The Lady of Blossholme

rs, a corpse, roughly shrouded, was borne from the village into the chur

, who had delved the grave alone in the dark, for his orders

ecton, had gone also, fearing the vengeance of the Abbot for his part in the marriage of Cicely. "A sad story, a very sad story. Wedded by night, and now buried by ni

an he used to be. Trouble and hunger in those burnt Towers, I suppose. Why did they not set him in the vault with his ancestors? It would have saved me a lonely job among the ghosts that haunt this place. What do you say, Father? Because the stone is cemented down and the entranc

. So give me your hand out of this hole, Father, and say your prayers over the sinful body of this wicked fellow who dared to marry the maid he loved, and to let out the souls of certain holy monks, or

rts of it which he could not remember. So another grain was planted in the cornfields of death and immortality, though when and where it

h, so long as they were in sight, or rather hearing, he did with much vigour. When they were gone, however, he descended into the hole under pre

w I sit on the cold toes of the last of the lot, butchered like a mad ox in his own yard by a Spanish priest and his hirelings, to win his wife's goods. Oh! yes, it is wonderful, all very wonderful; and t

en a gypsy witch, she wouldn't have married a Spaniard when every man in the place was after her for her beautiful eyes. Emlyn is a witch too, or was, for they say she is dead; but I can't think it, she isn't the sort that dies. Still, she must be dead, and that's good for my soul. Oh! miserable man, what are you thinking? Get behind me, Satan, if you can find room. A grave is no place for you, Satan, but I wish you were in it with me, Emlyn. Yo

ll upon a mouldering skull which Bolle had thrown back among the soil. He rose up and pitched it out with a word that should not have passed the lips of a lay-brother, ev

ugh stitching of the grave-clothes, and, with nu

cloud, but, not to waste tim

, "unless it were in that last fray, and then the bone would b

d down at the dead face beneath him; t

unken Andrew the Scotchman, turned into a dead English knight. Christ

jumping out of the grave, began

topher; I am off to seek your betters. If you are dead, who may not be alive? Emlyn herself, perhaps, after this.

f Christopher, who, re-christened Brother Luiz, had been safely conveyed aboard the Great Yarmouth, and now, whether dead or living, which he was not sure, lay in the little cabin that had been

llowed influence of his Satanic Majesty. So far everything had gone wrong upon this voyage, which already had been delayed six weeks, that is, till the very worst period of the year, while he waited for ce

s hard rider came aboard in a skiff after the anchor was up, and, having cast the skiff adrift, offered good money for a passage to Spain or any other foreign port, and paid it down upon the nail. He, Goody, had taken the money, though with a doubtful heart, and given a receipt to the name of Charles Smith, asking

o set him ashore again when they were driven back into the river, especially as he heard that there had been man-slaying about Blossholme, and that Sir Jo

Abbot of Blossholme, on whose will he had been bidden to wait, with a lean-faced monk and ano

e blankets as he helped him up the ladder, although monk's shoes were stuck upon his feet. And why,

sterious matter while his Lordship was paying the passa

e in prying out my business? Another word and I will report you to those in Spain who

so upon this ship that I grow afraid. That is an ill vo

ing to nose out my affairs and those of the Church.

d Goody, who was very superstitious. "Do that and I'll carry a dozen sick p

as he did not understand them, Goody found very comforting. As they passed his li

not pass the Gibraltar Straits, where I hear many infidel pirates lurk, given good weather your voyage should be safe and easy.

e that Spanish Abbot and his passengers, dead or living,

ack, and, in the clinging mist of dawn, which was almost as dense as wool, caught sight of the face of a man who had been ordered to hold the ladder, and knew it for that of Jeffrey Stokes, who had escaped from the slaying

violently behind-so violently that he was propelled headfirst a

ed the captain, wh

gruffly, staring at the toe of his sea-boot. "At least he is safe enough in t

at murdering rogue would look well with a rope round his neck. Still I dared do no more and it

too well. Sir John Foterell was dead-a crime, no doubt, but necessary, for had the knight lived to reach London with that evidence in his pocket, his own life and those of many others might have paid the price of it, since who knows what truths may be twist

ul enemy. Therefore this enemy must die, for had he lived, not only might he himself have died in place of him, but all his plans for the rebellion of the Church against the Crown must have come to nothing. Yes

and hurled him to the boat, where he lay almost senseless till the vessel had glided from them down the river! Well, she was gone, and Jeffrey in her. He was but a co

ght had found time to pass them on to Jeffrey, who now fled the kingdom disguised as a sail

