hair raven black, contrasting strongly with the red band wound around
it. Her kirtle was of murrey-coloured serge; simply, but becomingly
fashioned. A glance sufficed to show her how matters stood with poor
Ashbead, and, uttering a sharp angry cry, she rushed towards him.

"What have you done?" she cried, fixing a keen reproachful look on
Demdike, who walked beside the wounded man.

"Nothing," replied Demdike with a bitter laugh; "the fool has been hurt
with a pike. Stand out of the way, Bess, and let the men pass. They are
about to carry him to the cell under the chapter-house."

"You shall not take him there," cried Bess Demdike, fiercely. "He may
recover if his wound be dressed. Let him go to the infirmary--ha, I
forgot--there is no one there now."

"Father Bancroft is at the gate," observed one of the arquebussiers; "he
used to act as chirurgeon in the abbey."

"No monk must enter the gate except the prisoners when they arrive,"
observed Assheton; "such are the positive orders of the Earl of Derby."

"It is not needed," observed Demdike, "no human aid can save the man."

"But can other aid save him?" said Bess, breathing the words in her
husband's ears.

"Go to!" cried Demdike, pushing her roughly aside; "wouldst have me save
thy lover?"