Part 5 (1/2)
”Thou wilt not die, I tell thee, Cuthbert,” cried Bess; ”Nicholas hath staunched thy wound.”
”He stawncht it, seyst to?” cried Ashbead, raising. ”Ey'st never owe meh loife to him.”
And before he could be prevented he tore off the bandage, and the blood burst forth anew.
”It is not my fault if he perishes now,” observed Demdike, moodily.
”Help him-help him!” implored Bess.
”He shanna touch meh,” cried Ashbead, struggling and increasing the effusion. ”Keep him off, ey adjure thee. Farewell, Bess,” he added, sinking back utterly exhausted by the effort.
”Cuthbert!” screamed Bess, terrified by his looks, ”Cuthbert! art thou really dying? Look at me, speak to me! Ha!” she cried, as if seized by a sudden idea, ”they say the blessing of a dying man will avail. Bless my child, Cuthbert, bless it!”
”Give it me!” groaned the forester.
Bess held the infant towards him; but before he could place his hands upon it all power forsook him, and he fell back and expired.
”Lost! lost! for ever lost!” cried Bess, with a wild shriek.
At this moment a loud blast was blown from the gate-tower, and a trumpeter called out,
”The abbot and the two other prisoners are coming.”
”To thy feet, wench!” cried Demdike, imperiously, and seizing the bewildered woman by the arm; ”to thy feet, and come with me to meet him!”
CHAPTER IV.-THE MALEDICTION.
The captive ecclesiastics, together with the strong escort by which they were attended, under the command of John Braddyll, the high sheriff of the county, had pa.s.sed the previous night at Whitewell, in Bowland Forest; and the abbot, before setting out on his final journey, was permitted to spend an hour in prayer in a little chapel on an adjoining hill, overlooking a most picturesque portion of the forest, the beauties of which were enhanced by the windings of the Hodder, one of the loveliest streams in Lancas.h.i.+re. His devotions performed, Paslew, attended by a guard, slowly descended the hill, and gazed his last on scenes familiar to him almost from infancy. n.o.ble trees, which now looked like old friends, to whom he was bidding an eternal adieu, stood around him. Beneath them, at the end of a glade, couched a herd of deer, which started off at sight of the intruders, and made him envy their freedom and fleetness as he followed them in thought to their solitudes. At the foot of a steep rock ran the Hodder, making the pleasant music of other days as it dashed over its pebbly bed, and recalling times, when, free from all care, he had strayed by its wood-fringed banks, to listen to the pleasant sound of running waters, and watch the s.h.i.+ning pebbles beneath them, and the swift trout and dainty umber glancing past.
A bitter pang was it to part with scenes so fair, and the abbot spoke no word, nor even looked up, until, pa.s.sing Little Mitton, he came in sight of Whalley Abbey. Then, collecting all his energies, he prepared for the shock he was about to endure. But nerved as he was, his firmness was sorely tried when he beheld the stately pile, once his own, now gone from him and his for ever. He gave one fond glance towards it, and then painfully averting his gaze, recited, in a low voice, this supplication:-
”Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam. Et secundum mult.i.tudinem miserationum tuarum, dele iniquitatem meam. Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea, et a peccato meo munda me.”
But other thoughts and other emotions crowded upon him, when he beheld the groups of his old retainers advancing to meet him: men, women, and children pouring forth loud lamentations, prostrating themselves at his feet, and deploring his doom. The abbot's fort.i.tude had a severe trial here, and the tears sprung to his eyes. The devotion of these poor people touched him more sharply than the severity of his adversaries.
”Bless ye! bless ye! my children,” he cried; ”repine not for me, for I bear my cross with resignation. It is for me to bewail your lot, much fearing that the flock I have so long and so zealously tended will fall into the hands of other and less heedful pastors, or, still worse, of devouring wolves. Bless ye, my children, and be comforted. Think of the end of Abbot Paslew, and for what he suffered.”
”Think that he was a traitor to the king, and took up arms in rebellion against him,” cried the sheriff, riding up, and speaking in a loud voice; ”and that for his heinous offences he was justly condemned to death.”
Murmurs arose at this speech, but they were instantly checked by the escort.
”Think charitably of me, my children,” said the abbot; ”and the blessed Virgin keep you steadfast in your faith. Benedicite!”
”Be silent, traitor, I command thee,” cried the sheriff, striking him with his gauntlet in the face.
The abbot's pale check burnt crimson, and his eye flashed fire, but he controlled himself, and answered meekly,-
”Thou didst not speak in such wise, John Braddyll, when I saved thee from the flood.”