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 "L I E> R.ARY 
 
 OF THE 
 UN IVER.SITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 M882f 
 
 V.I
 
 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 OF 
 
 ST. ALBANS. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 SHACKELL AND BAYLIS, JOHNSON S-COVRT, LONDON-
 
 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 ST. ALBANS. 
 
 IX THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, EDINBURGH; AND 
 
 T. CADELL, STRAND, LONDON. 
 
 MDCCCXXIX.
 
 S?.3 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The origin of the following work, if it could 
 be stated, would appear little less a romance, 
 than the work itself. And if the statement were 
 at all necessary to enable the critic, or the 
 general reader, to enter upon the perusal of it 
 with a better preparation for his task, it should 
 not be withheld ; but as it is not, the author 
 thinks he may very fairly keep one mystery for 
 himself, when he has so liberally provided a 
 succession of them for his readers. 
 
 It is not the object of this preface to antici-
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 pate opinions ; still less to propitiate them. The 
 work must plead its own cause ; and what it 
 cannot say for itself, would be said to little pur- 
 pose either by the author, or his friends. It is 
 ii^one of pure fiction ; founded upon no tradition — 
 derived from no legend ; but altogether a crea- 
 tion of the imagination. In estimating, therefore, 
 its pretensions, they cannot very easily be adjust- 
 ed by any recognised standard. Results have 
 been aimed at, which it might not be discreet to 
 avow, till it shall be seen with what success 
 they have been sought ; because, the extent of 
 the failure will thus be known, only where its 
 mortification will be exclusively felt — to the 
 author himself. 
 
 One difficulty, inseparable from the plan, 
 may be mentioned, for the sake of pointing out 
 that peculiarity in the plan, which created the 
 difficulty. A novel or romance writer usually 
 spreads his narrative over ten or fifty years ; and 
 traverses one or many countries, according to 
 his will. A stroke of his pen carries him from
 
 PREFACE. Vll 
 
 Italy to Norway, from Paris to Constantinople ; 
 and he follows his characters from their cradles 
 to their graves, if he chooses. These are 
 advantages as well as facilities. In the fol- 
 lowing work, however, by the most extended 
 computation, no more than seven days 
 are comprised, and by a strict computation, 
 but FIVE ; while the scene of action is not 
 once changed from St. Albans. The only 
 merit, (if it be one at all) which the author 
 claims upon this head, is, that so far as his 
 memory serves him, no romance has been 
 similarly constructed, as to time and place. It 
 belongs to others to decide, whether the diffi- 
 culties of such a plan have been successfully 
 overcome. 
 
 The incidents of each day are necessarily nu- 
 merous ; but they are all linked with the main 
 design, and made subservient to the production 
 of the catastrophe. It is almost superfluous to 
 add, that, as they are adapted only to the pro- 
 duction of such a catastrophe as is embraced in
 
 Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 the specific object of the work, their fitness can be 
 tried by no other test, than the final event which 
 they are thus instrumental in bringing about. 
 The question is, not whether such things ever 
 did take place, but whether, conceding, at the 
 outset, the end to be accomplished, the means 
 employed have a corresponding congruity ? He 
 would be a sorry reader of The Rape of the 
 Loci:, who should pause to ask himself whether 
 there ever were such beings as sylphs and 
 gnomes ; or of the Midsiirnmer^s Night Dream^ 
 who should display his critical sagacity, by de- 
 monstrating the fabulous existence of Titania, 
 Oberon, and Robin Goodfellow. 
 
 There are about thirty pages, part in the 
 first, and the remainder in the second of the 
 following volumes, which appeared some fifteen 
 or twenty years ago. Whenever they are 
 claimed by any pen that has not an equal claim 
 to the whole of this work, they shall be relin- 
 quished. 
 
 London, May 22, 1829.
 
 THE 
 
 FIVE >'IGHTS 
 
 OF 
 
 ST. ALBANS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was towards the latter end of September, 
 in the year loJO, that Hugh Clayton, and Mar- 
 maduke Peverell, two substantial yeomen of the 
 ancient town of St. Albans, were returning home 
 from Dunstable, when, just upon the hour of 
 midnight, they came within sight of the vener- 
 able towers of the Abbey. They were proceed- 
 ing leisurely along, their horses somewhat the 
 worse of a long day's journey, as the Abbey bell 
 tolled the first hour of twelve. Suddenly, the 
 whole building presented the appearance of one 
 solid mass of a deep-red fire, but without cast- 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 '2 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 ing forth flame or smoke, or shedding one ray 
 of light upon surrounding objects. It resembled 
 a huge furnace, glowing with intense heat ; and 
 from the magnitude of the building, the effect 
 was at once terrific and sublime. 
 
 Peverell was the first who observed the strange 
 spectacle. '' By my soul," said he, stopping 
 his horse, " the abbey is on fire — look how it is 
 burning !'' 
 
 '* Buj-ning,**' quoth Clayton, " truly I think 
 the burning is all over, and what we see are 
 only the ruins ! for, do you mark, there is nei- 
 ther smoke nor flame." 
 
 ** You are right," rejoined Peverell, " and, 
 what is strange, there seems no bustle in the 
 town. Listen ! All is still, and, save yon burn- 
 ing mass, all is dark. Let us push on, and learn 
 what has happened." So saying, they clapped 
 spurs to their jaded steeds, and in a few minutes 
 entered the town. 
 
 To their great surprise, they found no per- 
 sons stirring. Every house was closed ; and the 
 inhabitants were all quietly asleep in their beds. 
 But still greater was their surprise, when, di-
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. d 
 
 recting their looks towards the Abbey, they could 
 no longer perceive the burning ruins which had 
 first attracted their notice. 
 
 " MTiat can all this mean ?'' said Peverell, in 
 a half-whisper, to his companion, " "We saw it, 
 and now — " 
 
 " Hush !" interrupted Clayton, while he 
 crossed himself devoutly ; " let us watch for a 
 few minutes." 
 
 They did so ; but to no purpose. Where 
 they had seen the fiery edifice, was now a mere 
 black void ; for the night was too dark to per- 
 mit of their distinguishing the towers or walls of 
 the abbey. 
 
 " Are we awake .^" continued Clayton, after a 
 pause, ''or have we been dreaming all this time r' 
 " It was no dream," answered Peverell, " and 
 for my own part, I am determined to find out 
 whatever it is. Til ride up to the Abbey door, 
 and if the arch-fiend himself be sitting there, I'll 
 ask him what he has been about." 
 
 " Don't be fool-hardy," exclaimed Clayton, 
 catching hold of the bridle of PeverelPs horse ; 
 " you know there are strange stories told about 
 B 2
 
 4 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 this Abbey, — since the grievous sin committed 
 by our eighth Henry. They do say — " 
 
 " Yes," rejoined Peverell, laughing, " they 
 do say that the devil, once a-month, feasts and 
 revels here, with a few choice souls of monks 
 and friars, whom he brings with him to revive the 
 recollection of old times, when the oily rogues 
 themselves wallowed in the lusts of the flesh, as 
 pious churchmen of those days were wont to do/' 
 
 Clayton was silent. He did not half relish 
 what he considered as the profane jesting of his 
 companion ; for besides being a devout catho- 
 lic, he was also prone to superstition, and enter- 
 tained very orthodox notions about evil spirits, 
 benign fairies, and mischievous goblins. Peve- 
 rell, on the contrary, had but little fear of what 
 man could do to him, and none of what might 
 befal him from spirits of another world. So he 
 spurred his horse, and galloped up to the walls 
 of the Abbey. Clayton, who, of two evils, pre- 
 ferred following a fearless swaggerer, to remain- 
 ing alone with his own misgivings, also put 
 spurs to his horse ; but not without sundry 
 pious ejaculations as they proceeded, partly ad-
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 
 
 dressed to himself in the way of comfort, and 
 partly intended to dissuade his companion from 
 his enterprise, if the clattering of their horses' 
 feet would have allowed him to hear them. 
 
 In a few minutes they were under the walls 
 of the Abbey — and to their mutual surprise 
 there stood the walls, massive, gloomy, and 
 frowning, just as they had seen them in the 
 morning when they set out for Dunstable. 
 
 " Well !"" quoth Peverell, after a short 
 pause, " I am satisfied.'*'' 
 
 " And so am I," rejoined Clayton. 
 
 But the satisfaction of the latter was of a far 
 different quality to that of the former. Clayton 
 was satisfied, that the devil and his imps, or 
 some other supernatural personages, had been 
 at their gambols. Peverell was satisfied, they 
 had been befooled by their own fancies. 
 
 By this time the chimes had gone a quarter 
 past twelve, and slowly retracing their steps, 
 they sought their respective homes. Peverell 
 was in the state of " single blessedness.'*' Clay- 
 ton had a bed-fellow ; and before he went to 
 sleep, one of the things he did was to recount to
 
 6 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 his wife the wondrous events of the last half 
 hour. Peverell thought no more about what 
 had happened ; but putting on his night-cap, 
 in much less than half an hour his nose rang a 
 peal scarcely less sonorous than that of the 
 chimes themselves. 
 
 The next day, ere noon arrived, one moiety 
 of the. townsfolk of St. Albans were engaged in 
 discussing the marvellous adventure which had 
 befallen Clayton and Peverell the night before. 
 Peverell, to do him justice, thought as little 
 about it on the morrow as he had the preceding 
 night after he had ridden up to the Abbey walls ; 
 but no sooner had Clayton satisfied himself, by 
 ocular evidence, in the broad glare of an au- 
 tumnal sun^ that the Abbey still stood where it 
 had been wont to stand, than he imparted to his 
 neighbours, with the usual exaggeration, the 
 miracle he had beheld. His wife, too, had her 
 story at second hand : and, we may be sure, she 
 did not allow it to lose any thing in her repeti- 
 tion. So, between them both, Peverell, who 
 was constantly referred to as a person who could 
 confirm every thing, found himself in as much
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 
 
 request as if he had been one of two lucky sur- 
 vivors of an earthquake, 
 
 " What was it you saw, Master Clayton ?*' 
 said an old man, tottering up to him, who had 
 numbered more than tlireescore years and ten, 
 %vith a head as green within as it was grey with- 
 out, *' what was it you saw ?" 
 
 " What did I see ?'' replied Clayton : •' I 
 saw the Abbey in flames/' 
 
 " Mercy on me !" ejaculated the withered in- 
 quirer, and hobbled away, thoroughly convinced 
 the Abbey was no more, though a walk 
 of fifty yards would have brought him to its 
 gates. 
 
 '' I marvel you should talk such nonsense, 
 -neighbour," interposed a portly personage, who 
 was standing by, and overheard what had fallen 
 from Clayton : " know you not the Abbey 
 .stands where it did ? And where, I pray thee, 
 would it stand, if that had happened which you 
 report ?" 
 
 " ril tell you what, Master Wolfe," retorted 
 Clayton, his ire something roused by the tart re- 
 buke he had received, ^' you would swear stoutlv
 
 8 TIIF FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 enough to-morrow, I judge, if need were, that 
 you saw and conversed with me, to-day — but 
 you would not be more convinced of the truth 
 of what you swore, than I am of what I saw ; 
 and so good day, for I must about my business." 
 Clayton, it is true, had business to mind — 
 but he was not allowed to mind it. Some be- 
 lieved, some doubted, some jeered, his tale of 
 wonder; but believers, disbelievers, and half- 
 believers, were alike inquisitive ; and scarcely a 
 minute throughout the day was he free from 
 solicitations to repeat the account. Peverell, 
 too, came in for his full share of these gossip- 
 ping importunities ; and his mode of relating 
 the occurrence, tended greatly to lift it into the 
 importance which it ultimately attained. He 
 could not deny, nor even qualify, one tittle of 
 the description given by his companion : the 
 fact was undoubtedly as Clayton had repre- 
 sented : the Abbey did appear to be one glow- 
 ing mass of fire : he saw it with his own eyes : 
 it continued for nearly a minute ; and he rode 
 up to its walls, expecting to find them in flames, 
 or in ruins. All this he was compelled to ad-
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. H 
 
 mit, solemnly, seriously, and earnestly ; and it 
 availed but little — or, rather, it aggravated, in- 
 tensely, the mystery — that he followed up these 
 admissions by a sturdy determination to believe 
 the whole was any thing rather than supernatural. 
 His incredulity, a sufficient evidence that he 
 was not the sport of superstitious feelings or 
 of idle fears, which many thought was the case 
 with Clayton, imparted to the occurrence a 
 character which fixed the public attention. 
 
 It has been already observed, that ere noon, 
 one moiety of the townsfolk of St. Albans, 
 were engaged in discussing this marvellous 
 adventure ; and before sun-set, it may be 
 doubted whether there was a tongue in the 
 whole place, from lisping infancy to mumbling 
 age, of which it had not been the burthen. 
 So thoroughly had it taken possession of the 
 minds of all, that as midnight approached, the 
 town, instead of sinking into quiet and repose. 
 presented a scene of singular bustle and excite- 
 ment. No one thought of going to bed. They 
 who lived in houses which commanded a view 
 of the Abbey, w^ere seated at their windows, 
 B 3
 
 10 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 with their eyes fixed on its grey towers and 
 dusky walls ; while hundreds of others, men, 
 and women, and children, the old and the 
 young, the infirm and the crippled, gradually 
 gathered themselves into groups, at every spot 
 whence the edifice was visible. 
 
 The hum of stifled voices might be heard, 
 and sometimes the sound of suppressed merri- 
 ment, proceeding from those who did not doubt 
 they were making egregious fools of themselves. 
 But it was curious to observe how this incre- 
 dulous gaiety dwindled away, as the Abbey 
 chimes tolled the near approach of midnight ; 
 and when the third quarter after eleven had 
 struck, you might have fancied not a human 
 being was then waking, so profound a silence 
 pervaded the multitude. They who expected 
 to behold a fearful vision, were wrought up to 
 the highest pitch of supernatural excitement ; 
 while they who expected nothing, still felt 
 that the moment was at hand when something 
 mighty perhaps, take place. 
 
 The night was dark, but in the deep blue vault 
 above, myriads of stars were gleaming with
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 
 
 11 
 
 that calm lustre, which seemed to shed no light 
 beyond their own spheres. And now a scene 
 presented itself which struck terror into the 
 stoutest heart. The Abbey clock began to 
 strike — when suddenly a sound like the rushing 
 of mighty waters, or of a blast of wind roaring- 
 through a grove of forest trees, was heard, and 
 the next moment, devouring flames appeared 
 to wrap the walls in one vast sheet of fire. A 
 cry of horror burst from the multitude — the 
 shrieks of women, and the screaming of chil- 
 dren, were mingled with the hoarser excla- 
 mations of fear uttered by the men ; some fled 
 in dismay, others threw themselves on the 
 ground ; wives clung round the necks of their 
 husbands for safety, and hundreds fell upon 
 their knees in a wild agony of prayer. Mean- 
 while, the rushing noise continued with increas- 
 ing loudness — the flames tossed and heaved 
 about, like the waves of a troubled ocean, now 
 seeming to dart from the windows in masses 
 resembHng pillars of fire ; then curling up the 
 walls as if instinct with life, or flickering in 
 fantastic shapes round the buttresses and towers,
 
 12 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 But most strange it was, that neither light nor 
 heat was emitted from this awful mockery of a 
 conflagration. From the bottom to the top, 
 it was one burning surface ; yet the grass and 
 weeds that fringed the former, were no more 
 revealed to the eye by it, than they were before 
 the mysterious volcano blazed forth. 
 
 While the affrighted inhabitants were still 
 under the first influence of this appalling scene, 
 the Abbey clock struck the last hour of twelve 
 and the whole vanished. 
 
 The consternation was, if possible, increased 
 by this new wonder ; but it was the consterna- 
 tion of dumb amazement. In a moment every 
 voice was hushed, and the expectation of some 
 fresh horror held them in breathless silence 
 and motionless suspense. They who were fleeing 
 in dismay suddenly stopped, they hardly knew 
 why. If the wand of a magician had been 
 waved over their heads, with power to fix them 
 to the earth, like so many statues of lifeless 
 stone, the eff'ect could not have been more in- 
 stantaneous and complete. In a few minutes, 
 the spell began gradually to dissolve ; and group
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 13 
 
 after group slowly retired, discoursing, in 
 voices not raised above a whisper, of what they 
 had beheld ; or fearfully conjecturing what it 
 might all portend. 
 
 One melancholy circumstance accompanied 
 this night of mystery and panic. A poor idiot 
 girl, about sixteen years of age, had been left in 
 bed by her mother, (who was of humble occu- 
 pation), while she stole out to join the throng 
 of anxious spectators. It was never known under 
 what impulse, or in what way, this witless crea- 
 ture, TNdth merely her night-clothes on, had 
 wandered forth ; but so it was ; for on her re- 
 turn, the distracted mother found her gone ; and 
 the next morning she was discovered a corse, 
 beneath the walls of the Abbey. Whether she 
 had strayed unobserved to the spot, beheld the 
 strange scene of the night before, and fell a vic- 
 tim to terrors which she could only feel, but not 
 express ; or whether, having roamed beyond 
 her knowledge of return, she, after a while, 
 laid her down to sleep, close by where she had 
 seen what she deemed a warming fire, and so 
 perished from cold, thinly clad as she was,
 
 14 thp: five nights 
 
 could be nothing more than surmise. It was 
 too true that the poor idiot died, and that her 
 wretched, self-accusing mother, felt more than a 
 mother's anguish for her death She was her only 
 child, and the very calamity which shut her out 
 from all the rest of the world, made her tenfold 
 more dear to her. " She could have borne her 
 loss," she said, "had it pleased God to take her in 
 the usual way ; but she knew her poor Marian 
 had gone in search of her, who had never left 
 her thus before, and so she met her death ; and 
 that thought she could not bear."
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 15 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The sun which rose on the following morn- 
 ing, greeted many an eye that sleep had not 
 visited during the night. There were few 
 indeed who sought their beds at all ; for, 
 bewildered by what they had seen, and mingling 
 superstitious with natural fears, they watched, 
 like sentinels at an alarm post, lest the enemy 
 should find them unprepared. What was to 
 happen, no man knew ; but that some great 
 calamity, sudden or remote, would take place, 
 earthquake, or famine, pestilence or dire civil 
 war, scarcely any one doubted. To many, who 
 brooded over their terrors in the utter helpless- 
 ness of overwhelming dismay, it was a joyous
 
 16 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 sight to behold the first break of morning 
 in the east. They had settled it in their own 
 minds, that the last day was at hand. 
 
 With returning light, however, came return- 
 ing confidence. Darkness is a great breeder of 
 cowards. When a man cannot see what he 
 should fear, he is apt to fear every thing he 
 should not. Long before the usual stirring time 
 shutters were unbarred, windows thrown open, 
 and doors unfastened ; and the inmates of every 
 house seemed eager to show their regard for 
 health by early rising. Peverell and Clayton 
 were as brisk as their neighbours in forsaking 
 their beds, and enjoying the fresh air of the 
 morning. And yet it is extremely doubtful 
 whether they ate their breakfasts with any the 
 better appetite in consequence. But one thing 
 is certain, they might have eaten them without 
 much interruption, for the lapse of four and 
 twenty hours had stripped them of all their 
 attractive qualities. They were no longer the 
 exclusive possessors of a marvellous story. 
 Every one now had seen, not only what they 
 had, but much more. Indeed, each man seemed
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. i^ 
 
 to have been favoured with a glimpse of some- 
 thing or other, which was visible to himself 
 alone. Certain it is, that though they all looked 
 at the same mysterious object, there were no 
 two accounts of it that exactly tallied. 
 
 " Heaven preserve me !'' said one; " I never 
 shall forget the hurly-burly of the goblins 
 inside, when the great stone tower fell.'** 
 
 '* I did not see the tower fall," quoth another ; 
 " for I could not take my eyes off the windows, 
 as they shrivelled up, one after the other, in 
 the flames, like so many scrolls of parch- 
 ment.'' 
 
 " Yes," added a third, " and well they 
 might. Did you ever see such flames ? Why 
 they were as black as ink, and sent forth such a 
 stench of brimstone, that I was almost choked ; 
 and I should have been, too, only I covered my 
 mouth and nose with my bonnet." 
 
 '' Ay, it was an awful business," interposed 
 a fourth — " a very awful business. God knows 
 what will come of it ! But when I saw the old 
 Abbey reel from its foundation, like a drunken 
 man — come towards where I was standing — and
 
 18 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 at last make a complete summerset, I call the 
 saints of Heaven to witness, I did not know 
 whether I myself stood upon my head or my 
 heels." 
 
 " I have seen some service i' the wars,'" ex- 
 claimed an old soldier, who had one arm the 
 less for having borne them, " and know what 
 it is to stand by the side of a demi-culverin, 
 when, in its discharge, it has blown whole ranks 
 into the air ; but the roaring of that misbegotten 
 bell, last night, for upwards of half an hour, out- 
 bellowed a double battery of heavy ordnance. 
 I have not yet recovered my hearing on this 
 side," added he, taking the tip of his right ear 
 between his finger and thumb, and shaking it 
 lustily as he spoke. 
 
 " Yes," interrupted a lean-visaged artificer, 
 whose weary eyes told he had watched the 
 dreary night through ; " and yet it could not 
 out-bellow the groans, and shrieks, and wail- 
 ings of the tortured spirits, as they were tossing 
 about in the flames. Lord ! Lord ! what a 
 sight that was ! Did you see them .?" 
 
 ^' No," replied several voices at once ; while
 
 OF ST. ALBANS, 19 
 
 each, in succession, as he snatched an opportu- 
 nity to speak, proceeded to recount what he did 
 see. From effects they travelled to causes, and 
 many a grave explanation was given and pro- 
 found prediction hazarded. 
 
 " Will you have the truth on*t," exclaimed 
 one in a loud voice, who had hitherto remained 
 silent, listening, with evident contempt, to all 
 that had been said ; " will you have the truth 
 on^t ?" 
 
 " Ay, ay, let us have the truth on"t, if it be 
 in thee to give it us, friend Christopher.'' 
 
 Christopher, or rather Kit Barnes, as he was 
 commonly called, was a blacksmith by trade ; but 
 he had turned to godliness of late, and thought 
 more of diligently preaching the words of ever- 
 lasting life, than of diligently plying liis anvil and 
 forge. He was a tall, gaunt figure, with a face 
 of due sanctimonious longitude — had a sonorous 
 voice, a sharp, penetrating eye, a considerable 
 fluency of speech, and much of that impressive 
 gesticulation which great earnestness of manner 
 and perfect sincerity of mind, are sure to pro-
 
 20 
 
 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 duce. Hence the influence he possessed over his 
 auditors, so far as fixing their attention went, 
 whenever the spirit moved him to inveigh 
 against the enormities of the age. Had he moved 
 in a different sphere, or could he have com- 
 manded a larger theatre to grace his mission and 
 inflame his zeal, Kit would probably have risen 
 to the honours of martyrdom, and shared the 
 fate of those who had testified with their blood, 
 the sincerity of their faith ; for he more than 
 shared all their ardour, in asserting and propa- 
 gating the tenets he espoused. 
 
 Poor Kit found a reason for every thing that 
 happened out of the common way, either in the 
 general sinfulness of the times, or in the particular 
 backslidings of the individual who was afflicted, 
 whether it was in person, in spirit, or in purse 
 The wrath of offended Heaven, and offences to 
 provoke that wrath, comprised his whole system 
 of ethics, and his whole stock of cause and ef- 
 fect. It mattered not to him whether his neigh- 
 bour's cow disappeared or his wife — whether his 
 trade declined or his health — whether he broke
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 21 
 
 his own leg or another man's head — whether he 
 got into prison or could not get out, — the pri- 
 meval curse, the original misery of man, ac- 
 counted for all. " Of ourselves,"' he would ex- 
 claim, on such occasions, " we be creatures that 
 can bring forth no apples — we be of ourselves, 
 such earth as can bring forth but weeds, nettles, 
 brambles, briars, cockle, and darnel." 
 
 \\Tien therefore he found the group he had 
 apostrophized, willing to learn from him the 
 truth, or, in other words, what he considered 
 the cause, of the ominous scene they had all 
 witnessed the night before, he gathered up 
 himself in the attitude of one who was about to 
 utter oracles. 
 
 " Went ye to the house of God last Sab- 
 bath day ? Ay, I warrant ye. And what did 
 ye hear ? More, I guess, than you mind now, 
 or heeded then. Of what did the parson 
 admonish you ? Was it not of your neglect in 
 repairing, keeping clean, and comely adorning 
 God's house ? For, doth it not appear in the 
 Holy Scripture, how God's house, which was 
 called his holy temple, and was the mother
 
 22 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 church of all Jewry, fell sometimes into de- 
 cay, and was oftentimes profaned and defiled, 
 through the negligence and ungodliness of such 
 as had the charge thereof? And God was 
 sore displeased with his people, because they 
 builded, decked, and trimmed up their own 
 houses, and suffered God's house to be in ruin 
 and decay, to lie uncomely and fulsomely. 
 Wherefore he was sore grieved with them, 
 and plagued them, and thus said he unto 
 them, ' Is it time for you to dwell in your 
 seeled houses, and the Lord's house not re- 
 garded ?' By these plagues ; which God laid 
 vipon his people for neglecting of his temple, 
 it may evidently appear that he will have his 
 temple, his church, the place where his con- 
 gregation shall resort to magnify him, well 
 edified, well repaired, and well maintained. It 
 is sin and shame to see our churches, here in 
 this very city of St. Albans, so ruinous and 
 so foully decayed. If a man's private house 
 wherein he dwelleth be decayed, he will never 
 cease till it be restored up again. Yea, if his 
 barn, where he keepeth his corn, be out of
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. ^£0 
 
 reparations, what diligence useth he to make 
 it in a perfect state again ? If his stable for 
 his horse — yea, the stye for his swine, be not 
 able to hold out water and wind, how careful 
 is he to do cost thereon ? And shall we be so 
 mindful of our common base houses, deputed 
 to so vile employment, and be forgetful to that 
 house of God, wherein be entreated the words 
 of our eternal salvation, wherein be ministered 
 the sacraments and mysteries of our redemp- 
 tion r' 
 
 The little circle he was addressing, listened 
 with profound attention to this appeal : and 
 Christopher, perceiving not only the effect he 
 was producing, but that he was gathering 
 hearers, kindled into a more animated strain. 
 
 " With what earnestness — with what vehe- 
 ment zeal,'' he continued, " did our Saviour 
 Christ drive the buyers and sellers out of the' 
 Temple of God, and hurled down the tables of 
 the changers of money, and the seats of the 
 dove sellers, and could not abide any man to 
 caiTy a vessel through the temple I Yea, he 
 told them they had made his Father's house a
 
 24 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 den of thieves, partly through their supersti- 
 tion, hypocrisy, false worship, false doctrine, and 
 insatiable covetousness ; and partly through 
 contempt — abusing that place with walking and 
 talking, with worldly matters, without all fear 
 of God, and due reverence to that place." 
 
 Here Christopher made a sudden pause, and 
 his countenance indicated that he was com- 
 muning with himself. It assumed that air of 
 inquisitive cogitation, as if lie were mentally 
 debating whether he would or would not give 
 utterance to his sentiments. He eyed his au- 
 ditory with a half comic glance of dubious 
 scrutiny ; but after a moment, assuming a de- 
 termined energy of manner, he continued, 
 
 '' Ye know what, of late years, was the face 
 of religion within this realm of England ; but, 
 thanks to Almighty God, the superstitious sects 
 of monks and friars, that were in this realm, 
 be clean taken away." 
 
 Tliis was wormwood to a part of his 
 auditors, who were not yet so gospelled in the 
 new faith as to abjure the Romish anti-christ 
 and his ministers ; and they gave manifest to-
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 25 
 
 kens of their displeasure at this allusion to the 
 monks and friars. But Christopher had taken 
 his ground, and was determined to shoot his 
 bolt. So he proceeded thus : 
 
 " Ye know, too, what dens of thieves the 
 churches of England have been made by the blas- 
 phemous buying and selling the most precious 
 body and blood of Christ, in the mass, as the 
 world was made to believe, at diriges, at month's 
 minds, at trentalls, in abbeys and chantries, be- 
 sides other horrible abuses which we now see and 
 understand. And now hearken to me ! Foras- 
 much as your churches are scoured and swept 
 from the sinful and superstitious filthiness 
 wherewith they were defiled and disfigured, do 
 ye your parts to keep them comely and clean : 
 suffer them not to be defiled with rain and wea- 
 ther, with dung of doves and owls, stares and 
 choughs, and other filthiness, as it is foul and 
 lamentable to behold in yonder Abbey. Re- 
 member, too, it is the house of prayer, not the 
 house of talking, of walking, of brawling, of 
 minstrelsy, of hawks, of dogs. Provoke not 
 the displeasure and plagues of God, for despis- 
 
 VOL. I- c
 
 2b THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 ing and abusing his holy house, as the wicked 
 Jews did." 
 
 Here Christopher would have finished, giving 
 his hearers to understand, that what they had 
 beheld was a token or fore-runner of divine ven- 
 geance, for the despising and neglecting of God's 
 house, a not unfrequent theme of admonition 
 from the pulpit, in those days ; but perceiving 
 that his auditory had now increased to some- 
 thing more than a hundred, and that there were 
 many young persons of both sexes among them, 
 trimly dressed, and inclining to scoif and gibe 
 at his holding forth, he suddenly turned upon 
 them a look of denunciation, and, stretching 
 forth his hands, with much vehemence of man- 
 ner exclaimed : 
 
 " And you, ye poor gilded worms — ye painted 
 butterflies — ^bedecked with all that cost and bra- 
 very—whose apparel is so gorgeous, that neither 
 Almighty God, by his word, nor yet godly and 
 necessary laws, made of our princes, can bridle 
 you in this detestable abuse — it is ye, and the 
 like of ye, that bring down upon us the wrath 
 of Heaven. I would that each of you fitly be- 
 held and considered your vocation, inasmuch as
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 27 
 
 God hath appointed every man his degree and 
 office, within the limits whereof it behoveth him 
 to keep himself ; and then you would not look 
 to wear like apparel, but every one according 
 to his degree. Ay, and if this were so, many a 
 one should be compelled to wear a russet coat, 
 which now rustleth in silks and velvets, spend- 
 ing more by the year in sumptuous apparel, 
 than their fathers received for their whole reve- 
 nue of their lands. But alas ! now a-days, how 
 many may we behold, occupied wholly in pam- 
 pering the flesh, taking no care at all, but mere- 
 ly how to deck themselves. The Israelites were 
 contented with such apparel as God gave them, 
 although it were base and simple : and God 
 blessed them, that their shoes and clothes lasted 
 them forty years ; yea, and those clothes which 
 their fathers had worn, their children were con- 
 tented to use after them. But we are never con- 
 tented, and therefore we prosper not ; so that 
 most commonly, he that rustleth in his sables, 
 in his fine furred gowns, corked slippers, trim 
 buskins and warm mittens, is more ready to chill 
 for cold, than the poor labouring man which 
 c 2
 
 28 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 can abide in the field all the day long, when the 
 north wind blows, with a few beggarly clouts 
 about him. We are loth to wear such as our 
 fathers have left us ; we think not that sufficient 
 or good enough for us. We must have one gown 
 for the day, another for the night ; one long, 
 another short ; one for winter, another for sum- 
 mer ; one thorough furred, another but faced ; 
 one for the working day, another for the holi- 
 day ; one of this colour, another of that colour ; 
 one of cloth, another of silk or damask. We 
 must have change of apparel, too — one afore 
 dinner, and another after ; one of the Spanish 
 fashion, another Turkey ; and, to be brief, never 
 content with sufficient. Our Saviour Christ, 
 bade his disciples they should not have two 
 coats : but the most men, far unlike to his scho- 
 lars, have their presses so full of apparel, that 
 they know not how many sorts they have. Go 
 to, ye rich men ! ye wealthy worldlings ! Weep 
 and howl on your wretchedness that shall come 
 upon you ! — your riches are corrupt and your 
 garments are moth-eaten ; ye have lived in plea- 
 sure on the earth and in wantonness ; — ye have
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 29 
 
 nourished your hearts, as in the day of slaughter. 
 Mark, I beseech, St. James calleth such miser- 
 able, not^vlthstanding their riches and plenty of 
 apparel, forasmuch as they pamper their bodies 
 to their own destruction."' 
 
 Christopher perceived, plainly enough, that 
 he was rowing against both wind and tide. 
 The younger part of his audience only made 
 merry with his sumptuary denunciations, while 
 those of graver age were not inclined to confess 
 the superior pretensions of a russet coat over 
 a gow-n of damask, silk, or velvet. They, in- 
 deed, whom necessity, rather than godliness, 
 compelled to eschew the enormity of costly 
 gear, seemed greatly edified ; but a tailor, 
 who had slipped off his shop-board, to note 
 what was passing while his goose heated, 
 shuffled out of the crowd as fast as his slip- 
 shod feet would permit, when he discovered 
 that Kit was railing against frequent change, 
 and much store, of goodly apparel. ^' Poor, 
 fond creature !" he muttered, as he was making 
 his escape, " talking of the Israelites wearing 
 their shoes and clothes forty years, and then
 
 30 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 leaving them off good enough for their children 
 to wear after them. A pretty starving life, a 
 tailor must have had of it in those days, I 
 trow !" 
 
 " Yea, marry, and a cobbler too, friend 
 Button,*" rejoined one of that ancient craft, 
 who was standing hard by, and overheard his 
 neighbour'^s conclusions. 
 
 " Of a truth, aye" — replied Button, laugh- 
 ing, and brandishing his shears, " he would 
 earn about the same, and not a penny the 
 more, I guess, as Kit Barnes himself would, 
 if horses' shoes lasted forty years, and a second 
 forty to boot." 
 
 " By St. Charity," retorted he of the lea- 
 ther apron, ^' shoes that last after that fashion, 
 would not do for my last, unless I was taking 
 my last stitch." 
 
 These handicraft quips, tickled the fancies 
 of those who heard them, and produced a 
 burst of laughter, which might have discon- 
 certed Christopher, were it not that he was 
 now mounted on his favourite hobby, and was 
 resolved to amble along, no matter whether his
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 31 
 
 road was rough or smooth. Indifferent to the 
 growing symptoms of mirth which he noted, 
 but perceiving that it was much encou- 
 raged by the giggling of the women and girls, 
 he, like a skilful orator, seized the incident of 
 the moment, and made it subservient to his 
 purpose. 
 
 " Certainly," he continued, " such as delight 
 in gorgeous apparel, are commonly puffed up 
 with pride, and filled with divers vanities. So 
 were the daughters of Zion and people of Je- 
 rusalem, whom Esai, the prophet, threateneth, 
 because they walked with stretched out necks, 
 and wandering eyes, mincing as they went, and 
 nicely treading with their feet, that God would 
 make their heads bald and discover their secret 
 shame. In that day, saith he, shall the Lord 
 take away the ornament of the slippers, and the 
 cauls, and the round attires, and the sweet balls, 
 and the bracelets, and the attires of the head, and 
 the slops, and the head-bands, and the tablets, 
 and the ear-rings, the rings and the mufflers, 
 the costly apparel, and the veils and wimples, 
 and the crisping pin, and the glasses, and the
 
 32 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 fine linen, and the hoods and the lawns. And 
 what, T pray you, is the vanity that is used 
 among us, in these days ? The proud and 
 haughty stomachs of the daughters of Eng- 
 land, are so maintained with divers disguised 
 sorts of costly apparel, that there is left no 
 difference in apparel between an honest matron, 
 and a common strumpet. I know it will be 
 here objected and said, of some nice and 
 vain women, that all which they do in paint- 
 ing their faces, in dyeing their hair, in 
 embalming their bodies, in decking themselves 
 with gay apparel, is to please their hus- 
 bands — to delight their eyes, and to retain 
 their love towards them. O vain excuse ! Oh, 
 most shameful answer ! It is the reproach of 
 thy husband thus to say. What couldst thou 
 more to set out his foolishness^ than to charge 
 him to be pleased and delighted with the de- 
 vil's tire ? Who can paint her face, and curl 
 her hair, and change it into an unnatural 
 colour, but therein doth work reproof to her 
 Maker who made her ? As though she could 
 make herself more comely than God hath ap-
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 33 
 
 pointed the measure of her beauty ! And as 
 though a wise and christian husband should 
 delight to see his wife in such painted and 
 flourished visages, which common harlots most 
 do use to train therewith their lovers to naugh- 
 tiness ; or as though an honest woman could 
 delight to be like a harlot for pleasing of her 
 husband i Verily, these be but vain excuses 
 of such as go about to please rather others 
 than their husbands ; and such attires be but 
 to provoke her to shew herself abroad, to entice 
 others : a worthy matter, truly !" 
 
 This was speaking home to the bosoms of 
 many of his hearers ; of wittol husbands ; of 
 slippery dames ; of fantastical daughters ; of 
 honest men whose purses had oft-times been 
 drained for the finery of their wives and daugh- 
 ters, and whose very pockets seemed now to 
 respond 'aye,' to the homily of Christopher, 
 Many a female hand itched to clapper-claw 
 the saucy railer ; but he saw he had now 
 touched the right key, and continued in it. 
 
 " What dost thou by these means, but pro- 
 voke others to tempt thee? To deceive thy 
 c 3
 
 34 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 souls by the bait of thy pomp and pride? 
 What else dost thou, but settest out thy pride, 
 and makest, of the indecent apparel of thy 
 body, the devil's net, to catch the sovils of 
 them that behold thee ? Oh, thou woman ! not 
 a Christian, but worse than a Paynim— thou 
 minister of the devil ! Why pamperest thou 
 that carrion flesh so high, which sometime 
 doth stink and rot on the earth, as thou goest ? 
 Howsoever thou perfumest thyself, yet cannot 
 thy beastliness be hidden or overcome with thy 
 smells and savours, which do rather deform and 
 mis-shape thee, than beautify thee. What 
 meant Solomon to say of such trimming of 
 vain women, when he said, a fair woman with- 
 out good manners and conditions, is like a 
 sow which hath a ring of gold upon her snout, 
 but that the more thou garnish thyself with 
 these outward biasings, the less thou carest 
 for the inward garnishing of thy mind, and so 
 dost but deform thyself by such array ? But 
 perchance, some dainty dame will say and 
 answer me, that they mvist do something to 
 shew their birth and blood, to shew their hus-
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 35 
 
 band's riches ; as though nobility were chiefly 
 seen by these things, which be common to 
 those which be most vile ; as though thy hus- 
 band's riches were not better bestowed than in 
 such superfluities ; as though, when thou wast 
 christened thou didst not renounce the pride of 
 this world, and the pomp of the flesh ?" 
 
 At this moment the bell of the town crier 
 was heard, and in an instant Christopher was 
 left without a congregation. Away they all 
 ran, to hear what was to be proclaimed ; and 
 Christopher himself, girding up his apron, took 
 to his heels as nimbly as the best of them. It 
 was to announce that his worship the mayor 
 would proceed to the town hall, in half an 
 hour, then and there to have grave delibera- 
 tion with the good townspeople of St. Albans, 
 upon the best measures to be adopted for in- 
 quiring into the causes, and, if possible, pre- 
 venting the repetition of the fearful prodigy 
 of the preceding night. 
 
