didna knoa t’ reet road exactly; boh whon ey stood still, t’ leet stood still too, on then ey meyd owt that it cum fro an owd ruint tower, an whot ey’d fancied wur one lantern proved twanty, fo’ whon ey reacht t’ tower an peept in thro’ a brok’n winda, ey beheld a seet ey’st neer forgit—­apack o’ witches—­eigh, witches!—­sittin’ in a ring, wi’ their broomsticks an lanterns abowt em!”

“Good lorjus deys!” cried Hal o’ Nabs.  “An whot else didsta see, mon?”

“Whoy,” replied Ashbead, “t’owd hags had a little figure i’ t’ midst on ‘em, mowded i’ cley, representing t’ abbut o’ Whalley,—­ey knoad it be’t moitre and crosier,—­an efter each o’ t’ varment had stickt a pin i’ its ’eart, a tall black mon stepped for’ard, an teed a cord rownd its throttle, an hongt it up.”

“An’ t’ black mon,” cried Hal o’ Nabs, breathlessly,—­“t’ black mon wur Nick Demdike?”

“Yoan guest it,” replied Ashbead, “’t wur he!  Ey wur so glopp’nt, ey couldna speak, an’ meh blud fruz i’ meh veins, when ey heerd a fearfo voice ask Nick wheere his woife an’ chilt were.  ’The infant is unbaptised,’ roart t’ voice, ’at the next meeting it must be sacrificed.  See that thou bring it.’  Demdike then bowed to Summat I couldna see; an axt when t’ next meeting wur to be held.  ’On the night of Abbot Paslew’s execution,’ awnsert t’ voice.  On hearing this, ey could bear nah lunger, boh shouted out, ‘Witches! devils!  Lort deliver us fro’ ye!’ An’ os ey spoke, ey tried t’ barst thro’ t’ winda.  In a trice, aw t’ leets went out; thar wur a great rash to t’ dooer; a whirrin sound i’ th’ air loike a covey o’ partriches fleeing off; and then ey heerd nowt more; for a great stoan fell o’ meh scoance, an’ knockt me down senseless.  When I cum’ to, I wur i’ Nick Demdike’s cottage, wi’ his woife watching ower me, and th’ unbapteesed chilt i’ her arms.”

All exclamations of wonder on the part of the rustics, and inquiries as to the issue of the adventure, were checked by the approach of a monk, who, joining the assemblage, called their attention to a priestly train slowly advancing along the road.

“It is headed,” he said, “by Fathers Chatburne and Chester, late bursers of the abbey.  Alack! alack! they now need the charity themselves which they once so lavishly bestowed on others.”

“Waes me!” ejaculated Ashbead.  “Monry a broad merk han ey getten fro ’em.”

“They’n been koind to us aw,” added the others.

“Next come Father Burnley, granger, and Father Haworth, cellarer,” pursued the monk; “and after them Father Dinkley, sacristan, and Father Moore, porter.”

“Yo remember Feyther Moore, lads,” cried Ashbead.

“Yeigh, to be sure we done,” replied the others; “a good mon, a reet good mon!  He never sent away t’ poor—­naw he!”

“After Father Moore,” said the monk, pleased with their warmth, “comes Father Forrest, the procurator, with Fathers Rede, Clough, and Bancroft, and the procession is closed by Father Smith, the late prior.”