“You are right, father,” replied the abbot.  “Be seated, I pray you, and listen to me, for I have much to tell.  Thirty and one years ago I was prior of this abbey.  Up to that period my life had been blameless, or, if not wholly free from fault, I had little wherewith to reproach myself—­little to fear from a merciful judge—­unless it were that I indulged too strongly the desire of ruling absolutely in the house in which I was then only second.  But Satan had laid a snare for me, into which I blindly fell.  Among the brethren was one named Borlace Alvetham, a young man of rare attainment, and singular skill in the occult sciences.  He had risen in favour, and at the time I speak of was elected sub-prior.”

“Go on,” said the monk.

“It began to be whispered about within the abbey,” pursued Paslew, “that on the death of William Rede, then abbot, Borlace Alvetham would succeed him, and then it was that bitter feelings of animosity were awakened in my breast against the sub-prior, and, after many struggles, I resolved upon his destruction.”

“A wicked resolution,” cried the monk; “but proceed.”

“I pondered over the means of accomplishing my purpose,” resumed Paslew, “and at last decided upon accusing Alvetham of sorcery and magical practices.  The accusation was easy, for the occult studies in which he indulged laid him open to the charge.  He occupied a chamber overlooking the Calder, and used to break the monastic rules by wandering forth at night upon the hills.  When he was absent thus one night, accompanied by others of the brethren, I visited his chamber, and examined his papers, some of which were covered with mystical figures and cabalistic characters.  These papers I seized, and a watch was set to make prisoner of Alvetham on his return.  Before dawn he appeared, and was instantly secured, and placed in close confinement.  On the next day he was brought before the assembled conclave in the chapter-house, and examined.  His defence was unavailing.  I charged him with the terrible crime of witchcraft, and he was found guilty.”

A hollow groan broke from the monk, but he offered no other interruption.

“He was condemned to die a fearful and lingering death,” pursued the abbot; “and it devolved upon me to see the sentence carried out.”

“And no pity for the innocent moved you?” cried the monk.  “You had no compunction?”

“None,” replied the abbot; “I rather rejoiced in the successful accomplishment of my scheme.  The prey was fairly in my toils, and I would give him no chance of escape.  Not to bring scandal upon the abbey, it was decided that Alvetham’s punishment should be secret.”

“A wise resolve,” observed the monk.