“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 infant daughter, and I am content.  I would not ask thee for this service, slight though it be, but the poor soul hath set her mind upon it.  Wilt thou do it?”

“No,” replied the abbot, shuddering; “I will not baptise a daughter of Satan.  I will not sell my soul to the powers of darkness.  I adjure thee to depart from me, and tempt me no longer.”

“Vainly thou seekest to cast me off,” rejoined Demdike.  “What if I deliver thine adversaries into thine hands, and revenge thee upon them?  Even now there are a party of armed men waiting at the foot of the hill to seize thee and thy brethren.  Shall I show thee how to destroy them?”

“Who are they?” demanded the abbot, surprised.

“Their leaders are John Braddyll and Richard Assheton, who shall divide Whalley Abbey between them, if thou stayest them not,” replied Demdike.

“Hell consume them!” cried the abbot.

“Thy speech shows consent,” rejoined Demdike.  “Come this way.”

And, without awaiting the abbot’s reply, he dragged his horse towards the but-end of the mountain.  As they went on, the two monks, who had been filled with surprise at the interview, though they did not dare to interrupt it, advanced towards their superior, and looked earnestly and inquiringly at him, but he remained silent; while to the men-at-arms and the herdsmen, who demanded whether their own beacon-fire should be extinguished as the others had been, he answered moodily in the negative.