 At the appointed time the market-place was 
 filled with the inhabitants, whom the mayor 
 addressed as soon as they obtained admittance
 
 36 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 into the hall, in an oration replete with civic 
 eloquence. He descanted upon the scene which 
 he, in common with them all, had witnessed ; 
 wojidered what it could mean ; expressed sun- 
 dry pious and loyal fears, that all was not 
 right in church and state; exhorted them to 
 be watchful of coming events ; wandered into 
 superstitious conjectures ; and after stating that 
 a minute examination had been made of the 
 interior of the Abbey that morning, to discover 
 if there were any trick or device, but which had 
 ended in nothing, he concluded by propound- 
 ing the important query, " what shall we do ?"" 
 After a short pause, an aged man, of 
 venerable aspect, stood forth. His beard was 
 of a snowy whiteness, his head entirely bald, 
 his air, that of one accustomed to command ; 
 and though of somewhat diminutive stature, 
 there was a calm dignity of manner about him, 
 and a certain stateliness of carriage, which 
 enforced respect. As he advanced towards that 
 part of the hall where the mayor was seated, 
 with a slow and measured step, the people fell 
 back on each side to open a passage for him.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. SJ 
 
 He acknowledged the courtesy by a gentle 
 inclination of the head. Xo one knew him ; he 
 was a stranger in the to^ni ; no one had ever 
 seen him till that moment ; neither his entrance 
 intx) the hall, nor his presence there while the 
 mayor had addressed them, had been observed 
 by any one. 
 
 He approached to within a few paces of the 
 mayor. There was a profound silence. 
 
 " What shall we do ?'' he exclaimed, repeat- 
 ing the concluding words of the mayor. His 
 voice was unearthly. It struck upon the ear like 
 the scream of the eagle. His eye glared with a 
 ferocious expression as he looked round the 
 assembly, and added, '' I pause for a reply I""* 
 
 No one spoke. They gazed upon each other 
 with speechless amazement, and ever and 
 anon directed their view towards the old man, 
 whose countenance deepened into darker and 
 darker shades of scorn and mockery. 
 
 " Is there a man among you,'^ he continued, 
 in the same wild accent, '' who has a heart 
 stout enough to pass the Abbey doors this night 
 ere the clock strike twelve, and abide the rest ?"
 
 38 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 " That man am 1 1" exclaimed one, starting 
 from the throng, and advancing into the middle 
 of the hall. It was Kit Barnes. " I am the 
 chosen of God, and fear him only, whom with 
 fear and trembling I obey." 
 
 The old man eyed him for a moment, then 
 advanced towards him, grasped his arm, and 
 said in a low voice — " 111 meet thee there !"" 
 Kit shuddered — his colour fled — he gasped for 
 breath — ^his knees tottered — and he looked like 
 one suddenly struck with some grievous malady. 
 The people gathered round him, — " Wrench, 
 tear me from that iron hand !" he exclaimed, 
 convulsively, and reeling forward, fell upon 
 the ground. 
 
 Terror and amazement were now at their 
 height. They looked around for the old man — 
 he was gone ! No one saw him enter — no one 
 saw him go. He was gone ! — and none could 
 tell whence he came, or whither he had departed. 
 
 In a few moments Kit recovered. " Til meet 
 thee there !'' he feebly uttered, as he raised 
 himself from the earth. Then, looking at his arm, 
 and clenching it with his other hand, he added.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 
 
 '* an if thou do, this limb shall wither in thy 
 grasp, but I'll beard thee !"" 
 
 " What made thee quail thus, Christopher ?'" 
 said Peverell, addressing him; " why, man, thou 
 hast had the falling sickness o"* the sudden. He 
 was but a pigmy to thee, but thou didst seem 
 like one planet struck. What may this mean ?'' 
 
 " Mean !'' replied Kit, who by this time had 
 regained somewhat of his wonted energy of 
 manner, " it means this,— that I have been in 
 the grip of the foul fiend — Lucifer has belea- 
 guered me. When that imp of darkness laid his 
 hand upon me, a freezing ice stream ran through 
 my veins— my blood suddenly congealed — my 
 very bones seemed to crack and crumble beneath 
 his grasp, as if my arm had been crushed in 
 mine own vice. I would have spoken, but my 
 tongue cleaved to my mouth, while his 
 words ' ril meet thee there^ whirled like fire 
 through my brain. ^ly eyes grew suddenly 
 dim, and I fell, powerless as an infant. What 
 it means I know not, blaster Peverell ; but 
 perhaps, I shall be wiser before to-morrow.'"' 
 " You'll not go to the Abbey to-night V^ said
 
 40 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 Clayton, with a faltering voice and quivering 
 
 lip. 
 
 " Aye, marry will I," quoth Kit, — " With 
 God in my heart, I would go even unto the 
 death - and with his holy book under my arm, 
 I would hold parley with Beelzebub himself. I 
 am a mighty man of body, as is right well 
 known, and fear not man : and for what hap 
 can betide me from other than man, my strength 
 and defence are from above." 
 
 There were few, if any, who cared to dissuade 
 Kit from his purpose. They were all extremely 
 willing that the mystery should be cleared up, 
 provided it was not done by themselves. For 
 the same reason. Kit found no one eager to offer 
 to bear him company : not that he would have 
 accepted such an offer had it been made, for 
 there was enough of wild enthusiasm in his 
 character to make him covetous of undivided 
 glory in the enterprise he had undertaken. 
 Already he had a foretaste of this glory, when, 
 as the meeting broke up, he saw himself the 
 object on which all eyes were bent, and heard 
 his name passing from mouth to mouth. He
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 41 
 
 felt all the greatness of his unexpected good 
 fortune, which had made him, for the moment 
 at least, the theme of every tongue. He re- 
 turned to his smithy, escorted, as it were, by all 
 the principal to\\^lspeople ; and during the re- 
 mainder of the day, groups of wonder-loving 
 men, women, and children, gathered round 
 his door, to see the man who had had a 
 swingeing squeeze from the foul fiend. But a 
 miracle is worth nothing that does not mag- 
 nify itself a hundred fold ere it be a few hours 
 old. Long before evening closed in, there were 
 those in St. Albans ready to swear that Kit had 
 lost his arm, and the town hall its roof ; the 
 old man having twisted off the one, and carried 
 away the other, as he set out upon his journey, 
 after he had settled his appointment with Kit 
 at the Abbey,
 
 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Kit Barnes had the honour of being invited 
 to sup with the mayor, who purposed accom- 
 panying him himself as far as the Abbey, but 
 no farther. " For,"" observed his worship, " if 
 you were not to go alone, it miglit be that you 
 would go upon a thriftless errand ; otherwise, 
 I should marvellously like to be with you, just 
 to see what will take place ; indeed I would go 
 instead of you, only as you offered first, and 
 the old man settled it that he would meet you 
 there, peradventure if I went he might not 
 choose to come at all, especially if he be a man, 
 and no unclean spirit, for in that case he might 
 misdoubt me, and fear lest by virtue of my 
 office, I should apprehend him in the queen's
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 43 
 
 name, as a common disturber of her majesty's 
 peace, to the great terror of her majesty's lieges. 
 So mark ye, it would not do for me to appear 
 in the business — else, — but let that pass— I am 
 not vain of tongue, Kit, as there be some brag- 
 garts in this town whom I could name ; tall fel- 
 lows in their talk, marry, but pigeon-hearted 
 varlets in their doings. But come, friend, mend 
 your draught ; this burnt sack, and these spice 
 cakes will warm your courage — take another 
 cup ; the night wears apace, and you'll soon be 
 bending your steps abbeyward." 
 
 Kit did not require much pressing to fill his 
 cup again, or to replenish his trencher. Such 
 dainty fare as burnt sack and spice cakes, fruit, 
 and a pitcher of good ale, which, with other sa- 
 vory cates and rare drinks, were spread upon his 
 worship's board, had never before fallen within 
 his reach. But he spoke only the simple truth, 
 when he declared he needed them not to give 
 him courage. From the moment when he stood 
 forth in the town hall and proclaimed himself 
 ready to " pass the Abbey doors that night ere 
 the clock struck twelve, and abide the rest,"
 
 44 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 down to that when he was sumptuously regal- 
 ing himself at his worship's, his heart had never 
 once faltered. Nor was it likely it should; 
 for he most devoutly believed he was under 
 divine influence in what he was about to per- 
 form, and he longed for the moment when he 
 should be permitted to fulfil his mission. There 
 was enough of fanaticism in Kit's character to 
 have placed him at the head of a sect, if cir- 
 cumstances had conspired to call him to the 
 enterprise. Firm of purpose, sanguine of suc- 
 cess, reckless of obstacles, disdainful of peril, 
 and gifted with Herculean powers of body, 
 although of somewhat gaunt appearance, he 
 was a man to stand foremost, and lead others, in 
 whatever lot of life he was cast. Such pre- 
 eminence and distinction, indeed, as lay fairly 
 within his grasp, he had never failed to seize ; 
 and humble as was his calling. Kit was one to 
 whom his equals looked up with deference, and 
 whom his superiors recognised as above his 
 condition. 
 
 It was now the eleventh hour, and Kit rose 
 to depart. The mayor prepared to accompany
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 45 
 
 him. On leaving the house, they found a con- 
 siderable number of persons assembled in the 
 street, waiting his coming forth, for it was 
 known he had been his worship's guest. A line 
 of people extended on each side to within a 
 hundred yards of the Abbey ; nearer than which, 
 no one ventured to approach. Kit strode along, 
 wrapped up in his own thoughts, while the 
 crowd silently gazed upon him with much the 
 same sort of anxious curiosity that they would 
 have bestowed upon a criminal going to the 
 gallows. As he abruptly turned the corner, 
 which brought him in sight of the Abbey, he 
 cast a hurried glance towards it, not as fearing 
 whatever appearance it might present, but to 
 ascertain whether there was any thing which 
 denoted the kind of trial he was about to un- 
 dergo. There were only profound stillness and 
 impenetrable darkness. The mayor's servant 
 preceded them with a lanthorn ; and it was 
 amusing to observe how often he looked be- 
 hind, to ask, as it were, " How much farther 
 am I to go ?" As they proceeded along, the 
 crowd gradually closed in upon them, so that
 
 m 
 
 46 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 when they arrived at the spot where the mayor 
 intended taking leave of Kit, the whole mass 
 of spectators was congregated in the rear. 
 
 " I may as well stop here,*" quoth the mayor. 
 As he uttered these words, his man nimbly 
 wheeled round, and with due respect stood be- 
 hind his master ; but at such a distance that 
 he could not be suspected of wishing to over- 
 hear what passed. 
 
 " Ay," replied Kit, " I go alone now. But 
 how shall I get in ? Where is the key .'^" 
 
 " By the mass, what a blunder V rejoined 
 the mayor. " I left it on the table in the with- 
 drawing room. Here ! Crab, hie thee back, as 
 fast as thy legs will carry thee, and on the beech 
 wood table, which stands in the bay window, 
 thou wilt find a massy key ; bring it hither 
 with all dispatch. Fly ! Begone !" Crab set 
 off with right good will, well pleased to think 
 that every step he went increased the distance 
 between himself and the Abbey. 
 
 While they were waiting, Peverell approach- 
 ed. '' Friend Christopher," said he, "I laud 
 your firmness. I would do as much myself,
 
 f 
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 47 
 
 an"' I did not think you are singled out for the 
 business. Be of good cheer, man : you know, 
 as I do, that beings of another world have no 
 power over the righteous ; and for beings of 
 this world, you have thews enow to grapple 
 with them." 
 
 " Mark me. Master Peverell," replied Chris- 
 topher. " I come to this task at no bidding 
 of my own. I have that within me, which tells 
 me, I am prompted to it by a power which none 
 of us can resist. I believe, yea, verily I be- 
 lieve, that some great purpose of the Most 
 High is to be accomplished this night — and I 
 glorify God that he has manifested his love to- 
 wards me in this special manner. What you 
 first beheld — and what we all of us beheld last 
 night — was of no earthly origin.: it was a mys- 
 tery of heaven ; but whether it betokeneth 
 God's wrath, for some grievous sin committed, 
 or his merciful warning, to save us from the 
 repetition of it, is what I am appointed to dis- 
 close." 
 
 The chimes now went the half hour, and Grab 
 had not returned. Kit grew impatient, and the
 
 48 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 mayor, who still stood beside him, evinced sun- 
 dry signs of a vehement desire to take his leave. 
 " I must pass the Abbey gates ere the clock 
 strikes twelve," said Kit, in a tone of solemn 
 earnestness. 
 
 " And abide the rest V uttered a voice, in a 
 low whisper, which was audible only to Kit 
 himself. 
 
 " Aye, and abide the rest !" he replied, turning 
 round quickly to the side whence the voice pro- 
 ceeded ; but there was no person near him. 
 
 " Where is he of the iron hand .?" said Pe- 
 verell — " the old man who promised to meet 
 you here ?''"' 
 
 " I''ll meet thee there !" exclaimed the same 
 voice, which now fell upon the ear of Kit, like 
 a heated blast from a furnace. 
 
 " He comes not," continued Peverell. 
 " He is here," said Kit, in an accent of agony. 
 '' I AM here !" was screamed forth in a voice 
 that all heard : and at the same moment the 
 doors of the Abbey burst open ! In the centre 
 stood the old man — billows of blood-red flame 
 rolled about him — in his right hand, the arm of 
 which was bared up to the shoulder, he held a
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 49 
 
 crucifix, which, as he furiously waved it aloft, 
 seemed to stream with fire — he beckoned Kit 
 forward, who, as if seized with sudden delirium, 
 rushed onward, exclaiming, '^ I come ! I come ! 
 Jehovah is my spear and buckler !" and in an 
 instant he was seen by the side of the old man. 
 The flames curled round them — dismal yells 
 and piercing shrieks were heard in the air — the 
 doors closed upon them with sudden and tre- 
 mendous violence — and then all was dark and 
 silent as before ! 
 
 The first impulse of the people, when this 
 appalling scene presented itself, was to fly from 
 the spot ; but before they could move a hun- 
 dred yards, the sound of the closing doors was 
 heard, which reverberated like a peal of thun- 
 der. They looked back and saw that the terrific 
 \dsion had vanished. Their flight was suddenly 
 suspended, except that of his worship the mayor, 
 who never once looked behind, or stopped, till 
 he got to his own house, where he fairly tum- 
 bled over Crab, whom he encountered at the 
 door, and demolished his lantern, besides caus- 
 ing an ugly bump on his head, the consequence 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 |50 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 of its coming violently into contact with the 
 wings of a cherub, which formed part of the 
 ornaments carved upon an old oak table that 
 stood in the hall. 
 
 Crab, who had run home as fleet as a grey- 
 hound, was returning with the pace of a tortoise ; 
 for he had a particular wish to be too late, be- 
 cause he was afraid of being too soon. When, 
 therefore, he was upset, in the way described, 
 by his worship, he had no more doubt in his 
 own mind that Satan himself had broken loose, 
 and was close at his master's heels, than he had 
 that he lay sprawling on the ground : whereupon, 
 he began to roar most lustily, invoking every 
 saint in the calendar to come to his aid, and 
 crawling, meanwhile, as fast as he could, under 
 the old oaken table, where, when he had securely 
 ensconced himself, he continued to bellow and 
 pray, till the uproar brought the other servants 
 into the hall with lights. 
 
 His worship, by this time, had recovered both 
 his breath and his wits, and he now began to re- 
 vile poor Crab in good set terms, calling him 
 northern tike, bundle of beastliness, a Jack, a
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 51 
 
 lagging knave, and telling him he would present 
 his tallow face to the devil for a candle. Crab's 
 lamentations gradually subsided into something 
 between a snivel and a whine, as he gathered 
 confidence from the presence of his fellow-ser- 
 vants ; but it was with a most rueful counte- 
 nance that he slowly crawled forth, picked up 
 the fragments of the shattered lantern, and 
 finally slunk away towards the buttery with 
 his broken cockscomb. The mayor fancied 
 that he had really some cause for his wrath ; 
 inasmuch as he believed, that had Crab hastened 
 back with the key of the Abbey, there would 
 have been no occasion for the officious interfe- 
 rence of the old man, or the goblin with the 
 iron-hand, as some had begun to call him. 
 Leaving his worship, however, to his cogita- 
 tions, over a cup of spiced canary, which he 
 ordered Bridget Weasell, his housekeeper, to 
 make warm and bring him, and which he quafPed 
 with much eagerness, return we to the Abbey, 
 where strange things were passing. 
 
 When the people fled in terror from the 
 awful sights they beheld, Peverell alone re- 
 D 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNivERsmf OF aumm
 
 52 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 mained. He moved not. With his arms folded 
 — his eyes rivetted on the edifice before him — 
 all the energies of his mind bent up to witness 
 whatever might occur, he stood motionless and 
 silent, and fearing almost to breathe or wink, lest 
 some sound or vision should escape him. About 
 five minutes had elapsed thus, and all remained 
 still and dark within the building. He then 
 drew nearer — paused — ^listened — ^nearer still — 
 fancied a low, dirge-like air, as if it were the 
 sound of many voices chaunting a requiem 
 over the dead, broke upon his ear ; but at so 
 great a distance that it scarcely disturbed the 
 silence of midnight. Anon he beheld — or it 
 was some illusion — a funeral train wind slowly 
 round the Abbey, noiseless and spectral, and 
 pass the portals, which silently opened and 
 closed again ! They followed a bier covered 
 with a pall ; and on it lay a body, in form and 
 countenance like Kit Barnes ; but the form so 
 shrunken and so withered — the countenance with 
 such an expression of deeply seated horror on 
 it, that Peverell could not repress the involun- 
 tary burst of anguish which escaped from him
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 53 
 
 At the same moment he perceived, or thought 
 he perceived, a pale light faintly gleaming 
 through the lofty windows, while dusky sha- 
 dows of unearthly shapes dimly flitted to and 
 fro. 
 
 Peverell both saw and heard, as in a dream. 
 At one and the same instant, he seemed to 
 know that these things were, and were not ; 
 that he was the sport of a disturbed imagina- 
 tion, and was the living witness of true, but 
 awful mysteries. He was inaccessible to fear, 
 and he was too strong-minded to be supersti- 
 tious. Even under the circumstances just de- 
 scribed, he was as calm, and his pulse beat as 
 regularly, as if he were engaged in one of the 
 most ordinary occupations of daily life. He 
 struggled with, he fought against, he almost 
 spurned, impressions which amounted nearly to 
 conviction, merely because they resembled a 
 delusion so likely to grow out of the situation 
 in which he was placed. 
 
 " I will be satisfied," he exclaimed, *' if it 
 be possible," and he advanced close to the Abbey 
 door. His hand was raised to strike ao^ainst it.
 
 54 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 that he might obtain some answer from within, 
 when suddenly he felt, as though the uplifted arm 
 were cased in ponderous steel ; it was benumbed 
 and rigid, and fixed beyond his utmost power 
 to move it. At the same moment a voice, issu- 
 ing from no human lips, for none were near 
 him, breathed in his ears these words, " Thou 
 fool ! why so impatient ? Thou art the 
 LAST !" As the words, " Thou art the 
 last !" were uttered, an icy coldness ran 
 through his blood, his teeth chattered, and his 
 whole body shook as if it were ague-stricken. 
 
 Before he could recover from this shock, the 
 bell tolled the first hour of twelve. His arm 
 instantly fell powerless by his side, the freezing 
 tremour ceased, and he breathed once more with 
 perfect freedom. The people, who were still 
 gathered together at some distance from the 
 Abbey, looked towards it with intense anxiety 
 as the hour struck, expecting every moment to 
 behold a similar scene to that which they had 
 witnessed the preceding night. But all they saw 
 was, the gates slowly unfolding themselves, and 
 the figure of Kit Barnes just within, rendered
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 55 
 
 visible by a sort of crimson glow, which fell 
 upon it, rather than by any thing which could 
 be called light. By the same mysterious suf- 
 fusion, the person of Peverell was now seen for 
 the first time : the extreme darkness of the night 
 having hitherto concealed his movements from 
 the townspeople. Kit came forth, and as he 
 tottered over the threshold, the doors closed 
 upon him by the same unseen agency by which 
 they had been opened. 
 
 He came forth, and eagerly availed himself 
 of the arm of Peverell for support. It was the 
 arm that had been palsied, but it was now as 
 well as ever. Kit was strangely altered ; not 
 in the sense of saying he looked more pale, or 
 that his eyes were sunken or wild, or that his 
 countenance expressed amazement and horror. 
 All these things were so, and yet it was not 
 these that made the alteration — it was a super- 
 natural, an appalling change. The beholders 
 shuddered as they looked on him. They knew 
 it was he ; yet there was that about him, 
 which made them, at the same time, doubt his 
 identity. It was as if fifty years of sorrow, and
 
 56 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 sickness, and age, had passed over him, in one 
 short half-hour. His figure had been always 
 gaunt ; but the knitting of his frame was ath- 
 letic, and his step was firm and elastic. Now, 
 he moved along a bony shadow, his features 
 grim and ghastly, and his step feeble as infancy 
 itself. 
 
 The people gathered round him, but spoke 
 not. Peverell first broke silence. In a half- 
 whisper, and in a hurried tone, he inquired 
 what had taken place. 
 
 *' Ask me not," said Kit ; " I am forbidden 
 TO TELL !" His voice had undergone the 
 same awful change as his person ; it sounded 
 in the ears of Peverell more like the howl of 
 the wolf, than the accents of a human being. 
 
 " Tut, man !" replied Peverell, with a most 
 impotent effort to be jocular, " what have ye 
 to fear now.? You are safe out of the Abbey, 
 and may tell, without dread, what took place 
 while you were in." 
 
 " Safe !" exclaimed Kit, in the same wolfish 
 tone, and looking behind him with an air of 
 terror, which was a more expressive answer to
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. O/ 
 
 Peverell than any words could have been. 
 " Safe ! ay, as the felon in the hangman's hands, 
 who feels the halter round his neck !*' Then 
 suddenly starting back — " Toads and scorpions ! 
 the adder and the snake !" he shrieked forth ; 
 " how they crawl and t\nne round my path, 
 spitting their venom at me !"" A deep drawn 
 sigh, as if his heart would break, followed. 
 " Peverell,*" he continued, " I am not mad, am 
 I ?''"' A wild and frantic laugh — a frightful 
 laugh — such as might express a fiend's delight 
 at some unutterable misery to man, burst from 
 him. Peverell shuddered. 
 
 " I have seen," said Kit, stopping, and 
 looking fearfully back towards the Abbey — 
 
 " What ?^^ inquired Peverell. 
 
 The sound of PeverelFs voice seemed to 
 recal him to himself. He slowly turned his 
 head, and fixed his eyes upon him — tears gushed 
 from them, and his bosom heaved with convul- 
 sive sobs. '^ One ! two I three ! four !" he 
 exclaimed, pointing with his finger in different 
 directions, as he paused between each number ; 
 " and four to that, and four again — and then — 
 D 3
 
 58 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 but God is above us, and knows all ! ay — four, 
 and four, and four ! — the apostles were just so 
 many, and no more. Oh, that my tongue might 
 declare what mine eyes have beheld ! that I 
 might name the names of the chosen — that I 
 might prophecy of what is to come !" Then 
 looking wistfully in the face of Peverell, he 
 added, in a tone of thrilling and indescribable 
 solemnity, ''but thou, my friend, thou art the 
 ,last!" 
 
 Peverell started at this repetition of words, 
 which had once already sounded horribly in 
 his ears. " I am the last !" he exclaimed, " I 
 have heard those words before, to-night — what 
 do they import ? Tell, if you can." 
 
 " On ! on !" replied Kit, hurrying Peverell 
 forward. " A. funeral pall, which no mortal 
 hand dare uplift, was drawn aside for me ! I 
 gazed, and felt the marrow wither in my bones ; 
 my flesh shrivelled up, as thou seest — for I am 
 but the shadow of what I was." Then raising 
 his head, as if addressing himself to some invi- 
 sible being who hovered above him, he added, 
 " I obey — ^my lips are sealed for ever.""
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. o9 
 
 Peverell forbore to ask any further ques- 
 tions, but silently accompanied Kit to his 
 abode : the people followed, observing the same 
 silence. They saw that Kit was in no condi- 
 tion, either of body or mind, to be harassed 
 with inquiries ; and gradually, they all withdrew 
 to their several homes. When Kit entered 
 his cottage, he threw himself languidly on a 
 wretched pallet which stood in one corner, and 
 clasping his hands together ^vith much fervour, 
 exclaimed, in a voice of exceeding tribulation : 
 — " Why standest thou so far off, O Lord ! 
 and hidest thy face in the needful time of trou- 
 ble .^■" Then, as if recollecting whose servant 
 he was, while his countenance brightened into 
 a momentary expression of perfect resignation, 
 he added, in a tone of penitent humility, 
 " In the Lord put I my trust — how say ye 
 then to my soul, that she should flee as a bird 
 unto the hill T 
 
 Peverell stood beside him, and watched with 
 deep emotion these paroxyms of mental an- 
 guish, if not of mental aberration, which he 
 now began to consider them. Kit seemed un-
 
 60 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 conscious of his presence, and lay in the posi- 
 tion in which he had first thrown himself, his 
 eyes fixed and glaring, gazing on vacancy, his 
 hands clenched together, and heaving, every 
 now and then, deep drawn sighs. Sometimes 
 his lips moved, but no words escaped them j 
 at others, he would pray aloud, or give utter- 
 ance to fragments of Scripture, all of which 
 were more or less applicable to his own actual 
 state. Once, and only once, he began, or rather 
 attempted to begin, his mysterious numbers ; 
 but no sooner had he pronounced one — two — 
 than a sort of convulsive spasm seized his 
 throat, and in a low, hollow murmur, he arti- 
 culated, <* I obey 1"
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 61 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Peverell was in some perplexity how to 
 act. He could not leave the poor sufferer alone, 
 in his wretched plight, and there was no one to 
 whose care he could consign him for the re- 
 mainder of the night. Kit had neither wife, 
 nor child, nor kindred of any degree. While 
 he was pondering upon this matter, and had 
 half resolved to go and rouse the inmates of an 
 adjoining cottage, if they had already retired 
 to rest, which was extremely improbable, he 
 thought he heard a gentle tap at the door, and 
 the name of Kit softly called out. The
 
 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 next moment the latch was lifted up, the door 
 opened, and a wild, miserable, woe-begone 
 figure of a woman presented itself. She drew 
 back, as she discovered Peverell, by the dim 
 light of a lamp which was burning on the 
 hearth, and would have retired ; but he bade 
 her enter, which she had no sooner done, than 
 he discovered that it was Madge Hopkins, the 
 mother of the poor idiot girl, whose death had 
 so strangely happened on the preceding night. 
 
 She looked sorrowfully at Kit, as he lay 
 stretched before her, in the way already de- 
 scribed, and addressing him, who heard her 
 not, said — " Is it so, man ? Thou hast been 
 fool-hardy for something ; the fiend is stronger 
 than thy God — ^but we are twin mourners now 
 — and I have come to give thee comfort : to 
 give, thee that, alas ! I have most need of, and 
 must ever need — ^for my poor Marian is cold and 
 stark — and I dug her grave myself, woe is the 
 day I live to say so ! She was a good girl. Sir,'"* 
 she continued, turning to Peverell, while the 
 tears streamed from her galled eyes, red with 
 hourly weeping — " she was a good girl, and
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 63 
 
 loved me — more than I loved her, you'll say, 
 or I had not left her to such a fate ; but you 
 are wrong : she lived in my very heart ; and 
 now she is gone, I feel my heart will soon 
 break. So do not blame me.'' 
 
 *' I blame you not, good woman,'' replied 
 Peverell ; " nor should you reproach yourself 
 for that which was the vdW. of Heaven." 
 
 " I think I should not," said Madge, wiping 
 her eyes ; " but the poor soul loved me so ; 
 though she could not speak to tell how much 
 she loved me. Yet / could understand all she 
 tried to say ; and then her eyes were a better 
 language than the tongue. Each night, before 
 she went to sleep, each morning when she 
 awoke, her arms were round my neck ; her 
 warm, pale lips, pressed mine, and her dainty 
 white fingers would pat my cheek or forehead, 
 as if to say, ' God bless you, dear mother, you 
 are good, very good, to your afflicted child I' 
 And I was good to her, as far as my means 
 would let me ; I was her willing slave, by night 
 and by day — she had been as a cradled infant 
 to me all her life ; but I never knew the hour
 
 64 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 that was weary, except when I was away from 
 her. When she heard my voice — when I called 
 Marian, how her large blue eyes would sparkle, 
 though at other times they were dull and cold 
 enough ; and when she saw me enter the room, 
 her features brightened so, that no one at that 
 moment would have called her idiot, from her 
 looks. Ah, Marian ! my poor Marian ! my 
 foully murdered child ! — ^your eye is colder and 
 duller now ! — my voice will not awaken you ! — 
 The sight of your neglectful mother will brigh- 
 ten your features no more ! But she makes a 
 brave and comely corpse. Belike, you would 
 be pleased to see her. Sir," she added, address- 
 ing herself suddenly to Peverell ; the rest of 
 her wailing and lamentations having been 
 uttered in a sort of mournful rhapsody to her- 
 self. 
 
 Peverell was about to speak to her in the 
 language of consolation, when a heavy groan 
 from Kit attracted his attention. " I shall 
 hear it again,'' he exclaimed, in a tone of agony 
 — " I shall hear it again !*" 
 
 " What?"" inquired Peverell.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 65 
 
 At that moment the bell of the Abbey went 
 one. A loud shriek told the rest. It was evi- 
 dent, the wretched man had a kind of presenti- 
 ment that his ears were about to be invaded 
 by a sound, horrible to his imagination, from 
 the dreadful recollections associated with it. 
 How this prescient faculty existed in him, or 
 by what secret workings it manifested itself, it 
 were vain to surmise. He could not himself 
 have explained the mystery, for he had started 
 forth from a trance, as it were, and knew only 
 what belonged to that first moment of consci- 
 ousness. The same symptoms of bodily and 
 mental suffering displayed themselves, as each 
 hour elapsed through the night ; with this 
 lamentable difference, however, that as they 
 increased in number, his torments were progres- 
 sively prolonged. 
 
 " How art thou now, friend .'^" said Peverell, 
 perceiving that Kit was looking round the 
 room, and fixing his eyes first upon him, and 
 then upon Madge, with that sort of vague ex- 
 pression which indicated that his mind was at 
 work, to connect the past with the present.
 
 66 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 " You are well to do," added Madge, ap- 
 proaching him, " with your mad daring. Was 
 it not warning enough to see my poor Marian 
 blasted, but you must have a bout with Satan ?" 
 
 '' How is it with you now ?" reiterated 
 Peverell. 
 
 Kit raised himself partly off the bed, leaning 
 upon one arm ; and looking at Madge, whom 
 he seemed only that moment to recognise, he 
 exclaimed, " Marian ! Marian ! Dust, earth, 
 and ashes ! Cry aloud, said the Lord to his 
 prophet, — cry aloud to the whole world that 
 all flesh is grass, and that all the glory thereof 
 is but as the flower of the field ; when the grass 
 is withered, the flower falleth away, when the 
 wind of the Lord bloweth upon it."" 
 
 " Well said !" replied Peverell, (affecting 
 feelings which he had not, in the hope of rally- 
 ing Kit.) " The fiend has not buff'eted all 
 thy wits out of thee^ I see. There spoke Kit 
 Barnes again ; bear thyself cheerly, man, and 
 defy the cloven hoof." 
 
 Kit heard, but was no partaker of PeverelPs 
 raillery. His own thoughts were manifestly of
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 67 
 
 a very different character, for casting up his 
 eyes, he ejaculated in a low but fervent tone of 
 voice, " Father ! if this anguish and sorrow 
 which I feel, and death which I see approach, 
 may not pass, but that thy will is I must suffer 
 them, thy will he done r As he uttered the 
 last words, his eyes closed, his hands fell, and 
 he relapsed into his former state of insensibility. 
 Peverell now addressed himself to Madge, 
 and was proceeding to ask her whether she, or 
 any of her gossips, could keep watch by Kit 
 till the morning, when he was surprised by the 
 sudden entrance of the mayor, accompanied by 
 four or five of the townspeople, among whom 
 was Clayton, and preceded by Crab, with the 
 lantern, which, like his otsti head, had been 
 patched and mended in the best way it could. 
 His worship had evidently not been indulging 
 in thin potations ; but having been informed, 
 while over his third cup of spiced canary, not 
 only of what had happened, but of something 
 more — for he was verily assured that Kit had 
 been brought out of the Abbey a corpse — he 
 deemed it a part of his magisterial duty to
 
 68 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 make instant inquiry into the facts of the case : 
 Hence, his present untimely visit to Kit's cot- 
 
 " Dead enough, poor knave !" he exclaimed, 
 as he looked at Kit, whose appearance cer- 
 tainly did not seem to belie the assertion. 
 
 " Dead, indeed !" echoed Crab, who was 
 close at his worship's elbow, and holding up the 
 lantern, so as to throw a stronger light upon 
 Kit's countenance, than what fell upon it from 
 the lamp which was in the room. " Hell never 
 move again, I trow." 
 
 " Dead as any he who was buried a year 
 agone," responded Clayton, in a most doleful 
 voice. 
 
 A convulsive agitation of Kifs whole frame, 
 at this moment, with a sudden extension of his 
 arms, produced a scene, which, under other 
 circumstances, would have gone nigh to kill 
 Peverell with laughter. Even as it was, it 
 made his sides ache. Clayton fell upon his 
 knees, and devoutly crossed himself, shutting 
 his eyes from sheer fright. His worship made 
 only two strides to the door ; but those behind.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 69 
 
 had made only one ; and three of them stuck 
 fast in their several efforts to get out first. As 
 to Crab, it was no joke to him. The lantern 
 dropped first ; his jaw dropped next ; and then 
 he dropped himself; for do^vn he fell, in as 
 good earnest a swoon as need be ; nor was it 
 till the contents of a bucket of water had been 
 thrown over him, that he was restored to his 
 senses. The first use he made of them was, to 
 take to his heels, (in defiance of his master's 
 imperative commands to remain, which he was 
 much too terrified to heed,) and scamper 
 home. In his fright, however, he took a ^\Tong 
 turning, and suddenly found himself stopped 
 by the walls of the Abbey. This mischance 
 was too much for his scared senses. He abso- 
 lutely roared with terror — implored the walls 
 not to come near him — backed himself from 
 them step by step, till he thought he had got 
 to a safe distance— and then ran and roared till 
 he arrived at his master's gates. 
 
 Meanwhile, Peverell related to the mayor, 
 and those who accompanied him, the manner of 
 Kit's egress from the Abbey — the marvellous
 
 70 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 changes wrought in his appearance and voice 
 — ^his wild exclamations — the awful silence 
 which seemed to have been enjoined him — and 
 all that had occurred after he reached his own 
 cottage. What had befallen himself, Peverell 
 kept to himself ; and concluded by observing, 
 " it was quite clear his wits were not sound at 
 that moment." 
 
 " I doubt if they were ever quite in their 
 right place," quoth his worship. " He always" 
 appeared to me to be a little cracked ; and 
 surely if he were not, he would never have 
 adventured upon the exploit he did."" 
 
 " That's as it may be," rejoined Peverell 
 thoughtfully. " But there will be time to talk 
 of these matters to-morrow ; for talk of them 
 we must, and act in them too. Wliat we now 
 have to do is to see this man duly taken care of 
 for the night — and — " 
 
 " I'll watch by him," interrupted Madge, 
 who had cowered down in one corner of the 
 room when the mayor first entered, and had 
 remained unperceived by him till that moment ; 
 
 »
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. Jl 
 
 "I'll watch by him till morning — for I cannot 
 sleep now, as I once did.'' 
 
 '' Who is this woman ?'*' inquired the mayor. 
 
 " One who was a mother/' sighed forth 
 Madge, weeping bitterly ; as if the recollection 
 of her bereavement had been newly awakened. 
 
 Peverell told her story ; and his worship 
 coined his pity into a piece of money, which he 
 offered Madge. 
 
 " I am poor enough," said she, ** to need 
 this bounty," looking at the money in her 
 hand : " but wherefore should I ? It will not 
 buy yesterday, and Marian with it: and there 
 will be no to-morrow for me, in this world, ere 
 long : so take back your alms-deed,*' she con- 
 tinued, restoring to his worship what he had 
 given, and curtseying with great respect. '' It 
 is not a proud stomach which returns it, but a 
 breaking heart, that does not want it." 
 
 '' Do you think," said Clayton, in a half 
 whisper to Peverell, " that she is fit to have 
 the care of this man .^" 
 
 " He will never want more nursing than I 
 can give him, I warrant ye," replied Madge,
 
 72 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 who overheard the question. Then looking 
 stedfastly at Kit, she added, " The day that 
 sees Marian in her grave, will see him ready 
 for his — and me for mine, if God hearkens to 
 my prayers !'*'' 
 
 " Where is your daughter P'** asked Clayton. 
 
 '' Where we shall all be, sooner or later, I 
 hope,'' replied Madge — " in heaven !" 
 
 " I mean, where is her body ?'' rejoined 
 Clayton. 
 
 " In bed, now : it will be in a shroud and 
 coffin to-morrow : and i' the earth come next 
 day ! But I dressed hei^ clean, head gear and 
 night clothes, and laid her as she was wont to 
 lie, with her arm on my pillow — and she looks, 
 for all the world, as if she only slept. But, 
 alas ! she is dead. Just so I left her last night, 
 when the foul fiend of the Abbey bore her 
 away, and strangled her beneath the north 
 wall." 
 
 " And do you mean to leave her all night .^"" 
 inquired the mayor. 
 
 " Leave her !" exclaimed Madge, mingling 
 confusedly in her own thoughts at the moment
 
 OF ST. ALB AX 9. 'JS 
 
 the event of the preceding night -vsith the ob- 
 ject of this question, " Oh, yes, I left her and 
 lost her. I left her for an hour, and lost her 
 — for ever ! It was an ill trick of me. But is 
 it now you talk of ? Oh, shell bide my return 
 in the morning ; besides, her grandam, who 
 loved her almost as much as I did, is there to 
 watch and weep, and / could do no more." 
 
 " Well, then," said Peverell, " you will 
 tarry here till I come again, which shall be at 
 an early hour, and before I break my fast." 
 
 " Marry will I," replied Madge ; '^ and he 
 shall lack no comfort of tongue or hand the 
 while, if he wake to need any." 
 
 They then left the cottage, and ^ladge, fas- 
 tening the door, that no latch-lifter might enter, 
 sat her do^\Ti in one comer of the room opposite 
 to Kit, who lay seemingly in a profound sleep, 
 but whose appearance was ghastly in the ex- 
 treme. The grim lines of death were imprinted 
 on his face, and his features seemed fixed in 
 that pallid distortion which they wore when he 
 came forth from the Abbey. The blood had 
 forsaken his cheeks and lips, and they were 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 overspread with a livid hue. The bones of the 
 face stood out, as if famine had consumed the 
 flesh that once covered them. His nostrils were 
 distended — ^his mouth drawn down, disclosing 
 three or four large discoloured teeth ; beneath 
 their closed lids his prominent eyes could be 
 seen, sometimes slowly, at others rapidly roll- 
 ing to and fro, while his huge, bony hands 
 were tightly clasped together across his brawny 
 chest. , The lamp that was burning, threw only 
 a partial light upon his countenance and figure, 
 leaving in dark and appalling shadows the 
 greater portion of both. Madge, absorbed as 
 her mind was in her own particular grief, gazed 
 upon this almost spectral object without seeing 
 it, as it were; but once or twice during the 
 night, when he moved, and her attention was 
 drawn to him, she was startled at his appear- 
 ance. 
 
