Whalley.” Other and more formidable eruptions had taken place previously, occasioning much damage to the country. The cause of the phenomenon is thus explained by Mr. Townley: “The colour of the water, its coming down to the place where it breaks forth between the rock and the earth, with that other particular of its bringing nothing along but stones and earth, are evident signs that it hath not its origin from the very bowels of the mountain; but that it is only rain water coloured first in the moss-pits, of which the top of the hill, being a great and considerable plain, is full, shrunk down into some receptacle fit to contain it, until at last by its weight, or some other cause, it finds a passage to the sides of the hill, and then away between the rock and swarth, until it break the latter and violently rush out.”

      Chapter 3.

       Whalley Abbey

       Table of Contents

A sad, sad change hath come over the fair Abbey of Whalley. It knoweth its old masters no longer. For upwards of two centuries and a half hath the “Blessed Place”² grown in beauty and riches. Seventeen abbots have exercised unbounded hospitality within it, but now they are all gone, save one!—and he is attainted of felony and treason. The grave monk walketh no more in the cloisters, nor seeketh his pallet in the dormitory. Vesper or matin-song resound not as of old within the fine conventual church. Stripped are the altars of their silver crosses, and the shrines of their votive

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