The Lancashire Witches | Page 7

will trample you
beneath my horse's feet."
"I might let you ride to your own doom," rejoined Demdike, with a
scornful laugh, as he seized the abbot's bridle. "But you shall hear me. I
tell you, you will never go forth on this expedition. I tell you that, ere
to-morrow, Whalley Abbey will have passed for ever from your

possession; and that, if you go thither again, your life will be forfeited.
Now will you listen to me?"
"I am wrong in doing so," cried the abbot, who could not, however,
repress some feelings of misgiving at this alarming address. "Speak,
what would you say?"
"Come out of earshot of the others, and I will tell you," replied
Demdike. And he led the abbot's horse to some distance further on the
hill.
"Your cause will fail, lord abbot," he then said. "Nay, it is lost already."
"Lost!" cried the abbot, out of all patience. "Lost! Look around. Twenty
fires are in sight--ay, thirty, and every fire thou seest will summon a
hundred men, at the least, to arms. Before an hour, five hundred men
will be gathered before the gates of Whalley Abbey."
"True," replied Demdike; "but they will not own the Earl of Poverty for
their leader."
"What leader will they own, then?" demanded the abbot, scornfully.
"The Earl of Derby," replied Demdike. "He is on his way thither with
Lord Mounteagle from Preston."
"Ha!" exclaimed Paslew, "let me go meet them, then. But thou triflest
with me, fellow. Thou canst know nothing of this. Whence gott'st thou
thine information?"
"Heed it not," replied the other; "thou wilt find it correct. I tell thee,
proud abbot, that this grand scheme of thine and of thy fellows, for the
restitution of the Catholic Church, has failed--utterly failed."
"I tell thee thou liest, false knave!" cried the abbot, striking him on the
hand with his scourge. "Quit thy hold, and let me go."
"Not till I have done," replied Demdike, maintaining his grasp. "Well
hast thou styled thyself Earl of Poverty, for thou art poor and miserable

enough. Abbot of Whalley thou art no longer. Thy possessions will be
taken from thee, and if thou returnest thy life also will be taken. If thou
fleest, a price will be set upon thy head. I alone can save thee, and I will
do so on one condition."
"Condition! make conditions with thee, bond-slave of Satan!" cried the
abbot, gnashing his teeth. "I reproach myself that I have listened to thee
so long. Stand aside, or I will strike thee dead."
"You are wholly in my power," cried Demdike with a disdainful laugh.
And as he spoke he pressed the large sharp bit against the charger's
mouth, and backed him quickly to the very edge of the hill, the sides of
which here sloped precipitously down. The abbot would have uttered a
cry, but surprise and terror kept him silent.
"Were it my desire to injure you, I could cast you down the
mountain-side to certain death," pursued Demdike. "But I have no such
wish. On the contrary, I will serve you, as I have said, on one
condition."
"Thy condition would imperil my soul," said the abbot, full of wrath
and alarm. "Thou seekest in vain to terrify me into compliance. Vade
retro, Sathanas. I defy thee and all thy works."
Demdike laughed scornfully.
"The thunders of the Church do not frighten me," he cried. "But, look,"
he added, "you doubted my word when I told you the rising was at an
end. The beacon fires on Boulsworth Hill and on the Grange of
Cliviger are extinguished; that on Padiham Heights is expiring--nay, it
is out; and ere many minutes all these mountain watch-fires will have
disappeared like lamps at the close of a feast."
"By our Lady, it is so," cried the abbot, in increasing terror. "What new
jugglery is this?"
"It is no jugglery, I tell you," replied the other.

"The waters of the Don have again arisen; the insurgents have accepted
the king's pardon, have deserted their leaders, and dispersed. There will
be no rising to-night or on the morrow. The abbots of Jervaux and
Salley will strive to capitulate, but in vain. The Pilgrimage of Grace is
ended. The stake for which thou playedst is lost. Thirty years hast thou
governed here, but thy rule is over. Seventeen abbots have there been
of Whalley--the last thou!--but there shall be none more."
"It must be the Demon in person that speaks thus to me," cried the
abbot, his hair bristling on his head, and a cold perspiration bursting
from his pores.
"No matter who I am," replied the other; "I have said I will aid thee on
one condition. It is not much. Remove thy ban from my wife, and
baptise her