 " A word with you, friend,*" said Peverell 
 to Clayton, as they were proceeding along after 
 they quitted the cottage, and had bade the 
 mayor and others good night. " You and I
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. *J5 
 
 saw the first of this strange business — we must 
 see the last of it." 
 
 " "VYhat mean you .^" replied Clayton. 
 
 " I mean," answered Peverell, " that come 
 what may — but what I would urge will be 
 better done in the broad glare of day. Mine, 
 and thy, spirits are too much disturbed by that 
 which we have seen and heard to address them- 
 selves to such a theme at this dreary hour of 
 night. To-morrow, 111 crave your leisure for a 
 matter I have to mention ; and so fare thee 
 well, friend." 
 
 They parted, — Clayton ^vith his thoughts 
 occupied in conjecturing what Peverell could 
 mean, and Peverell himself gloomily brooding 
 over plans which he hardly hoped to accom- 
 plish. 
 
 E 2
 
 76 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Before Peverell had quitted his chamber 
 the next morning, he was informed that a stran- 
 ger was below who wished to speak with him. 
 " He will not tell his errand," quoth the serving 
 man, " but he will wait your pleasure." 
 
 " What like is he .?" said Peverell. 
 
 " Of my troth," replied Francis, " I cannot 
 say, except that he be tall enough for a May- 
 pole. He is closely wrapped in a cloak from 
 head to foot ; and save a glimpse I had of one 
 of his eyes, which was as fierce as a dragon, 
 and as black as a raven, I did not see so much 
 as a hair of his beard."
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 77 
 
 " Bid him tarry awhile," rejoined Peverell, 
 " and rU be with him." 
 
 He was not long before he descended into 
 the room where the stranger was waiting - 
 Upon his entrance, he was standing with his 
 back towards him, contemplating Tsith apparent 
 earnestness a painting of the crucifixion, which 
 hmig over the fire-place. The approach of 
 Peverell roused him from his meditation. He 
 turned round, and with an air of much dignity 
 as well as of courtesy, saluted him. Peverell 
 surveyed him with a hasty glance. His sta- 
 ture was gigantic, but well proportioned withal ; 
 and as he strode across the chamber to meet 
 Peverell, the solid oaken flooring seemed to creak 
 beneath his tread. He had sufi'ered his cloak 
 to fall back, and the richness of his apparel 
 denoted a person of superior rank. His entire 
 dress was sable, of the most costly texture, and 
 in his hat waved a lofty plume of ostrich feathers 
 of the same colour. He appeared to be about 
 the middle age of life, but his black hair and 
 beard were fleckered 'svith grey. On his ample 
 forehead sat deep thought, while from his large,
 
 78 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 penetrating eyes, flashed a dauntless and reso- 
 lute spirit, without however any mixture of 
 ferocity. 
 
 Peverell was considering how to accost him, 
 when the stranger spoke. 
 
 " You are a brave man, friend," said he, 
 " and have in you, that quality which makes 
 daring a virtue, raising it above the mere dis- 
 play of sinews and quick passion ; therefore, I 
 seek you. It is with such metal great achieve- 
 ments are wrought, and great purposes ful- 
 filled. When you stood alone last night, 
 unmoved and immoveable, while the terror- 
 stricken people fled like hares before the 
 hounds, I marked you out as one fitted to do 
 more in the same cause. You saw me not. 
 How should you.P You had eyes and ears 
 only for the wonders that encompassed you. 
 With my cloak around me I surveyed, unob- 
 served, the whole scene, from the self-devotion 
 of the poor fanatic who rushed on perdition, to 
 the intrepid conduct of yourself, who, unscared 
 by what you had seen, and in the singleness of 
 your own dauntless spirit, which was not thereto
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. "Jd 
 
 impelled by the vain glory of T^'inning applause 
 from your friends or neighbours, for you were 
 alone and in darkness, advanced to the very 
 portals of the sacred building, determined to 
 be satisfied. This was the heroism of the 
 mind. And you were satisfied,"" 
 
 "Of what.''" exclaimed Peverell, suddenly, 
 He had, till now, listened to this singular 
 address, delivered as it was, with a graceful 
 fluency, and in a tone of voice, at once grave, 
 prepossessing, and impressive, equally unable 
 to guess its purport, or penetrate the character 
 of the speaker. But an overwhelming thought 
 all at once darted across his mind, and im- 
 pelled him to demand, ^dth some agitation, of 
 what he had been satisfied. 
 
 " That MORE REMAINS !" rejoined the stran- 
 ger, with an emphatic solemnity of manner. 
 " That a dark and fearful mystery— whether 
 of God or devil who shall say ? — is veiled from 
 our eyes ! But be it of Heaven — or be it of 
 hell, this is certain — a voice has gone forth 
 commanding that it shall be unveiled. Why 
 else these terrible signs — these tokens of un-
 
 80 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 earthly visitation — these denotements of an invi- 
 sible power, visibly at work ? I have travelled 
 in far countries : the Arab of the desart, the 
 holy anchorite of the rocky cave, and of the 
 deep glen — the priest of the altar — the potent 
 magician — and the s6er whose locks have 
 whitened in the search after Nature's most hid- 
 den secrets, have lived in fellowship with me — 
 I have seen the might of the prince of darkness, 
 triumph over that of the ministers of the Holy 
 One, who dwelleth in everlasting glory — and I 
 have seen it scattered before his power, like 
 the leaves of autumn when the sharp wind of 
 the north comes roaring from the hills — I have 
 beheld the incantations of the sorcerer vex 
 whole nations with plague, and pestilence, and 
 famine — and I have stood by, while the unclean 
 spirit of the arch fiend has been exorcised and 
 driven out ; — the miracles of Heaven, and the 
 abominations of hell, have passed before me ; 
 but I have never seen — no, nor have my ears 
 heard — that when He who is above, vouchsafes 
 to invite— or he who prowls upon this earth, 
 seeking whom he may devour, dares to defy —
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 81 
 
 it is for maii''s weal, to fold his arms and cry — 
 * Wherefore should I trouble myself ?' Xor 
 have I read you, aright, my friend, if your 
 heart speak not the same language." 
 
 Here the stranger paused for a moment ; then, 
 laying his hand familiarly on Peverell"'s shoul- 
 der, he added, " And what is he, you would ask, 
 who thus discourses to you ?" Peverell bowed 
 his head in assent to this observation. 
 
 " Let us sit," continued the stranger. Pe- 
 verell placed a chair, and seated liimself in 
 another, opposite his mysterious visitor. 
 
 " I am but a sojourner in this land, and, as 
 my tongue declares, not a native. !My name — 
 but there will be another time for ancestry and 
 descent— call me, as I call myself, plain Fitz- 
 Maurice. Do you see this scar ?"' and he parted 
 his hair on one side of his forehead, when 
 Peverell perceived a crimson transverse mark, 
 with a freshness of appearance as if it were 
 a newly-healed wound. " When I was in 
 Mauritania, now some twenty years since, I 
 adventured my person and my life against a 
 fell magician, who by midnight spells and 
 
 F. 3
 
 82 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 potent charms, had power to wake the dead — 
 to make charnel houses yield up their clattering 
 bones, and the deep dug grave its shrouded 
 tenant. The fiendish dwarf, for he was as mis- 
 shapen in body as in soul, could visit with 
 swift death, too (where his malice aimed at life), 
 by occult sympathies of the contagious air 
 which he infected; or strike the limbs with 
 hideous distortion, foul sores, and wasting 
 disease, by his sorcery. 
 
 " This imp of Acheron dwelt in a cave, or 
 den, a mile beyond the city, whose entrance 
 was guarded by a monster, engendered, as it 
 was said, by his necromantic art, from the seed 
 of the serpent cast into the seething blood of 
 infants (the first born of their parents), during 
 an eclipse of the moon ; and kept boiling for 
 nine-times-nine hours, by a fire fed with 
 maidens' eyes. The fairest and the loveliest 
 drooped and died, to make the accursed charm 
 complete. But the wealth of princes, in rare 
 jewels, in precious stones, and bars of un- 
 wrought gold ; bales of rich silk, dyed in all 
 the colours of the rainbow, and any one of
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 83 
 
 which had been a dowry for an empress ; pearls 
 beyond price ; aromatic gums, gathered in the 
 phoenix' nest ; the essence of an Eg\'ptian 
 mummy, distilled two thousand years ago by a 
 sybil, who, in a prophetic mood, called it 
 Venarkon, or the ' Giver of Life,' from its 
 power of bestowing immortality upon whom- 
 soever should obtain it at the peril of life and 
 soul : — these, and the privilege to wive with 
 the noblest and fairest damsel in the country, 
 even though she stood next the throne itself, 
 were offered to him who should slay the ma- 
 •^ician of the den. 
 
 " A largess like this tempted many, but 
 none ever came back to tell of their encounter. 
 Their bones whitened the ground, in front of 
 the cave, and their flesh fattened the monster 
 which guarded its mouth. I was journeying 
 through Mauritania, and heard the tilings which 
 I have related. I offered myself for the enter- 
 prise, and the reward, if I succeeded. My 
 offer was accepted. To tell you how I fared 
 were tedious. I should myself grow weary of a 
 tale I have told through many a summer's day,
 
 84 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 in bower, in court, and hall, to wondering list- 
 eners. Suffice it, that I prevailed. I slew the 
 monster — I penetrated into the den — grappled 
 the dwarf devil by the throat — and maugre his 
 pestiferous breath, which belched forth poison, 
 as he yelled within my grasp, while the sur- 
 rounding hills rebellowed with his roar, I held 
 him, dashed his talisman to the earth, and 
 then threw his fell carcase from me — a black 
 and strangled corpse. 
 
 " In the conflict I received this," pointing to 
 the scar on his forehead: " I know not how or 
 when ; I felt no blow — I was conscious of no 
 wound ; but there it ever remains, fresh as if 
 done but yesterday — a crimson trophy of my 
 victory I choose to call it. There are times, 
 indeed, when it seems to burn inwards to my 
 brain ; but I know how to quench its fires. 
 
 " I returned to the city in triumph. The 
 people fell down before me, in an ecstacy of. 
 gratitude and admiration. The mighty wealth 
 which I had earned — the wondrous riches that 
 awaited me, I refused — I wanted them not, 
 and they would have encumbered me. I claimed
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 85 
 
 only, and I obtained, the prophetic sybil's 
 elixir, which I ever carry about me. ^VTiether 
 it have the power of bestowing immortality, or 
 whether the deed I performed fulfilled the con- 
 dition upon which that power depended, must 
 be read in some page that futurity shall open 
 before me.*' 
 
 Peverell listened to this strange narrative 
 with profound attention; but as he was no 
 believer in magic — no disciple of superstition — 
 he almost began to doubt the soundness of his 
 visitor'^s intellect. One thing, however, he could 
 not doubt — that Fitz-Maurice himself was per- 
 fectly convinced of the truth of all he had related. 
 And, after all, PeverelFs scepticism amounted 
 to no more than this, that he could not believe ; 
 not that he denied the possibility, or even the 
 probability, of what he doubted. There is, 
 indeed, in the natural constitution of the 
 strongest mind, a dim and obscure persuasion 
 that the beings of another world may have 
 communion with this ; that creatures, endowed 
 \nth faculties totally dissimilar from our o^ti, 
 may exist ; and that they may possess a power
 
 86 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 to mingle in human transactions, of whose 
 nature and extent we are necessarily ignorant. 
 Hence the gross superstitions, and brute idola- 
 tries of those rude ages, and of that rude state 
 of society, in which man substitutes his passions, 
 his hopes, and his fears, the things he wishes, 
 and the things he would avoid, for his reason, 
 which teaches him not only what he should 
 wish, and what avoid, but how to regulate his 
 hopes and fears. Hence, too, that portion of 
 superstitious feeling which lurks in every mind ; 
 which no mental vigour, no moral or religious 
 discipline, can wholly eradicate ; and which 
 makes every man accessible to the influence of 
 mysterious terror, under some circumstances or 
 other. 
 
 Fitz-Maurice paused for a moment, and ap- 
 peared somewhat agitated by the recital of an 
 adventure, which had been attended with such 
 extraordinary incidents. He seemed to pene- 
 trate, however, what was passing in PeverelFs 
 mind, for he proceeded thus : — 
 
 " It is a sharp trial of your faith, I perceive, 
 to digest the things I have told. But go, you,
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. SJ 
 
 twenty or twenty hundred miles from this fair 
 tower, and repeat that which thou sawest last 
 night with thine own eyes, — that which thou 
 knowest to be the very soul of truth, however 
 it may overpass thy intelligence to expound : 
 would you not find incredulous spirits ready 
 t« scoff and gibe ? Believe it, there are more 
 mysteries in this world than philosophy can 
 teach the causes of; and he is still a child who 
 reads only in his own book, and refuses to look 
 into the volume that is opened by another. I 
 will tell thee a merry conceit that happened 
 when I was journeying in the spicy vallies of 
 Araby the blest. There came a certain man 
 to his neighbour, and said, ' I have seen a 
 miracle !' — ' Of what .'*' quoth his neighbour. 
 ' A camel that did talk.' — ^ And I,' said his 
 neighbour, * have seen a greater miracle — a 
 lion swallowed by an ape.' — ' Nay, that is im- 
 possible,' quoth the other. ' And nay," said 
 his neighbour. ' You would make an ape of 
 me to swallow your lion ; you would fain have 
 me believe what you saw, but deny me your 
 belief for that which I have seen. Remember,
 
 88 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 henceforth, that he who carries wonders to 
 market, must expect to find others there^ with 
 the like commodity to sell.' " 
 
 Peverell smiled at this quip of Fitz-Maurice, 
 and observed, that in truth, there was no 
 Such denial of faith in him as he supposed ; 
 and if there had been, he confessed his pertinent 
 allusion to the events of the preceding night, 
 (putting out of his consideration what he had 
 previously witnessed, of which he, Fitz-Maurice, 
 was ignorant,) was so home a case, that he 
 could not choose but give his credence. " But 
 to what end," he added, "am I now honoured 
 by this visit ?'''' 
 
 " To the end," replied Fitz-Maurice, " that 
 thou shouldst approve thyself worthy in the 
 sight of God and man. I am, as I have told 
 you, but a sojourner in this land ; and, more- 
 over, a dweller in this place but of a few hours. 
 Therefore it is not meet, nor would it be so 
 accounted by the people here, that I should 
 stand forward as thou mayest, and as it is fit 
 thou shouldst. At night-fall, yesterday, I 
 entered St. Albans, on my way to the metro-
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 89 
 
 polls ; and at the hostelry where I rested, 
 hearing the tidings of what had happened, I 
 sallied forth, to be a witness of what was to 
 happen, and noted thee, in the way I have 
 described. jMine omti adventure in Mauri- 
 tania came o'er my mind ; and in my heart I 
 said, here is a man to do the like. Did I 
 err .?" 
 
 '' Most certainly not," replied Peverell, with 
 great energy. The dark eyes of Fitz-^Iaurice 
 sparkled ^\dth delight, and his countenance 
 beamed with an expression of gladness, which 
 seemed to say, " It is done ! my triumph 
 approaches !" 
 
 " You have encountered me," continued 
 Peverell, "in an apt mood for the enterprise 
 you would put me to." 
 
 He then related in what manner himself and 
 Clayton had first witnessed the nocturnal mys- 
 tery of the Abbey ; the occurrences of the fol- 
 lowing night ; the inexplicable presence of the 
 old man at the to^vn-hall ; the portentous voice, 
 issuing from unseen lips, which had whispered 
 in his ear, he was the last ; his fixed, immove-
 
 90 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 able arm at the Abbey door ; the melancholy 
 plight of poor Kit Barnes, with the spell that 
 seemed to be upon him, chaining his tongue to 
 silence ; and, lastly, the pitiful death of Marian, 
 the idiot. 
 
 While Peverell was recounting these things, 
 Fitz-Maurice appeared, not as if he were listen- 
 ing to something he had never heard, but as 
 though he were scrutinizing in his own mind the 
 fidelity of what he heard. Once or twice a smile 
 played across his features ; but of so peculiar a 
 character, that any one observing him, and ig- 
 norant of the matter in discourse between them, 
 might have thought he perceived exulting ven- 
 geance subdued and kept down by doubts and 
 fears. This blended expression was most strong- 
 ly displayed when Peverell was describing what 
 had befallen himself, and the circumstances of 
 Marian's mournful fate. Peverell having con- 
 cluded his little history, added, " Here the 
 matter cannot rest ; and I formed the settled 
 resolution last night, before I slept, of propos- 
 ing some plan, though I hardly know what, for
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 91 
 
 discovering the cause of all these supernatural 
 events, if supernatural they be." 
 
 '' Methinks," said Fitz-Maurice, " it were 
 well if some certain number — some twelve or 
 so — of the most grave and considerable men in 
 the town, were to unite for that purpose." 
 
 " Why, truly," replied Peverell, smiling, 
 " that would be well enough ; and, for my own 
 part, I should desire nothing better ; but I am 
 right sure there be some of our very gravest, 
 aye, and who are the very top men of the place, 
 that would as lief undertake to swallow your 
 sword, and not make a wry face at it, as come 
 forward to join me in that which I have more 
 than a month's mind to propose." 
 
 " And what is that?" asked Fitz-Maurice. 
 
 " Why, that I, and as many more as I can 
 persuade to it — for there is bravery in numbers 
 — should take up our quarters in the Abbey 
 to-morrow night, and watch." 
 
 " But why not this night .^" interrupted Fitz- 
 Maurice, quickly. " Let no man trust to to- 
 morrow ; it is the cheat of life — the future that 
 never comes — the grave of many a buried en-
 
 92 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 terprise of noble birth, which, like the light- 
 ning's flash, is born and dies, ere the voice of 
 him that sees can cry, behold ! Why not this 
 night, which is yours, while to-morrow's lies in 
 the womb of time — perchance within the portals 
 of eternity ? I too," he added, " would tarry a 
 single night on my journey, to share with you 
 its wonders or its dangers, if I may be so per- 
 mitted to do." 
 
 Peverell was struck with the impetuous and 
 eager manner of Fitz-Maurice, as he thus urged 
 him not to delay his purpose, and replied, " to- 
 night be it, with all my heart, an' I can prevail 
 with others as easily as thou hast prevailed with 
 me;' 
 
 " You will prevail," rejoined Fitz-Maurice : 
 " doubt it not. A brave man makes brave men, 
 whom shame keeps from being cowards. But I 
 must away now, for I have much business be- 
 tween this and darkness, that will not wait." 
 
 Fitz-Maurice arose to depart. " You shall 
 see me again," he said, as he descended into the 
 hall ; " but where, and when ? Here ? or at the 
 Abbey? And the hour .?"
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 93 
 
 " At the Abbey," replied Peverell. 
 
 " As the clock strikes eleven .^" said Fitz- 
 Maurice, 
 
 " As the clock strikes eleven," rejoined Pe- 
 verell, placing his hand in that of Fitz-Mau- 
 rice, which was extended to receive it. " Alone, 
 or with others, /will be there ; but if alone, 
 still I keep my word with you." 
 
 When Peverell opened the hall-door, he per- 
 ceived a richly caparisoned steed, coal black, and 
 decked with sable housings, held by a dwarf, 
 habited in the dress of a page. Fitz-Maurice 
 vaulted on the back of his proud courser, who 
 pawed the earth impatiently, champing the 
 curb, as if in disdain of its controul ; and in a 
 moment he was out of sight, followed by his 
 page on a palfrey of equal mettle.
 
 94 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Peverell now remembered him of his pro- 
 mise to visit Kit's cottage the first thing in the 
 morning, and calling for his bonnet and staff, he 
 proceeded thither, ruminating, by the way, on 
 the interview he had just had with Fitz-Mau- 
 rice. " This night,""' he mentally exclaimed, 
 " that funeral pall which poor Kit Barns talked 
 of in his ravings, may perhaps be drawn aside 
 for me as well as for him. Well I we shall see ; 
 but, as I lack his enthusiasm, I do not think, 
 whatever happens, I shall lose either my wits 
 or my tongue, as he has done. I am just in an 
 excellent frame of mind to be fooled or convert- 
 ed : my senses compel me to acknowledge what
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 95 
 
 I have seen and heard ; while my reason, with no 
 less compulsion, makes me rebel against my 
 senses. A\Tiat will be the end of it, lies, as Fitz- 
 Maurice said of his elixir, which is to give him 
 a charmed life, in some page that futurity shall 
 open before me.'' 
 
 As he finished this silent soliloquy, he ar- 
 rived at the door of Kit's cottage. When he 
 entered, he found several of the honest black- 
 smith's neighbours assembled, who were alter- 
 nately condoling with Madge, and pouring forth 
 their unheeded lamentations over Kit. Peverell 
 learned, upon inquiry, that he had slept lethar- 
 gically through the night, had never once 
 spoken or unclosed his eyes, and could scarcely 
 be said to have moved, except a convulsive agita- 
 tion of his body, every time the Abbey-bell 
 tolled the hours as they passed. He had un- 
 dergone no change in his appearance, save a 
 slight clenching of his teeth, and a livid disco- 
 loration of the lips. As to INIadge, she looked 
 precisely the sort of being which the imagina- 
 tion of a poet would have created, to watch the 
 dying slumbers of one who was perishing by
 
 96 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 witchcraft. She might have passed for a fami- 
 liar of the very fiend, beneath whose wasting 
 power Kit lay subdued. Her haggard counte- 
 nance, her half-crazed look, her disordered dress, 
 her inflamed and fretted eyes, and that marble 
 apathy of manner, caused by the benumbing 
 quality of her own grief, which had annihilated 
 hope, and therefore denied itself consolation — 
 were all in fine, but terrible, accordance with 
 the scene. She seemed already dead in heart and 
 mind ; — she spoke to no one — gave sullen and 
 froward answers, when addressed ; and some 
 food that had been placed before her by her 
 neighbours she utterly rejected. 
 
 Peverell saw that he could be of no service at 
 present. Kit needed nothing ; and if he did, 
 there were enow of gossips about him, to take 
 care that he had whatever he might need. He 
 therefore quitted the cottage, not unwilling to 
 escape from the presence of misery which he 
 was unable to alleviate. 
 
 He called upon Clayton as he returned, 
 whom he found at breakfast with his dame. 
 He was cordially invited to partake with them, 
 and he willingly took his seat at their board.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 97 
 
 " What is to become of us all, Master Pe- 
 verell?" quoth good- wife Clayton, breaking 
 silence. '' I would that thee and my husband 
 here, had been in your beds, as beshrew you, 
 ye ought to have been, or ere you were the first 
 to see and report what you have.'* 
 
 *' Aye, dame," replied Peverell, " and if I 
 had had a bedfellow as well as a bed, like my 
 friend, who knows but we should both of us 
 have made better speed from Dunstable i 
 Your bachelors bed is only for sleeping m, and 
 I never care to seek my pillow till it be past 
 midnight. \\Tien it is high summer, indeed, I 
 seldom shut my eyes before the cock opens his." 
 
 " You are bookish, friend,"' observed Clay- 
 ton, " and read o' nights, when other men 
 dream." 
 
 " I bless my stars," exclaimed his wife, 
 " that I can neither read nor write." 
 
 " The more's the pity, Kate," added 
 Clayton, " for then, peradventure, thy tongue 
 would sometimes rest, which now serves thee 
 for pen and book." 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 " But how do I use my hands, you 
 tooth Jack ?" quoth Madam, and bent her 
 brows wrathfully, " I can brew,—" 
 
 " Marry can you," interrupted Peverell, slily, 
 " and good ale, too ; that's as fit for a church- 
 ing, as a cudgel for a curst quean." 
 
 " Yes," continued the offended dame, de- 
 termined to go through the whole catalogue of 
 her good qualities as a housewife, '' and I can 
 bake, make butter and cheese, spin and card, 
 sow, and have besides some skill in my needle, 
 as our napery can shew ; and which of these 
 be not better than reading or writing, I would 
 fain learn ?"^ 
 
 '' Aye, which indeed," responded Peverell ; 
 " and so I warrant ye, says your good man, 
 as often as he drinks your ale, or eats your 
 cheese, or wipes his face with a napkin. Do 
 you not. Master Clayton ?''' 
 
 Clayton, whom long experience had taught 
 how to lay a storm, when he had unwittingly 
 raised one, as he had done in this instance, 
 chucked his wife under the chin, and said.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 99 
 
 *^ Get thee a mate, Master Peverell, when thou 
 wilt, and thou shalt still wish she were like 
 my Kate. Kiss me, wench ; by my troth, I 
 meant not to flirt or fromp thee." 
 
 It happened with dame Clayton as with 
 some others of her sex : she could better brook 
 to be told of what she did badly, than to be 
 taunted with what she could not do at all. It 
 was, in truth, no great matter of reproach to 
 her that she could neither write nor read, for 
 many a proud and mincing she, who trod in 
 courts and castles, and had fair knights of chi- 
 valry to wear their favors, were no better 
 taught. But whether it was that the wind 
 blew from a wrong quarter, or that there had 
 been some previous demonstrations of conjugal 
 civil war, which the arrival of Peverell 
 had suspended, so it was, that when her hus- 
 band held out the flag of peace, and ap- 
 proached to ratify the treaty, she scornfully re- 
 pulsed him, saying, '' You shall know, I'll have 
 my lips at as much liberty as my tongue ; the 
 one to say what I list and the other to touch 
 F 2
 
 100 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 whom I like;" and moreover she muttered 
 something about the " churFs breath smelling 
 so strong, that she cared as much for kissing 
 him as for looking on him." 
 
 This little matrimonial interlude had driven 
 clean out of the good-wife''s head that which 
 had been uppermost in it for the last two days ; 
 and it was not till Peverell, turning to Clay- 
 ton, told him he had been that morning to 
 visit Kit Barnes, that she remembered she 
 ought to be frightened. 
 
 " I do not think the poor fellow will live," 
 said Peverell. 
 
 " I thought he was dead last night," replied 
 Clayton, '' and just when I thought so, he gave 
 a kick with one of his legs, as lustily as a 
 Hercules." 
 
 " Yes," rejoined Peverell, laughing heartily 
 at his recollection of the scene which followed, 
 " I hardly know who quaked most — you, his 
 worship, or Crab." 
 
 " I was sore afraid, I do confess," said 
 Clayton ; " not because I found him alive, but
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 101 
 
 because I expected to find him dead : it was the 
 suddenness of the thing that scared me. Give 
 me time to collect my courage, and I have as 
 much of it as any man.'' 
 
 " Well, then,'"* quoth Peverell, gravely, 
 '' you will have all the time you can require, 
 between this and eleven o'clock to night.'' 
 
 *' For what .^" inquired Clayton. 
 
 " To collect your courage and go with me 
 to the Abbey." 
 
 '' To the Abbey !'** ejaculated Clayton. 
 
 " To the Abbey !" echoed his wife. 
 
 " Aye," said Peverell, calmly, '' to the 
 Abbey, and into the Abbey, and there to watch 
 till dawn, if need be." 
 
 " Husband !" exclaimed Dame Clayton, pa- 
 thetically, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, 
 •' do you wish to make a widow of me .f^" 
 
 Clayton had never felt more inclined in all 
 his life to be a tender and affectionate husband, 
 and avoid any thing which might give his dear 
 spouse pain, than he did at that moment. Yet 
 he was no coward, in the general meaning of 
 that term. Give him day-light, a good cause,
 
 102 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 and a tough cudgel, and he would be found at 
 the end of a fray, where he had first planted 
 his foot at the beginning. But he was no Fitz- 
 Maurice, to dust a magician's jacket : and all 
 the maidens' eyes in England might have been 
 used for fuel, ere he would have brought his 
 nose within sight of the goblin who had a fancy 
 for such a fire. Still, he could not stomach the 
 idea of acknowledging so much of his fears, as 
 would have kept him out of danger ; and still 
 less could he bring himself to say to Peverell, 
 you may go, but I will not. He knew his 
 friend to be a man of resolute mind, but not of 
 foolish daring : and the inclination of his heart 
 was, to confess, that what Peverell himself 
 would engage in, was what no man could de- 
 cline, and swear by his courage afterwards. 
 
 " Do you mean to go .P" said he, addressing 
 Peverell. 
 
 " Most certainly." 
 
 " And alone P""" rejoined Clayton. 
 
 " Not as I hope,'' replied Peverell. " You 
 will accompany me ; and it shall go hard but
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 103 
 
 we, setting thus the example, will find others 
 ashamed to say us nay." 
 
 " Yes," interposed his wife, sobbing aloud, 
 " and you will all come out dead, like that 
 poor lout, Kit Barnes. What have you to do 
 with the deviPs pranks, when he chooses to 
 play them ? The bishops ought to be sent for 
 to drive him out of the Abbey, and bring some 
 holy water with them. He can't abide the 
 sight of holy water, and they could get enough, 
 I warrant, to wash the whole Abbey, so that he 
 could not find a spot whereon to put his hoof, 
 without scalding it worse than if it were dipped 
 in boiling lead. I wonder the mayor does not 
 know that, and send to the Archbishop of Can- 
 terbury." 
 
 Peverell could not refrain from smiling at 
 this notable scheme of the good woman, for 
 dislodging Satan from his quarters, although 
 his mind was occupied, at the time, with 
 thoughts of a much more solemn kind. Clay- 
 ton, meanwhile, contented himself with comfort- 
 ing his spouse, by assuring her that in whatever 
 he did he would take especial care not to put
 
 104 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 his life in jeopardy ; and by reminding her that 
 there was a huge difference between going, as 
 Kit did, in company with that little old devil, 
 who was sure to be an overmatch for him, and 
 going as he should, with Peverell, and two or 
 three hundred more ; for he was determined to 
 stipulate beforehand for a sufficiently numerous 
 company. 
 
 " It is agreed then," said Peverell, " that 
 we go together." 
 
 " Yes," replied Clayton, after a pause. " But 
 how many," he added, " do you think the Abbey 
 will hold, because we may as well have it full .?" 
 
 When his wife found that neither her tears 
 nor her expostulations were likely to succeed 
 against PeverelFs influence over her husband, 
 she withdrew, with somewhat more of the man- 
 ner of a woman vexed, because her will pre- 
 vailed not, than of a wife sorrowful at the 
 thought of becoming a widow. 
 
 " Now we are in private," said Peverell, 
 " I'll impart to thee matter that shall weigh 
 greatly, peradventure, in fixing your resolution.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 105 
 
 We are not alone in this business I can tell 
 thee ; and we shall not be alone." 
 
 Peverell then related to Clayton all that had 
 passed between himself and Fitz-Maurice ; and 
 at the conclusion, observed, " Keep this in thine 
 own breast, for the knowledge of it may work 
 clean contrary to that which is our purpose. 
 That Fitz-Maurice will be there, I dare avouch 
 upon my oath, let who may come likewise ; 
 but it is not equally certain that others will 
 offer their presence so readily, an" it be known 
 another stranger is to appear ; for they will 
 have the notion in their heads forthwith, that 
 he is a second goblin with the iron hand." 
 
 Clayton accepted the secret, and pledged 
 himself to silence. But his thoughts still ran 
 upon a goodly company of adventurers in this 
 business, and he again asked Peverell, " if he 
 expected a great crowd .''" 
 
 " Tut, man !'^ replied Peverell, '' the fewer 
 the better. If there be real danger, a few will 
 still be too many to have peril thrust upon 
 them ; and if there be none — as, by my soul, 
 I think there is not — why then, half a dozen 
 F 3
 
 106 
 
 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 resolved hearts will not infect the imagination 
 with idle terrors, out of which the phantom 
 danger is so often shaped." 
 
 Clayton was any thing but convinced by this 
 species of argument. He felt, for his own part, 
 that he would rather be frightened by any body, 
 and laugh at the jest afterwards, than have 
 nobody with him, when he was frightened, and 
 nothing to laugh it. The more the merrier, 
 was his maxim, whether it was to junket or to 
 funk it, and could he have had his will, there 
 should not have been an able-bodied man in St. 
 Albans on the outside of the Abbey that night 
 after the clock struck eleven. However, he 
 could not urge the matter any further ; but in 
 the way of a slight consolation to himself, he 
 put his wishes into the shape of an opinion, and 
 declared, " that he should not wonder, when 
 the time came, if every body went." 
 
 " We shall see how that may be," replied 
 Peverell, carelessly ; " but now, methinks, the 
 first thing to be done, is to repair to his worship, 
 and have some consultation with him. Will 
 you along with me ?"
 
 OF ST. ALBANS 107 
 
 " Aye, surely," said Clayton, and forth they 
 sallied. 
 
 The mayor had but just risen when they 
 arrived at his house. The combined effects of 
 much fright, much spiced sack and canary, and 
 an inordinately late hour in going to bed, had 
 made him court his pillow greatly beyond his 
 usual time. 
 
 " Clayton and myself," said Peverell, after 
 some customary salutations had been exchanged, 
 " have agreed to watch in the Abbey this night ; 
 and as we were the first who saw and bruited 
 about these marvellous appearances, perchance 
 we may be the last whom they will trouble." 
 
 " Oh, Lord ! — oh. Lord !" groaned forth a 
 voice in the room, in a tone of unaffected sur- 
 prise and dismay. It was Crab, who was 
 standing behind his master^s chair, and who 
 was utterly unable to repress this audible ex- 
 pression of his feelings, at hearing what he 
 considered such a tremendous purpose avowed. 
 
 " Hold thy peace, thou brawling varlet," 
 said his worship. Then, turning to Peverell 
 and Clayton, he added, '' Thou dost w^ell, I
 
 108 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 think ; and whatsoever I can do to render thee 
 service in the undertaking, thou mayst freely 
 command."" 
 
 '' We do not reckon upon going alone," said 
 Clayton ; " and I am of opinion, if your 
 worship were to make proclamation to that 
 effect, every man in the town would accom- 
 pany us." 
 
 At these words, Crab recollected something 
 he had to do in the kitchen, and stole inconti- 
 nently away, lest he should be invited to make 
 one of the party. His worship also looked 
 grave from some kind of similar misgiving, 
 and began to mutter something about " wishing 
 he were a younger man ; but that at his time 
 o' life, night- watchings were sore trials, and 
 how shaken he felt that morning from being out 
 of his bed full four hours beyond his custom of 
 retiring to it." 
 
 " Master Clayton," said Peverell, (resuming 
 the matter where he had left it, without ad- 
 verting to the mayor's prudent self- disqualifying 
 remarks), " is for making a town's affair of 
 this business. Now I am not ; and for two
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 109 
 
 reasons — the first, and most sufficient one, be- 
 cause I am certain, from what I have observed, 
 there are not twenty men in it whom the love 
 of lucre even would tempt to the enterprise : 
 the second, because I want cool heads, stout 
 hearts, and discreet tongues ; and neither are 
 there twenty of those, I take it, in the town. 
 If some half dozen or so of such as I have 
 described, could be brought together, I am 
 free to confess I would rather have fellowship 
 than not in the thing." 
 
 " Some half dozen !"* replied Clayton ; " vou 
 shall as soon prevail upon some sixty as upon 
 six ; and why not give every man the fair 
 choice of shewing his zeal, if he list .^'' 
 
 " With all my heart,'' said Peverell. " I 
 would give every man his fair choice, but no 
 man his command. He who offers freelv, is he 
 whom I would specially pick out from the 
 many. But how shall we arrive at the know- 
 ledge of such .-" 
 
 " I have it !'" quoth the mayor ; " I have 
 it ! — I have it I"' patting his forehead in appro- 
 bation of the wisdom that was within, and
 
 110 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 erecting himself, in his chair, into an attitude 
 of abundant self-complacency. " I will cause 
 proclamation to be made in the market-place, 
 at three several hours, of thy design, and 
 invite all those who have a stomach thereto, to 
 send me their names before sun-down. This 
 shall try the mettle o' the people, and moreover, 
 obtain for thee the co-mates thou desirest, or 
 pardie, leave thee to thine own devices, un- 
 clogged by recreant spirits." 
 
 " I like thy proposal well," said Peverell, 
 after a pause ; "let it be just so : but tempt 
 with no lures ; let there be no flourish of words 
 or of matter — no cunning phrases of courtesy 
 — no gentle terms of sugared entreaty ; but 
 a blunt, naked, and brief proclaiming of the 
 thing that is ; and let the stream run which 
 way it will." 
 
 The matter being thus settled, Peverell and 
 Clayton soon after took their leave of the 
 mayor. 
 
 As they were proceeding along, Clayton, 
 whose thoughts were still harping upon the 
 number of persons who might join them, and
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. Ill 
 
 who would have used as many sugared words 
 as the language could supply to augment that 
 number, with a purse of money into every man's 
 pocket to boot, if he had had a purse of 
 his own long enough to do it, addressed 
 Peverell : — 
 
 " Thou hast no wit, friend,'' said he, " to 
 mn men's hearts against their judgment. A 
 cunningly devised speech i' the town-hall, from 
 thyself or from his worship, would have 
 mustered a regiment ; but for a cold ' you may 
 if you like' — who will thrust his head into 
 the fire, at such a frosty invitation .^" 
 
 Peverell laughed aloud ; and taking Clayton 
 by the arm, replied, " I Avill tell thee one thing, 
 friend, — I never knew a heart, won by stealing 
 away the judgment first, which was worth the 
 winning, be the thing it was wanted for great 
 or little. A resolve founded upon a mere gust 
 of passion, as it is suddenly puffed up, so it is 
 as suddenly puffed down ; but born of the 
 mind, it lives or dies with that which doth 
 beget it. Women and children are coaxed into 
 daring : but your man, who has nature's
 
 112 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 stamp to engage in perilous deeds, only wants 
 the opportunity, and never waits to be in- 
 vited." 
 
 Clayton was once more foiled, by the plain, 
 hard truths of Peverell, who having no covert 
 object to reach, went the straight road to that 
 which he really sought ; while the other, having 
 two meanings for every word he spoke, would 
 fain have travelled two roads at once, like a 
 river divided in its course by a rocky islet. 
 He resolved, however, to give up the point, as 
 far as Peverell was concerned : but he silently 
 determined, at the same time, to consume the 
 whole day in trying what he could do him- 
 self towards multiplying the visitors to the 
 Abbey. 
 
 The mayor, meanwhile, directed that the 
 proclamation should be made in the way he had 
 suggested, and it was done accordingly. The 
 people assembled each time — listened — shook 
 their heads, and went away. At the concluding 
 words of the notice — " Whoso shall be moved 
 to take part herein, let him now declare himself, 
 or before six of the clock, notify his willingness
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 113 
 
 unto the most worshipful the mayor of St. 
 Albans,'' not a voice replied " I am one r 
 
 When Peverell heard of this, he only smiled, 
 and obser\'ed, " Why should they pay to act, 
 when they can see the show for nought ? If a 
 man -sWlfully strap a heavy burden on his own 
 back, must his neighbour perforce do the same P"" 
 But Clayton took it not so evenly. " It is a 
 foul shame," he exclaimed, *' that there can be 
 found only two noble spirits in all this ancient 
 and famous town, when the time calls for a 
 hundred. It were a good deed, in my mind, 
 to let the cowardly knaves be buffeted by 
 Satan, an' they ^vill not look after their own 
 bodies. MHby should Peverell and I peril our 
 lives and limbs for such frightened sheep ? 
 Sheep do I call them ! I wish they may not be 
 cunning foxes, who craftily keep their holes, 
 while the devil is out a hunting with his long- 
 tailed pack." 
 
