"The thunders of the Church do not frighten me," he cried. "But, look,"
he added, "you doubted my word when I told you the rising was at an end.
The beacon fires on Boulsworth Hill and on the Grange of Cliviger are
extinguished; that on Padiham Heights is expiring--nay, it is out; and
ere many minutes all these mountain watch-fires will have disappeared
like lamps at the close of a feast."

"By our Lady, it is so," cried the abbot, in increasing terror. "What
new jugglery is this?"

"It is no jugglery, I tell you," replied the other.

"The waters of the Don have again arisen; the insurgents have accepted
the king's pardon, have deserted their leaders, and dispersed. There
will be no rising to-night or on the morrow. The abbots of Jervaux and
Salley will strive to capitulate, but in vain. The Pilgrimage of Grace
is ended. The stake for which thou playedst is lost. Thirty years hast
thou governed here, but thy rule is over. Seventeen abbots have there
been of Whalley--the last thou!--but there shall be none more."

"It must be the Demon in person that speaks thus to me," cried the
abbot, his hair bristling on his head, and a cold perspiration bursting
from his pores.

"No matter who I am," replied the other; "I have said I will aid thee on
one condition. It is not much. Remove thy ban from my wife, and baptise
her infant daughter, and I am content. I would not ask thee for this
service, slight though it be, but the poor soul hath set her mind upon
it. Wilt thou do it?"