under the command of John Braddyll, the high sheriff of
the county, had passed the previous night at Whitewell, in Bowland
Forest; and the abbot, before setting out on his final journey, was
permitted to spend an hour in prayer in a little chapel on an adjoining
hill, overlooking a most picturesque portion of the forest, the beauties
of which were enhanced by the windings of the Hodder, one of the
loveliest streams in Lancashire. His devotions performed, Paslew,
attended by a guard, slowly descended the hill, and gazed his last on
scenes familiar to him almost from infancy. Noble trees, which now
looked like old friends, to whom he was bidding an eternal adieu, stood
around him. Beneath them, at the end of a glade, couched a herd of deer,
which started off at sight of the intruders, and made him envy their
freedom and fleetness as he followed them in thought to their solitudes.
At the foot of a steep rock ran the Hodder, making the pleasant music of
other days as it dashed over its pebbly bed, and recalling times, when,
free from all care, he had strayed by its wood-fringed banks, to listen
to the pleasant sound of running waters, and watch the shining pebbles
beneath them, and the swift trout and dainty umber glancing past.

A bitter pang was it to part with scenes so fair, and the abbot spoke no
word, nor even looked up, until, passing Little Mitton, he came in sight
of Whalley Abbey. Then, collecting all his energies, he prepared for the
shock he was about to endure. But nerved as he was, his firmness was
sorely tried when he beheld the stately pile, once his own, now gone
from him and his for ever. He gave one fond glance towards it, and then
painfully averting his gaze, recited, in a low voice, this
supplication:--

"_Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam. Et
secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum, dele iniquitatem
meam. Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea, et a peccato meo
munda me._"

But other thoughts and other emotions crowded upon him, when he beheld
the groups of his old retainers advancing to meet him: men, women, and
children pouring forth loud lamentations, prostrating themselves at his
feet, and deploring his doom. The abbot's fortitude had a severe trial
here, and the tears sprung to his eyes. The devotion of these poor
people touched him more sharply than the severity of his adversaries.

"Bless ye! bless ye! my children," he cried; "repine not for me, for I
bear m