 Matters turned out, however, much better than 
 Peverell expected, and of course not so bad as 
 Clayton was prepared for. Before the day had 
 fairly closed, his worship had a list consisting of
 
 114 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 ten names : that number of individuals having 
 volunteered their services. It appeared, too, 
 that each of the ten had acted from separate 
 motives, holding no previous communication 
 either with Peverell or Clayton, and equally 
 ignorant of the intentions of the rest. Peverell 
 was abundantly satisfied : but Clayton thought 
 it very likely there would be ten more by eleven 
 o''clock. 
 
 The names of these ten, (for they had no 
 addition to their number) were as follow : 
 Benjamin Lacy_, Wilfred Over bury, Hunger- 
 ford Hoskyns, Richard Vehan, Philip Wal- 
 wyn, Walter Wilkins, Owen Reece, Nicholas 
 Mortimer, John Wintour, and Roger de Clare.
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 115 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The house of the mayor was the place ap- 
 pointed for the assembling of these persons, and 
 about nine o'clock, Roger de Clare arrived. 
 Peverell and Clayton were already there, and 
 had been examining the list of their fellow 
 adventurers. The name of De Clare caught 
 PeverelFs eye. 
 
 " What !" he exclaimed, " the moody, 
 humorous, and splenetic Roger, one of us ? 
 What peevish fit hath driven him into our com- 
 pany "^ He shall be welcome, however : for his 
 keen and bitter railing against the world and all 
 that is in it, the court, the city, the cottage and
 
 116 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 the camp, will make us sport, albeit he hath 
 no mirth in himself. De Clare is one," con- 
 tinued Peverell, " who looks disdainfully upon 
 the world, with a pair of lean cheeks, like a 
 winter grasshopper, after harvest. He will 
 digest his own venom till he is sick, and then 
 vomit it forth, to fall where it may. He is 
 never ill but when he hears of another man'*s 
 advancement ; and never so well as when a 
 famine crams the gorge of a hungry church- 
 yard. His blood is so mixed with gall, that it 
 is as yellow as the leaf in autumn. His discon- 
 tented spirit is ever on the wing in qviest of food, 
 and ever finds, or makes it : for be it peace or 
 war, dearth or plenty, he extracts from it the 
 subtle essence of misanthropy : nay, for lack of 
 nobler matter, he will e'en rail at the last 
 fashion, or quarrel with a costermonger about 
 the market price of salt butter. He is, in fact, 
 the very abstract of Pandora's box ; but hope 
 lies at the top, instead of the bottom with him : 
 the hope that all which remains behind will 
 come out in his time." 
 
 Peverell had scarcelv ceased, when De Clare
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 117 
 
 entered. His appearance was an exact personi- 
 fication of all that Peverell had said. His lank 
 figure, his sallow cheek, his moody brow, and 
 the cold malice of his curling lip, proclaimed 
 the cynic, whose tongue never wagged but to 
 frame words of churlish invective. The mayor, 
 Peverell, and Clayton, received him cordially, 
 
 " I am come," quoth he, " to know how 
 many fools this town can furnish besides our- 
 selves. If there be only four," he continued, 
 glancing round the room, " let her majesty ''s 
 council look to it ; we shall be no tax-payers, 
 nor breed sons for the wars, either by sea or 
 land ; no, nor be governed like the rest of her 
 liege subjects." 
 
 Clayton could have found in liis heart to sav 
 amen, to this sally of De Clare, for as the hour 
 grew nearer, his conviction grew stronger, that 
 it was, indeed, a foolish matter ; or, at the least, 
 an exceeding folly, in him to play the part he 
 did. However, he held his peace. 
 
 " That company which has De Clare in its 
 circle, must needs be a goodly one," said 
 Peverell, with an ironical smile.
 
 118 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 " No more,'' retorted De Clare, " than a 
 diamond, dropped among pebbles, imparts to 
 them its brilliancy or value. They are its foils 
 only. An honest thought in a knave's mind, 
 purges not hence all that is foul and vile ; it 
 flees rather itself from such base companion- 
 ship." 
 
 '' Then, by this trope," replied Peverell, '* I 
 conclude we are to lose thee "" 
 
 " Not so, either," said De Clare. " When a 
 man once sets out upon a journey, he will not 
 turn back because he finds the roads dirty, or 
 cannot choose his fellow-travellers. He must 
 keep his own house who is determined always 
 to have a picked friend for his fireside. I came 
 here to laugh by the hour, at a fooPs wonder, 
 and shall not return to laugh only at myself." 
 
 " Well," observed his worship, " there be 
 others to laugh with you, or for you to laugh 
 at, as it may chance. Here are nine, besides 
 yourself, consenting to be partakers in this 
 enterprise." 
 
 De Clare ran his eyes hastily over the list. 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! Nicholas Mortimer ! Oh, the
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 119 
 
 gods ! that this thing of tissue and velvet — 
 this silken worshipper of the world's bravery, — 
 this mincing outside of a man, in his trim bus- 
 kins and corked slippers — this leaden sword, in 
 a rich scabbard — this cinnamon tree, whose 
 bark is more worth than his body — should 
 thrust his spruce mustachios, and welL oiled 
 beard, any where but into a lady's face I Do 
 you know this gallant ?"' he continued, address- 
 ing himself to Peverell. " He hath read the 
 book of good manners ; and hath purchased legs, ' 
 hair, and beauty, more than nature gave him. 
 He is your perfect salamander — lives in the 
 flames of love, and sighs sweetly, for his breath 
 is perfumed. He is judicial only in tailors and 
 barbers ; he studies positions before a mirror, 
 and what simper best displavs two rows of 
 ivory teeth. He has travelled too ; — will choke 
 rather than confess beer good drink, and his 
 pick- tooth is a main part of himself. ^\Tiv. he 
 will call for his best furred go^vn, ere he lets 
 the night air breathe upon him in the dog-days 
 — and he to come abroad at this time o' the 
 year, to brave the nipping winds, and shiver
 
 120 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 between four stone walls at midnight ! Oh, 
 he hath made a rash vow to his mistress, whose 
 forlorn hope is to make forms'* meat of him, by 
 a catarrh or a quinsey ! This quacksalver," 
 continued De Clare, " will sort well with some 
 whom I see here. Aye! Vehan, and Philip 
 Walwyn : place them side by side with Morti- 
 mer, and what have ye? A palpable trinity, 
 but no unity — mind, soul, and body— poor 
 Monsieur Mountebank being the rotten case 
 
 only." 
 
 Peverell, who relished the caustic touches of 
 De Clare, and his bitter humour in dissecting 
 the characters of his friends, lured him on, by 
 the sly display of a disposition to defend them, 
 to pourtray those of Vehan and Walwyn. 
 
 " They are due north and south,"' said he ; 
 " in fixed and everlasting opposition. Vehan 
 lives in an atmosphere of sighs of his own 
 breathing ; and his imagination is so infected 
 with the spirit of melancholy, that he turned 
 away his fool for laughing at one of his own 
 jests, with such contagious and overflowing 
 merriment, that Vehan himself felt the shadow
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 121 
 
 of a smile growing upon his lips. He accounts 
 the grave-digger your only good companion, be- 
 cause he talks of his trade, and that appertains 
 to coffins and dry bones, shrouds and chamel 
 houses ; while he himself is a living memento 
 mori. If you would seek him when he is from 
 home, you must go to the next shady grove, in 
 whose bosom a rivulet dwells, which he ever 
 augments with his tears. He is all contempla- 
 tion, no action ; and as he only thinks of busi- 
 ness, but never does any, winding up his 
 thoughts, which unwind of themselves, like 
 the motion of a dial, 'tis an even chance he is 
 in his bed at this moment, dreaming of what 
 was his intention an hour ago. But herein is 
 my slender hope of him, that if he come at all, 
 it will be because the owl is abroad, whose com- 
 pany he doth solemnly affect, when the moon 
 bends her pale bow in the heavens, as it does 
 now. 
 
 " Philip Walwyn and he are kinsmen ; but 
 through whatever channels their blood may 
 have mingled, their minds stand off from each 
 other, like men committed to a mortal combat, 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 
 
 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 which they would both fain avoid. Walwyn 
 is no day-dreamer, as Vehan is. He has the 
 tongue of common rumour in his favour, for 
 one who has wedded his experience to his rea- 
 son, and whose actions are the comely offspring 
 of this marriage. He seeth the end before he 
 shoots ; circuits his intentions, and calls not the 
 varieties of the world chances. Men are his 
 instruments, not he theirs ; and he uses them 
 with so skilful a knowledge of their several 
 qualities, that, like the alchymist, he trans- 
 mutes them to that precious metal wherewith 
 his bags are reputed to be well stored. He is 
 no gamester of the world, but makes the world 
 his game, which he plays with so much pru- 
 dence that he rarely loses the stake he throws 
 for. He is a sun to ordinary men, whose clear 
 course directs their steps in a regular motion. 
 Why he is here," continued De Clare, pointing 
 to the paper he held in his hand, " is past my 
 wit to fathom ; but as I know his understanding 
 is ever the pioneer of his feet, so am I assured 
 he comes not in vagrant chace of the bauble 
 curiosity."
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 123 
 
 " If you are puzzled to explain the motive 
 of Walwyn's presence," said Peverell, " I am 
 no less perplexed with that of mine host of The 
 Rose, honest Jack Wintour, who neither eats 
 nor drinks but at other men^s charges and ap- 
 pointments. That merry laughing eye of his 
 shall lose its roguish twinkle, methinks, an' he 
 have to do with any other spirits to-night than 
 those which he keeps under lock and key in his 
 own cellar." 
 
 " Wherefore doth a vintner hang out a sign/' 
 replied De Clare, " but to catch the eye : and 
 wherefore, I pray you, doth this round-bellied 
 thing of double beer and fellowship, climb into 
 our fold, but that he may live to tell the adven- 
 ture o'er many a stoup of good liquor, and live 
 the better too by the telling of it." 
 
 '' I protest,"" exclaimed Clayton, " there is 
 that flap-dragon of a fellow, Owen Rees, who 
 swears by his ancestry, like a man of pedigree, 
 and never sees a goat, or smells toasted cheese, 
 but he ^^'ishes the queen were no virgin, that so 
 we might have a chance for a Prince of Wales. 
 He is the most choleric braggart, in his absence 
 G 2
 
 124 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 be it spoken, (which I would not tell him to his 
 teeth, out of regard for mine own) that ever left 
 the barren mountains of his native Wales, to 
 browse in the fat plains of merry England. His 
 blood courses through his body like so many 
 trains of quick gunpowder, to the which his 
 eyes and ears serve as matches ; it is a look, a 
 word, and an explosion !" 
 
 " And yet," quoth Peverell, " firebrand as he 
 is, honest Owen is the oyster which contains the 
 pearl, for a man may be picked out of him. 
 Boldness he accounts a sovereign virtue ; and 
 prides himself upon his own stock of it. I grant 
 he speaks pedigrees naturally, and will allow 
 none to be well descended that call him not 
 cousin. Owen Glendower he prefers to Rhys- 
 ap-Griffin, and vouches Welsh a pure and un- 
 conquered language. He stands in no small 
 estimation with himself — ^" 
 
 " Yes," interrupted De Glare, " and upon St. 
 David's Day he is without comparison. An' 
 this were that day, I would as soon beard a 
 famished tiger in his lair, as this son of Gad- 
 wallader."
 
 OF ST. ALBANS, 125 
 
 " Here be two names," said the mayor, " of 
 whom, marvellous it is to say, I know nothing. 
 I have lived, man and boy, in St. Albans, any 
 time these fifty years, and half a score nearly 
 to boot, and thought there was no one in the 
 to\vn who could say ' good morrow,' or doff 
 his cap to me, and I look strangely at him ; 
 but -it is not so ; for I protest, by my office, 
 that if the high sheriff called upon me to pro- 
 duce the bodies of Benjamin Lacy, and 
 Wilfrid Overbury, I should have to write 
 ignoramus.'''' 
 
 '' Wilfrid Overbury," said De Clare, 
 musing. *' I seem to remember me of such a 
 name ; — aye, he lives hard by mine own 
 dwelling, i' the house that was Sir Hubert 
 de Falconbridge'^s, where the foul tragedy of 
 the old man''s murder was so lamentably per- 
 petrated in the last reign, and which has 
 nearly gone to decay since, simply because 
 our wise geese have put it under the ban of 
 blood. They tell of grisly phantoms, and 
 dismal noises over their winter''s fire ; and the 
 benighted hind as he trudges homeward.
 
 126 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 looks askance at the lonely walls, and peoples 
 them horribly with his own fantastical fears. It 
 is a brave mansion still; and there lives 
 Wilfrid Overbury, who came thither with the 
 swallow, but departs not with it." 
 
 " What is he .?" inquired Clayton. 
 
 '' I can rather tell thee what he is not, 
 than what he is,'' replied De Clare. " He was, 
 as I have learned, a pirate — a water pirate, for 
 we have such sharks on land, and is a sort 
 of man-devil, for being ashore hath not sof- 
 tened the ruggedness of his heart engendered 
 by his calling. He lives in his house, as it 
 were that narrow prison, his ship; and though 
 he has left off filching as a vocation, there is 
 one thing he would fain steal yet, if his 
 troubled conscience would let him — a sound 
 sleep. His appearance proclaims the thing he 
 has been — a perpetual plague to noble traffic, 
 the hurricane of the deep, the earthquake of 
 the exchange, and the book by which mer- 
 chants reckon up their losses. Although his 
 grave hath been always yawning before him, 
 he cannot tell you what the inside of a church
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 127 
 
 is made of. He is so rough-hewn — such a 
 piece of caulked and tackled humanity, that 
 he seems fitted only to dispute with tempests. 
 Neither a rock, nor a quicksand having 
 plucked him while he was ripe, he hopes now 
 to escape restitution, and be buried at last in 
 a churchyard with your honest Christian. As 
 to Benjamin Lacy,'* continued De Clare, turn- 
 ing to the mayor, " I know him not, and 
 must therefore leave you in the sheriff's hands, 
 to deal with your worshipful ignorance as he 
 listeth.'' 
 
 At this moment they were joined by Wal- 
 wyn and Vehan, who were followed the next 
 instant by Owen Rees. Vehan looked as if a 
 statue of melancholy had stepped off its pedes- 
 tal. Without uttering a word, he coldly 
 saluted those who were present ; then, throw- 
 ing himself into a chair, which stood in a 
 distant comer of the room, he gently crossed 
 his legs, folded his arms, and dropping his 
 head upon his bosom, heaved a deep drawn 
 sigh, and sunk into silent meditation. 
 
 Walwyn entered with an air of free and
 
 128 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 open courtesy, shook each man by the hand, 
 wore a frank smile upon his countenance, and 
 in a cheerful tone of fluent cordiality ran 
 volubly through the customary greetings. It 
 would not be easy to imagine a more powerful 
 contrast than between him and his kinsman. 
 They were, indeed, as De Clare had charac- 
 terized them, ' due north and south, in fixed 
 and everlasting opposition.' Vehan seemed 
 to withdraw from man, as if he could have no 
 communion with him, while Walwyn grew to 
 him at once, as if it were essential to his very 
 being, that there should be instant fellowship 
 between them. 
 
 As to the fiery little Welchman, he came in 
 as though he had been discharged from a 
 musquet, and required five minutes or so to 
 put himself in order. He was all splutter and 
 bustle : shook hands with two at once, nodded 
 to two others at the same time : looked as ter- 
 rible as his own pistol at full cock, and as 
 fierce as a commander in the wars. 
 
 When this combustible descendant of Rhys- 
 ap-Griffin had sufficiently evaporated to allow
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 129 
 
 of his Standing still, the discourse among those 
 now assembled naturally turned towards the 
 cause of their assembling. 
 
 *' Well, gentlemen," said Walw}'n, " and so 
 we are the seven wise men, who are to enter 
 the lists with the foul fiend of the Abbey ?" 
 
 " I crave your pardon," interrupted the 
 mayor ; '' but you are to reckon without your 
 host, and so keep to the adage ; nevertheless, 
 you will have a trim reckoning, I can assure 
 you, for there are six more without myself. 
 I lament sorely that my years and growing 
 infirmities are such a bar to my inclinations." 
 
 " Why was not I my elder brother ?" 
 silently ejaculated Clayton ; ''he is comfort- 
 ably rolled up in flannel, with a new fit of 
 his old sciatica." 
 
 " Oh, thou reverend impostor !" exclaimed 
 De Clare, with a contortion of the mouth, 
 which was intended for a smile of jocularity. 
 '« Why, thou knowest in thy heart, that ere 
 thou sleepest to-night, thou wilt bless Heaven 
 for thine age and thy aches, which have thus 
 befriended thee." 
 
 o 3
 
 130 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 '* Who are our remaining comrades ?" in- 
 quired Owen, addressing himself to the mayor, 
 who was about to rebuke De Clare, with much 
 gravity, for the license of his speech. " Are 
 they known men ?"" 
 
 " Not all, I believe," quoth the mayor ; 
 " for we were e'en now taxing our memories, 
 when you entered, touching one Benjamin Lacy, 
 whose name is here." 
 
 " Benjamin Lacy," said Walwyn, " I know 
 him well, and know him for as gallant a soldier 
 as ever drew his sword in battle. Nor is his 
 valour his only merit ; for he had rather save 
 one of his own men, than kill ten of his ene- 
 mies. He hath achieved glory, I can tell you, 
 in the wars, and yet he never thought his 
 body yielded a more spreading shadow after a 
 victory than before it. He is no thrasonical brag- 
 gadocio, and when he looks upon his enemy's 
 dead body, it is with a kind of noble heaviness, 
 a brave man's sorrow, not with insulting exul- 
 tation. I have heard from those who have 
 served with him, and under him, that as he is 
 ever the first in giving the charge, so is he the
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 
 
 131 
 
 last in retiring his foot. In the field, he is the 
 bright example from which they all take fire, as 
 one torch lighteth many ; modest in the hour of 
 triumph, he hath learned not only how to win 
 a victory, but how to use it. He is the 
 man of all others whom it had been well to 
 choose for our head in this business; for he 
 will not be for sounding a retreat till he has 
 fairly made the enemy capitulate."' 
 
 *' Bless his bravery !"" exclaimed the Welch- 
 man ; " I honour him in my heart already as 
 much as if the blood of my great ancestor 
 Owen Glendower, trickled in his veins."' 
 
 " Aye, or the milk of your great grand- 
 mother had trickled from the lips of his great 
 grandfather !" exclaimed De Clare. " One 
 would be just as good a claim as the other, to 
 your love. Men do not inherit the virtues of 
 their ancestors with their wealth and titles ; 
 and 'tis well they do not, or we should be over- 
 run with hereditary honour, till low-born great- 
 ness would die for sorrow, to see its twin elder 
 brother jostle it aside by the prerogative of a 
 name."
 
 1B2 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 " Owen Glendower," retorted his fiery halt- 
 namesake, with scarlet cheeks and angry eyes, 
 " Owen Glen dower was — " 
 
 " A very valiant Welchman," interrupted 
 De Clare, calmly ; " a very valiant Welch- 
 man, I say ; but what of that ? Your moun- 
 tains breed every year men as valiant.'' 
 
 "Yes, truly,'' replied Owen, wonderfully 
 cooled down by the adroit answer and quiet 
 manner of De Clare. 
 
 " Then why," continued De Clare, " commit 
 such an outrage upon our common mother. 
 Dame Nature, who distributes her gifts among 
 her children with so liberal a hand ? Respect 
 no man for the honour of his blood, but 
 simply for his own honour ; 'tis the birthright 
 of many a knave to write himself noble ; but 
 it is the glorious privilege of ourselves only 
 to become so." 
 
 " What !" exclaimed the other, " is it worth 
 nothing to be born of ancestors who were 
 illustrious in their lives, and glorious in their 
 deaths ?"" 
 
 *« Yes," answered De Clare, " it is worth
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 133 
 
 every shilling of the rents that still stick to the 
 honour, and no more. Ancestry ! — foh ! — ^s-ill 
 it keep thee ? %nll it give thee meat and drink ? 
 \vill it put a good furred govm upon thy back, 
 to repel the winter's cold ? An' you could coin 
 your noble blood into nobles, indeed, a ple- 
 thora of nobility would be a disease to covet. 
 Say you kill your neighbour in an unjust quar- 
 rel ; will your pedigree save you from the gal- 
 lows ? Plot treasons against the crown ; will 
 it keep your head upon your shoulders ? Con- 
 tract more debts than you can pay ; will pedi- 
 gree wipe them out, and give you quittance of 
 them ? Or, smirch your reputation %nth any 
 blot that may not beseem an honest man, and 
 will it compel the world to wear a smiling face 
 towards you, if you camiot gild your vices as 
 well as act them ? Nay, will youi' poor de- 
 scendant of a rich house, whose coat proclaims 
 that he is in no credit with his tailor, whate'er 
 his herald's coat may vouch, command the 
 common respect of the vulgar even f No, for 
 their cry is ever,
 
 134 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 " ' Be it better, or be it worse, 
 Please you the man that bears the purse.' " 
 
 *' These are bold heresies," said Walwyn, 
 " and might cost thee a quarrel, promulgated 
 on the other side of the Severn ; but Master 
 Owen is no knight-errant, to tilt with every man 
 who disputes the derivation of birth to be in 
 itself an infallible note of worthiness." 
 
 " No, I thank Heaven," replied Owen, " I 
 am not contentious ; mark you, but I have great 
 pity for a gentleman who casts slights upon 
 his ancestors ; 'tis teaching a bad lesson to pos- 
 terity, mark you." 
 
 De Clare was satisfied. He perceived he had 
 galled the Welchman, where he was most ten- 
 der ; for the tone and manner of Owen, were 
 those of a man who had settled it with himself 
 he would not be moved, but lacked the art to 
 conceal he was. 
 
 It was now ten o'clock, and Clayton ex- 
 pressed his wonder that the rest were not come. 
 While he was speaking, the door opened, and 
 Nicholas Mortimer, and Wilfrid Overbury en- 
 tered. Mortimer appeared as if he had just
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 135 
 
 quitted his looking-glass ; Overbury, as if he 
 had never seen one in his life. The former, 
 smirked and ambled round the room, kissing 
 his fingers to one, and smiling to another, while 
 he twirled his crisp mustachios, or played with 
 a love-lock, so as to shew his seal ring to 
 the best advantage. He was attired in a night- 
 gown-cloak that trailed to his feet, and yet 
 hardly covered his monstrous hose, which were 
 stuffed out to the extreme amplitude of the 
 fashion. His shoes, though within the statute, 
 were of such a fantastical length, that their 
 *' beaks or pykes*' menaced every man's heels 
 he approached. 
 
 Overbiu-y spoke to no one, and was spoken to 
 by none. They knew not him, nor he them ; 
 but he had come by public invitation, to take 
 part in a business which was deemed to have 
 some peril in it, and he looked upon whoever 
 might be his companions, as he would have 
 done upon his own crew of desperados. His ap- 
 pearance was hardly human. His features were 
 almost wholly concealed by an enormous black, 
 bushy beard, which spread over his cheeks up
 
 136 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 to his eyes nearly, and which seemed tb Ibse 
 itself in a shaggy head of hair of the same 
 Colour and texture, whose matted locks stood 
 out like the bristles of a chafed boar. His 
 mouth was hideously disfigured, by the loSs of 
 one half of the upper lip, which had been 
 slashed away in battle ; his nose also had sus- 
 tained much damage, for nothing was left of it 
 but two flattened nostrils; and his forehead 
 was seamed with ridgy scars, the evidence of 
 many a fearful wound, which had healed with- 
 out the surgeon's aid. He scowled round 
 the room, as if to read, at a glance, the 
 quality of his associates ; while there was an 
 expression of reckless ferocity in his eye, 
 which bespoke a mind capable of cutting all 
 their throats, if occasion required, and going 
 to supper afterwards, with unwashed hands. 
 He was of middle stature, with brawny limbs, 
 square shoulders, and the resolute step of one 
 who had been wont to tread amidst dangers, 
 without picking his way too nicely. His air 
 and manner, were as rugged and uncouth as 
 his appearance.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 137 
 
 The unwelcome presence of Overbury sus- 
 pended, for a few moments, all conversation, 
 every one seeming anxious to avoid any remark 
 which might draw him into discourse. They 
 would have been right glad to be rid of him 
 altogether : but the peculiar circumstances un- 
 der which he appeared among them, conferred 
 upon him a sort of right to be there, which 
 they could not well question. At length Mor- 
 timer, to whom Peverell had shewn the list of 
 names, broke silence. 
 
 '' I declare, by my faith and honor,'" said he, 
 " here is my mooncalf friend Walter Wilkins, 
 venturing the little wits he has in this parti- 
 cular affair. Beshrew my tongue ! I might 
 have done him better justice, and called him 
 golden-calf, as well as moon-calf; for it lies 
 not within me to declare," he continued, turn- 
 ing round to Walwyn, who was at his elbow, 
 '' wherein he doth exceed — the fulness of his 
 purse, or the emptiness of his head. Pardon 
 me ; I swear, by my manhood, I mean not to 
 be critical or severe — for Walter is my par- 
 ticular friend ; as you may conclude, when I
 
 138 
 
 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 tell you I have been prevailed upon by him 
 to accept his money, though I could never 
 prevail upon him to accept usance or conside- 
 ration, for the loan of it ; and it is not every 
 man whom I would so distinguish ; no, by 
 mine honor, is it not ! But what shall he do 
 here ? He cannot bring his flatterers with 
 him, and if he have not always good store of 
 vailers — your ducking, cringing, sycophants, 
 who swarm round a rich fool, like flies round 
 a honey-pot — ^he is nought : they are his hus- 
 bandmen who oil and water him, and his purse 
 sweats for it. He loves to be commended, and 
 I protest, by my veracity, he will go into the 
 kitchen, but he will have it ; for he had rather 
 keep company with the dregs of men, than 
 not be the best man of his company. But he 
 is my friend, and I love him. You know him, 
 De Clare .? ' 
 
 *' Oh, yes,'* he replied, '' and love him al- 
 most as well as thou dost, but not entirely ; for 
 / never saw the inside of his purse, as thou 
 hast, and therefore stand not so near in my 
 affection to him." 
 
 *' Ha ! ha 1 ha ! thou wert always a good-
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 139 
 
 humoured wag, by my valour/' exclaimed 
 Mortimer. '' You say right pleasant things, 
 and with such a frosty tongue, that thy matter 
 and thy manner are like a wintry day in blithe- 
 some spring, or a merry jest in a church-yard : 
 by mine honesty it is so." 
 
 " Who speaks of church-yards in a voice so 
 jocund ?" sighed forth Vehan, from his comer, 
 where, till now, he had sat mute and motionless. 
 '" I court their pensive gloom," he continued, 
 in accents dismally suited to his theme, " and 
 stray among new made graves to refresh my 
 wearied spirits with melancholy, while I listen 
 to the mandrake's groan." 
 
 " Ah ! ha !" said Mortimer, briskly advanc- 
 ing towards Vehan ; *' art thou there. Mon- 
 sieur Glow-worm, shining i' the dark like the 
 good deeds of an humble Christian ? I greet 
 thee with all my heart : for all my heart is thine, 
 and therefore thy poor servant ever ! The 
 moon is in the heavens and looks pale, that her 
 Endymion wooes not her soft influence; her silver 
 light is upon tree and fountain, and strays 
 through the silent grove to seek thee. The
 
 140 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 hooting owl wings her heavy flight to find her 
 lost companion, and Echo, the unseen nymph, 
 dies for grief in her airy cell, because no sigh 
 of thine hath made it vocal. For shame ! hie 
 thee to thy midnight haunts, or, by my gal- 
 lantry, I'll play the moody lover myself, and 
 steal away thy lady fair.*" 
 
 This gossamer raillery of Mortimer fell too 
 lightly upon Vehan to make him feel it, but he 
 was moved to a playful retort. " I fear thee 
 not," said he, gently raising his eyes to Morti- 
 mer, " as a rival ; for if the moon be indeed my 
 mistress, she is too chaste for thee ; and if the 
 viewless Echo answer to my plaint, her babbling 
 tongue would but repeat thy shames as often as 
 she heard thy voice.*" Then rising from his 
 seat, and slowly advancing towards the rest, 
 " Shall we go .?" he added, addressing them. 
 
 '* We wait the coming of some three or four, 
 I believe,'' said Walwyn. 
 
 *' Yes," replied Peverell, " there is mine 
 host of The Rose, Master Benjamin Lacy, Mor- 
 timer's moon-calf, Walter Wilkins, and Hun- 
 gerford Hoskyns, yet to arrive. I marvel they
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 141 
 
 are so late, an' they mean to be men of their 
 words.'' 
 
 " I would we were away," exclaimed Vehan, 
 " if for no other reason than that so we might 
 miss the presence of this Hungerford Hos- 
 kyns." 
 
 " You know him then.?" said De Clare. 
 
 " As the child knows physic," replied Vehan, 
 " by its distasteful qualities." 
 
 " I think I have met him when in London," 
 observed WalAvyn, " at Effingham Howard's." 
 
 " Most likely," answered Vehan. 
 
 '•^ He is the eldest son of his father," added 
 Walw^-n, " and speaks no language as it were 
 but what Smells of dogs and hawks, or is made 
 up of grave saws, which seldom fit in the appli- 
 cation." 
 
 " The same," said Vehan ; " and he wears 
 a sword to swear by, which he does as often as 
 he hopes to escape by that device the necessity 
 of drawing it." 
 
 '* I have heard," said De Clare, " that he 
 sends challenges by word of mouth, protesting, 
 as a gentleman, he can neither read nor write ;
 
 142 THE IIVE NIGHTS 
 
 and his first prayer in the morning is, that he 
 may forget whom he quarrelled with over 
 night." 
 
 " He is an unbacked colt, a hot, mad-brained 
 brawler," added Yehan, " whom my humour 
 likes not." 
 
 " And he likes not thy humour, I conclude.?" 
 said Walwyn. 
 
 " He loves no humour but his own," replied 
 Vehan, " which is to talk much, though the 
 errand his tongue goes upon, it never com- 
 passeth." 
 
 " Yet he loves his friend so well," added De 
 Clare, " that when he gets into one, he uses 
 him as the miser doth his doublet and hose — ^he 
 wears him threadbare, ere he will forsake 
 him." 
 
 '' What means hath he .?*" inquired Walwyn. 
 
 " None that I know of," answered Yehan, 
 " but the means of borrowing ; and that he 
 calls his estate at will, and the tenure by which 
 he holds it. He cheats young gulls fresh come 
 to town, whom he styles stray waifs, which be-
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 143 
 
 long to him as lord of the manor of Knave's- 
 court." 
 
 Vehan had made a prodigious effort in bear- 
 ing so large a share in this conversation. To 
 have said as much in one speech, would have 
 been beyond his power ; it was only by the aid 
 of short sentences and intervals of rest, when 
 others took up the discourse, that he was en- 
 abled to pour forth so many words. He seemed 
 exhausted, however, and sunk into his accus- 
 tomed silence. 
 
 They were now joined by the remaining four, 
 who arrived nearly together, for the hour was 
 fast wearing towards the extreme point of 
 delay. Mine host of The Rose, John Win- 
 tour, seemed surprised to find himself in such 
 good company, and carried himself towards 
 them as if they were his customers in the best 
 room. The appearance of Lacy accorded well 
 with his character and former calling ; a fine 
 old soldier, with blood enough in his veins, yet, 
 to make him the first in mounting a breach, or 
 the last to retire from a mine to which the 
 torch had been applied. "Walter Wilkins, with
 
 144 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 his fair, round face, and flaxen beard, his pale 
 blue, liquid eye, and half-closed mouth, looked 
 like one who might easily be cozened, by a 
 smooth phrase, out of his hundreds. He gazed 
 round the room, not so much to note whoni he 
 saw, as to see by whom he was noted. Hun- 
 gerford Hoskyns, as if he had overheard all 
 the courteous things that had been said of him, 
 and was for doffing aside the scandal of men's 
 tongues by outfacing them, ran up to Vehan, 
 shook him lustily by the hand, nodded fami- 
 liarly to J)e Clare, and, with a hearty thwack 
 on the shoulders of Walwyn, exclaimed, '' Here 
 I am, as true as steel ; Brag, you know, was a 
 good dog, but Holdfast was a better !" Then, 
 humming the words of an old ballad, 
 
 " Let the welkin roar, 
 We'll ne'er give o'er," 
 
 he inquired of the mayor, "at what hour 
 old Flibbertigibbet received company at the 
 Abbey ?'' 
 
 " There are enough of us to keep each other's 
 courage warm," observed Wilkins, " whatever 
 may chance.*^*
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 145 
 
 " Enough !'' exclaimed Hungerford Hos^ 
 kyns ; " yes, I warrant ye : for my own part, 
 I boast not — my tongue never goes before my 
 deeds ; but this I say, though I rejoice to see 
 you all, yet if I had come here singly, as, by 
 Heaven, I knew not but I might— singly would 
 I have gone to this same Abbey, and put 
 Signior Beelzebub to flight. He should have 
 found me no— what is the name of that patch, 
 who left his handful of ^vits behind him last 
 night ?"' 
 
 " You mean Kit Barnes," replied Peverell. 
 *' He is well remembered — who has heard of 
 him, since the evening ?"' 
 
 '* That have I,'" quoth the mayor. '' I de- 
 spatched my man, Crab, not an hour ago, to 
 bring me tidings. There has been no change ; 
 he lies like one of whom you can only say 
 he lives because he breathes. It is passing 
 strange !'^ 
 
 '* Bah !'' ejaculated Hoskyns, " what is there 
 to be amazed at .'' He was but a fool, and scared 
 by his o\^Ti imagination first, he scared others 
 afterwards by the effect it had upon himself. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 I dare be sworn we shall all live to tell the 
 wonderful nothings that will happen. I am 
 eager for the sport, and long to unkennel this 
 mystery." 
 
 " It is time," said Peverell, gravely, address- 
 ing himself to the whole company, " that we 
 departed. The chimes have gone the three- 
 quarters, and it were well, I think, that we 
 should be at the Abbey-gates before the eleventh 
 hour strikes." 
 
 Every one stood prepared to move, when the 
 mayor, placing the keys of the Abbey in Peve- 
 relFs hand, observed, that "he had done his best 
 to provide for their convenience and comfort. 
 He had ordered — but found some difficulty he 
 acknowledged, in having his orders executed — 
 that lights should be placed in the Abbey ; nor 
 had he forgotten, what some, if not all, might 
 be pleased to find, wherewith to cheer their 
 bodies ; for good wine," he observed, " gave 
 a needful fillip, now and then, to the stoutest 
 heart."
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 147 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 They left the mayor's house, and proceeded 
 to the Abbey. As, on the preceding night, there 
 were many assembled. It was not generally 
 known who were to go, except Peverell and 
 Clayton; but it was vaguely surmised there 
 would be others, and curiosity was on tiptoe, 
 independently of any other excitement, to know 
 how the proclamation in the market-place had 
 fared. A profound silence prevailed, inter- 
 rupted only by a buzz of astonishment, when 
 they saw the number. One among the crowd 
 counted them by fours, as they came forth, 
 " Four — four — four — and Peverell is the last." 
 H 2
 
 148 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 He Started : the words of Kit Barnes, and the 
 mysterious voice that had breathed into his own 
 ears the night before, flashed across his mind. 
 A taper, which Crab held tremblingly in his 
 hand, fell upon the countenance of the indivi- 
 dual ; — it was a man, meanly attired, whom 
 Peverell knew not ; — he passed on, and dis- 
 missed from his mind the thoughts that were 
 crowding there. 
 
 They reached the Abbey just as the bell 
 tolled eleven. 
 
 " You have the keys,"*' said Walwyn, ad- 
 dressing Peverell. 
 
 "Yes — but; — " he paused, and looked 
 anxiously around him. 
 
 " Unlock the doors, and let us enter,"" added 
 Lacy. 
 
 Peverell fumbled with the keys, as if trying 
 to, open the massy portals. 
 
 "Can you not see .?"' observed De Clare, 
 " the moon shines brightly enough." 
 
 " It does," answered Peverell, " but—" 
 
 ."But what .'^" exclaimed Wilfrid Overbury, 
 in a voice like thunder, " If thou art afraid.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 149 
 
 give them to me — a legion of devils should not 
 drive me back." 
 
 ■ " I and fear," replied Peverell, calmlv, 
 *'are as little acquainted as thou and — "' He 
 checked himself : it was no time for a war of 
 wdrds. " I — expect — another," he added 
 slowly, " one who should be here on a busi- 
 ness like this." 
 
 *' Whom?" interrogated Lacy. 
 
 " I know not — ^but it was a compact between 
 us ; I have fulfilled my part, and — he comes !'" 
 
 At this moment the clattering of horses' feet 
 was heard. The next; Fitz-Maurice, followed 
 by his page, was seen galloping towards the 
 Abbey. The earth rung beneath the tread of 
 their coursers. The figure of Fitz-Maurice, 
 beheld through the misty atmosphere, faintly 
 illumined by the moon's rays, was magnified 
 beyond its natural dimensions ; his cloak floated 
 on the wind ; his sable ostrich plume, seemed to 
 wave in mid air ; and as he drew nearer, the 
 breath which exhaled from the nostrils of his 
 charger, curled round his wildly flo^ring mane, 
 like wreaths of fiery smoke. At one bound,
 
 150 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 he appeared to clear a space of many yards, 
 and halting in the midst of them, he sprang 
 from his saddle, before the dwarf was at hand 
 to take the bridle. Overbury offered to hold 
 the noble animal, but he plunged and reared, 
 as if disdainful of constraint, when the page 
 came up, and led him, prancing, from the place. 
 
 " I have ridden some threescore miles, since 
 the sun went down, to accomplish this," said 
 Fitz-Maurice, taking Peverell by the hand ; 
 " but my word was plighted to you, as thine to 
 me, and time and distance were as nought." 
 
 " I had no misgivings," replied Peverell. 
 Then, turning round to those who were about 
 him, lost in amazement at what they had seen, 
 " You shall know more hereafter," he added : 
 " suffice it, for the present, you have my assur- 
 ance that this gentle stranger is worthy to take 
 part in what we are about." 
 
 Fitz-Maurice bowed gracefully to them ; — 
 and his salutation was courteously returned. 
 
 Peverell now threw open the Abbey-doors ; 
 and for a moment there was an amusing display 
 of mutual respect. An invincible feeling of po-
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 151 
 
 liteness seemed to keep every one from taking 
 precedency ; but, at last, old Benjamin Lacy 
 marched in, as if he were about to advance up 
 to an enemy's battery, at the head of his regi- 
 ment. The rest followed ; and now the direct 
 contrary feeling appeared to animate them, for, 
 instead of standing upon the ceremony of pre- 
 cedency, the only anxiety seemed to be to get 
 in, as if each man were unwilling to be the last. 
 
 Fitz-^Iaurice stood aside to let them all pass; 
 he then entered himself, and was followed by 
 Peverell, who locked the doors, and deposited 
 the keys in a corner near them. 
 
 At the further extremity of the north aisle, a 
 table was spread, upon which were burning six 
 large waxen tapers. The light they gave, dimly 
 illuminated only that portion of the interior, 
 leaving, in gloomy shadows, all the rest. Slowly 
 and silently pacing along the cold stone floor, 
 they traversed the body of the Abbey, its lofty 
 vaulted roof, and massive walls, giving back 
 their steps in faint but solemn echoes. Under 
 any circumstances, such a place, and at such an 
 hour, must have inspired sentiments of holy
 
 152 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 awe ; but expecting, as they did, to witness, 
 they knew not at what moment, some fearful vi- 
 sion — some horrible visitation from the world of 
 shadows — those sentiments were raised to an in- 
 tense and almost overpowering character. 
 
