Before long the procession had reached the mountain path across Cockrigg Bank, and this path it was intended to follow as far as Watendlath.

Here the Reverend Nicholas Stevens left the mourners.  In accordance with an old custom, he might have required that they should pass through his chapel yard on the Raise before leaving the parish, but he had waived his right to this tribute to episcopacy.  After offering a suitable blessing, he turned away, not without a withering glance at the weaver, who was muttering rather too audibly an adaptation of the rhyme,—­

     I’ll set him up on yon crab-tree,
     It’s sour and dour, and so is he.

“I reckon,” continued Matthew to little Reuben Thwaite, by his side, as the procession started afresh,—­“I reckon yon auld Nick,” with a lurch of his thumb over his shoulder, “likes Ash Wednesday better ner this Wednesday—­better ner ony Wednesday—­for that’s the day he curses every yan all roond, and asks the folks to say Amen tul him.”

The schoolmaster had walked demurely enough thus far; nor did the departure of the clergyman effect a sensible elevation of his spirits.  Of all the mourners, the “laal limber Frenchman” was the most mournful.

It was a cheerless winter morning when they set out from Shoulthwaite.  The wind had never fallen since the terrible night of the death of Angus.  As they ascended the fell, however, it was full noon.  The sun had broken languidly through the mists that had rolled midway across the mountains, and were now being driven by the wind in a long white continent towards the south, there to gather between more sheltered headlands to the strength of rain.  When they reached the top of the Armboth Fell the sky was clear, the sun shone brightly and bathed the gorse that stretched for miles around in varied shades of soft blue, brightening in some places to purple, and in other places deepening to black.  The wind was stronger here than it had been in the valley, and blew in gusts of all but overpowering fierceness from High Seat towards Glaramara.

“This caps owte,” said Matthew, as he lurched to the wind.  “Yan waddent hev a crowful of flesh on yan’s bones an yan lived up here.”

When the procession reached the village of Watendlath a pause was made.  From this point onward the journey through Borrowdale towards the foot of Stye Head Pass must necessarily be a hard and tiresome one, there being scarcely a traceable path through the huge bowlders.  Here it was agreed that the mourners on foot should turn back, leaving the more arduous part of the journey to those only who were mounted on sure-footed ponies.  Matthew Branthwaite, Monsey Laman, and Reuben Thwaite were among the dozen or more dalesmen who left the procession at this point.

When, on their return journey, they had regained the summit of the Armboth Fell, and were about to descend past Blea Tarn towards Wythburn, they stood for a moment at that highest point and took a last glimpse of the mournful little company, with the one riderless horse in front, that wended its way slowly beyond Rosthwaite, along the banks of the winding Derwent, which looked to them now like a thin streak of blue in the deep valley below.