The abbot's pale check burnt crimson, and his eye flashed fire, but he
controlled himself, and answered meekly,--

"Thou didst not speak in such wise, John Braddyll, when I saved thee
from the flood."

"Which flood thou thyself caused to burst forth by devilish arts,"
rejoined the sheriff. "I owe thee little for the service. If for naught
else, thou deservest death for thy evil doings on that night."

The abbot made no reply, for Braddyll's allusion conjured up a sombre
train of thought within his breast, awakening apprehensions which he
could neither account for, nor shake off. Meanwhile, the cavalcade
slowly approached the north-east gateway of the abbey--passing through
crowds of kneeling and sorrowing bystanders;--but so deeply was the
abbot engrossed by the one dread idea that possessed him, that he saw
them not, and scarce heard their woful lamentations. All at once the
cavalcade stopped, and the sheriff rode on to the gate, in the opening
of which some ceremony was observed. Then it was that Paslew raised his
eyes, and beheld standing before him a tall man, with a woman beside him
bearing an infant in her arms. The eyes of the pair were fixed upon him
with vindictive exultation. He would have averted his gaze, but an
irresistible fascination withheld him.

"Thou seest all is prepared," said Demdike, coming close up the mule on
which Paslew was mounted, and pointing to the gigantic gallows, looming
above the abbey walls; "wilt them now accede to my request?" And then he
added, significantly--"on the same terms as before."

The abbot understood his meaning well. Life and freedom were offered him