 By degrees, however, they rallied from this 
 oppressive feeling ; and a slight incident called 
 forth demonstrations of mirth even. As yet, not 
 a word had been spoken, when Overbury, who 
 was striding along by the side of Clayton, sud- 
 denly sneezed. Anywhere, the explosion would 
 have startled a by-stander ; but within the 
 sounding walls of the Abbey, it was little less 
 than the report of a pistol. " Christ protect 
 me !" cried Clayton, starting back, " w^hat is 
 that .?" Mortimer was close behind him, the 
 beak of whose extravagantly fashionable shoe 
 striking against Clayton''s heel, he caught hold 
 of De Clare, and exclaimed, " did you feel 
 that r 
 
 " What ?" said De Clare. 
 
 " I crave your pardon !" interrupted Morti- 
 mer, apologizing to Clayton for what he consi- 
 dered his own untowardness.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 153 
 
 " Oh !" replied Clayton, forcing a bewildered 
 smile, *' was it you ?*' 
 
 A hearty laugh followed, at poor Clayton's 
 expense, and especially at the circumstance of 
 his fancying, for the moment, that De Clare 
 could feel the kick he had received himself. 
 
 " This is a merry beginning,*" quoth mine 
 host. 
 
 " May we have as merry an ending !'' eja- 
 culated Walter Wilkins. 
 
 " Mirth beseems not with this place," said 
 Vehan, " neither with the hour, nor the busi- 
 ness we are upon." 
 
 " What should we do but be merrv,'' ex- 
 claimed Hoskyns, " seeing his worship hath so 
 bountifully provided us with the provocatives 
 thereto ? A\niat have we here .''"' he continued, 
 taking up a bottle, and filling a cup with its 
 contents. " I drink to you all, in a potation 
 of choice canary. Excellent, i' faith !"' quaffing 
 it off, and smacking his lips — " and here is the 
 neat wine of Orleance— here amber-coloured 
 Candy — divine ipocras-chameco," looking at 
 one bottle after the other. " Marry, some 
 H 3
 
 154 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 beloved brown bastard too, with divers other 
 quick spirited liquors; and for thee, mine host," 
 he added, " a flagon of good double beer, 
 such as thine own tapster never drew, old red 
 lattice. And here be meats too, for strong ap- 
 petites ; comfits for dainty palates ; marchpane, 
 rare anchovies, a dish of carraways, pears, 
 biscuits, and hard cheese. Pray God my girdle 
 break not, an' I regale me here to the extent 
 of my temptation." 
 
 This skimble-skamble soliloquy of Hun- 
 gerford Hoskyns, had the effect of diffusing a 
 certain degree of gaiety among the majority. 
 Peverell, indeed, was grave, for manifold 
 reasons ; Vehan for one, his humour ; Clayton 
 from fears which he could not subdue ; and 
 De Clare, from an atrabilious temperament. 
 But the rest, saving Fitz-Maurice, who noted 
 all with a cold and strange aspect, as if he 
 were there to observe how events shaped them- 
 selves, rather than to be a partaker of them, 
 evinced no equivocal disposition to convert the 
 occasion into a merry meeting. 
 
 '' Here I ensconce myself," exclaimed Hos- 
 kyns gaily, taking his seat at the head of the
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 155 
 
 table, ^' and am ready to receive the foul fiend, 
 whenever he chooses to make his entrance.'' 
 The others followed his example, and took their 
 places. Fitz-Maurice seated himself opposite 
 Hoskyns. 
 
 '^ I am the lord, though not the founder, of 
 the feast," said Hoskjms. " Whew ! but it is 
 cold ! I wish his worship had bethought him 
 of our outsides, as well as our insides, and given 
 us a seacoal fire, and strewed the floor with 
 fresh sedges and rushes. Come ! a cup round : 
 let each man fill of the liquor he likes best, and 
 pledge me. And now, to while away the time, 
 who has a quaint story, or laughter moving 
 jest, to impart "? Walter Wilkins, methinks 
 thou hast a facetious look about thee." 
 
 Walter stroked his beard, and glanced at 
 Hoskyns, as if he would say, " thou hast a 
 shrewd wit to find out men's parts in their 
 visage." 
 
 " I am but indifferent well, at these things," 
 quoth he ; " however, 'tis the willing mind we 
 love — so I'll e'en to it, and ye shall ha'e my 
 best. Hem !
 
 156 THE FIVE :NIGHTS 
 
 *' A certain covetous man, in Bononia, lost 
 his purse with twenty-one ducats in it, which, 
 when he could not recover with diligent search, 
 he raved like a madman, and in the end, was 
 ready to have hanged himself for sorrow. 
 Another honest man having found such a purse, 
 moved with compassion, came and delivered the 
 same to this covetous person, who, never thank- 
 ing the bringer, fell forthwith to telling of the 
 money, and finding but twenty ducats therein^ 
 with great greediness he exacted the odd ducat ; 
 which, because the finder denied, he is brought 
 before the magistrate, a man of very great 
 wealth, but of very little wit ; — ^but such magis- 
 trates are many times elected, where the matter 
 lieth in the mouths of the multitude. The one 
 party sweareth there were twenty-one ducats in 
 the purse which he lost; the other party 
 sweareth that there were but twenty ducats in 
 the purse which he found. The magistrate, 
 though a fool, giveth no foolish sentence ; for 
 he pronounced, that the purse which was found, 
 was not that purse which was lost, and, there-
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. lo'J 
 
 fore, condemned the covetous person to restore 
 the twenty ducats to the other party.*' 
 
 " A most worthy magistrate,'' said De Clare, 
 when the other had finished ; " and yet he had 
 very great wealth, but very little wit, do you 
 mark ?" he continued, addressing himself to 
 Mortimer. " There be more men of that quality, 
 to your thinking, or I mistake !*' significantly 
 alluding to the character which Mortimer had 
 given of his friend Wilkins, when he called him, 
 " a golden calf," as well as a " moon calf." 
 
 Mortimer did not relish the jest, and i^*ishing 
 to escape from the gibing malice of De Clare, 
 he exclaimed, " An excellent tale ! by my faith; 
 it reminds me of one which did happen while I 
 was upon my travels in France, and which, 
 with the good leave of those present, I will 
 relate. 
 
 . "At Paris, one morning, a hungry poor 
 man, begging his alms from door to door, did 
 at the last espy ver>' goo4 cheer at a cook's 
 house ; whereat, by and by, his teeth began to 
 water, and the spur of his empty and eager 
 stomach pricking him forwards, he made as
 
 158 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 much haste towards the place as his feeble feet 
 would give him leave : where he was no sooner 
 come, but the pleasant smell, partly of the meat, 
 pa-rtly of the sauce, did catch such sure hold of 
 the poor man*s nose, that, as if he had been 
 fast holden by a pair of pincers, he had no 
 power to pass from thence, until he had, to stay 
 the fury of his raging appetite, eaten a piece of 
 bread which he had of charity gotten in another 
 place, in the eating whereof, his sense was so 
 delighted with the fresh smell of the cook's 
 cates, that albeit he did not lay his lips to any 
 morsel thereof, yet, in the end, his stomach was 
 so well satisfied with the smell only thereof, that 
 he plainly acknowledged himself thereby to 
 have gotten as good a breakfast, as if he had 
 indeed there eaten his bellyfuU of the best 
 cheer ; which, when the cook had heard, being 
 an egregious wrangler, and an impudent com- 
 panion, what doth he, but all hastily steps forth 
 to the poor fellow, lays fast hand upon him, 
 and in a hot, choleric mood, bids him pay for 
 his breakfast. The honest, poor man, half- 
 amazed at this strange demand, wist not well
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 159 
 
 what to say ; but the cook was so much the 
 more fierce and earnest, by how much he per- 
 ceived the good man to be abashed at his bold- 
 ness ; and did so cunningly cloak the matter, 
 that in the end, the poor man was content to 
 refer the deciding of the controversy to what- 
 soever person should next pass by that way, 
 and without any more ado, to abide his judg- 
 ment; which thing was no sooner concluded, 
 but by and by, cometh unto the place a very 
 natural fool, and such a notorious idiot as in 
 all Paris his like was not to be found. All the 
 better for me, thought the cook, for more he 
 doubted the sentence of a wise man than of a 
 fool. Well, Sirs, to this foresaid judge they 
 rehearsed the whole fact : the cook cruelly 
 complaining, and the other patiently confessing 
 as before. A great multitude of people were 
 gathered about them, no less desirous to know 
 what would follow, than wondering at that 
 which had gone before. To conclude, this 
 natural, perceiving what money the cook ex- 
 acted, caused the poor man to put so much 
 money betwixt two basins, and to shake it up
 
 160 
 
 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 and down in the cook's hearing, which done, 
 he did arbitrate and award, that as the pfoor 
 nlan was satisfied with only the smell of the 
 cook's meat, so the cook should be recom- 
 pensed with only the noise of the poor man's 
 money. Which judgment was so commended, 
 that whoso heard the same, thought, if Cato or 
 Solomon had been there to decide the contro- 
 versy, they could not have given a more indif- 
 ferent or just sentence." 
 
 " Oh, rare fool !" exclaimed De Clare : "it 
 is thus Heaven rebukes man's pride, and 
 schools his presumption ! The wisdom of a 
 Solomon in the crazed pate of a natural ! — Give 
 me a very idiot for a judge, where I am the 
 sufferer of wrong, but ever a judge who is an 
 idiot, where I am myself the wrong doer. 
 Thus shall even Justice do me right, in the 
 injuries of other, and her crooked sister spare 
 me in mine own." 
 
 " You pray like the mariner," said Walwyn, 
 " that the wind may always blow in the direc- 
 tion of the course he would steer." 
 
 " I pray as all men do in their heart*," re-
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 161 
 
 plied De Clare, '* whatever their tongues speak 
 to the contrary — and that is, that they may be 
 neither sunk in quicksands, nor overtaken by 
 tempests ; or, to renounce parables, that they 
 may escape knaves, and the punishment of 
 knavery." 
 
 "A truce to this sharp contention of thy 
 wit,' said Hoskyns, " and let us not be prodi- 
 gals of the time that is ours. At twelve, we 
 may look for visitors, who will hold us in ano- 
 ther manner of parley quite, or truth is a 
 fable. How say you ! shall we carouse, or 
 sit, till then, like expectant sacrifices to the 
 grim powers of darkness .''"" 
 
 " A booze — a booze P' growled forth ^^'ilfrid 
 Overbury, whose liberal potations had oiled his 
 several parts of speech, and overflowed the 
 bsuriers which had hitherto divided him from 
 the rest. " Your plentiful drink is that which 
 fills the heart ^\'ith the flood-tide of courage : 
 a man's valour doth ever ebb and flow with 
 his stoup of liquor." 
 
 " Thou say est well, friend," quoth mine host, 
 " there is much virtue in good liquor ; ergo —
 
 162 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 he who selleth it, is, in some sort, a public bene- 
 factor. It is a breed-bate, indeed, on occasions, 
 and provoketh to quarrel ; but then, if it 
 getteth a man into a brawl, it getteth him out 
 again. As for example : — I broke Tib the 
 carrier''s head on Monday last ; he comes to me 
 on Tuesday with a napkin round it, ' and,** 
 quoth he, ' John Wintour, you were drunk 
 last night.' ' I know it,' quoth I. ' You 
 broke my head,' quoth he. 'I did,' quoth I. 
 ' I am going to the justice,' quoth he. ' Look 
 here,' quoth I, ' thou art three and four-pence 
 on the score for single beer, besides eight-pence 
 for small ale.' 'I am,' quoth he. ' This is 
 Tuesday,' quoth I, ' and thou shalt have a free 
 score till Saturday, added to it, an' that will 
 heal thy cracked crown ?' ' Content,' quoth 
 he ; * and thou shalt break my head again, 
 come next Monday, so you provide me with 
 the same week's plaister for my green wound.' " 
 " A valiant drunkard is but a counterfeit 
 man, mark you," said Owen Rees, addressing 
 Overbury ; "a madman, in his lunes, mind 
 you."
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 163 
 
 " Brimstone and Lucifer !" exclaimed Over- 
 bury, "call you me lunatic and counterfeit.'^ 
 Do you suspect my courage ?'^ 
 
 *' Brimstone and Lucifer !" repeated Owen, 
 his face reddening ; " you do ill to bring your 
 friends, unbidden, into this good company ; it 
 is not mannerly, I must be bold to tell you." 
 
 " Do you gleek at me, mountain goat .''" 
 bellowed Overbury. 
 
 A dire strife had here ensued, (for the Welch- 
 man had started from his seat, and Overbury 
 sprung up, thrusting his hand beneath his cloak 
 as if to grasp some weapon,) but Peverell inter- 
 posed himself between them. 
 
 " Is this a time for idle feuds .p" said he. 
 '' Your places ! and if a hasty word have fired 
 your bloods, let a cup of wine, filled out in fel- 
 lowship, drown the memory of it. Come —111 
 pledge you in this brisk chameco." 
 
 The appeal was well timed. Overbury and 
 Rees filled their cups, and peace was restored. 
 
 The conduct and appearance of Fitz-Mau- 
 rice were now beginning to excite attention. 
 Save the few words he addressed to Peverell at
 
 164 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 his first coming, his lips had not once unclosed, 
 nor had his countenance betokened that he par- 
 ticipated in anything which had occurred. 
 There was nothing austere or gloomy in his 
 manner, which indicated only profound abstrac- 
 tion. Except that his eyes occasionally wandered 
 round the table, he seemed unconscious that he 
 was not alone. The ludicrous fright of Clay- 
 ton, the boisterous jollity of Hoskyns, the tales 
 of Wilkins and Mortimer, the biting sarcaisms 
 of De Clare, the tapster humour of mine host, 
 emd the sudden quarrel between Overbury and 
 Rees, had all passed like shadows, making no 
 visible present impression, nor leaving any ap- 
 parent trace behind. He had tasted of nothing 
 that was spread before him ; and Hoskyns 
 noting this, thought it a fair occasion for making 
 him cast away his silence. 
 
 "Sir stranger," said he, ''you partake not 
 of our cheer." 
 
 Fitz-Maurice bowed courteously, in recogni- 
 tion, as it were, of the kindness pressed upon 
 him ; but signifying, at the same time, his de- 
 sire to decline it.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 165 
 
 " Will it please you to receive my challenge ?'' 
 continued Hoskyns, pouring out some wine. 
 
 Fitz-Maurice, with the same air of grace and 
 gentleness, expressed his silent refusal. 
 
 All eyes were turned upon him during this 
 brief address from Hoskyns. The gaze of 
 Peverell was keen and searching. His look had 
 a meaning which only Fitz-Maurice could pene- 
 trate, and which he would have penetrated, but 
 that he relapsed forthwith into his moody con- 
 templation. It was no longer, however, the same 
 unperturbed solitude of the mind. The passions 
 were at work within, and their movements were 
 charactered upon his face. The emotions of 
 an anxious spirit overspread his features, and 
 more than once his hand was pressed upon that 
 part of his brow where Peverell knew (though 
 his clustering hair concealed it from the general 
 view) the " crimson trophy of his nctory" was 
 stamped, which '' sometimes burned inwards to 
 his brain.'' His manner became restless and 
 agitated ; and straining his eyes, as if to pierce 
 the gloomy obscure which enveloped the whole 
 extent of the Abbey, beyond the immediate spot
 
 166 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 where the tapers burned, he seemed like one 
 who watched the approach of some dreaded ob- 
 ject. 
 
 In a moment all discourse and revelry ceased. 
 Every eye took its direction from Fitz-Mau- 
 rice's, and every head was turned. 
 
 " What is it .?" whispered Hoskyns. 
 
 " Do you see aught ?" exclaimed Lacy. 
 
 " How goes the hour ?" said Clayton. 
 
 "Is it twelve, yet .?" inquired Wilkin s. 
 
 " Hark I" interrupted Mortimer, " what 
 noise was that .?" 
 
 While they were thus gazing on vacancy, and 
 every bosom (aye, even PeverelPs, Overbury's, 
 Lacy''s, and they who had no touch of unseemly 
 fear in their composition) beat high with mys- 
 terious apprehension, a blush of light, rather 
 than light itself, was gradually diffused over 
 the whole interior of the Abbey. It resembled 
 that delicate vermilion tinge, which, in the 
 height of summer, announces the glorious com- 
 ing of the sun, before the eastern hills blaze in 
 the splendour of his ascent over their proud 
 tops. It appeared as if the place were filled with
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 167 
 
 a fine, transparent atmosphere, steeped in the 
 richest hues of pale red roses. Through this 
 thin veil of charmed air, every part of the Abbey 
 was dimly visible ; and it sent forth a delicious 
 perfume, more grateful to the senses than all 
 the odoriferous drugs and spices of Arabia, 
 which seemed to dissolve them in the languor of 
 luxurious repose. 
 
 This scene of wonder was contemplated in 
 silent astonishment. Not a whisper was heard. 
 Gradually it melted away, grew fainter and 
 fainter, and at last wholly disappeared. 
 
 But it was followed by wonders of another 
 and more appalling kind. For now, a dark 
 blue mist or vapour was seen creeping along 
 the ground, rolling surge on surge, like the tide 
 of the ocean, and ascending higher and higher 
 every moment. It curled up the walls, wreathed 
 itself into shapes of life, or formed objects of 
 nameless horror, striking so cold upon the limbs, 
 and so chilling to the blood, that their knees 
 smote each other, and their teeth chattered. 
 
 At this moment the Abbey beU tolled the first 
 hour of twelve. It sounded like the clangor of
 
 168 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 a hundred enormous bells, each strikhig at the 
 same instant. 
 
 " Gracious God !" exclaimed Peverell ; '' be- 
 hold !" 
 
 Close by the door stood Kit Barnes, and by 
 his side, the old man— the goblin with the iron 
 hand, who with an exulting look pointed to- 
 wards those at the other end. The appearance 
 of Kit was no longer that of one who belonged 
 to this earth. The phantom figure, grisly and 
 cadaverous, seemed a hideous incorporation of 
 the blue mist itself, rather than a form enve- 
 loped in it ; for, as the vapour thickened, his 
 spectral shape darkened into obscurity, and at 
 length faded from the sight. 
 
 Meanwhile, the exhalation grew more and 
 more dense, almost imperceptibly changing its 
 colour from a greyish blue to a deep black, and 
 in its undulations, presenting the image of a 
 huge pall, flapping to and fro, while its motion 
 seemed to generate a current of freezing air, 
 which benumbed the facilities. The tapers, 
 though not extinguished, shed no light ; for the 
 flame of each was congealed, and looked like
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 169 
 
 small stars glimmering through a tempestuous 
 cloud. All power of speech was suspended, and 
 almost of action, from the rigidity of the mus- 
 cles, produced by the intense coldness of the 
 vapour. The eyes and the ears alone, of all the 
 corporeal agents, retained their functions ; and 
 it seemed as if this exception had been made, 
 only that they might become instruments of 
 torture to the mind. 
 
 The bell had ceased tolling, but its deafening 
 alarum still echoed through the Abbey, in 
 crashing peals, whose mingling tones, at times, 
 resembled the howling, screaming, and yelling 
 of every savage animal that ranges the forest 
 or the desert. At others, low, mournful, melan- 
 choly sounds were heard ; soft lamentations, 
 gentle wailings, and stifled groans, as if all 
 the miserable varieties of human suffering were 
 there gathered together. Then voices struck 
 upon the ear — some blaspheming — some utter- 
 ing exclamations of despair — some praying — 
 some beseeching— some, in anguish, crying 
 aloud pardon ! pardon I AYith these were 
 blended, ever and anon, shouts of laughter, 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 THE FIVE XIGHTS 
 
 which seemed to burst, in horrid vollies, from 
 infernal throats. One of these shouts — a loud 
 and lengthened one — was heard to follow a 
 dismal shriek, as from a living creature in more 
 than mortal agony : and then,, for a moment, 
 all was hushed, and still as death. 
 
 They were in utter darkness — darkness so 
 profound, that, though each one touched the 
 other, to have distinguished form or feature, 
 were as impossible as though divided by the 
 space of a thousand miles. But dreadful were 
 the visions that thronged about them. Above, 
 below, around, the world of shadows presented 
 itself. On the sable pall of gelid air that 
 encompassed them, what hideous phantoms 
 grew, as it were, and straight vanished, to 
 make room for others still more hideous ! Hov- 
 ering over them, grim Death appeared, clutch- 
 ing in his bony hand the fatal arrow, that 
 never flies but once to its mark ; — ^'tis held in 
 threatening poise, — while the fell monarch seems 
 to glare from his eyeless sockets, with conscious 
 triumph, at his prey ! 
 
 Death's terrific revels burst on the sight in
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. I7I 
 
 every shape — from new born infancy, that dies 
 in the very portals of life, to calm, expiring 
 age. There writhes the murdered traveller, — 
 his crammed bags rifled of their tempting store I 
 — There gapes the gory throat of the butchered 
 father, whose caitiff* son, impatient to be rich, 
 had held the knife ! — There hangs the felon, 
 strangled by the award of justice : his straining 
 eyes bursting from their spheres, and his livid 
 features swollen ^vith overcharged blood. — There 
 the incest-engendered babe, whose guilty dam, 
 frantic with shame at her unnatural lust, had 
 smothered it in the dark, not daring to look 
 upon her foul burthen ; and there the violated 
 virgin, the imprecations upon her ravisher still 
 warm upon her lips, as they were arrested there 
 by the stroke that pierced her heart ! 
 
 These vanish, and legions of grisly phan- 
 toms take their place ; things without form or 
 name, but horrible — most horrible, to the eye ! 
 Floating on the murky vapour, they pass and 
 repass, till overwrought terror rises to agony. 
 Sometimes they almost seem to fan you with 
 their enormous wings — at others, to shed blis- 
 I 2
 
 172 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 tering venom down : — and then — cataracts of 
 fire, as it were, spout from hissing serpents, which 
 twine and coil around them ! Reptiles of all 
 loathsome kinds — the adder, and the blind 
 worm — the speckled toad, and the huge bloated 
 spider — the fierce scorpion, and the gilded snake, 
 whirl and eddy about, and so close, withal, 
 that the flesh on their bones shrinks from the 
 dreaded contact ! 
 
 In the midst of these appalling shadows, 
 reappeared one, of frightful aspect. Sud- 
 denly — the spectral form of Kit Barnes became 
 visible, — seated at the table, — and clothed 
 in the garb of the grave. His shrouded arm 
 was wound round the body of Walter Wilkins, 
 which seemed gradually to wither away, till at 
 length there sat his ghastly companion alone, 
 in his seat ! He looked sorrowfully upon the 
 rest, and pointed to his left arm, on which was 
 visibly imprinted the mark of a hand — the iron 
 hand of the goblin. Then addressing himself, 
 as it were to speak, the phantom slowly melted 
 into air ! 
 
 And now the wizard scene began to change.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. X^S 
 
 The hurly-burly ceased ; the abhorred and ve- 
 nomous reptiles disappeared — the unhalloued 
 visions of murder, in its most dire and bloody 
 forms, vanished, — and pallid Death himself, no 
 lonorer startled the achincr sight. The loud din 
 of the roaring bell was silenced ; the sharp and 
 freezing mist, like frosty winter melting in the 
 lap of spring, kindled into genial warmth ; while 
 its murky colour, and almost palpable obscurity, 
 softened into a grey filmy vapour, as it now 
 curled downwards from the roof, and rolled 
 itself again in surging waves along the floor ; 
 the tapers once more gave forth their faint and 
 unsteady light ; and the balmy, roseate atmo- 
 sphere, which, at the first, had bathed the senses 
 in delicious languor with its perfumed breath, 
 again diffused its vermilion canopy, till it 
 gradually faded from the sight with a fainter 
 and fainter glow, like the farewell rays of the 
 setting sun, lingering on the bosom of the 
 western sky.
 
 i^4} THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " It is past !*" exclaimed Fitz-Maurice, in a 
 tone of exhausted agony. 
 
 " By the immortal Heavens !" ejaculated 
 Vehan, '^ I do not believe the eye of man hath 
 ever before seen the like." 
 
 " The like !" said Walwyn — " no, nor its 
 most remote similitude : the earth hath no twin 
 wonders of this quality.'^ 
 
 "It is most marvellous, I am free to con- 
 fess," observed De Clare ; " and but that 
 our senses testify the truth, our tongues would 
 shame to avouch that which we have beheld." 
 
 "What may it all mean.?" said Peverell. 
 " We are not here as children, to be scared
 
 OF St. ALBAXS. \'J5 
 
 with sights which baffled reason cannot cope 
 with. How are we to construe these portents r" 
 
 " How ?" interrupted Overbury ; " by an 
 easy enough rule. Hell has played one of its 
 pranks before us ; and that's the end of it.^' 
 
 The rest were silent. Although disenthralled 
 from the spell that had bound them, and their 
 suspended powers of speech and motion res- 
 tored, they merely looked on each other v. ith 
 dumb amazement. Even old Benjamin Lacv, 
 whose cheek had never blenched in the hottest 
 dangers of the field, wore a countenance that 
 would not have disparaged a woman^s spirit ; 
 and as to Clayton, the echo of his own voice, 
 at that moment, would have been a sufficient 
 counter-sign for his passport to the other world. 
 Mine host too, shewed manifest symptoms of 
 having been employed much less to his satis- 
 faction, than in breaking Tib the carrier's head, 
 at the expense even of a week's free score for 
 single beer and small ale. 
 
 •• Whaf s here ?'''' said Peverell, looking on 
 the ground. 
 
 By my faith !" exclaimed Mortimer, '' my 
 
 &' 
 
 ((
 
 176 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 excellent friend Walter Wilkins, frightened 
 out of himself, and into a fit ; — and no great 
 wonder either." 
 
 They lifted him up. He was lifeless ! 
 
 At first, it was thought he had only swooned, 
 from the excess of his fears; and the more 
 likely so, as he was not accounted a man en- 
 dued with much vigour of mind. But every 
 effort to rouse him, either by violent shaking, 
 or by forcing small quantities of wine into his 
 mouth, proved unavailing. 
 
 " He has swallowed his last draught in this 
 world," said Overbury, laying down the cup, 
 and placing the head of the dead man against 
 the back of the chair in which he had been 
 supporting him. " I have never seen a corpse 
 an' he be not one." 
 
 They all gathered mournfully round the 
 body. 
 
 «' It would seem," said Lacy, ''as if some 
 violent convulsion had seized him, from the 
 livid colour of the face, and this appearance of 
 strangulated blood in the throat." 
 
 The features were slightly distorted, appa-
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 177 
 
 rently with overpowering terror ; and round the 
 throat there was a black mark, such as Lacy 
 had described. 
 
 " Poor fool !"" exclaimed De Clare, " thou 
 shouldst have died in thy bed ; but the ambi- 
 tion to be what thou art not, pricked thee on 
 to find an untimely grave here. A church- 
 yard sprite, formed, ere the cock crew, by the 
 deceitful beams of the moon, would have done 
 as much for thee, but that thou always hadst wit 
 enough to keep the high way." 
 
 " He was ever a timorous creature," observed 
 Mortimer. 
 
 " Aye, Sir," replied De Clare, " and fear 
 ever builds her throne of shadows in such 
 natures." 
 
 " It will be a heavy hour for his now child- 
 less mother, when she hears of it !" responded 
 Mortimer. 
 
 " But a merry one for some I ween,^ said 
 De Clare, with a stinging emphasis ; "for 
 bondless debtors, who enrolled themselves his 
 friends, and made themselves — the minions of 
 his purse." 
 
 I 3
 
 178 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 " You have the advantage of me," replied 
 Mortimer, with an air of easy indifference ; " I 
 protest, by my character, your speech ranges 
 farther than I can discern." 
 
 " Like enough — like enough," answered De 
 Clare. " It were a foolish speech for a quiet 
 man to make, which should be so gross in its 
 application, that he must fall to loggerheads 
 afterwards to maintain it." 
 
 Mortimer bit his nether lip ; for he was really 
 galled more than he cared to manifest, by the 
 bitter taunts of De Clare, who felt a supreme 
 contempt for him, and took no pains to conceal 
 it. 
 
 '' When a cur snarls," said Mortimer, af- 
 fecting much cool scorn, " I always the rather 
 take it as a warning to avoid, than as a provo- 
 cation to beat, him ;" and he turned his back. 
 De Clare smiled, as he would have done at a 
 froward baby which had hurt itself in falling, 
 and forthwith began to chide the stone that 
 bruised it. 
 
 This sharp dialogue had passed almost un- 
 noticed by those who were standing ro\md the
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 1/9 
 
 lifeless body of Wilkins, so deeply were their 
 several thoughts engrossed by that afflicting 
 sight. It was strange, but no one adverted to 
 a circumstance which all had seen, and which 
 Peverell alone recalled with a foreboding 
 spirit — the vision of Kit Barnes, seated by the 
 side of him who now lay dead before them — 
 as his form, then, seemed to fade away, in the 
 withering embrace of the spectre. A prophe- 
 tic conviction dwelt upon Peverell's mind, that 
 Kit himself had ceased to be numbered among 
 the inhabitants of this earth ; but he awaited 
 the fact in silence. 
 
 " I have witnessed, ere now, a fatal scene 
 like this,'" said Fitz-Maurice. 
 
 They drew back at the sound of his voice, 
 as issuing from one whom they heard for the 
 first time. Fitz-Maurice perceived the effect 
 of his words, and thus addressed them : 
 
 " You have been perplexed by my manner 
 this night. I have sat with you, an invited 
 guest, as this good gentleman can aver," point- 
 ing to Peverell ; '' but I have nor eaten, nor 
 drunk, at your board ; neither have I held dis-
 
 180 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 course with any among you. You shall learn 
 the reason thereof. It were tedious, however, 
 to repeat all that matter, pertaining to myself, 
 which I this morning disclosed here," again 
 pointing to Peverell ; " he, at his leisure and 
 discretion, can impart what may satisfy your 
 curiosity ; but this receive from me, and it 
 is all, the knowledge whereof the occasion de- 
 mands. 
 
 '' In my youth I knew a famous exorcist ; 
 one, who by his powerful art could subdue the 
 fiends of the lower world, when they infected 
 this. I had his love, as he had the young af- 
 fections of my heart ; for he was gentle and 
 kind withal, though a lone, self-banished man, 
 that lived remote from the haunts of cities. In 
 the deep silence of the midnight hour, when 
 we have sat beside some quiet stream, the pas- 
 sage of whose smooth course could be noted 
 only by the idle weed or crisp leaf that floated 
 on its current ; or, looking from the dizzy 
 height of some jutting rock, have worshipped 
 the living fires of the wide-spread firmament 
 above us, he would oft unfold to me the mys-
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 181 
 
 teries of enchanted lore. I listened, with 
 mute wonder and admiring awe, to the thrill- 
 ing secrets of nature and of occult science which 
 he disclosed. The subtle charms he ^vrought 
 — but ever for benign purposes — by the know- 
 ledge he had obtained of the coy properties of 
 each mineral, flower, herb, root, blood of the 
 untamed libbard — dew brushed from reeking 
 graves in the dim twilight, and countless other 
 elements of cunning power, — were made fami- 
 liar to me ; and but that he was mortal, and 
 so, subject to that death we all owe, I had 
 been instructed in his art far, far beyond my 
 present having. 
 
 " But I lost him not before I had drunk 
 deep of mysteries beyond my then imagination 
 to conceive, in even its wildest dreams. He 
 taught me the rare lesson I have this night 
 practised ; the faculty, by sure and certain pre- 
 paration, of seeing, with the mind, what to 
 our grosser visual organs is invisible. I was 
 rapt, when you thought me silent only. One 
 word — one act of earthly quality, as to eat, or 
 drink, or walk, had plunged me from the
 
 182 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 mystic world into which I had passed, and 
 whence I saw the beginning and the end ! 
 
 " Now mark me," he continued, with in- 
 creased solemnity of manner. " By what ye 
 have witnessed, I call upon you to go on ; by 
 what / have seen, and which to tell, were per- 
 dition, till the hour of fulfilment comes, I bid 
 you be of good cheer. Seek not to know the 
 meaning of my words beyond this : that ye are 
 not the puppets of chance, — that each and 
 every of ye, have moved in this business by 
 no free will of your own, however it may seem 
 to yourselves; — and that what is to be, — is 
 to be done. 
 
 " For this unhappy gentleman whose griev- 
 ous state we all lament, let him remain here 
 till morning, when it will be meet he be re- 
 moved. I must away to-night : my steed 
 waits : and necessity urges.*" 
 
 " What should we do to-morrow ?" said Pe- 
 verell, addressing Fitz-Maurice. 
 
 '' Be silent, and watch the signs that shall 
 shew themselves. Speak not of what ye know, 
 neither among yourselves, nor to others ; but
 
 OF ST. alba:ns. 183 
 
 let each man, with his finger on his lips, fol- 
 low the business that calls him. I tell you 
 enigmas ; wait, and they shall be unriddled.'' 
 
 " Do you return to us ?'' inquired Walwyn, 
 
 " Ere the sun goes down to-morrow," replied 
 Fitz-Maurice, " thy question shall be resolved." 
 
 " Why not now ?"' exclaimed Overbury. 
 
 The countenance of Fitz-Maurice kindled 
 into gloomy wrath, as he cast a fierce glance 
 at Overbury. 
 
 " AV^hy not now .?" said Peverell, repeating 
 the question emphatically. " Let no man trust 
 to-morrow — it is the cheat of life — the future 
 that never comes — the grave of many a buried 
 enterprise of 7iohle birth — Then, why not 
 now r 
 
 Fitz-Maurice smiled. These were his own 
 words — his own earnest persuasions to Peverell, 
 in the morning, when urging him not to delay 
 the purpose he had that night accomplished. 
 He felt the force of the appeal so adroitly 
 made. 
 
 " My friend," said Fitz-Maurice, laying his 
 hand familiarly on PeverelPs shoulder, ^' I read
 
 184 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 you as you would have me ; and hadst thou 
 possessed as good reasons wherewith to put me 
 off, when I so addressed you this morning, as I 
 have, now, to say thee nay, then hadst thou not, 
 in this place, and at this moment, thus skilfully 
 have pointed mine own weapons against myself. 
 But be thou satisfied, at least : thou who hast 
 had such cause to know what confidence I am 
 worthy of ; and let thy example be an argument 
 with those who have not the same authority to 
 vouch for me." 
 
 " I accept the conditions," replied Peverell ; 
 '' as these gentlemen will, I doubt not, my assur- 
 ance, for thy honourable bearing towards them." 
 
 Fitz-Maurice was now moving towards the 
 doors of the Abbey, when a loud knocking was 
 heard without, and the noise of voices in con- 
 tention with some one who demanded entrance, 
 
 " What more .?" said Fitz-Maurice. 
 
 The knocking continued, as did the clamour 
 of tongues. 
 
 " It is likely, some of the to wn''s -people," ob- 
 served Peverell, '' impatient to learn what hath 
 happened since we were here."
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 185 
 
 He took up the keys from the corner where 
 he had deposited them, and opened the door. 
 
 It was Madge who would enter, and whom 
 some twenty or more, men and women, were 
 striving to remove. 
 
 " You are well to do,*" she exclaimed, seeing 
 Peverell, " to keep him here and mock me thus !" 
 
 " Whom seek you, woman ?'''' said De Clare. 
 
 " God help me !"" she replied, " I do fear I 
 am crazed. But he is dead !" 
 
 *' Who is dead ?^^ inquired Fitz-^Iaurice. 
 
 '' I told you how it would be," continued 
 Madge, still addressing herself to Peverell — 
 " did 1 not ? aye, — ^lado^e was rio^ht ; and when 
 I said, the day that saw Marian in her grave, 
 would see him ready for his, the truth was in 
 me — as surely as the rest will follow, and I for 
 mine ! These were my very words — and Heaven 
 has heard my prayer — for my heart is breaking, 
 hour by hour." 
 
 " Do you know this cot-quean, this callet ?''-> 
 said Overbury to Peverell. 
 
 " Revile her not," replied Peverell ; " she is 
 distraught with sore affliction, and it is her grief
 
 1B6 THE FtVE NIGHTS 
 
 not her reason, that speaks. You heard the la- 
 mentable end of the poor idiot girl, but two 
 days since,*" he continued, addressing the rest ; 
 " she was her mother, and you see what it has 
 done for her. Him she talks of, who is dead, 
 was Kit Barnes, who last night came hither 
 alone^ and whom this now bewildered . creature 
 tended on his death-bed." 
 
 " Will you hear the manner of it ?" suddenly 
 interrupted Madge, her attention roused by the 
 name of Kit Barnes, and the mention of hi^ 
 death-bed. " It has been a fearful hour, and 
 something more, I have had with him. The day 
 passed as the night had done, and the evening 
 as the day : and my sweet Marian lies not more 
 calmly, than did this huge rough man of mighty 
 limbs, save ever and anon that the tolling of the bell 
 now above me, shook him with fierce convulsion. 
 But then approached the horrible eleventh hour, 
 and oh ! what rending pangs began to seize him. 
 How he tossed to and fro, and rolled in agony ! 
 His eyes opened, his lips unclosed, — ^but his look 
 was frenzy — ^his voice, the howl of the wild dog. 
 ^ Shew me visions !' he exclaimed. ' False fiend !
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 187 
 
 I am thine only yet another night, and thoube- 
 liest the troth-plight that made me thine." — 
 Then would he strive to pray ; but holy words 
 were strangled in his throat. And now the hour 
 of eleven went. He shrieked dismally--' Tramp ! 
 tramp ! tramp !' quoth he, ' See how they 
 gallop! Four! — and four! — and four! — See 
 how they enter ! Oh, brave fiend ! brave fiend ! 
 I worship thee ! They smile, too ! Deck shrouds 
 with roses, and let the woodbine flaunt o'er 
 graves, an' they can smile ! Hark ! the merry 
 jest, and mirth-moving tale ! This is thy tri- 
 umph, subtle fiend — this thy master mock — to 
 make men laugh beside their coffins, or ere the 
 death- worm breeds in their flesh !' Thus did he 
 rave, while I stood by him, and with my nap- 
 kin soaked up the big round drops of sweat 
 that bathed his brow ; and I spoke to him words 
 of such comfort as my poor wit could frame ; 
 but, alack ! 'twas past with him to hear a mortal 
 voice. Oh, Sirs ! mine was a sad office. All had 
 left me, to come hither — and there I was, 
 alone, with this dying man, while all my 
 thoughts were with mv o"\vn dead child. What
 
 188 THE FIVE :nights 
 
 could I do ? E'en what I did : pray by him, 
 though he heard me not; and minister to his wants, 
 though he knew it not. At the last came the 
 worst, for now 'twas midnight nearly, and sharp 
 were the pangs he suffered. He had lain still 
 and silent, it may be, scant half an hour, when 
 he heard the chimes of the three quarters. He 
 ^rung from his bed, on to the floor, and alas ! 
 the while, how he looked ! The remembrance of 
 it, even now, scares me from myself. He talked, 
 too, as it were, to one by his side, though only 
 I stood there, weeping and praying. He yelled, 
 he stamped, he writhed ; and, grasping his left 
 arm, ' I feel you,' he said : ' thy touch is 
 death ;' and then he shivered, as though each 
 joint were shaken by ague, while blood, for 
 sweat, burst forth on his face and hands. Thus 
 he stood, till the twelfth hour struck, and then 
 exclaiming, ' I come ! I come ! oh, fiend, to do 
 thy appointed work this night !' — he fell, — nor 
 ever moved again. He was a corpse — e'en 
 as I left him, to come hither and tell thee of it.' •> 
 There was a simple yet terrible pathos, a wild 
 energy of manner, and an unpremeditat ed elo-
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 189 
 
 quence, infused into her recital, by jNIadge, 
 which awakened deep sympathy, not to say 
 emotions of a stronger character, in those whom 
 she adcbessed. Peverell, especially, who had 
 witnessed the progress of Kit's strange affection, 
 and who now recalled to mind the illusion, if 
 indeed it were such, of the night before, when 
 he saw the phantom funeral train wind slowly 
 round the Abbey walls, and the shadowy bier, 
 on which lay the seeming body of Kit himself, 
 listened with breathless attention. When she 
 had finished, he asked her, without much 
 thought of the necessity of his question, " What 
 had brought her there ?" 
 
