“It is too late,” replied Richard, “I have incurred the fate, if such a fate be attached to the tomb; and as my moving away will not preserve me, so my tarrying here cannot injure me further.  But I have no fear.”

“You have more courage than I possess,” rejoined Nicholas.  “I would not set foot on that accursed stone for half the county.  Its malign influence on our house has been approved too often.  The first to experience the fatal destiny were Richard Assheton and John Braddyll, the purchasers of the Abbey.  Both met here together on the anniversary of the abbot’s execution—­some forty years after its occurrence, it is true, and when they were both pretty well stricken in years—­and within that year, namely 1578, both died, and were buried in the vault on the opposite side of the church, not many paces from their old enemy.  The last instance was my poor brother Richard, who, being incredulous as you are, was resolved to brave the destiny, and stationed himself upon the tomb during divine service, but he too died within the appointed time.”

“He was bewitched to death—­so, at least, it is affirmed,” said Richard Assheton, with a smile.  “But I believe in one evil influence just as much as in the other.”

“It matters not how the destiny be accomplished, so it come to pass,” rejoined the squire, turning away.  “Heaven shield you from it!”

“Stay!” said Richard, picking up the wreath.  “Who, think you, can have placed this funeral garland on the abbot’s grave?”

“I cannot guess!” cried Nicholas, staring at it in amazement—­“an enemy of ours, most likely.  It is neither customary nor lawful in our Protestant country so to ornament graves.  Put it down, Dick.”

“I shall not displace it, certainly,” replied Richard, laying it down again; “but I as little think it has been placed here by a hostile hand, as I do that harm will ensue to me from standing here.  To relieve your anxiety, however, I will come forth,” he added, stepping into the aisle.  “Why should an enemy deposit a garland on the abbot’s tomb, since it was by mere chance that it hath met my eyes?”

“Mere chance!” cried Nicholas; “every thing is mere chance with you philosophers.  There is more than chance in it.  My mind misgives me strangely.  That terrible old Abbot Paslew is as troublesome to us in death, as he was during life to our predecessor, Richard Assheton.  Not content with making his tombstone a weapon of destruction to us, he pays the Abbey itself an occasional visit, and his appearance always betides some disaster to the family.  I have never seen him myself, and trust I never shall; but other people have, and have been nigh scared out of their senses by the apparition.”

“Idle tales, the invention of overheated brains,” rejoined Richard.  “Trust me, the abbot’s rest will not be broken till the day when all shall rise from their tombs; though if ever the dead (supposing such a thing possible) could be justified in injuring and affrighting the living, it might be in his case, since he mainly owed his destruction to our ancestor.  On the same principle it has been held that church-lands are unlucky to their lay possessors; but see how this superstitious notion has been disproved in our own family, to whom Whalley Abbey and its domains have brought wealth, power, and worldly happiness.”