“Bethink thee whot theaw has just heerd fro’ t’ minister, Ruchot,” she cried in a voice of solemn warning. “‘Blessed are the dead that dee i’ the Lord, for they rest fro their labours.’  An again, ’Suffer us not at our last hour, for onny pains o’ death, to fa’ fro thee.’  Oh Ruchot, dear! fo’ the love theaw hadst fo’ thy poor chilt, who is now delivert fro’ the burthen o’ th’ flesh, an’ dwellin’ i’ joy an felicity wi’ God an his angels, dunna endanger thy precious sowl.  Pray that theaw may’st depart hence i’ th’ Lord, wi’ whom are the sowls of the faithful, an Meary’s, ey trust, among the number.  Pray that thy eend may be like hers.”

“Ey conna pray, Bess,” replied the miller, striking his breast.  “The Lord has turned his feace fro’ me.”

“Becose thy heart is hardened, Ruchot,” she replied.  “Theaw ’rt nourishin’ nowt boh black an wicked thowts.  Cast em off ye, I adjure thee, an come whoam wi me.”

Meanwhile, the reeve had sprung across the grave.

“Thy answer at once,” he said, grasping the miller’s arm, and breathing the words in his ears.  “Vengeance is in thy power.  A word, and it is thine.”

The miller groaned bitterly.  He was sorely tempted.

“What is that mon sayin’ to thee, Ruchot?” inquired Bess.

“Dunna ax, boh tak me away,” he answered.  “Ey am lost else.”

“Let him lay a finger on yo if he dare,” said Bess, sturdily.

“Leave him alone—­yo dunna knoa who he is,” whispered the miller.

“Ey con partly guess,” she rejoined; “boh ey care nother fo’ mon nor dule when ey’m acting reetly.  Come along wi’ me, Ruchot.”

“Fool!” cried the reeve, in the same low tone as before; “you will lose your revenge, but you will not escape me.”

And he turned away, while Bess almost carried the trembling and enfeebled miller towards the hostel.

Roger Nowell and his friends had only waited the conclusion of the funeral to set forth, and their horses being in readiness, they mounted them on leaving the churchyard, and rode slowly along the lane leading towards Rough Lee.  The melancholy scene they had witnessed, and the afflicting circumstances connected with it, had painfully affected the party, and little conversation occurred until they were overtaken by Parson Holden, who, having been made acquainted with their errand by Nicholas, was desirous of accompanying them.  Soon after this, also, the reeve of the forest joined them, and on seeing him, Richard sternly demanded why he had aided Mother Chattox in her night from the churchyard, and what had become of her.

“You are entirely mistaken, sir,” replied the reeve, with affected astonishment.  “I have seen nothing whatever of the old hag, and would rather lend a hand to her capture than abet her flight.  I hold all witches in abhorrence, and Mother Chattox especially so.”

“Your horse looks fresh enough, certainly,” said Richard, somewhat shaken in his suspicions.  “Where have you been during our stay at Goldshaw?  You did not put up at the hostel?”