 " I hardly know," replied Madge, mourn- 
 fully ; " but I had the conceit that you, or some 
 of you, had played me an ill trick, in leaving 
 me to count the death-throes of that fiend- 
 tormented man, and to mark how he wrestled 
 with them." 
 
 " Well, well," said De Clare, impatiently, 
 '' to thy bed, now, old crone, and warm thee, 
 for the night is cold, and thou art weary with 
 much watching."
 
 190 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 " I am indeed weary," answered Madge, " but 
 it is of life ;" and she sighed heavily. '' To bed, 
 say you, for the night is cold — aye, and warm 
 me by the colder limbs of my Marian ! — Well, 
 'tis fit I sleep with her this night, for to-morrow 
 they bury her, and the next day — I wish I could 
 weep — or rave, or any thing, to get room for my 
 heart, it beats so thick — ^but I cannot ; my eyes 
 are as sere as this staff I lean upon. — To my 
 bed, say you — in sooth, you are right — you 
 shall not bid me twice, as I did Marian, to 
 keep in her bed, when I left her where I never 
 saw her again, till these hands laid her there — 
 a corpse ! I go, but look ye to it — he lies bleed- 
 ing, — and though I pass his door, I will not lift 
 the latch, if doing so would recal yesterday for 
 him." 
 
 The poor crazed creature then slowly with- 
 drew, still muttering to herself incoherent 
 phrases about her Marian, or the last struggles 
 of Kit Barnes. She was followed by some 
 three or four of her own sex, neighbours, who 
 knew her, and pitied her condition. 
 
 '' It amazes me," said Walwyn, after she
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 191 
 
 was gone, " that a mind, so manifestly shaken 
 as her's is, should have method enough to relate, 
 in the way she did, the circumstances of Kit's 
 death." 
 
 " It is often thus," observed De Clare. " The 
 particular grief that unseats our reason, never 
 after presents itself, but to confirm, and triumph 
 in, its mastery ; while in its absence, the deposed 
 monarch re-assumes his state, and, for the time, 
 rules his vassal thoughts ^vith as well ordered 
 sway, as he was ever wont to do in his pride of 
 power." 
 
 Fitz-Maurice, who had paused for a moment 
 when he first saw Madge, and who afterwards 
 listened to her ^nld tale leaning against his 
 palfrey, with his arm thrown carelessly over its 
 neck, now mounted, and without saying a word, 
 but waving his hand in token of farewell to 
 Peverell and the rest, gallopped off, followed by 
 his dwarf. The people, who were assembled, 
 watched them with wondering eyes, as far as the 
 darkness would permit. 
 
 " ^\Tiere goes he to-night .^" said Vehan, ad- 
 dressing Peverell.
 
 192 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 " I could tell thee, as soon, where the arrow 
 falleth that flieth T the dark ; or one of those 
 stars, whither it goes, when shooting through 
 the air,' replied Peverell. 
 
 " Thou know^st him not, then ?" observed De 
 Clare. 
 
 " There will be another time," answered 
 Peverell, " for telling you to what my know- 
 ledge of him extends : it is meet we now re- 
 solve how to bestow the body of our lost friend. 
 Were it better we do as Fitz- Maurice said, 
 leave him till morning, or have him conveyed 
 hence now ?"" 
 
 " He will take no cold, I warrant, between 
 this and sunrise," observed Overbury. " He'll 
 wait till he is fetched, and come when he is sent 
 for. There he sits, just where I placed him, in 
 his chair ; and looks like the giver of a feast, 
 when the banquet is over, reckoning the cost, 
 with not a guest remaining to make him smile, 
 or forget the amount. — Leave him there : he'll 
 not be frightened because he is alone, thougli 
 his manhood fell flat in the midst of us." 
 
 No one noticed this brutal jeering of Overbury ;
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 193 
 
 not even Owen Rees, whose memory was tena- 
 cious of the affront that had been put upon him 
 by this demi-savage, and who still hoped to pick 
 a quarrel with him which might give fair excuse 
 for revenging it. He had been made to swal- 
 low the " mountain goat" which Overbury threw 
 in his teeth, but it by no means sat easy upon 
 his stomach. 
 
 " I think/' said Walwyn, " we cannot do 
 better than as Fitz-Maurice directed. There 
 would be much difficulty, I apprehend, in re- 
 moving the body to-night ; for the mere fact of 
 his death, how truly soever explained, would 
 terrify those, whose assistance we should need, 
 out of all condition to render it. In the morn- 
 ing, due preparations can be made for its re- 
 moval ; and meanwhile, Mortimer,. as his nearest 
 friend, and an intimate of the family, w^ill make 
 known the disastrous event." 
 
 Mortimer signified his ready assent to do what 
 was required of him, and the rest concurred in 
 the propriety of Walwyn's suggestion. 
 
 '•' But we must not leave him thus," observed 
 Hosk}Tis — the first words he had spoken since 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 he pressed Fitz-Maurice to '' receive his chal- 
 lenge.'^ 
 
 " Assuredly not," replied Lacy. •*' It would 
 look like mockery — a scurvy jeer, unbefitting 
 men, who are men, to leave him in the attitude 
 of life, in cold-hearted derision, as it were, of the 
 life that has perished." 
 
 The tone with which Lacy uttered these 
 words, sufficiently indicated for whom they were 
 meant. Nor was Overbury so dull, to require 
 an interpreter ; but the rebuke fell upon his 
 rugged spirit, as the prayer of a captive would, 
 whose ingots were not attainable till he had cut 
 the throat of the suppliant. 
 
 " Bah !" he exclaimed, in a half growl to 
 himself; " a dead man's flesh fattens crows, but 
 keeps courtesy as lean as a beggar's boon." 
 
 Lacy led the way, and they returned into the 
 Abbey, where having performed the sad office 
 of placing the corpse of Wilkins as decently as 
 they could, upon chairs, covering his face with 
 his mantle, and extinguishing the tapers, they 
 once more left it, Peverell locking the doors 
 and taking charge of the keys.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 195 
 
 It was now nearly two o'clock, yet there were 
 hundreds of the townspeople, waiting to see them 
 come forth, and eager to learn some tidiness of 
 what had taken place. Their eagerness, indeed, 
 was the greater, because, it appeared from 
 their account, that not a sound or sight had 
 manifested itself during the whole time to those 
 who were on the outside. Thev crathercd 
 nothing, however, to take off the edge of their 
 curiosity. Some few among them, who were 
 more importunate than the rest, were silenced at 
 once by De Clare. 
 
 " We are not your deputies, sent bv vou, to 
 do your work : ye are not our masters, to put 
 us to the question. What you would know, 
 seek ; but seek it not here. Carry your valiant 
 selves whither we have been : and if ye return 
 no wiser than ye go, perchance ve may learn 
 of us what you desire, or the town crier shall 
 proclaim it to you, to-morrow, in the market- 
 place." 
 
 They slunk away from this haughty rebuff, 
 like so many school boys, who, intent upon 
 K 2
 
 196 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 robbing an orchard, find the owner of it there, 
 ready to inquire the object of their visit. 
 
 '* I'll not be put off so, come noon," quoth 
 one, " for I espy John Wintour ; and it shall 
 go hard, but the price of a pot of ale will pay 
 for more secrets at The Rose, than yon churl 
 could tell if he would." 
 
 "Is it agreed," said De Clare, as they pro- 
 ceeded along to the mayor's house, " that we 
 obey the injunction of Fitz-Maurice — each man 
 his finger on his lip .^" 
 
 " It were better thus, I think," replied Pe- 
 verell. " I know not how it is with all of you, 
 as respects this man, but for myself, albeit no 
 credvdous fool of preternatural sympathies, yet 
 I do confess he sways my judgment most 
 strangely." 
 
 " And mine, too," said Clayton, who had lost 
 the faculty of speech, since Overbury's sneeze 
 and Mortimer's shoe, upon their first entrance 
 into the Abbey, had made him vocal. Even 
 now his " and mine, too," was rather the breath- 
 ing of a sigh, than the utterance of so many 
 words.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 19? 
 
 " The simple question we have to resolve/' 
 said WalwjTi, '' is this. The untimely fate of 
 Wilkins cannot be concealed, nor can his death 
 be explained, but by the admitting of sufficient 
 xiircumstance. With what colour, and with 
 what extenuation that degree of confession shall 
 be made, comprises all that need form the 
 matter of present debate. Now, my advice would 
 be, let De Clare, who hath a ready wit to play 
 the oracle, and dexterously to put aside, with 
 seeming answers, a too eager questioning, as he 
 hath shewn but now, in his repulse of the 
 people's curiosity, should be our mouth, and 
 speak for us after his own fashion." 
 
 " Good,'" replied Hosk^^ls ; '^ and we, like 
 his priests, will pronounce only as he inspires 
 us." 
 
 The suggestion of Walwyn was approved 
 by all but Overbury, who grumbled something 
 about " making themselves minnows to the 
 whale, and that he, for his part, should speak 
 what he would and of whom he would.'' 
 
 " I accept mine office," said De Clare, " for 
 it is my humour to play with men's desires, and
 
 198 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 make them my fool. They shall get from me 
 enough, and no more, to grow wise in their own 
 conceit ; bat nothing to tell, except by their 
 own invention. And to be free with you, I 
 like this Fitz-Maurice well, an"* it be only that 
 he has a spice of that quality in him which 
 makes his depth beyond every man's line to 
 fathom." 
 
 They now arrived at the house of the mayor, 
 whom they found waiting for their coming. 
 
 " I marvel,"" said De Clare, the moment they 
 were seated, " how, your worship, at your 
 time of life, and with your growing infirmities, 
 can dally with the hours thus, and deny your- 
 self needful rest." 
 
 His worship perceived the drift of this piece 
 of irony, and endeavoured to parry it. 
 
 " Your wonder is just,"*^ he replied, " and I 
 ought to have been asleep three or four hours 
 since ; but mine is a wayward body, — like a testy 
 babe, that will and will not. I overpassed my 
 usual hour of going to bed in receiving you to- 
 night: and so, because the child was disappointed 
 then, it hath since refused to leave its froward
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 199 
 
 word ; my spirit is drowsv" — and he forced a 
 yawn, " but mine eyes watch." 
 
 " It is a drowsy time o' the night," answered 
 De Clare, " and sleep sits heavy on us all ; we 
 will leave, therefore." 
 
 It was not for this that his worship had kept 
 his eyes open, and his curiosity awake. 
 
 " Nay," said he, " now thou art come, im- 
 part — impart — you have something to tell, I 
 dare be sworn, besides how you liked my 
 wines, and approved my dishes." 
 
 " Why, yes," observed De Clare, " we 
 have feasted our eyes and ears, as well as our 
 palates." 
 
 '' As how .^" quoth the mayor. 
 
 " Have you not been near the Abbey since 
 we left .^" inquired De Clare. 
 
 " No, by my faith." 
 
 " Nor once sent your waiting man, to bring 
 you tidings .^" 
 
 " The varlet !" exclaimed his worship; " I 
 had no more controul over him than a hind has 
 over the pig he is driving. INIy authority pre- 
 vailed not with him ; no, nor the promise of the 
 stocks. ' Crab," said I, * go thy ways to the
 
 200 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 Abbey, learn what thou can'st, and return 
 quickly with thy news !' ' Master,' said he, 
 ' have you a heart ?' and down he dropped on 
 his knees — ' Bid me starve — 111 do't— have me 
 whipped — 111 bear't ; hang me by the neck till 
 I'm half dead, 1 11 not cry oh ! nay, whole hang 
 me, an' you will, — ^but as you are a christian 
 man and a mayor, do not say go to the Abbey, 
 which is worse than starving, whipping, and 
 half-hanging, and no better than whole hang- 
 ing.' And I protest," continued his worship, 
 " I could, by no manner of entreaty or com- 
 mand, get him forth." 
 
 " Then, in fine," said De Clare, " you know 
 nothing of what has happened ?" 
 
 " Nothing," answered the mayor. 
 
 '' There be some secrets," rejoined De Clare, 
 " which men never tell ; and some, which they 
 never know. The first are the last." 
 
 " This is a riddle and not an answer," said 
 his worship. 
 
 *' It is an answer and not a riddle/' replied 
 De Clare. 
 
 " You are in a merry vein, I think," observed
 
 OF ST, ALBAXS. 201 
 
 his worship, a little nettled at being thus played 
 with. 
 
 " Not I, by the rood," replied De Clare. " I 
 ani not given to mirth, at any hour of the four 
 and twenty, and should wonder at myself if I 
 could play the antic now.'' 
 
 " How is it, gentlemen," said the mayor, ad- 
 dressing the rest, " that I am doffed thus, — 
 fobbed, and put back with crafty devices ?"" 
 
 " To the point then," exclaimed De Clare, 
 seeing his worship began to wax angry. " You 
 would know our mystery ; but being a mystery, 
 how shall it become a plain tale of unvarnished 
 truth ? — Thus accoutred, it were a mystery no 
 longer. We have seen and heard, what it would 
 defy all the bishops in this fair realm to make 
 us not believe. How, if I tell you the very 
 order of events ? It may mar the future ; for 
 there hangs a future on this night which must 
 tell itself. Think not it is your discretion to 
 use, or your right to know, what I could un- 
 fold, that I question. Here is my proof of con- 
 fidence in both — Walter Wilkins is dead.— He 
 lies yonder in the Abbey, as true a corpse as 
 K 3
 
 202 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 any that its walls contain. That fear, which 
 wisely kept you at home, hath, in its effect, 
 kept him there." 
 
 '' Dead !" exclaimed the mayor, casting his 
 eyes upon those present, as if to verify, or other- 
 wise, what De Clare had said. 
 
 '' Aye, dead," continued De Clare ; " and 
 yet, for aught that really happened to put life 
 in jeopardy, he might have ta'en his seat here 
 as we do now. But so it is : men find their 
 graves where they do not look for them, and 
 look for them, ofttimes, where they are not. The 
 soldier comes back from the field of carnage 
 to tell of his escapes, while the keen sportsman 
 springs from this world into the next, in over- 
 leaping a fence only. Your man of travel 
 tempts the treacherous seas, the devouring 
 quicksand, and tempestuous winds ; braves pe- 
 rils on shore, from the robber prowling in silent 
 ambush, from plague or pestilence, that walks 
 unseen, and from the rude hand of tyrannous 
 power ; but he returns to read a younger bro- 
 ther's epitaph, perchance, who, in the time, hath 
 sickened of the ague, and added one more to 
 an already over-crammed church-yard. And
 
 OF ST. ALBANS, 203 
 
 thus we walk along the slippery edge of life, 
 dropping, we know not when, into the huge 
 gulph of eternity that yawns beneath our feet/' 
 
 It was De Clare's object, in thus moralizing 
 the death of Wilkins, the knowledge of which 
 he could not withiiold to any profitable end, to 
 turn the mayor's thoughts from their previous 
 current. Nor did he fail, for his worship, quite 
 overcome by the suddenness of the disastrous 
 communication, dwelt only ujx)n the event it- 
 self, and its melancholy character, without once 
 again adverting to the cause. De Clare, indeed, 
 gave him no leisure to do so, for rising from his 
 seat, as did the rest, he commended his worship 
 to his pillow, and they departed. 
 
 " And now, gentlemen,'' said Walwyn, ad- 
 dressing them, as they were about to separate 
 for their several homes, " what do we determine 
 upon as respects to-morrow ? Nothing, I sup- 
 pose .^" 
 
 "- Yes, one thing," interrupted Lacy, " and 
 that is, that my house be the place of meeting, 
 if there be occasion, as surely there must be, 
 again to confer upon this matter."
 
 204 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 " Willingly, say I," replied De Clare ; " and 
 as I am your oracle, and you all speak through 
 me, my aye carries with it a common assent. 
 Beyond that, / answer no too, — for we must 
 shape our course as events shape themselves." 
 
 With this understanding they separated, 
 each revolving in his mind, with reflections such 
 as belonged to his individual qualities, the 
 things he had witnessed. 
 
 Peverell and Clayton walked together. 
 
 " What think you now .?" said the latter, 
 after a pause. 
 
 " E'*en what I thought from the beginning," 
 answered Peverell, " that you and I, as we saw 
 the first, must see the last. Mind you — I speak 
 this with no brag — not I, by my soul ; but from 
 a rooted persuasion in my own mind, a growing 
 conviction, an irresistible impression, — or call 
 it by what name you will, — that we were not 
 selected to open this drama, and be dropped in 
 its progress." 
 
 " Think of poor Wilkins," replied Clayton. 
 
 " True," said Peverell ; " and while I see 
 natural causes to explain his lamentable end, I
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 205 
 
 mourn it as a calamity, but take from it no 
 warning." 
 
 *' Natural enough I" exclaimed Clayton. " I 
 only wonder we are not all by his side, instead 
 of coming out alive." 
 
 " Now you speak," said Peverell. " You 
 have hit it in the right point. We have all come 
 out alive, and, bating your wonder, it is the very 
 reason why we should all go in again." 
 
 " In again !" ejaculated Clayton. 
 
 " Aye, and again, and again, and again," 
 added Peverell, " till we can tell why we have 
 gone at all. Look ye, good friend. In the first 
 place, I do not think there is another Wilkins 
 among us, to be merely frightened out of this 
 world ; and in the second, I do not think all the 
 powers of darkness, if they be really at work in 
 this business, can produce such another night 
 of horror. We have seen the worst ; and the 
 worst that can now come, will find us, there- 
 fore, all the better prepared." 
 
 " Then there's poor Kit Barnes," continued 
 Clayton ; " he is dead too." 
 
 " I will suppose," said Peverell, after a 
 pause, " that he beheld but a tithe part of
 
 206 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 what we did, and then say he was alone, and 
 what marvel, I pray you, is there in his case ? 
 Had his mind been the counterpart of his body, 
 it might have stood the shock ; but it was of 
 sickly growth, pampered with vain fancies, the 
 offspring of a misconceived holiness, which 
 transformed into a martyrdom, in his conceit, 
 what was simply a trial of humanity. Such 
 natures are of too brittle a quality to endure a 
 rough handling of the imagination." 
 
 " Well," responded Clayton, " you may talk 
 as you will ; but that which was enough to kill 
 Kit Barnes, and Walter Wilkins, will be as much 
 as is required to do for Hugh Clayton, I reckon." 
 
 Peverell could not forbear laughing, as he 
 replied, " Why, man, you are a living contra- 
 diction of your own doctrine. That which did 
 kill them, has not killed you." 
 
 " No," said Clayton; " but that only proves 
 I take a great deal of killing." 
 
 " Come, come, friend," answered Peverell, 
 " this is unprofitable talk; you have more 
 that's man in you, than you give yourself credit 
 for ; and I do not think, on my soul, if I were 
 now to bid you proceed no further in this busi-
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 207 
 
 ness, you would accept the opportunity of leav- 
 ing it.'^ 
 
 " Indeed I woiUd," said Clayton, '• if you 
 tacked to your invitation your own resolution of 
 leaving it." 
 
 '- That is impossible !" replied Peverell, with 
 great earnestness. 
 
 " Then I am with you, come foul or fair,'^ 
 rejoined Clayton, with equal earnestness. 
 
 Peverell was touched with this honest dis- 
 play of warm and friendly attachment ; and 
 taking him kindly by the hand, as they arrived 
 at Clayton's door, 
 
 " Good night," said he. " / do not consider 
 this a service of peril, but yoii do : and by your 
 own estimate of it, not mine, I measure the 
 value of your regard for me in it. Gtx^d night, 
 and good sleep attend you." 
 
 Peverell soon reached his o^^^l home ; and 
 nearly as soon had the benefit of his parting be- 
 nediction to his friend ; for, exhausted by the 
 long agitation of his feelings, he speedily sunk 
 into a '• good sleep" himself, from which he 
 did not awake till an hour much later than his 
 usual one of rising.
 
 208 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 On the following morning the intelligence of 
 Wilkins' death soon diffused itself, for Morti- 
 mer lost no time in fulfilling the office with 
 which he had charged himself. It was (as he 
 had truly enough predicted, when he provoked 
 the gibing retort of De Clare) a heavy hour for 
 the widowed, and now childless, mother of Wil- 
 kins. He was her only remaining offspring ; the 
 last of four sons and three daughters, the for- 
 mer of whom, except this ill-starred one, had 
 all found honourable graves in battle, while the 
 latter had each dropped off in the fair blossom 
 of youth, or just ripening into womanly perfec-
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 209 
 
 tion. Walter, it was true, owed more to his 
 purse than to his head, for what consideration 
 he enjoyed : but in liis heart, filial love and 
 tenderness were a living spring, from whose 
 source the current of his every action towards 
 his mother took its rise. And whatever the 
 world might say or think, the venerable Wini- 
 fred Wilkins never laid her aged head upon her 
 pillow, Avithout acknowledging, to the Giver of 
 all good, her pious gratitude for the blessing 
 of so kind and affectionate a son. 
 
 Immediate directions were issued for the re- 
 moval of the body from the Abbey ; and they 
 to whom they were issued applied to Pe- 
 verell for the keys. He chose rather to accom- 
 pany them ; as much from feelings of respect 
 towards the deceased, as from a reluctance to 
 expose to licentious and un watched intrusion, 
 the scene of such mysteries as those of the pre- 
 ceding night. Mingled with these feelings, too, 
 there was a degree of curiosity again to look 
 upon it himself, in the broad glare of day, and 
 divested of all its gloomy auxiliaries. 
 
 When they entered the Abbey, Peverell was
 
 210 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 much perplexed by a circumstance which, how- 
 ever, he had self-command enough to observe 
 in silence. Either he had totally forgotten 
 how and where the body of Wilkins had been 
 placed, or both had undergone a change. The 
 latter he deemed impossible ; and yet the for- 
 mer he strongly doubted. He remembered, 
 distinctly, having assisted Lacy, J)e Clare, 
 Hoskyns, and Owen Rees in so disposing of it 
 on the chairs, that the head was towards the 
 north, and the feet towards the south, wall, 
 whereas now, it lay in the direction of east and 
 west. His mantle, too, had fallen from off his 
 face, and the chairs themselves were at a greater 
 distance from the table thnn they had left them. 
 '' I cannot surely be mistaken," he thought; 
 " for there stood Hoskyns and Lacy — and there 
 Owen Rees and De Clare — and here (planting 
 his foot on a particular spot) I myself placed 
 this chair, to support his head. I remember, 
 at the time, observing the fine effect produced 
 by the fitful gleams of light as they flashed 
 upon yonder window from a nearly extinguish- 
 ed taper, which I could not have seen had I
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 211 
 
 Stood here ; and De Clare, in assisting to raise 
 his feet, brushed from the table that cup, which 
 still lies there, and which could not have hap- 
 pened if he had been thus placed. Yet I must 
 be mistaken, for it is mere ecstacy to imagine — 
 out upon it — I shall grow ashamed of my o^^n 
 weakness." 
 
 These thoughts passed through Pevereirs 
 mind, while those who had come ^vith him were 
 busied in making the requisite preparations for 
 removing the body. IMany of the townspeople 
 had accompanied them, and others had after- 
 wards arrived ; and Peverell could not help 
 contrasting the comparatively cheerful scene 
 then before him (in spite of the one melancholy 
 object) with the gloom and terror of the night 
 before. Busy human faces, the hum of care- 
 less voices, the tread of many feet, and, above 
 all, a bright and glorious morning sun stream- 
 ing through the windows, were so unlike what 
 had been their own anxious countenances, half- 
 whispered words, measured footsteps, and dimly 
 burning tapers, to say nothing of what their 
 eyes beheld and their cars heard, that he could
 
 212 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 not notice what would infallibly have struck 
 him under other circumstances, the timid glan- 
 ces, and mysterious shrugs of those whom day- 
 light had inspired with sufficient courage to 
 cross the portentous threshold. 
 
 His attention was now excited by another 
 circumstance : the extraordinary change which 
 had taken place in the body of Wilkins. In- 
 stead of presenting the appearance of a man 
 suddenly struck by death, in the prime of life, 
 and the full vigour of health, it might have 
 been supposed, not only that he had lingered 
 through a long disease, but that the first pro- 
 cess of decay had commenced ere he died. 
 Nay, had he lain in the earth as many weeks 
 as he had lain hours, only, in the Abbey, he 
 could not have been more pestiferous to the 
 smell, or more loathly to the eye. His flesh 
 was one putrid mass of dissolving jelly ; his 
 face livid, with here and there broad blotches 
 of cadaverous green ; his features bore no dis- 
 tinguishable resemblance to what had been 
 their character in life ; while the black mark 
 round his throat, which had been observed in
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 213 
 
 the first instance, had eaten itself, as it were, 
 into a trench or gash of fluid corruption. Alto- 
 gether, the spectacle was most hideous to the 
 light, and most abhorrent to the imagination. 
 The gorge of Peverell rose, as he contem- 
 plated it ; and it was an infinite relief to his 
 feelings, when, all the necessary preparations 
 having been made, the men slowly conveyed 
 the body from the Abbey. Peverell again 
 locked the doors and returned home. 
 
 With regard to poor Kit Barnes, as he had 
 neither kin nor kind — no creature near him, in 
 whose veins ran a drop of kindred blood, Peve- 
 rell took upon himself the charge of having 
 him decently consigned to the grave. 
 
 Meanwhile, these two lamentable events, the 
 deaths of Wilkins and Kit Barnes, with the 
 circumstances that accompanied, and the sup- 
 posed causes that had produced them, re- 
 lated, of course, with such an extra seasoning 
 of the super-marvellous as was natural, where 
 the exact truth could not be known, became 
 the theme of every tongue in St. Albans. De 
 Clare, Mortimer, Lacy, Clayton, and Peverell,
 
 214 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 were visited, throughout the day, by intimate 
 friends, loose acquaintance, and familiar 
 strangers, who employed every ingenious de- 
 vice, from a seemingly careless, " now pray do 
 not say a word if it disquiets you — for I merely 
 called by chance, as it were," down to an 
 affectionate assurance of — " I know I have 
 your confidence, and you know how entirely 
 you can rely on my discretion," to extract 
 from them some indirect hint or special note of 
 the affair. But the pact between them had 
 been too deliberately made, to admit of its 
 evasion lightly. Besides, most men cling to 
 the importance which the possession of an in- 
 communicable secret confers. 
 
 Mine host, John Wintour, had his share of 
 temptation too ; and he could not remember 
 the day when so much strong ale, small ale, 
 double beer, and single beer, had been drunk 
 at The Rose. But honest Jack, (as the fre- 
 quenters of his house called him,) who was a 
 wag in his own sphere, contrived, with much 
 dexterity, to keep them off from his mystery, 
 and to keep them on to their drink. He had an
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 215 
 
 eve to his score, or prompt payment, in all his 
 answers. 
 
 " Why look ye, my masters," he would say, 
 when he perceived an empty pot, " I am one 
 who cannot neglect the main chance ; and v\hen, 
 therefore, a stray chance falls in my wav, which 
 may help the other, I use it accordinglv. Xow 
 it was one of these stray chances, as I call 
 them, which carried me, last night, into such 
 good company ; and for my part, thev who call 
 for my ale, have the best right, to my thinking, 
 to call for whatever else I can give them." 
 
 " You speak like an honest man, and a good 
 tapster,'" quoth the tipplers ; " here, fill this 
 stoup again, and then for it." 
 
 " Anon," said mine host ; and in the twink- 
 ling of an eye, there was a goodly array of 
 foaming flagons on the table. 
 
 "By my faith, here be more companv,'" he 
 would then exclaim, (as in truth, there were 
 fresh comers every moment,) and forth he sal- 
 lied, to give them due reception, always ob- 
 serving on these occasions, " that one telling 
 would do for all, an' he could once see the end
 
 216 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 of their coming.""' He was tolerably well con- 
 vinced, and moreover devoutly hoped, that no 
 such end was near : and thus he managed to 
 feed expectation, without ever once giving a 
 meal to curiosity. 
 
 It might be about noon, and The Rose over- 
 flowing with guests, when a traveller stopped 
 at the door, and inquired, •■' If he was on the 
 road to St. Albans." 
 
 " No,"' said mine host, " you are not." 
 
 " Will you put me in the way then .?" quoth 
 the stranger. " A misbegotten knave, as I 
 passed through Dunstable, (so I think you call 
 the nearest town between here and Northamp- 
 ton,) told me this morning, if I kept straight 
 onwards, I should find St. Albans by the time 
 my stomach cared to find its dinner; but I 
 have walked many a weary mile since." 
 
 " He was no misbegotten knave," replied 
 mine host, a merry twinkle sparkling in his 
 eyes ; " but a true man, for he told you right. 
 You are not on the road to St. Albans — and 
 why ? because you have arrived at St. Albans ; 
 and if thy stomach hath found its appetite for a
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 217 
 
 dinner, I am he who will find a dinner for thy 
 appetite." 
 
 " Say you so,'' answered the traveller, " have 
 with you then, and cook me a mess with your 
 best speed ; for I am as ravenous as a wild cat, 
 and not nice in the matter of my food, whereto 
 my hunger shall be the best sauce." 
 
 He entered forthwith, took his seat among 
 those who were already there, and called for a 
 pot of ale, which he drank with the keen relish 
 of one whom thirst, as well as hunger, had be- 
 sieged. 
 
 *' This is brave liquor," quoth he, smacking 
 his lips, after a draught which uncovered the 
 bottom of the vessel ; " but I might have re- 
 membered the adage, good wine needs 720 bnsh. 
 When you see a full hive,'" he continued, look- 
 ing round at the company, ^* you may always 
 trust to the honey." 
 
 His speech denoted that he was from the 
 north country, and his appearance, that he was 
 no summer fly. His beard was tawny and 
 thick, but stunted in its growth. His make 
 square and sinewy, and his age, seemingly, that 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 of the middle period of life ; while his dress 
 bespoke about the same degree of condition. 
 He carried a stout staff to help him on his jour- 
 ney, or, as it might fall out, to knock a fellow 
 over the head who gave him offence. The plight 
 of his boots was an evidence that he had trudged 
 more than a few miles along very dirty roads. 
 In paying for his ale, however, which he did 
 on the instant, he drew forth a purse from his 
 girdle, which satisfied mine host of two things 
 — first, that he had not been robbed by the 
 way ; and, secondly, that he had wherewithal 
 to be robbed of. 
 
 His meal was soon ready, which he quickly 
 despatched ; and calling for some more ale, 
 stretched himself at his ease on the bench, and 
 began to troll the old ballad of — 
 
 " When Arthur first in courts began, 
 And was approved king." 
 
 ''Your spirits flag not," quoth mine host, 
 addressing the traveller, " whatever thy limbs 
 may do." 
 
 " No," replied Fortescue, (for that was his
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 219 
 
 name) ; "I carry a light heart in this heavy 
 world, and I laud the gods for it. It is better 
 than house and land ; for they may pass from 
 you, but a brisk mind still flies above the cares 
 oflife/^ 
 
 " They say care killed a cat once," observed 
 a starveling weaver, who sat near. 
 
 *' Good goose, bite not,*' said mine host. 
 
 " Nay,"" interrupted Fortescue, falling at 
 once into the humour of the discourse, '' what 
 is there more wonderfid in care killinoc a cat, 
 than in good liquor making a goose speak ?'' 
 
 This conceit, poor as it was, pleased the fancies 
 of those who heard it, and provoked a hearty 
 laugh at the expense of the unfortunate weaver. 
 
 '' Blessing of your heart, vou brew good ale, 
 my friend,'* continued Fortescue, finishing his 
 second flagon ; '' it is no sooner in the stomach 
 than it is up in the head. But I must to it again ; 
 so bring another, and let me see thee drink the 
 first, for they say 'tis a bad cook that cannot 
 lick his own fingers.*'' 
 
 Both commands were quickly obeyed by 
 Wintour, and as he placed the ale before For- 
 L 2
 
 220 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 tescue, after a potation which shewed that he 
 had no distrust of his own liquor, he asked him 
 "if he was journeying onwards, or meant to 
 abide the rest of the day at St. Alban's ?"" 
 
 " To speak truly ,^'' replied For tescue, *' I am 
 not yet resolved. I am already foot-sore, and 
 for mine own ease, care not to budge farther at 
 present ; but I am on an errand, in the fulfilling 
 of which thou, perhaps, canst render me some 
 service.''' 
 
 " Master Wintour,"" said one of the com- 
 pany, " dost thou forget ? An' we drink much 
 more, all the goblins in Christendom could 
 not keep our ears awake. Come, your tale, 
 Master Wintour ; let us have your tale, 
 Master Wintour." 
 
 "Marry, and you shall have it," answered 
 Wintour ; " but be patient, my masters, be 
 patient. See you not I have an affair in hand 
 that will not wait ?" 
 
 " Oh," interrupted Fortescue, " an' two men 
 ride of a horse, one must needs ride behind, you 
 know. Let me and my affairs, therefore, be 
 second in your kind offices. What tale is this
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 221 
 
 they claim at your hands ? I love a merry tale ; 
 'tis medicine for a jaded body.'' 
 
 " Then you must excuse me," said Wintour ; 
 '* mine is no merry tale, but one as dark as 
 winter ; and certes, no medicine for a jaded 
 body, though like enough to prove physic to a 
 nimble spirit." 
 
 " Better still," replied Fortescue. " Your 
 judicious discords make sweet music ; and 
 though I am ever for laughing rather than cry- 
 ing, yet I can be sorro^vful like a true gentle- 
 man, and sigh away Sundays to psalm tunes.*' 
 
 Mine host was now in a comer, and knew not, 
 for a moment, by what trick or contrivance to 
 escape. But his invention did not wholly for- 
 sake him. 
 
 " You are from the north P" said he, ad- 
 dressing Fortescue. 
 
 " Aye, from Northumberland." 
 " I thought so ; and your name — " 
 " Reginald Fortescue, at your service." 
 " Fortescue ! Is that a north country name r" 
 '' It is my name ; and, therefore, a north 
 country name."
 
 222 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 " When did you leave Northumberland ?" 
 
 " Ten days since.'" 
 
 " And have you walked all the way P"" 
 
 " Aye — every inch of it." 
 
 " And you are going — " 
 
 " Upon an errand." 
 
 " Which, as I guess," interrupted mine host, 
 " you will not impart .^" 
 
 " Which, as I guess," replied Fortescue, 
 " concerns not thee to know." 
 
 " Why, look you now, how choleric you are !" 
 said Wintour, " I pry into no man's secrets, 
 not I." 
 
 " No," answered Fortescue, " you do not 
 pry — you would take them by storm." 
 
 " I crave your pardon," quoth mine host, 
 " if I am too unmannerly: but all hoods make 
 not monks, you know." 
 
 " I do not take your meaning," said For- 
 tescue, seemingly angered. 
 
 " Then, my cake is dough," answered Win- 
 tour ; *' you should be a shrewd man, from your 
 nativity — ^but I have sowed cockle, and reap no
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 223 
 
 The look which accompanied these words was 
 not lost upon Fortescue. He read its whole 
 meaning at once. 
 
 " To your tale," said he, " and let us have 
 no feud. I am not quarrelsome, nor will I be 
 provoked into a fray. Your tale, I pray 
 thee." 
 
 "Aye, your tale, your tale, good master 
 Wintour," responded several voices. 
 
 '^ With right good will," said mine host ; 
 ^' so lend me your ears, an' you please." 
 
 All was silent, and Wintour began : — 
 
 *' You know, my masters, what marvellous 
 sights we have seen, of late, at the Abbey ?"" 
 
 "Yes, yes," they exclaimed; ''never mind 
 them ; give us last night." 
 
 " Your pardon," said Fortescue, '' I am a 
 stranger here. What Abbey, and what sights 
 do you mean .^" he continued, addressing him- 
 self to Wintour. 
 
 ]Mine host was delighted. He saw that 
 bis drift had been rightly conceived by For- 
 tescue. 
 
 " You say true," quoth he : "it is fitting
 
 224 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 you should know the beginning, or how can you 
 comprehend the end ?" 
 
 '* Nay," said one, " an' you mean to tell us 
 all we can tell thee, it will be an hour or twain , 
 ere you come to the marrow of thy tale." 
 
 " By your leave,"" answered Wintour. *' I 
 will be brief ; but do not break in upon me, for 
 I have a slender wit, that will not bear the 
 being crossed. See, now, how you have per- 
 plexed me." 
 
 " Go your own gate," said Fortescue, '* and 
 you'll be at your journey's end all the sooner." 
 
 " I must do so," replied Wintour. " Well, 
 then, it was only five nights agone — 
 five nights, do I say — ^let me correct myself ; 
 no — it was only four nights — ^yes — that is the 
 true computation — ^four nights agone, that one 
 Hugh Clayton, a worthy man of this town, re- 
 turning from Dunstable, where you were this 
 morning," (addressing Fortescue) "in company 
 with another worthy townsman, his sworn friend 
 — one Marmaduke Peverell — " 
 
 " Marmaduke Peverell !" exclaimed Fortes- 
 cue. "Is he alive, and still dwelling here .''"
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 225 
 
 " Aye, that he was, but two hours since, 1*11 
 swear, upon the faith of my own eyes," replied 
 Wintour, '^ for I saw him. Do you know Mar- 
 maduke ?'' 
 
 "Is he from Durham ?" inquired For- 
 tescue. 
 
 " By my faith, I cannot answer thee that," 
 said Wintour ; '' but why do you ask ?" 
 
 " For the satisfaction of my journey — no 
 less," answered Fortescue. " I am the bearer 
 of a packet for one Marmaduke Peverell, 
 whom, as I was instructed, ere I set out, I 
 should find at St. Albans, an' he were not dead ; 
 but where I should certainly learn tidings of 
 him, if he sojourned elsewhere. Can this be 
 the same ?''^ 
 
 '' I can tell you it is," said an old man, who 
 sat in one corner of the room ; ''so far, at 
 least, as that this Marmaduke Peverell is of 
 Durham : for I remember his coming to this 
 town ; and in my dealings with him, have often 
 heard him speak of Durham as the place where 
 he first cried." 
 
 " Then I have sped well/' observed For- 
 L 3
 
 226 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 tescue, " in taking up my quarters here. In 
 what part of the town does this same Marma- 
 duke Peverell dwell ?" 
 
 *' Hard by," replied Wintour. '' A man 
 shall hardly sneeze thrice, ere one despatched to 
 his house would return." 
 
 '^ Have you a trusty messenger," inquired 
 Fortescue, '^ by whom I could send this ?" 
 drawing forth a small sealed packet. 
 
 " I will be the bearer of it myself," replied 
 mine host, right glad of an office which cut 
 short a tale he meant not to tell, but found it 
 more and more difficult to evade. 
 
