Appalled, he turned to the other bier, and recognised Cuthbert Ashbead.  He shuddered, but comforted himself that he was at least guiltless of his death; though he had a strange feeling that the poor forester had in some way perished for him.

But his attention was diverted towards a tall monk in the Cistertian habit, standing between the bodies, with the cowl drawn over his face.  As Paslew gazed at him, the monk slowly raised his hood, and partially disclosed features that smote the abbot as if he had beheld a spectre.  Could it be?  Could fancy cheat him thus?  He looked again.  The monk was still standing there, but the cowl had dropped over his face.  Striving to shake off the horror that possessed him, the abbot staggered forward, and reaching the presbytery, sank upon his knees.

The ceremonial then commenced.  The solemn requiem was sung by the choir; and three yet living heard the hymn for the repose of their souls.  Always deeply impressive, the service was unusually so on this sad occasion, and the melodious voices of the singers never sounded so mournfully sweet as then—­the demeanour of the prior never seemed so dignified, nor his accents so touching and solemn.  The sternest hearts were softened.

But the abbot found it impossible to fix his attention on the service.  The lights at the altar burnt dimly in his eyes—­the loud antiphon and the supplicatory prayer fell upon a listless ear.  His whole life was passing in review before him.  He saw himself as he was when he first professed his faith, and felt the zeal and holy aspirations that filled him then.  Years flew by at a glance, and he found himself sub-deacon; the sub-deacon became deacon; and the deacon, sub-prior, and the end of his ambition seemed plain before him.  But he had a rival; his fears told him a superior in zeal and learning:  one who, though many years younger than he, had risen so rapidly in favour with the ecclesiastical authorities, that he threatened to outstrip him, even now, when the goal was full in view.  The darkest passage of his life approached:  a crime which should cast a deep shadow over the whole of his brilliant after-career.  He would have shunned its contemplation, if he could.  In vain.  It stood out more palpably than all the rest.  His rival was no longer in his path.  How he was removed the abbot did not dare to think.  But he was gone for ever, unless the tall monk were he!

Unable to endure this terrible retrospect, Paslew strove to bend his thoughts on other things.  The choir was singing the “Dies Irae,” and their voices thundered forth:—­

          Rex tremendae majestatis,
          Qui salvandos salvas gratis,
          Salva me, fons pietatis!

Fain would the abbot have closed his ears, and, hoping to stifle the remorseful pangs that seized upon his very vitals with the sharpness of serpents’ teeth, he strove to dwell upon the frequent and severe acts of penance he had performed.  But he now found that his penitence had never been sincere and efficacious.  This one damning sin obscured all his good actions; and he felt if he died unconfessed, and with the weight of guilt upon his soul, he should perish everlastingly.  Again he fled from the torment of retrospection, and again heard the choir thundering forth—­