Christopher could be saved, Martin would save him, as he had already saved him in the shed, even if he handed him over to the Inquisition afterwards. Still, he might slip through his fingers or the vessel might be lost, as was devoutly to be prayed, and

fond of the girl, whom he had known from a child, and her innocent blood was a weight that he ill could bear, he who at heart always shrank from the shedding of blood. Still, Heaven had killed her, not he, and the matter could not now be mended. Also,

the heretic would fall; the Spanish Emperor, whose spy he was and who loved him well, would invade and take England. He would yet live to see the Holy Inquisition at work at Westminster, and himsel

e was now but a smoking heap of ashes, mingled with charred beams and burnt clay, in the midst of which, scarcely visible through

one of the monks, surveying t

ely and her woman, and give them Ch

were ever charitable, my Lord Abbot, and though she defied you, such is that noble lady's due. As for

u?" asked the

witch, the fire may

But it cannot be. Only a fiend could have lived in the

them, let us chant the Burial Office over this great grave of theirs

, Brother, the Lady Cicely had jewels of great price, which, if they were wrapped in leather, the fire may have spared, and these are among our heritage. At Sheft

mination of the ruin, the Abbot leaning on his inferior's arm, for he was in great pain from the blow in the ba

t the house had fallen outwards. Here, however, lying by the carcass of a horse, they found the body of one of the men whom Christopher had killed in his last stand, and caused it to be borne out

ened voice, pointing to some scor

nd in hand, he beheld the figures of two women. His men beheld them also, and called aloud that these were the ghosts of Cicely and Emlyn. As they spo

was deep silence; t

e you, Mist

she answered in a

How did you live

ave us," she answered, a

tered the monk;

ft," exclaimed one of the men behi

bbot, lest, thinking me dead, his

atter of every drop of falling rain. Twice the Abbot strove to

not your husband, but your ravisher, was sla

as though considering his words, th

e. Also he told me that, though I seemed to see him fall, Christopher is alive upon the earth-yes, and other things, many o

at that time none else there knew it. It was as though suddenly he ha

as entered into you

her hand, po

but one evil spirit, a

las! that I must tell it you. Sir Christopher Ha

he shall rise up against you. Hear my words, all. Christopher Harflete shall rise up living and give testimony against

this while had stood silent, her arms folded upon her high bosom, leaned down and looked

ld kings, is dead, murdered by a beggarly foreign monk, who not ten days gone butchered her father also yonder by King's Grave-yonder by the mere. Oh! the arrow in his throat! the arrow in his throat! I cursed the hand that shot it, and to-day

and looked behind her a

need no burial. The fowls of the air shall bury you, and that's the nearest you will ever get to heaven-in their filthy crops. Murderer, if Christopher Harflete is dead, yet he shall live, as his lady swore, for his seed shall rise up against you. Oh! I forgot; how can it, how can it, seeing that she is de

nd those absent, many by name, and lastly-greatest crime of all-she cursed the Pope and the King of Spain, and called to God in heaven and Henry of England upon earth t

ch other, the soldiers crossed themselves and muttered prayers, while one of them, running up, fell upon his knees and assured her tha

rom lack of breath, lis

hat were worth so much more than those beggarly acres-those that once a Sultan's woman wore. They are lost, though perhaps yonder Abbot has found them. Sir John Foterell bore them to London for safe keeping, and good Sir John is dead; footpads set on him in the forest, and an arrow shot from behind pierced his throat. Those who killed him have the jewels, and

man lifted up Cicely. Then suddenly this same Cicely, whom all th

our tribe, and she stands there who will bear it? Now where shall we shelter till England hears this

er witchcrafts poison the air. Set the Lady Cicely on a horse and

aring his words, ran to the Abbot and whispered something in his ear in a

ster-motherhood. They may not be separated as yet. Take them both to the Nunnery, where they shall dwell, and as for this woman's