 " You have my thanks," said Fortescue. 
 *' I am weary, and, moreover, care not to dis- 
 turb my present ease ; but, hark ye, that there 
 may be no mistake, (for this Marmaduke 
 Peverell may not be the one I am sent to find, 
 although there be such strong circumstance to 
 warrant him so,) inquire of him if he knows 
 Martin Cuthbert, of Halifax, the rich clothier, 
 fifth or fiftieth cousin, I mind not which, to 
 John Byram, of Kendal, of the same craft. 
 If he say aye, give him this^ and bring him
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 227 
 
 along, should he wish to have conversation with 
 me, forthwith ; but he may choose his time, 
 for I shall not away again till to-morrow." 
 
 " I'll do it, as you desire,*' quoth Wintour, 
 and immediately left the room. In a few 
 minutes afterwards, all the rest departed, hope- 
 less now of hearing what they sought, and 
 having besides their several callings to pursue. 
 Fortescue alone remained. 
 
 Wintour found Peverell at home, and soon 
 delivered him of his errand. 
 
 '' Aye, truly," said Peverell, when mine 
 host had finished, " I know Martin Cuthbert. 
 of Halifax, though it is long since I had any 
 news of him. He is my kinsman ; and when I 
 stood no higher than his knee, would pat me on 
 the head, and tell me I should be remembered 
 in his will. Belike he is dead — ^he must have 
 been hard upon four score and ten, — and this is 
 to advise me of it." 
 
 Peverell broke the seal of the packet, which 
 contained a small scroll of parchment. Un- 
 folding this, he started, as his eyes hastily 
 perused whatever were the words written on it ;
 
 228 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 then, suddenly turning round to Wintour, he 
 inquired, with an eager voice, '' who was the 
 messenger that brought it ?" 
 
 " I have told you," said Wintour; '* a foot 
 traveller, of mean condition, rather than other- 
 wise, who came last from Dunstable, which he 
 left this morning.**' 
 
 " I know — I know," interrupted Peverell, 
 hastily ; '' but his manner — ^his words — ^his 
 looks — what are they ?" 
 
 *' You might guess him for one no better 
 than myself," replied Wintour,—" a plain- 
 spoken, and honiely-mannered, person." 
 
 *^ And where is he ?" 
 
 " At my house, waiting my return from this 
 errand of his, which he had discharged himself, 
 but that he is weary, and at his ease." 
 
 " I must see him," said Peverell, " and that 
 without delay." So saying, he set forth, leaving 
 mine host to follow, who, being somewhat of 
 the corpulent, and pursy withal, could not 
 move along quite so nimbly as Peverell, who 
 was, besides, urged into quicker speed by his 
 intensely excited feelings.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 229 
 
 When Wintour arrived, he found Peverell 
 standing at the door, looking with an eager eye, 
 first in one direction and then in another. 
 
 " He is gone !" he exclaimed^ in a tone of 
 mingled amazement and vexation. 
 
 " Gone !'' echoed Wintour. " ^yhithe^ ?" 
 
 "Aye, ichitherf repeated Peverell, empha- 
 tically ; " tell me that, and tell me all !'' 
 
 Inquiry was now made by Wintour, but no 
 one had seen Fortescue depart. 
 
 *' The scurvy rogue,'" muttered mine host, 
 " he might have paid his last score, like an 
 honest man, had he been one, before he went." 
 
 Peverell still held the packet in his hand, and 
 seemed buried in thought. 
 
 " Meet me, an hour hence," said he, after a 
 pause, addressing Wintour, " at Lacy's ; we 
 shall have business there. And canst thou 
 undertake to give notice of the same to Over- 
 bury and Owen Rees.'' The others I will 
 acquaint with the necessity of their presence." 
 
 Wintour promised to do his part, and Peve- 
 rell left him=
 
 230 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 At the appointed time, they were all assem- 
 bled at Benjamin Lacy's ; and Peverell, ad- 
 dressing himself to Wintour, bade him relate, 
 with as much of minute circumstance as he 
 could, all that had occurred, from the first 
 moment of Fortescue's arrival at his house, to 
 that wherein he despatched him with the packet 
 for himself. 
 
 Wintour performed the task thus enjoined 
 him, and detailed, with great exactness, the 
 circumstances of Fortescue's coming to The 
 Rose^ and all that took place, down to his own 
 going to Peverell with the packet.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 231 
 
 " And this," said Peverell, when Wintour 
 had finished, *' this is the missive he brought 
 me ; its contents are soon mastered, as ye shall 
 hear." He then drew forth the scroll of parch- 
 ment, and read the following words, which were 
 inscribed upon it in bright purple letters : 
 
 " SQI)CTt tf)c rf)imcs go nine, 
 ^^cn loofe for tf)e sign." 
 
 I had no sooner perused this enigma," con- 
 tinued Peverell, " than I hastened to Wintour's 
 house, expecting, I confess, what I found — that 
 the bearer of it was gone ; and so he was, un- 
 observed of any." 
 
 The parchment passed from hand to hand, 
 each, as he received it, examining, with pro- 
 found attention, the mysterious words. Over- 
 bury and mine host, indeed, were observed to 
 hold it upside do^-n ; but they did not, there- 
 fore, bestow a less seeming scrutiny upon the 
 inscription. 
 
 " Who is the CEdipus among us," said De 
 Clare, after a pause, ** to solve this riddle .^" 
 
 '' That am I, methinks," replied ^yalwyn,
 
 232 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 *' and it is thus. At nine o'clock, in the Abbey, 
 or on the outside, there shall be some appear- 
 ance manifest itself, by which we may know 
 what it is necessary we should do. You see I 
 am beginning to play the old woman," he con- 
 tinued, smiling, " and treat this matter with a 
 superstitious feeling ; yet it is not so : at least 
 my tongue will not confess so much."" 
 
 " Have you seen Fitz-Maurice to day ?" said 
 Lacy, addressing Peverell. 
 
 " No," replied Peverell. 
 
 " Nor heard from him .^' added Lacy. 
 
 " Nor heard from him,"" said Peverell. 
 
 " / am to be informed, ere the sun goes 
 down," observed Walwyn, " whether he returns 
 to us." 
 
 " And you will be informed," replied Peve- 
 rell ; " be certain of it."" 
 
 " By the same token," added De Clare, " we 
 are to have signs." 
 
 " But you must watch for them,"'*' replied 
 Walwyn ; *' and it was with this enigma 
 in my memory, that I attempted to solve the 
 one now before us."
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 233 
 
 '' I confess,'' said Peverell, addressing Wal- 
 wyn, " I think you have penetrated the mean- 
 ing of these lines, though I saw it not. The 
 Abbey, the Abbey is the place." 
 
 *' Who and what is this Fitz-Maurice .'*" ex- 
 claimed De Clare. 
 
 " I will tell you," said Peverell, " the full 
 extent of my knowledge of him ;" and he related 
 all that has been already described. " What 
 followed after this interview,'' he continued, 
 " passed under your own eyes ; for I saw him 
 not again till we met last night at the Abbey- 
 door." 
 
 " He is a miraculous fellow, I protest," said 
 Mortimer, when Peverell concluded, " and just 
 the terrible sort of dragon we need ; but I wish 
 we were all as well provided as he is, with his 
 periapt." 
 
 "It is most apparent," added Hoskyns, 
 '' that he hath the gift of prophecy in him — the 
 power of reading the future — by whatever means 
 possessed — holy or other^-ise." 
 
 '^ No," replied De Clare, " it is not yet ap- 
 parent that he hath this gift, though circum ■
 
 234 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 stances go near to the proof of it. But for these 
 words," he continued, addressing Walwyn, 
 " which I have been weighing in my mind, I 
 do not expound them as you have done. My 
 conclusion would be, that we should commence 
 our watchings in the Abbey, this night, some- 
 what before the hour of nine, and that then and 
 there, signs shall be made manifest to us." 
 
 " I am with you in that interpretation," said 
 Lacy. 
 
 " And I, too," added Vehan. 
 
 " I am for any interpretation," observed Pe- 
 verell, *' that brings us to the Abbey by the 
 hour named." 
 
 The same sentiments were expressed by the 
 rest. 
 
 " Well, gentlemen," said Walwyn, " there 
 goes but a pair of shears between us, as the 
 saying is ; and I lose no feather, decide as you 
 may, for either your oracle or your (Edipus. 
 Let it be agreed, then, that we assemble at the 
 time proposed by De Clare ; and it will be the 
 better, perhaps, for other reasons, inasmuch as 
 it will be done more privily."
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 235 
 
 " Should we not apprise the mayor of our in- 
 tention ?'* said Owen Rees. 
 
 '^ Assuredly," replied Lacy, " it will be but 
 an act of becoming courtesy ; besides, we have 
 his promise to furnish us with the rare produce 
 of his cellar, and the dainties of his kitchen, and 
 other commodities, to make the serv^ice we are 
 upon more tolerable." 
 
 '* His worship is most bountiful," said De 
 Clare ; " but he has only to call this a business 
 that concerns the public good ; and so write, in 
 his charge of office. Item, for zvine drunk, and 
 provisions eaten, by Nicholas Mortimer, and 
 eleven others, — (naming us all) — while laying 
 the foul fiend of the Abbey church. Thus shall 
 he shew himself no less a prudent man than a 
 vigilant magistrate, by returning to the pocket 
 of the former, what was taken out of it by the 
 seeming duty of the latter." 
 
 '' Thou hast a saucy wit," observed Vehan, 
 " thus to vent itself upon the dignity of office." 
 
 " Oh," replied De Clare, " 'tis the price that 
 greatness pays for its privilege of despising 
 the world. We poor commoners of the state,
 
 236 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 are their aim, and when they hit, they wound 
 us ; while our shafts, though they fly thick as 
 hail, pierce not the robes of their authority. — 
 They smile ; but we writhe." 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and his 
 worship entered. • 
 
 " I learned," said he, addressing Lacy, who 
 advanced to receive him, " that you were here 
 in Council, and I have used a liberty, which I 
 hope the occasion will excuse, in thus entering." 
 
 " You come most opportunely," replied Lacy, 
 " for we were, even now, upon the point of 
 setting forth, to make your worship acquainted 
 with what has passed, and with what is in- 
 tended." 
 
 Lacy then imparted to him their resolution 
 of commencing watch in the Abbey before nine 
 that night, but withheld the circumstance which 
 had occurred to cause that decision. 
 
 *' The truth is," said De Clare, " we have 
 done this specially for your convenience, that 
 you may have the opportunity, which I know 
 you covet, of being with us. Should aught 
 take place which may suggest the extending of
 
 OP ST. ALEAVS. 237 
 
 our vigils beyond the chimes of midnight, you 
 shall have free leave to depart, so as not to o'er- 
 stay your hour of rest." 
 
 " I cry you mercy," answered his worship, 
 " Not I !-— What should I do there ? I should 
 be like an idle spectator who enters the theatre 
 when the last scene of a tragedy he knows not, 
 is playing : all the foregone matter, which ex- 
 plains the end, he hath lost, and so gapes he 
 unprofitably about him. I was not admitted to 
 your secret last night, and by your leave I will 
 not be so to-night. Moreover, I have sundry 
 weighty affairs to despatch, which may not be 
 delayed till to-morrow, or else, I would not 
 swear an oath, I think, against my strong de- 
 sire to join you. But 111 be your caterer still, 
 and you shall remember me in your cups ; — 
 though, alas ! I know not with what heart you 
 can quaff wine in that cold, dismal place, and 
 recollect poor Wilkins and Kit Barnes r 
 
 " Therefore it is we can quaff it, and need 
 it too," observed Hoskyns ; " for when the 
 blood is chill, wine warms it, and when the 
 spirits fly from the heart, wines drives them
 
 238 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 back again. As our friend Wilfrid Overbury 
 told us last night, a man^s valour doth ever 
 ebb and flow with his stoup of liquor." 
 
 " Ha ! ha !" exclaimed Overbury, pleased 
 with this allusion to his words, " said I not right ? 
 That poor fool who died, but wetted his lips 
 when he should have drenched his throat ; and 
 what was the consequence ? The foul fiend 
 fell foul of him, and made him foul enough 
 to boot, as I learn, ere this morning. No, 
 while you live, drown fear in drink, and 
 
 « Then fall to work, 
 Like a devil or Turk.'* 
 
 " Well," quoth the mayor, " I have said it, 
 and it shall be done. Nine o'clock, eh ? But 
 that matters not, — for whatsoe''er I do, it must 
 be ere night fall. Would you believe it ? — 
 They are such arrant cowards, that not even 
 by virtue of my authority, do I think I could 
 get a man to go into the Abbey after dark ? It 
 shall be done, however ; it shall all be done." 
 
 After some further general conversation, in 
 the course of which De Clare, in his usual
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 
 
 caustic humour, played with the ill disguised 
 timidity of his worship, they all departed, it 
 being previously settled they should re- assem- 
 ble at Lacy's by eight o'clock in the evening. 
 
 When they were gone, Lacy was joined by 
 his daughter Helen. She entered the room with a 
 dejected air, and her eves were flushed from re- 
 cent weeping. Helen Lacy was in her twentieth 
 year, and of a tall, well proportioned figure. 
 Her countenance was more remarkable for in- 
 telligent expression, than for what might be 
 called beauty, (though many, with less pre- 
 tensions, would not have abated their claim 
 even to that quality) but her mind exceeded all 
 that her countenance indicated. Since the 
 death of her mother, which took place three 
 years before the time we are speaking of, she 
 had presided over her father's house. He had 
 two other daughters, both older than Helen, 
 and both married. He had a son, also, in his 
 twenty-third year, who was then upon his 
 travels, to qualify himself, as was the fashion 
 of his age, for entering into society, with the 
 manners of France and Italv engrafted upon
 
 240 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 those of his native England ; like a doublet of 
 good broad cloth, prankt with copper lace and 
 tawdry points. Helen still kept her maiden 
 condition ; not for lack of suitors, but because 
 she loved her father too entirely to give him 
 only a divided heart. She had never declared 
 to him, or to any one, that she would not wed 
 while he lived, for words, she knew, were 
 brittle things : she had done better. In the 
 silence of her own thoughts, she had resolved, 
 and she knew her own power to keep her own 
 purpose. From that moment, she admitted of 
 no parley with her resolution. 
 
 Helen had received such an education as was 
 usually bestowed on young ladies of her rank, 
 and which did not exclude instruction in the 
 learned languages. She could certainly read 
 both Greek and Latin, but had not prosecuted 
 her studies in the writings of Grecian and 
 Roman authors, with sufficient industry to 
 give her a critical knowledge of them, or hardly 
 to enable her to relish their more accessible 
 beauties. French and Italian, also, especially 
 the latter, had occupied her attention, and she
 
 OF ST. ALBAKS. 241 
 
 delighted in the pages of Dante, Petrarca, and 
 Boccaccio. With the literature of her own 
 country, she was well acquainted ; but her 
 favourite reading, consisted of tales of chivalry 
 and romance, with legends of sorcery, en- 
 chanters and magicians. A summer's day- 
 would often be too short for her young imagina- 
 tion, when spell-bound by the mysteries of 
 necromancy. She had devoured all such read- 
 ing with so greedy an appetite, that she could 
 recount, with minute accuracy, the names and 
 properties of every agent of mischief, and the 
 charms they worked with ; the different kinds 
 of devils — fiery, aerial, terrestrial, waterv, sub- 
 terranean ; the qualities and appellations of 
 demons ; the practices of fairies — benign and 
 malignant, beautiful or ugly ; the nocturnal 
 visitations of ghosts ; the cabalistic uses of a 
 mummy ; the manifold shapes, and hellish 
 devices of witches ; why they had beards ; how 
 distinguished from conjurors and enchanters ; 
 their controul over the operations of nature ; 
 why the drawing of their blood destroyed their 
 power over man ; — in short, the whole secrets of 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 the supernatural and invisible world, as they 
 were believed in that age, and not questioned by 
 herself, were familiar to the wonder-loving mind 
 of Helen. 
 
 It may easily be imagined, that with this 
 strong predilection for the marvellous, the in- 
 dulgence of which had imparted a tone of dark 
 and gloomy enthusiasm to her character, poor 
 Helen, who loved her father as the most che- 
 rished object of her gentle heart, looked with 
 dismay upon the enterprise in which he was 
 now engaged. She felt assured his life would be 
 the price of his participation in it ; and though 
 he had revealed to her no particle of what had 
 occurred the preceding night, save the death of 
 Wilkins, yet that terrible event, added to the 
 demoniac frenzy which tormented the dying 
 moments of Kit Barnes, were sufficient to 
 denote the existence of a fearful cause, however 
 its quality might be concealed from her. 
 
 She had already, with as much pertinacity as 
 a daughter's love, held in check by duty, 
 might warrant, urged her father to renounce 
 the business ; but he, who shared none of her
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 243 
 
 superstitious fears, and who would scarcely 
 admit he knew what it was to feel any other 
 kind of fear, mildly, but firmly, resisted all her 
 entreaties. His own heart told him wherefore 
 she entreated; and the tremulous voice and 
 glistening eye, with which, sometimes, he endea- 
 voured to soothe away her affectionate impor- 
 tunities, only deepened the pangs that accom- 
 panied them. 
 
 She had now come, once more, to try what 
 persuasion would do ; and Lacy perceived, with 
 emotions which he struggled to subdue, not 
 only that she had been weeping, but that her 
 spirits were saddened by the thoughts which 
 had taken such strong hold of her mind. 
 
 «' How many widows and orphans,"** said she, 
 seating herself calmly by her father, " how 
 many more victims, are to be offered up to this 
 grim devil, or ere he will have had blood 
 enough .'^'" 
 
 " Hush ! my child," replied Lacy, taking 
 her hand ; " you must not let these fancies dis- 
 turb thee thus." 
 
 " Aye, they do indeed disturb me," answered 
 M 2
 
 244 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 Helen, with a heavy sigh. " I cannot sleep for 
 them : or if I fall into a perturbed slumber, they 
 haunt me with such horrid visions, that even 
 my waking grief is repose, compared to them. 
 I was too young — a laughing child of thought- 
 less happiness — when you were amid all the 
 dangers of the field, to know that every hour 
 which passed, might be the one that saw thee 
 bleeding, and me without a father. But I can 
 remember, how my mother used to weep, and 
 how I would wonder at her tears. Alas ! she, 
 sainted shade ! felt as I now feel, — that each 
 moment of your life might have no fellow to 
 it ; and that if she but smiled, while you were 
 away, she might dress a widowed face, per- 
 chance, in unbecoming mirth." 
 
 This remembrance of her mother-^f a wife 
 whom Lacy had tenderly loved, and whose me- 
 mory was hallowed in his recollection of her vir- 
 tues, thrilled to his inmost heart. For an instant, 
 he was unable to speak ; but subduing his newly 
 awakened sorrow, and pressing the hand of He- 
 len, which he still held in his, 
 
 " Have I not assured you," he said, '' that
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 245 
 
 your apprehensions of danger are all chimerical, 
 and that they are produced by your fears only, 
 which themselves spring from your affectionate 
 anxiety for me ?""' 
 
 " Yes, you have," mournfully responded 
 Helen. 
 
 " And why art thou unconvinced ?" added 
 Lacy. 
 
 " Because,*' replied Helen, -« I am a woman, 
 I suppose ; and a weak creature, withal," wiping 
 away her tears with her handkerchief. 
 
 " Nay, nay,"' said Lacy, " you shall not do 
 yourself that wrong !" 
 
 " Well, then," rejoined Helen, '* because I 
 lack that breeding which hath fortified your 
 mind. You are a soldier — have been one — since 
 you could brandish a sword : and your whole life 
 has been a school, wherein death was your play- 
 mate, and danger your bed-fellow. You have 
 so long learned to live to-day, as if there were 
 no to-morrow in your calendar ^ — so long looked 
 peril in the face, and looked it away, that fear 
 is as a word only, which you hear men's tongues 
 repeat, but which you never felt nor saw, except
 
 246 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 in others. I have not been so trained, alas ! nor 
 could be, and keep my sex." 
 
 " Say I grant you all this," replied Lacy, 
 " and I might do so, nor play tiie braggart 
 either, what should I, but make an argument 
 in my own behalf, and against yourself ?" 
 
 " How so ?" said Helen, mildly, and with 
 hesitation, as if she feared to triumph. — " They 
 are my misgivings, not yours, for which I am so 
 bold to become the advocate. I would entreat 
 you to look with my eyes — to yield to my feel- 
 ings: not to belie your own." 
 
 " But should I not then," continued her fa- 
 ther, " belie my judgment, or rather, hoodwink 
 it, because I would not let it lead me right ?" 
 
 " I did not hope to prevail with you," replied 
 Helen ; " nor, perhaps, well considered, ought 
 I. Wherefore doth time stamp wrinkles on our 
 brow, and turn raven locks to snow, if it be not 
 that, as we drift along his ever onward stream, we 
 note the shoals and whirlpools that would wreck the 
 gallant barks behind us, if no warning voice—" 
 
 " Mine," interrupted Lacy, " is not a warn- 
 ing voice, for I perceive neither the shoals nor
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. • 247 
 
 the whirlpools. But, out upon thee !" he conti- 
 nued — "Art thou the Helen Lacy, — the daughter 
 of old Benjamin Lacy, who never shewed his 
 back where he had once she^^Ti his face ; and 
 wouldst thou have me now forsake my com- 
 rades ? No, no, my girl I I have not outlived 
 some score of hot encounters in the angry field, 
 to turn pale in my old age at shadows ! You 
 are thinking, I know, of him who died last 
 night. But how then ? He would have died 
 this night in his bed, had he heard a death- 
 token behind the arras. This is no augury. Be- 
 sides, God will, when he will ; it is the soldier's 
 creed : no man goes to his grave in December, 
 if 'tis written it shall be dug in May. So your 
 smiles, wench, and let sorrow wait." 
 
 Helen was silent. There were things she 
 would have spoken, but she thought they became 
 her not. A speechless prayer to Heaven for her 
 fathers safety that night, relieved her heart, 
 and she hoped that night would see the end 
 of all her fears on his account. If not, her next 
 hope was, that, from events themselves, she 
 might derive better arguments to win her pur-
 
 248 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 pose. Composing her feelings, therefore, she 
 strove, and not without success, to throw an air 
 of serenity, and even cheerfulness, over her 
 manner, which soon communicated itself to Lacy, 
 who rejoiced in the idea that he had dispelled 
 her apprehensions. 
 
 The remaining interval till eight o'clock, was 
 passed in various discourse between Helen and 
 her father. As the hour approached, when he 
 expected Peverell and the rest, addressing her 
 gaily, he exclaimed, *' What say you, girl .'' 
 Will you tarry, and see my comrades ?' They 
 are all tall fellows, I can tell you : as valiant a 
 little regiment as a man need pick, who had 
 sharp work to go about. Aye, and there is one 
 among them, observe, who might creep his way, 
 perchance, into a maiden's heart, if she did not 
 allow her eyes to be purveyor to it." 
 
 " What mean you .?" said Helen, smiling. 
 
 " I mean," replied Lacy, " that if you can dis- 
 pense with a face, and have no particular incli- 
 nation for a right inside to a head, he, yclept 
 Wilfrid Overbury, might aspire to call me 
 father."
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 249 
 
 " I shall not fall in love with your descrip- 
 'tion," answered Helen, playfully, " that is cer- 
 tain : however, when I mean to market for a hus- 
 band, he may stand his chance with the rest of 
 such horned cattle ; or, when I shut my eyes, 
 and cry have me — for have is have, however 
 men do catch — he shall start with others : but 
 not till then, by your good leave." 
 
 " Remain, and see him,'' said Lacy. 
 
 " No," replied Helen, " I am not merry, and 
 would not be more sad, which the sight of — par- 
 don me — I am gone." And the tears came in 
 spite of herself, as she pressed her lips to those 
 of her father, and hurried out of the room. 
 
 " I cannot chide her," exclaimed Lacy to him- 
 self. " It was thus her mother would grieve, as 
 often, in my youth and lustihood, as it w^as my 
 fate to have some service of equal honour and 
 peril bestowed upon me. I remember parting 
 from her, when she went big with this same 
 piece of rare workmanship— 'twas her last bur- 
 den — to take my share of the French wars ; and 
 there was more wet in my eyes than beseemed a 
 M 3
 
 250 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 soldier ; but women's sorrow have an infectious 
 quality in them — and that's the truth of it." 
 
 He was interrupted in this soliloquy, (and 
 before he had well brushed away some of that 
 unsoldierly wet he had been talking of, which, 
 as it seemed, still found a channel to his eyes,) 
 by the arrival of De Clare, Peverell, and the 
 rest, who came with such a punctual observance 
 of the time, that there were scarcely five minutes 
 between the entrance of the first and the last. 
 
 '' I have been using my influence, but ineffec- 
 tually, as you perceive," said Lacy, after they 
 were seated, " to keep a fair lady here, to grace 
 your coming with her presence ; but she would 
 not be persuaded. It wanted a younger tongue 
 than mine ; and you," he continued, addressing 
 himself to Mortimer, ^' were too tardy in pre- 
 senting yourself." 
 
 " I know not how it is," replied Mortimer, 
 '' but I swear, by my manhood, I have not the 
 art to prevail with ladies." 
 
 " By your manhood, certainly not," ob- 
 served De Clare ; '* but I wonder you should
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 251 
 
 fail, notwithstanding, for women are won by 
 trifles." 
 
 *' Not always,*' retorted Mortimer, *' else, why 
 are you a bachelor ?'" 
 
 '^ Simply because they are so won,'' replied 
 De Clare. 
 
 " Your argument cuts its own throat," an- 
 swered Mortimer ; "it is a sort of logical felo 
 de se." 
 
 " I do not see it," said De Clare. 
 
 '•' No more than you do whither your premise 
 would lead you,"' rejoined Mortimer. 
 
 " Oh, yes," answered De Clare ; " I perceive 
 where that leads me, — to the great mortification 
 of your little vanity. —But who is this dame, 
 that has thus stirred up such dire strife betwixt 
 me and my friend ?" continued De Clare, 
 tauntingly. 
 
 '• My daughter Helen,'' said Lacy, " Mho 
 but left me as you came." 
 
 '• Helen !" exclaimed De Clare, '' a name of 
 bright renown, — I proclaim myself her Trojan 
 Paris at once, and thou," — turning to Morti- 
 mer, " her chafed Menelaus." 
 
 " I accept the distribution,'' said Mortimer,
 
 252 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 willing to escape from the aspick tongue of De 
 Clare, *^ but will the lady play her part ?" 
 
 " You have a daughter, then ?" observed 
 Walwyn, addressing Lacy, desirous of stopping 
 the waspish encounter between De Clare and 
 Mortimer. 
 
 '' Yes — one of four,'' replied Lacy. " Her 
 two sisters have taken husbands, and the eldest 
 of them has already given me a title to call 
 myself grandfather. I have a son, too, who 
 might have done the same office for me first, 
 an' he had taken me for his model." 
 
 '' Stays he with you ?" inquired De Clare. 
 
 " No, — he is on his travels, — and was in 
 Italy, when last I had letters from him." 
 
 " On his travels, to come home disguised," 
 replied De Clare, " with a pick-tooth in his 
 mouth, and Venetian morals, stolen from a 
 gondola, in his heart. It is the plague spot of 
 the time, I know ; but a son of mine should sit 
 cross-legged, and walk slip-shod, ere he should 
 taint the air I breathe with French oaths and 
 Italian vices." 
 
 '' And yet," said Vehan, " what better fits a
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 253 
 
 man to play his part in the world, than a just 
 knowledge of the world, which, as I take it, 
 cannot be gathered from fire-side pilgrimages, 
 or book-travelling, only.'' 
 
 " And what knowledge, worth the gathering, 
 I pray you," replied De Clare, " can your boy- 
 traveller bring back, who sees a wonder in every 
 thing that is new, and who pampers a child's cu- 
 riosity, merely because he cannot feed a manly 
 judgment, having no skill wherewith to prepare 
 the meal '"'" 
 
 Vehan, who was too indolently contemplative 
 to engage in such a controversy as he knew must 
 grow out of any argument with De Clare, made 
 no reply. 
 
 Walwyn availed himself of the pause that 
 followed to remind Peverell, significantly, that 
 the " sun had gone down," two hours ago. 
 
 " Yes," replied Peverell, " and it is three 
 hours, and more, since I received this from 
 Fitz-Maurice." 
 
 " What is it .^" said Lacy. 
 
 '• A letter," answered Peverell ; '' but as 
 enigmatical, and as brief almost, as the scroll 
 of Fortescue."
 
 254 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 " Read it !" exclaimed De Clare. 
 
 Peverell did so ; it was couched as follows : 
 
 " lEIcben sfjall d)ooS£ nine ; nine s!)aU become mtl\}t, txz 
 ten go: i)e tf)at I)at!; faiti) s!)an l)aije it: / come not; but 
 tf)ere sl^alltie many tfje lietter toljen tf)cre Is one. 
 
 " JFit^=iWaurice.'' 
 
 A silence of several minutes ensued. As was 
 the case with Fortescue's mysterious packet, 
 this letter of Fitz-Maurice passed from hand 
 to hand ; it was read, and re-read ; its several 
 sentences separately meditated upon ; and then, 
 the whole together. At length '\^ehan spoke. 
 
 " I think," said he, " I can just pass the 
 threshold of this mystery : I can advance one 
 step ; but all beyond, is dark and incompre- 
 hensible to me." 
 
 " Enter at once, then," replied De Clare, 
 " and when you have opened the door, perhaps 
 some of us may be able to go a little further." 
 
 " ' Eleven shall choose nine T " continued 
 Vehan, looking at the letter ; " Yes — and eleven 
 have chosen nine — we have chosen nine as the 
 hour for going to the Abbey. There I stop."
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 255 
 
 " And there, as I guess," said Lacy, " we 
 shall all stop. For my part, I profess to have 
 no skill in making out a conjuror's riddle. I 
 have been, all my life, used to plain orders in 
 plain English — take that battery^-cut off the 
 retreat of yonder squadron — fight to the last, — 
 and so on. These are the things I best under- 
 stand." 
 
 " So say I," exclaimed Overbury. '* Show 
 me my work, and leave me to do it ; but for 
 your hopper-gallop witchcraft, and foggy be- 
 devilments, it is like striking at an enemy in the 
 dark — ^\'our blade falls every where but upon 
 his carcase." 
 
 " I should be vastly pleased," said Mortimer, 
 " if any one can tell me why this moody gen- 
 tleman. Signer Fitz-Maurice, talks and writes 
 in the clouds thus. I swear I can make no- 
 thing out of his letter, but that he means to 
 keep away from vis to-night ; ' I come not /' 
 that is plain enough." 
 
 '-' Yes," observed Peverell, thoughtfully, 
 *' that is clear enough."
 
 256 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 " It is all as it should be," interposed Owen 
 Rees ; — " all as it should be, mark you. Fitz- 
 Maurice is not as one of us, do you note ; he 
 can work by charms, and spells, and conjura- 
 tions. Did he not tell us so, I pray you ? And 
 moreover, he hath killed magicians, and seen 
 necromancers, and kept company with — I mind 
 not his name just now^ — but that matters not 
 — I mean that good old gentleman, who taught 
 him magics by the side of purling streams 
 at midnight, while they were counting the stars ; 
 and further he speaks of things to come, like 
 a wizard. And is a man who can do all these 
 things, to talk like one of the million, as if he 
 could only eat, drink, and sleep — drink, sleep, 
 and eat ? No, I warrant you — it is out of all 
 reasonable calculations to say so.'' 
 
 " You are right," said De Clare ; " a lion 
 does not mew like a cat — nor your noble dog 
 bark like a mongrel. Every thing in nature 
 proclaims its particular quality, by organs 
 special to itself. The sun shines not like the 
 moon, nor the moon as the stars — the thunder 
 speaks not with the soft voice of the west wind
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 257 
 
 — nor does the rough winter court us like the 
 spring — then why, as thou sayest truly, should 
 a demi-god profane his tongue with the words 
 of a costermonger ? But to the business ; — I 
 see nothing in this letter that concerns us to 
 fathom now. We have it here, that we shall 
 not have Fitz-Maurice to-night. WTiat he meant 
 should be understood is unambiguous ; what he 
 meant otherwise, he hath skill enough— or I 
 have grossly misconstrued him — to conceal. 
 Let us then to the Abbey, for the hour wears 
 fast upon nine, and watch for our signs when 
 the chimes go." 
 
 To this suggestion of De Clare''s, an imme- 
 diate assent was given, and in a few minutes 
 they were once more at the doors, which Peve- 
 rell opened, and they entered.
 
 258 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The preparations made by the mayor for 
 their reception were the same as those of the 
 preceding night, and the first thing that em- 
 phatically recalled to their recollection the events 
 of that night, when they had seated themselves, 
 was the vacant chair of poor Wilkins. It had 
 not been removed, and no one now occupied it. 
 It was in the same place too ; and this simple 
 circumstance caused a mournful silence to pre- 
 vail for some minutes. 
 
 " I read your thoughts," said Walwyn, at 
 length ; " but we must not yield to such re- 
 flections."
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 259 
 
 "Poor fellow !"' ejaculated Clayton, who sat 
 next to the now empty chair, "it is impossible 
 not to remember the good-natured being who 
 last night amused us with his merry tale, and 
 who now lies festering in his shroud. Heigho ! 
 It is very natural to have such thoughts.*'' 
 
 " Aye, it is natural," said De Clare. " But 
 what is the whole teaching of life, from the 
 cradle to the grave, but one continued lesson, 
 how to wrench these natural yearnings of the 
 heart from their hold upon it ? We are crea- 
 tures of the present only ! The past is a mighty 
 ocean, whose waves close upon our track, and 
 efface all vestige of it ; while the future lies 
 before us, a shoreless sea of shadows, which 
 we pass through from hour to hour, each hour 
 converting them into that present which is eter- 
 nal, and still there is hereafter, stretching its 
 vast obscure beyond." 
 
 " Prithee, now," exclaimed Mortimer, " do 
 not give us a homily, when a cup of wine would 
 be so much more suitable to our condition. Let 
 us use the present you talk of, like a welcome
 
 260 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 friend, turn our backs upon the past, and as 
 to the future, let the world slide, say I." 
 
 Mortimer was like a moth, playing round a 
 taper. He could not keep from going so near 
 to the flame of De Clare's caustic humour, as to 
 singe his wings now and then : and this last 
 sally would probably have cost him a terrible 
 scorching (for De Clare curled his lip and knit- 
 ted his brow, as he was wont to do, when pre- 
 paring to shoot forth one of his most envenomed 
 invectives), but at that moment the clock struck 
 nine. 
 
 " Hark !'"' exclaimed Lacy — " the chimes are 
 going;^ 
 
 They were all silent, and listened in breath- 
 less suspense, to the sonorous peal. Every eye 
 was strained in different directions, expecting, 
 each instant, to behold the promised signs. 
 The chimes ceased. No sound was heard ; no 
 visible token followed. Still they spoke not : 
 and so profound was the silence, that they could 
 hear the heavy swing of the iron pendulum, as 
 it vibrated to and fro. They sat thus for
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 261 
 
 nearly ten minutes, and then Wilfrid Overbury 
 spoke. 
 
 " The fiend has juggled with us," said he, 
 " and we' are his fools. Signs ! The best sign 
 we shall see to-night, is this, I trow ;'' and he 
 filled out a brimming cup of wine. 
 
 '' I begin to think," observed De Clare, 
 " that whatever meaning may be veiled beneath 
 the words of Fortescue's scroll, 
 
 " ^ When the chimes go nine, 
 Then look for the sign,' 
 
 we have not discovered it : the chimes have 
 gone, but we are unvisited by the sign." 
 
 " Perchance," remarked Vehan, '' Walwyn 
 was right, and the sign, if any, manifested itself 
 on the outside of the Abbey." 
 
 " Tut !" exclaimed De Clare ; " are we to 
 conclude that we are thus played with — that, 
 bein<j here — I care not whether within the walls 
 or without the walls — a mere device — a tricksey 
 quibble, is to send us back again, the sport of 
 inventive malice .^"
 
 g62 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 '^ By my soul, I believe it not," said Peve- 
 rellj warmly. " I am as little the slave of 
 fancy or of fear, I guess, as any man around 
 this board ; but if you were all to declare, with 
 one voice, here is a deceit, singly I would say 
 no ! And singly I would remain to verify, or 
 otherwise, my strong persuasion." 
 
 " You speak like a man of observation, and 
 a man of sense, mark you," replied Owen Rees, 
 addressing Peverell. " We have seen, and 
 heard, and witnessed, and been told, too much 
 already, not to know that we have magicians, 
 and enchanters, and conjurors, to deal with ; 
 and when, I pray you, have such black squires 
 been plain, and intelligible, and sun-like in their 
 doings ? Will you tell me that ?" 
 
 " Sun-like, or hell-like,"' vociferated Over- 
 bury, " His plain we are juggled. If my throat 
 is to be cut, what am I the better, whether the 
 knife is drawn across it at noon or midnight ?" 
 
 '^ I should think, Mister Overbury," said 
 Rees, with an air as cool as that which plays 
 about his native mountains, " I should think.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 263 
 
 Mister Overbury, that you know the differ- 
 ence.^' 
 
 " How '" exclaimed Overbury. 
 
 '' Oh, nothing — nothing at all, mark you," 
 replied Owen, not caring to make a quarrel of 
 it just then ; '' but the hangman is often cheated, 
 you know, of his due." 
 
 Overbury scowled at Owen Rees, while the 
 latter merely nodded at him, as if he would say, 
 " you may understand me, and I hope you 
 do." 
 
 '' One thincr is beyond denial," observed 
 Walwyn, '^ that the chimes have gone nine, 
 and that we have seen 7io sign. Now the ques- 
 tion is, shall we watch longer .^" 
 
 " Aye," replied Peverell. " Be not too hastily 
 convinced : remember the letter I bear about 
 me — ^remember how the hours are there min- 
 gled : but all included, from nme to twelve — 
 wait the last." 
 
 " Well, then, be it so," said De Clare ; 
 " here we abide till the twelfth hour ; but let 
 us devise some mode of forgetting how the
 
 264 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 minutes go. A doleful ballad, or a mirthful 
 tale, or anything that may steal away our 
 thoughts, would do. My lungs are not clear 
 to-night, or I would sing you, in excellent tune 
 and just measure, the choice ditty of 'King 
 Cophetua and the Beggar Maid.' " 
 
 " I like the notion well," replied Hoskyns, 
 who had taken the same seat as on the preceding 
 night ; " and by virtue of mine authority, I 
 call upon you first of all to pledge me round in 
 a cup of wine, and then Vehan shall sing or 
 say." 
 
 " I am obedient to your first command," said 
 Vehan ; " but for your second, I have no skill, 
 either in voice or words." 
 
 ^'We do not covet your skill,"" answered 
 De Clare ; " but your words^ or your voice, 
 or rather both — for your voice without words, 
 would be as bad as a knavish echo ; and your 
 words without voice, no better than a sexton's 
 epitaph." 
 
 " Nay, an** thou wilt take no denial," said 
 Vehan, ''have with you, if my memory betray
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 265 
 
 me not. When I was at the University, being 
 prone to solitude and study, I sometimes blotted 
 paper m ith my thoughts, when other students 
 of my age, in their hours of leisure, betook 
 them to hawking, fishing, or the sports of 
 the field. About that time^ there occurred a 
 tragical event in a near county, which I, having 
 the poetical vein upon me, did throw into metre, 
 and this (for nought else can I do) I will repeat, 
 if, as I have already said, my memory betray 
 me not." 
 
