on. Be this as it may, the cortege
toiled thither through roads bad in the best of seasons, but now, since
the heavy rain, scarcely passable; and it arrived there in about half an
hour, and drew up on the broad green lawn. Window and door of the hall
were closed; no smoke issued from the heavy pile of chimneys; and to all
outward seeming the place was utterly deserted. In answer to inquiries,
it appeared that Francis Paslew had departed for Northumberland on the
previous day, taking all his household with him.

In earlier years, a quarrel having occurred between the haughty abbot
and the churlish Francis, the brothers rarely met, whence it chanced
that John Paslew had seldom visited the place of his birth of late,
though lying so near to the abbey, and, indeed, forming part of its
ancient dependencies. It was sad to view it now; and yet the house,
gloomy as it was, recalled seasons with which, though they might awaken
regret, no guilty associations were connected. Dark was the hall, and
desolate, but on the fine old trees around it the rooks were settling,
and their loud cawings pleased him, and excited gentle emotions. For a
few moments he grew young again, and forgot why he was there. Fondly
surveying the house, the terraced garden, in which, as a boy, he had so
often strayed, and the park beyond it, where he had chased the deer; his
gaze rose to the cloudy heights of Pendle, springing immediately behind
the mansion, and up which he had frequently climbed. The flood-gates of
memory were opened at once, and a whole tide of long-buried feelings
rushed upon his heart.

From this half-painful, half-pleasurable retrospect he was aroused by
the loud blast of a trumpet, thrice blown. A recapitulation of his
offences, together with his sentence, was read by a herald, after which
the reversed blazonry was fastened upon the door of the hall, just below
a stone escutcheon on which was carved the arms of the family; while the
paper mitre was torn and trampled under foot, the lathen crosier broken
in twain, and the scurril banner hacked in pieces.

While this degrading act was performed, a man in a miller's white garb,
with the hood drawn over his face, forced his way towards the tumbrel,
and while the attention of the guard was otherwise engaged, whispered in
Paslew's ear,

"Ey han failed i' mey scheme, feyther abbut, boh rest assured ey'n
avenge you. Demdike shan ha' mey Sheffield thwittle i' his heart 'efore
he's a day olde