A great marvel and gossip, as may readily be supposed, now arose throughout the whole country.  Rumour, with her hundred tongues, flew fast, and her wide wings overspread the land.  From all quarters, conformably to the signal, the levies marched with great rapidity to Doncaster, where they found Lord D’Arcy, who seemed to feel, or to feign, astonishment at this sudden rising without his orders.  One and all proclaimed that the appointed signal was from the Abbot of Whalley, at whose war-inciting torch the whole line of beacons had been kindled.  A messenger, however, was soon forwarded to the camp, from Paslew, with an explanation of the affair, while at the same time he demanded their aid for the discovery and punishment of the offenders.  But D’Arcy and Aske were too well pleased to see Paslew’s crafty and selfish plans frustrated, whilst he was irretrievably committed to their cause.  Tired of waiting the tardy result of negotiations with their sovereign, these ambitious spirits were glad to behold their army once more menacing the royalist position, hoping it would either quicken or terminate these dilatory proceedings.  But the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Shrewsbury, at the news of this unexpected rising, were mightily amazed.  Their plans were at once terminated.  Their emissaries had failed to bring intelligence previously of the intended gathering.  In the midst of their dilemma word was brought that the Abbot of Whalley had first lighted up the blaze of insurrection.  Secretly resolving that this meddling priest should sorely rue his mischievous exploit, they again found themselves unwillingly obliged to enter into fresh stipulations with their adversaries, though determining on delay, if possible, in the hope of dividing their leaders, and of extinguishing the rebellion in detail.

But we would crave the reader’s return to the abbey, where Ralph was left in strict durance, and possibly in some danger from the vindictive purposes of the abbot.

Early on the following morning he was aroused from a deeptoned and laborious stertoration, by a figure that shook him as he lay, in a somewhat unceremonious fashion.  The intruder was wrapped in a thick cloak or tunic, and he stood gruffly erect by the straw couch, whereon the prisoner’s night-dreams had nestled in their first existence.

“I marvel thou sleepest so soundly!  Thou art the first knave, I trow, that hast welcomed these walls with so loud a clarion.”

“And what should ail the well-earned slumbers of Ralph Newcome?  His sleep may be as sound as some of those, mayhap, that have softer beds and gayer clothing.”

“But the gallows, man!—­Hast had no glimpse of the noose in thy night visions?”

“Peradventure the hemp is not sown that shall make my collar.  When the hangsman comes, ’tis time enough to wake; so, I pray thee, bereave not a poor man of the only solace the rich cannot purchase from him.”

“Thou art a plain-spoken varlet, and I would but ask thy master’s name and condition.  Answer me straight—­no equivocation, no shuffling or evasion shall serve thee; ’tis a stale device now, and will not avail.”