Dolefully sounds the bell.  And two biers, covered with palls, are borne slowly towards the church, followed by a tall monk.

The clock was on the stroke of twelve.  The procession having drawn up within the court in front of the abbot’s lodging, the prisoners were brought forth, and at sight of the abbot the whole of the monks fell on their knees.  A touching sight was it to see those reverend men prostrate before their ancient superior,—­he condemned to die, and they deprived of their monastic home,—­and the officer had not the heart to interfere.  Deeply affected, Paslew advanced to the prior, and raising him, affectionately embraced him.  After this, he addressed some words of comfort to the others, who arose as he enjoined them, and at a signal from the officer, the procession set out for the church, singing the “Placebo.”  The abbot and his fellow captives brought up the rear, with a guard on either side of them.  All Souls’ bell tolled dolefully the while.

Meanwhile an officer entered the great hall, where the Earl of Derby was feasting with his retainers, and informed him that the hour appointed for the ceremonial was close at hand.  The earl arose and went to the church attended by Braddyll and Assheton.  He entered by the western porch, and, proceeding to the choir, seated himself in the magnificently-carved stall formerly used by Paslew, and placed where it stood, a hundred years before, by John Eccles, ninth abbot.

Midnight struck.  The great door of the church swung open, and the organ pealed forth the “De profundis.”  The aisles were filled with armed men, but a clear space was left for the procession, which presently entered in the same order as before, and moved slowly along the transept.  Those who came first thought it a dream, so strange was it to find themselves once again in the old accustomed church.  The good prior melted into tears.

At length the abbot came.  To him the whole scene appeared like a vision.  The lights streaming from the altar—­the incense loading the air—­the deep diapasons rolling overhead—­the well-known faces of the brethren—­the familiar aspect of the sacred edifice—­all these filled him with emotions too painful almost for endurance.  It was the last time he should visit this holy place—­the last time he should hear those solemn sounds—­the last time he should behold those familiar objects—­ay, the last!  Death could have no pang like this!  And with heart wellnigh bursting, and limbs scarcely serving their office, he tottered on.

Another trial awaited him, and one for which he was wholly unprepared.  As he drew near the chancel, he looked down an opening on the right, which seemed purposely preserved by the guard.  Why were those tapers burning in the side chapel?  What was within it?  He looked again, and beheld two uncovered biers.  On one lay the body of a woman.  He started.  In the beautiful, but fierce features of the dead, he beheld the witch, Bess Demdike.  She was gone to her account before him.  The malediction he had pronounced upon her child had killed her.