 " A sorrowful lament !" exclaimed De Clare, 
 " well suited to the occasion and the time. Pro- 
 nounce — and let it be with discreet emphasis. 
 Mar not thine own progeny, like an unnatural 
 parent. Come, begin." 
 
 " It will not hold you long," replied Vehan, 
 " and what is better, you will do me a kind ser- 
 vice the sooner you cry, enough !" 
 , " Begin, begin," said De Clare, " or your 
 prologue will tire us ere the play commence." 
 
 Vehan, after a moment's pause, delivered, with 
 much energy, and with a full, melodious voice, 
 what follows : — 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 ALICE GRAY. 
 
 I. 
 
 In cloud and tempest clos'd the day, 
 In stormy wrath it pass'd away ; 
 Bequeathing, in its sullen flight, 
 New horrors to the coming night. 
 The night came on, the wind was loud. 
 The heavens were wrapt in funeral shroud, 
 So dark, her swarthy diadem 
 Was brighten'd by no starry gem : 
 No ray the pale cold moon shed forth 
 To light the traveller on his path, 
 Or guide him where his lov'd abode. 
 The pole-star of his wishes, stood. 
 
 II. 
 
 In such a night, so dread, so drear, 
 What heart so stout that owns not fear ? 
 In such a night, sublimely grand, 
 Who sees not the Almighty hand ? 
 Pale superstition kneels and prays. 
 Amid the sheeted lightning's blaze ; 
 While bed-rid age, in silent dread. 
 And weeping youth, with shrouded head. 
 Wrapt in unearthly terrors lie. 
 In horror's nameless extacy !
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 26^ 
 
 III. 
 
 Save man, what li\'ing thing then bore, 
 The blinding flash — the deafening roar r 
 The wind storm howHng in its course, 
 
 The mountain torrent's thundering force 
 
 Ocean, upheaving ftom its bed, 
 Its silver foam, now fiery red ; 
 Tinged by the momentary glare 
 Of lightnings in the lurid air : 
 The deluge, rushing down amain 
 As it would flood the world again — 
 And whebn creation in its wave. 
 Nature's eteme and boundless grave f 
 
 IV. 
 
 Nor yet to man it ere was given, 
 
 "^rhen thunders shake the cope of heav*n, 
 
 When billows roar, and mountains rock. 
 
 And earth unbalanc'd feels the shock, 
 
 Her frame in wild commotion hurl'd, 
 
 The shadow of a closing world, 
 
 To mark, unmov'd, the mighty fray. 
 
 Nor pause to think — nor bend to pray ! 
 
 Yes ! tho' his spirit walk abroad, 
 
 And proudly own th' omnific word, 
 
 His chastened terror still reveals, 
 
 The pious ecstacy he feels. 
 
 And while, in phrenesy sublime 
 
 His sovd outstrips the bovmds of time, 
 
 He lists the elemental war, 
 
 With mingled throb of joy and awe ' 
 
 N 2
 
 > 
 
 268 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 Such was the night, when Alice Gray, 
 Her beads all told at shut of day. 
 Her wicket clos'd, her window barr'd. 
 Her poverty her safest guard, 
 Heard, as she press'd her humble bed, 
 A noise might wake the sleeping dead. 
 Rude shouts assail her startl'd ear, 
 Distant at first, but now more near. 
 And then, her name is roar'd aloud. 
 As if pronounc'd by numerous c^owd ; 
 So her bewildered mind conceives 
 And fancy willingly believes 
 The tale that frantic terror weaves. J 
 She does not dream, for she has tried 
 Each weary hour, from side to side, 
 (Tossing in restlessness of pain) 
 One moment sweet, of sleep to gain ; 
 But sleep, affrighted, fled her eyes, 
 Scar'd by the tempest of the skies* 
 
 VI, 
 
 Haik ! that clamorous yeU without ! 
 They knock — they call — she cannot doubt ! 
 " Who knocks so loud this dreadful night ? 
 What boisterous cries mine ears affright ? 
 What tramp of steeds beside my door ? 
 Away ! — disturb my rest no more 1" 
 In cadence hoarse, a voice replies, ^ 
 " A light ! a Mght ! arise ! arise ! v 
 In travail pangs a lady lies, )
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 269 
 
 And thou must speed with us to aid, 
 
 And shew the mystery of thy trade." 
 
 " No lady's travail pangs 1 heed — 
 
 No guerdon in my utmost need 
 
 Should tempt me forth ; the storm is loud, 
 
 And on my taper hangs a shroud 
 
 Foreboding death, or direful spell — 
 
 Horseman, away !" " Thou hag of hell ! 
 
 Thou palsied crone ! — thou wrinkled patch I 
 
 Unbar thy door, uplift thy latch. 
 
 Or, such a thundering stroke shall fall. 
 
 On wicket, lattice, and on wall. 
 
 That breach ftill wide shaU soon be split, 
 
 Horsemen and horses to admit !" 
 
 VII. 
 
 The thunder roU'd — the lightning flash'd — 
 
 The winds were loud — the voices hush'd— 
 
 Awhile Dame Alice thoughtful lay, 
 
 Afiraid to move — afraid to pray ; 
 
 WTiile, to bewildered fancy's view, 
 
 Her tT^inkling light biorn'd dim and blue, 
 
 And from without, on blasted oak, 
 
 She heard a boding raven croak. 
 
 Portentous omen, dire and dread I 
 
 The coloxir from her pale cheek fled ! 
 
 Chatter'd her teeth— her body shook. 
 
 As one by shivering palsy strook ! 
 
 Her pulse beat high — her heart was low, 
 
 Unbidden tears began to flow. 
 
 And beads of sweat, in piteous chase 
 
 RoU'd swiftly down her aged fece.
 
 270 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 Her wither'd hand across her breast, 
 Herself from evil sprite she bless'd , 
 Making that holy, christian sign, 
 Emblem of blessedness divine, 
 Devoutly deem'd a potent spell 
 O'er goblin, witch, and imp of hell. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A second summons from without, 
 
 A fierce, a loud, a lengthen'd shout, 
 
 A furious din, a sudden shock. 
 
 That walls, and room, and windows rock, 
 
 A deafening crash— a vollied roar. 
 
 Proclaim the deed — proclaim it o'er ! 
 
 Another moment pass'd, and then 
 
 Alice beholds four armed men. 
 
 Her bed beside. Awhile they stood. 
 
 Bandying their wit in jesting mood ; 
 
 With sneering scoff, they mourn'd her plight, 
 
 And own'd, " it was a wretched night 
 
 To take a lady from her rest ; 
 
 They pardon crav'd : a high behest 
 
 Compell'd them, and they could not choose. 
 
 Ungentle acts like these to use 
 
 Beseem'd not with their calling high. 
 
 For they were knights of chivalry ! 
 
 They pray'd she would not judge them wrong 
 
 From any license of their tongue, 
 
 Gentle and gallant youths they'd prove. 
 
 No foes to blandishment and love." 
 
 Thus in alternate mock and jeer, 
 
 Reckless, or joying in her fear,
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 271 
 
 Each tried, with brutal raillery, 
 
 To aggravate her misery. 
 
 But Alice heeded not their suit — 
 
 Her eye was fix'd, her tongue was mute ; 
 
 She look'd, and yet she nought observed, 
 
 She listened, and yet nothing heard ; 
 
 For fled was that directing power, 
 
 ^\Tiich culls from every varying hour, 
 
 The fleeting essence of our thought— 
 
 So strong the terror of the moment wroughL 
 
 IX. 
 
 And now another mode they try 
 
 To rouse her from her lethargy- 
 
 They rudely hail her by her name ; 
 
 Their errand briefly they proclaim. 
 
 They bid her " rise, and clothe her straight. 
 
 And haste with them, ere yet too late, 
 
 Where child-bed lady loudly moans, 
 
 And bitterly for sin atones." 
 
 Alice with wonder wildly mute 
 
 Reck'd not their loud and clam'rous suit 4 
 
 Silent she lay, with hands uplift. 
 
 Like one awaiting solemn shrift ; 
 
 Ready to bid the world farewell, 
 
 WTien ghostly priest had rung her knell i 
 
 So blank, so pale, so woe-begone, 
 
 Looks felon who has miurder done, 
 
 And hears, in every passing gale, 
 
 A dreadful voice proclaim his tale ; 
 
 And so looks he — vmhallow'd wretch, 
 
 Whose ruffian hand has dar'd to touch
 
 272 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 The orphan's store — the widow's mite, 
 When sleepless, or in sleep's despite. 
 The victims of his treachery stand — 
 A mournful and accusing band 
 Around his bed, and rouse his soul. 
 To pangs beyond the mind's controul. 
 
 X. 
 
 But one, the leader of the crew. 
 
 Had aspect fierce, and wild to view ; 
 
 With threatening brow, and shaggy beard, 
 
 And eye that never danger fear'd ; 
 
 On whose swart features, rude and dark, 
 
 Each passion fell had set its mark ; 
 
 While every gesture, tone and look, 
 
 A bleak and savage mind bespoke. 
 
 GoRBUC his name : ask you his life ? 
 
 'Twas a sad and wretched strife 
 
 With want and woe, with blood and guilt — 
 
 (Much blood for villains' hire he'd spilt) 
 
 With gloomy and repentant mood. 
 
 As each, by tvurns his heart subdued ; 
 
 For now, in frantic vice he's proud. 
 
 In madness bold, in fury loud ; 
 
 And now, in anguish, melts to tears. 
 
 The wretched victim of his fears ! 
 
 Ah ! who that ever felt the bliss. 
 
 The more than mortal blessedness, 
 
 Of virtuous deed, of virtuous thought. 
 
 From heavenly contemplation caught. 
 
 The peace of soul, serene and calm, 
 
 For every woe, a precious balm^
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 273 
 
 The proud contentment of the mind. 
 In peril, and in pan^ resign'd, 
 The dauntless mien, the fearless breast, 
 Of innocence the sign and test. 
 Would madly change the ferv'ent glow. 
 For aught that guilt can e'er bestow ? 
 For stealthy pace, that fears the wind- 
 Looking in terror still behind ; 
 For throbbing pulse, and aching heart. 
 Remorse's pang, and sin's keen dart ; 
 For eye, that scowls with svdleu air. 
 For mind distraught with fell despair, 
 For feelings harrow'd up with dread — 
 For death — the wretch is never dead ! 
 
 " You ^vi'ote in a prophetic mood,''' here in- 
 terrupted De Clare, (looking at Overbury, 
 whose darkening countenance, and restless man- 
 ner, shewed that he was much moved). " Had 
 you then,' ever seen a caitiff, whose ' aspect 
 fierce,' ' shaggy beard,' ' swart features,' and 
 ' bleak and savage mind' bespoke one who 
 ' much blood for villain's hire had spilt r"' " 
 
 *' I warrant not," said Rees, (who, like the 
 rest, had almost instinctively fixed his eyes 
 upon Overbury, while Vehan was giving the 
 character of Gorbuc.) " I warrant not — 'tis the 
 poet's art, mark you, to invest the passions of 
 N 3
 
 274 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 our nature, whether good or bad, with such 
 general resemblances, that wherever they are 
 found to exist, they are at once known by their 
 similitudes. You and I," he continued, ad- 
 dressing De Clare, " nor, indeed^ any round 
 this board that I wot of, feel not our stomachs 
 uneasy, because Alice Gray, in her dismal ter- 
 tor, looked like the 
 
 " ' Unhallow'd wretch 
 Whose ruffian hand had dar'd to touch 
 The orphan's store, the widow's mite, — ' 
 
 when 
 
 *'^ The victims of his treachery stand, 
 A mournful and accusing band. 
 Around his bed, and rouse his soul 
 To pangs beyond the mind's control !' " 
 
 ^' You have a trim memory, I think," said 
 Overbury, sullenly. 
 
 " Yes," replied Owen, '' I can recollect 
 when I will — and more than a cup of brisk 
 wine washes away."" 
 
 '^ You should not sleep upon your recollec- 
 tions, then," rejoined Overbury, fiercely, com- 
 prehending the Welchman's allusion ; " for in 
 the morning you forget again."
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 275 
 
 " I shall not sleep upon it," said Rees, 
 quietly. " But enough ; Master Vehan is im- 
 patient to proceed, and we stay him with this 
 babble." 
 
 '' I am ready, but not impatient," replied 
 Vehan, '• for it irks me ; yet I am assuredly 
 ready, if it irk not you also." 
 
 " We will flatter you anon,**' said De Clare, 
 '• and swear how delighted we have been, when 
 you have done. Proceed, therefore." 
 
 Vehan continued : — 
 
 XI. 
 
 Gorbuc, this spotted man of blood 
 Beside Dame Alice pallet stood. 
 He, whom nor fear, nor pity touch'd. 
 With giant grasp her shoulder clutch'd, 
 Shook the scar'd beldam from her trance, 
 And j(while she eyed his form askance) 
 Roar'd fiercely in her startled ear 
 " Array thee in thy wonted gear, 
 And movmt upon my nimble steed. 
 Thou'd best obey — I thee areed ! 
 For peerless lady of this land 
 Needs aid from thy experienced hand."
 
 276 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 XII. 
 
 • Alice, sage matron, skill'd in all 
 That can to travail pangs befal, 
 Who knew each herb, its wondrous power 
 To soothe the anguish of that hour : 
 And could with prudent lore foretel. 
 If all that happ'd, would happen well. 
 Whose practis'd hand' might well assist 
 Nature's own efforts, when she list, 
 Was sought with eager prayer by aU, 
 From humble cot, to banner'd hall. 
 For she beside, had power to trace, 
 In new born infant's thoughtless face. 
 What weal or woe might it await 
 In this world's mix'd and jarring state. 
 The eye, the nose, the lip, the chin. 
 Sure tokens all, of grace or sin, 
 Portending honour, wealth and fame. 
 Or sorrow, penury and shame ! 
 She, in each feature, too, could find 
 The mother's look — the father's mind. 
 Just as the crone with wily thought, 
 Forejudg'd her omens would be bought. 
 Nor did she lack that highest worth, 
 In those who tend on human birth, 
 To soothe the hour of anxious pain. 
 With ribald jest, and wanton strain ; 
 To cheat the sufferer of a throe, 
 Or deck with smiles the face of woe, 
 By telling some lascivious joke, 
 By prurient Madam loosely spoke — 
 Or some ambiguous word or deed 
 By simple maiden done or said,
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 277 
 
 "WTiich learned wives would turn, the while, 
 To purpose naught, and meaning vile. 
 Rare arts ! which prudent nurse or leech, 
 Must learn, must practise, and must teach ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 AHce, Avho heard the stern behest 
 
 Which ruthless Gorbuc had addressed, 
 
 Now play'd a weU-dissembled part, — 
 
 (No age robs woman of that art ! ) — 
 
 Feign'd look of joy, and cheerful smile 
 
 The gloomy ruffian to beguile. 
 
 And truth to say, her panic now 
 
 "Was much diminished, I trow ; 
 
 For one among the lawless four 
 
 She knew to be the young Fitz-3Iore, 
 
 Son of old ]Mare, 'ycleped the tall, 
 
 And sening man in neighbouring haU. 
 
 At sight of him she grew more bold ; 
 
 " And well," quoth she, " I'm poor and old, 
 
 But what of good I can perform 
 
 God's will I'll do, in spite of storm, 
 
 Or pitch-dark night, or pelting rain, 
 
 Or worse, my old rheumatic pain. 
 
 As Heaven shall judge, I knew yet not — 
 
 Or I had come at first, God wot ! 
 
 But in this lonesome, drear abode, 
 
 Full two good miles from any road. 
 
 How could I tell but robber train 
 
 Might strive an entrance here to gain ? 
 
 And yet, alas ! an' if they came, 
 
 They'd find me old, and poor, and lame,
 
 278 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 Nothing to tempt them ; — tho' in truth, 
 In wrinkled age or blooming youth, 
 Our helpless sex is never safe, 
 From man, whom lust and lechery chafe." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Impatient gesture Gorbuc shewed, 
 
 With mirth the other faces glow'd, 
 
 To hear the mumbling, wither'd dame. 
 
 Talk of her fears from amorous flame. 
 
 But she who saw in Gorbuc's eye, 
 
 A wrathful glare that might defy 
 
 A Heav'n-fraught pencil to express 
 
 In all its fearful sullenness, 
 
 With terror from her bed up-sprung, 
 
 Though still, she could not stop her tongue. 
 
 No wonder that. What art can teach 
 
 To woman modesty of speech ? 
 
 What wight, so lucky, ever caught 
 
 A woman silent when she ought ? 
 
 Alice, with wafture of her hand, 
 
 Now sought to teU the gazing band 
 
 How female decency forbade 
 
 Before their eyes herself to clad : 
 
 She will'd them turn their backs awhile : 
 
 At which e'en Gorbuc deign'd to smile ; 
 
 But still, obedient, wheel' d him round, 
 
 And, with his comrades pac'd the ground. 
 
 The ancient prude then left her bed, 
 
 Drew on her hose, and coiff'd her head. 
 
 And whilst her other parts she dress'd. 
 
 Her various feelings thus express'd : —
 
 or ST. ALBAXS. 279 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Rare doings these ! ah, well-a-day ! 
 Thus some must wojk, and some can play. 
 It was not always thus, I wot, 
 Mlien Alice liv'd in green-wood cot, 
 And husband had — a yeoman stout, 
 Whose arm would try a lusty bout 
 With any mate that dar'd to shew 
 Shght to liis wife — good wife, I trow ! 
 But he beneath the sod is laid, 
 Or it had ne'er for shame been said 
 That Alice Gray was rous'd from bed 
 By those who forc'd her humble shed. 
 Ah ! gentle M^at ! thou'rt in thy grave. 
 And little dream'st that any brave 
 
 Hath quail'd thy widow'd spouse's heart 
 
 'Twoidd almost make thy spectre start 
 Forth from the earth. And sure, in night 
 Like this, thy angry spirit might 
 Wake from its slumbers in the tomb : 
 I almost think it in the room ! 
 But Heaven forefend ! Alice is bold, 
 Though poor, and lame, and very old, 
 She has a conscience pure and clear——" 
 
 A look from Gorbuc rous'd her fear 
 
 Of spotless breast he could not brook to hear. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 By this, the dame had donn'd her clothes, 
 And from the bed-side up she rose, 
 Seeking her cloak of stout grey cloth. 
 To shield her from the tempest's wrath.
 
 280 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 And eke her hat, and polish'd cane, 
 
 That might her feeble steps sustain. 
 
 But now a fearfld rite began, 
 
 And Alice's heart-blood coldly ran, 
 
 As Gorbuc o'er her visage drew 
 
 A sable veil, that hid from view 
 
 Whither she went, or how convey'd : 
 
 Yet she, subdued, no struggle made — 
 
 Nor spoke — nor mov'd — ^but darkling stood, 
 
 Pondering her fate in anxious mood. 
 
 A silent tear, a silent prayer, 
 
 The anguish of her mind declare ; 
 
 And as the horsemen led her forth, 
 
 She deem'd her doom the doom of death. 
 
 With sinewy arm around her waist, 
 
 Gorbuc upon his courser plac'd 
 
 The hood-wink'd dame, bidding her grasp 
 
 His giant trunk, and hold him fast. 
 
 Lest, as the steed like hghtning sped. 
 
 She found some stream or ditch her bed. 
 
 XVII. . 
 
 The meteor, streaming through the sky — 
 The sightless winds, that howling fly — 
 The living light, that darts on earth — 
 Quick as the mind to thought gives birth — 
 The arrow, hissing in its course — 
 The deathful ball's resistless force, — 
 Might all seem emblems of that speed 
 To which stern Gorbuc urg'd his steed ; 
 While, close behind, the horsemen ride. 
 Spurring each courser's gaUed side.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 281 
 
 Through vale, through flood, o'er hill, o'er plain, 
 They rush — they plunge — they dash — they strain : 
 Awed by no peril that may threat, 
 As if above, or chance, or fate. 
 For still the angry storm was loud, 
 And still careering lightnings plow'd 
 
 The dun and starless brow of heaven 
 
 As Chaos once again had striven 
 
 Creation's bland and beauteous frame, 
 
 To make a wreck without a name ; 
 
 And stiU the rattling thunders peal'd 
 
 Along the empyrean field, 
 
 While mingling torrents intervene, 
 
 To close the horror of the scene ! 
 
 Ah me ! poor Alice, silent now. 
 
 To every saint put up a vow. 
 
 Breathing her mental prayers as fast 
 
 As if each moment were her last ; 
 
 And clvmg to Gorbuc's ample vest, 
 
 Obedient to his sage behest. 
 
 To disobey, had been, perforce, 
 
 Th' imskilful rider to unhorse ; 
 
 For ne'er before, had she display'd — 
 
 As wife, as widow, or as maid— 
 
 Her bold dexterity and grace. 
 
 In riding such a furious race. 
 
 ]\Iost gladly, too, would she dispense 
 
 "With her unwish'd-for eminence. 
 
 But that she deemed her guide the devil, 
 
 And held it wisdom to be civil ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 At length—
 
 282 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 Vehan was here interrupted by a long-drawn 
 snore, which resounded throughout the Abbey 
 like the last bray of an ass, just before he be- 
 gins to shut his mouth and drop his ears. It 
 was from the dilapidated nose of Overbury, and 
 hence, probably, (issuing from two such nasal 
 fragments as his nostrils were,) its remark- 
 able quality. He was in a sound sleep ; but what 
 surprised Vehan infinitely more was, that, upon 
 looking round, he discovered they were all in 
 the same situation. He had not observed them 
 before ; for, while endeavouring to recal the 
 words of the poem, he had kept his eyes either 
 half-closed, or directed towards the opposite 
 wall, in order that his attention might not be 
 distracted. 
 
 It would have been impossible to select a 
 man better adapted than Vehan for receiving a 
 slight like this. His indolent nature was too 
 glad of a release, upon any terms, from the 
 labour he had undertaken, to quarrel with the 
 one now offered. He had none of the vanity of 
 an author to be wounded, nor any of that sen- 
 sitive self-esteem, which kindles into offence at
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 283 
 
 the shadow only of a disrespect. He was a be- 
 ing so entirely wrapped in his own contempla- 
 tions, and deriving so very a nothing from the 
 rest of his fellow-creatures, that, had he been 
 bidden to a feast, and on his arrival, found his 
 inviter abroad, at a neighbour's banquet, he 
 would have turned quietly upon his heel, gone 
 musing home again, and dined off a broiled ca- 
 pon from his owti kitchen, without once reflect- 
 ing why he ate alone that day. 
 
 AVTien, therefore, he now looked round upon 
 his slumbering friends, reposing themselves in 
 all the various attitudes of a brief, sitting-up 
 sleep, some with their heads resting on their 
 hands, some thrown back in their chairs, some 
 dropped forwards upon the table, and Over- 
 bury, exactly opposite, spread out like an over- 
 fed boar, which had tumbled on its back into a 
 ditch, while, ever and anon, the walls echoed 
 with his snoring, he merely folded his arms, 
 and followed his imagination to his own world 
 of thickly peopled fancies. Insensibly, however, 
 his dreamy thoughts grew more and more in- 
 distinct, till at last they entirely vanished, and
 
 284 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 he himself sank into sleep, just as he was enter- 
 ing, in idjea, a visionary myrtle grove, and list- 
 ening to the soft melancholy strain of the night- 
 ingale.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 285 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Peverell was the first who awoke. He felt, 
 (or fancied he felt,) a cold, icy hand clasped in 
 his ; and heard, (or fancied he heard,) a low, 
 gentle voice, breathing in his ear the words of 
 Fitz-Maurice's letter: "nine shall become twelve 
 ere ten go;"" and then, exclaiming in a louder 
 tonC;, " Depart !'' 
 
 He started from his slumber. At that mo- 
 ment the Abbey bell went twelve, which roused 
 them all. 
 
 " ' Rare doings these — ah, well-a-day, 
 
 Thus some must work and some can play,' " 
 
 exclaimed De Clare — '' go on, go on— what 
 
 does she say next ?'
 
 286 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 " Rare doings r said Mortimer ; " I think 
 they are rare doings, indeed ! By my veracity, 
 thou hast been asleep. Why, Alice had got out 
 of bed and dressed herself. 
 
 " ' By this, the dame had donn'd her clothes.' 
 Proceed — an excellent ballad, by my faith ; I 
 am desperate in my curiosity to know what fol- 
 lowed.'' 
 
 " By your leave," observed Owen Rees, 
 " you have been asleep, mark you. The poor 
 old creature had set out on horseback behind 
 Gorbuc, holding him fast, 
 
 '' ' Lest, as the steed, like lightning sped, 
 She found some stream or ditch her bed.' " 
 
 " Ha ! ha !" roared Overbury, " I am the 
 only true man among you. May I never walk 
 the deck of my pinnace again, or smell salt 
 water, if I did not count ye all, like so many 
 carrion sheep dead of the rot, while Vehan 
 was thus going on, — ' The meteor — the living 
 light — quick as the mind — like old chaos — 
 making a v/reck without a name — ' And there 
 he left off, just now, as the clock struck
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 287 
 
 ten, and I was waiting to hear the name of 
 
 the ship that was wrecked." 
 
 " Lord ! Lord !" exclaimed mine host, in a 
 
 half whisper to Vehan, '' how a man may be 
 
 mistaken ! It is not a minute since, that I filled 
 
 this cup with canary, and drank it off, while 
 
 you were telling of 
 
 " ' Some lascivious jokcj 
 By purient madam, loosely spoke." ' 
 
 and I have been cudgelling my brains to 
 think what the joke was.'' 
 
 " This is excellent !" observed De Clare. 
 " What say you, Vehan.'* 
 
 " That you have all been asleep," he re- 
 plied. " But at what particular moment each 
 closed his eyes, I know not ; for it was not till 
 the nose of the worthy gentleman opposite, sent 
 forth a sound which might have been heard at 
 Dunstable, that I was aware I had so desired 
 an audience. He did me a kind office, I assure 
 you, for I was weary, and I thank him for it. 
 You know my humour," he continued. '' I forth- 
 with resigned myself to meditation, and did 
 not mean, at any rate, to distiurb you till I 
 heard the eleventh hour strike."
 
 288 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 " This is a strange affair," said Walwyn, 
 " it seems we have all been asleep, and 
 yet, for mine own part, I can most truly 
 affirm I recollect neither going to sleep nor 
 waking."" 
 
 " As little do I,*" observed Hoskyns ; " and 
 were it not that the fact must be so, from what 
 appears, I should be ready to swear that / 
 have never once closed my eyes, no, nor my 
 ears, for — and pray indulge me thus far — I ask 
 Vehan, upon the faith of a gentleman, to de- 
 clare whether he had got further than the 
 ghost of Alice Gray's husband coming into the 
 room and addressing Gorbuc ?'"* 
 
 "I certainly had not,'' said Vehan, smiling, — 
 
 " There," interrupted Hoskyns ; " now tell 
 me again, an' you have the face to do so, that 
 I am such a moon-calf as not to know when 
 I have been asleep." 
 
 " I certainly had not," repeated Vehan, 
 " gone further than the ghost you speak of; 
 and as certainly, not so far, for there was no 
 ghost ; but most certainly much further than 
 the description of Alice's half expectation that
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 289 
 
 the spectre of her husband might ' wake from 
 its slumbers in the tomb." "* 
 
 The countenance of Hoskyns fell, as he 
 listened to this sentence of conviction from the 
 lips of Vehan, and he exclaimed, '^ Well ! 
 after this, I'll believe a man may go to bed, and 
 get up the next morning with a headache, for 
 want of lying down all night." 
 
 Peverell had been silent and thoughtful 
 during the whole of this conversation. He, like 
 the rest, could have declared^ his own uncon- 
 sciousness of sleep ; but, unlike the rest, as it 
 appeared, he had been awakened by some mys- 
 terious agency. The icy hand, and breathing 
 voice, were realities to his mind, which he doubt- 
 ed, as little, as that the body of Wilkinson had 
 been changed from the position in which they 
 left it, but which he was also as little able to 
 explain. Like that occurrence, however, he 
 determined that the present one should remain, 
 for a season at least, a secret within his own 
 bosom. 
 
 " That we have not been watchers tc-night,'' 
 said he, '' admits of no dispute; but I cannot 
 VOL. I. o
 
 290 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 allow you to escape," he continued, addressing 
 Vehan. '- You, forsooth, did not mean to dis- 
 turb us till the eleventh hour — you, who were 
 buried in your own waking thoughts. It so 
 chances, however, that the last hour which 
 struck was twelve.'*' 
 
 " Twelve !" exclaimed Lacy. 
 " Aye, even so," replied Peverell : " for I, 
 who had been no more a watcher than your- 
 selves, awoke but a minute before the clock 
 went, and counted the hours." 
 
 '' This is more strange still," observed De 
 Clare. " To have slept at all, when we con- 
 sider the cause of our coming hither, may well 
 surprise us; but to have slept so long, and 
 slept unconsciously, betoken other influences, 
 almost, than those of nature merely." 
 
 " There is one," said Overbury, pointing to 
 Clayton, '• who has outslept us all, by half an 
 hour. You had better rouse him," he continued, 
 addressing himself to Mortimer, who sat by his 
 side, " and let us see whether he, too, when he 
 opens his eyes, will swear they have not been 
 shut."
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 291 
 
 Clayton was leaning back in his chair, with 
 his hands dropped upon his lap, and looked 
 like a man who had fallen into a sweet sleep, 
 after much fatigue ; a sleep which you would 
 have sworn must refresh his wearied spirit. 
 Mortimer gently shook him. 
 
 " Oh, leave him alone/' said Peverell ; "hell 
 wake anon ; and I am sure if he had his choice, 
 it would be to sleep till we are prepared to 
 
 go-" 
 
 " And are we not prepared ."'" asked Wal- 
 wyn. 
 
 *' In truth," observed De Clare, "this is a 
 most lame conclusion, to a beginning of far 
 different promise. "We were to have signs. 
 Where are they ? We more than hoped that 
 the riddle of Fitz-Maurice's letter would here be 
 expounded, in part, or in whole. It is not ! 
 What have we done ? Betook ourselves to this 
 place like geese, and gone to sleep like the 
 hedge-hog. Then comes twelve, and, like mid- 
 night roysterers, we steal home to our beds, to 
 be laughed at immoderately to-morrow, by all 
 the simple townsmen of the place. However, 
 o 2
 
 292 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 e'en let us depart. The shortest follies a man 
 commits are ever the best ; and each minute we 
 now stay will only make ours the longer."" 
 
 " How different from last night !'"* exclaimed 
 Lacy. 
 
 " Yes ; last night," replied De Clare, " was a 
 trial for men, but this has been a bauble for 
 children. Wake that sleeping man, and let us 
 hence." 
 
 " And do you not," said Peverell, " read in 
 last night'*s page, something that should make 
 you willing to turn over another leaf .^" 
 
 " We have done so," answered De Clare, 
 " and what have we found ? Nothing ! except 
 indeed, the choice ballad of Vehan," he con- 
 tinued, laughing, " which we had not the cour- 
 tesy to hear to its conclusion." 
 
 '* What," replied Peverell, *' was your own 
 sentiment but now.^ To have slept so long^ 
 and slept tmconsciously^ betoken other injlii- 
 ences, almost, than those of nature merely^ 
 Have you forgotten .5^" 
 
 " No, I have not forgotten," said De Clare ; 
 ^' but wherefore have these things been ? To 
 make us, as it would seem, the fools of our
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 293 
 
 senses last night, and of our too credulous 
 fancies, this." 
 
 *' Ha ! ha !" exclaimed Overbury, " said I 
 not so, three hours since ? Said I not we 
 were juggled, when the chimes went nine ? Said 
 I not, this, holding up a cup of ^nne as I now 
 do, and drinking it off, as I mean to do, was 
 the best sign we should see to night ? Ah !"' he 
 continued, smacking his lips, "fill me with 
 such liquor as this, and a fig for the devil ! 
 for the devil a fig care I." 
 
 The words of Overbury were repeated, but 
 in the following form, by a voice which seemed 
 to proceed from one sitting at the table. 
 
 ** Give me liquor like this— 
 Give me liquor like this — 
 
 And a fig for the devil, 
 
 A fig for the devil, 
 For the devO a fig cate I." 
 
 " Why how now ?" said Overbury. " You 
 have made a song of me. Bravo ! sing it again, 
 if you please. Master Hoskyns." 
 
 " I sung not,"' said Hoskyns ; " it was your- 
 self, or mine host here."
 
 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 " I protest !" exclaimed John Wintour, " I 
 never opened my lips : besides, I have no note 
 in my voice." 
 
 " I sing !" roared forth Overbury. ^' When the 
 winds blow from the four quarters at once, and 
 the wav€s lash themselves into bellowing, call 
 that a lullaby, an' you catch a song out of my 
 throat. But it was delicately sung, and I 
 could cry to hear it again." 
 
 Again the words were repeated ! Overbury 
 stared. He looked at every one, to see if he 
 could discover the minstrel. 
 
 '^ Some one here," quoth he, when it ceased, 
 '^ hath gotten a mouth in his belly. I heard 
 such a monster once, when I was a captive in 
 Algiers — he would talk with himself — that is 
 his other self— out o' the window, and sometimes 
 down in the cellar, or in the garden ; there were 
 two voices, and one man ; he was our captain, 
 our task master, and would threaten us with 
 the bastinado in his natural voice, and laugh, 
 while we had it. with that in his belly. ?^ut I 
 never heard the like since till now." 
 
 '' Be still)" said De Clare.
 
 OF ST, ALBANS. 295 
 
 " Aye, marry," replied Overbury ; ^' but I 
 see how it is : yonder is double throat, as we 
 used to call Selim,"" he continued, pointing to 
 Clayton, " who mocks sleep to mock us. Do 
 whisper in his ear, and bid him try it once 
 more." 
 
 . '* I pray you be still," repeated De Clare ; 
 and then, addressing himself to Peverell, " me- 
 thinks," said he, " here is another leaf turned 
 over." 
 
 '• Yes," interposed Lacy ; " but this is a 
 jovial, merry devil, at any rate." 
 
 '* By my faith," observed Mortimer, " I was 
 never more amazed, than when I heard the 
 rough speech of our companion, given back in 
 such a joyous and trilling descant." 
 
 "It can hardly be the delusion of our ears," 
 said Peverell. '^ Besides, we heard it twice. 
 Or, can it be the echo within these walls .^" 
 
 " Echo !■' exclaimed De Clare. '• If this be 
 an echo, I'll strain my lungs to a plain question 
 in English, and look to be answered in Hebrew. 
 No, no, it is no echo. But, that it may be a 
 trick, I am ready to grant ; for J have myself
 
 296 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 known men gifted with the strange faculty of 
 speaking with a second voice, issuing certainly 
 from their in sides, and yet seeming to proceed, 
 most fantastically, from wheresoever they list 
 it should come. Whether any of us be so pro- 
 vided, it lies not in my power to say, beyond 
 this, that I certainly am not.'^ 
 
 A similar declaration would doubtless have 
 been made by all the rest, but their attention 
 was now drawn towards Clayton, whom Morti- 
 mer was endeavouring to wake. He shook him 
 lustily, spoke to him, and almost pulled him 
 from his seat ; but every effort to rouse him 
 appeared fruitless : he still slept on. 
 
 " Awake, man !" said Peverell, taking hold 
 of his hand, and shaking it with violence enough 
 almost to have separated the arm from the body ; 
 *' awake ! we are about to depart !" 
 
 It was in vain. Yet he seemed but as one 
 sleeping. His cheeks and lips kept their natural 
 colour, and his hands were warm. 
 
 "He has fallen into a fit, I think," said 
 Walwyn. 
 
 Renewed endeavours were made to restore
 
 or ST. ALBANS, 297 
 
 him. His vest was thrown open ; his apparel 
 loosened, wherever it appeared to press t{X) 
 tightly upon the circulation of the blood ; his 
 temples chafed with such stimulants as were at 
 hand, and his head kept erect. But he re- 
 mained in the same apparently lifeless con- 
 dition. 
 
 ** If it were not for his looks," observed De 
 Clare, " I should conclude he was apoplexed, 
 or had been seized with epilepsy ; — but it can 
 be neither, for his features are as calm and as 
 undisturbed, as though he were in a profound 
 sleep." 
 
 " Hold this to his lips,^^ said Mortimer, draw- 
 ing from his pocket a small mJrrcr, set in ivory : 
 " it will shew if he breathe or not." 
 
 De Clare took the toy from the hands of ]Mor- 
 timer, with a contemptuous smile at so manifest 
 a display of foppery. He held it for some mi- 
 nutes to the mouth of Clayton ; but not a breath 
 sullied its clear brightness. 
 
 " I have never seen, but I have heard of 
 persons,"*' said Walwyn, " in a trance ; — surely 
 this is one."* 
 
 o 3
 
 298 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 '' If SO,**' observed Vehan, " and it hath all 
 the outward appearance of it, he should be 
 forthwith removed to a warm bed, and there 
 watched night and day, for the first glimmer 
 of returning sense." 
 
 Peverell was exceedingly afflicted at the condi- 
 tion of his friend. He still held his hand, which 
 seemed to grow cold within his, feeling almost 
 like that icy one with whose freezing pressure 
 he had awakened. Yet he believed not he was 
 dead. That thought never once crossed his mind. 
 He considered it a fit of some kind, and tried 
 to recollect, but in vain, whether he had ever 
 heard Clayton, or his wife, mention his having 
 been subject to such a malady. 
 
 " It is cruel to linger here another moment," 
 said De Clare, " when, for aught we know, 
 this man's life depends upon instant aid." 
 
 " But how shall we be able to remove him," 
 observed Mortimer, " at an hour like this .?" 
 
 " How .^" exclaimed De Clare, indignantly ; 
 *' are we not ten ? And which among us is too 
 delicate to assist in an office of so much hu- 
 manity .?"
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 299 
 
 " Are we not ten .^" repeated Peverell — 
 " aye, ten ! Can this be it ?'' 
 
 De Clare started. He fixed his eyes upon 
 Peverell. '• By Heaven!"* said he, " I could 
 almost persuade myself it is so. Nine shall 
 become twelve^ ere ten go. Nine has become 
 twelve, and here are te7i about to go !'' 
 
 " I hardly blame you," observed Walwyn, 
 " that you thus enslave your better judgment 
 to an idle fancy : but, in the name of that Hea- 
 ven to which you have appealed, I call upon 
 you to reflect for a moment. Here is a man — '' 
 
 " Peace !" interrupted De Clare. " We shall 
 find another time to confer upon this ; and to 
 show you I stood not in need of your rebvike, I 
 stop your speech simply because I am of firm 
 belief that this man lives, and that we are play- 
 ing with his life most barbarously." 
 
 Peverell now suggested that it would be 
 better he should precede them, and prepare 
 Clayton's wife for a scene which could not but 
 be a severe trial of her feelings. 
 
 This was assented to by all, and Peverell left 
 the Abbey. When he went out, he found only
 
 300 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 a few persons assembled, as compared with 
 those of the preceding night. It was scarcely 
 known, indeed, that any watch was to be kept : 
 and as there were no appearances outside, the 
 few who had collected began to disperse shortly 
 after twelve. When, however, they saw Pe- 
 verell come forth alone, they were somewhat 
 puzzled. They judged, from his hasty man- 
 ner, that something had occurred, though they 
 knew not what. But their suspense was soon 
 at an end ; for scarcely ten minutes elapsed 
 before they beheld the rest emerging slowly 
 from the Abbey, and bearing Clayton in a 
 chair. 
 
 Peverell found Dame Clayton up, and look- 
 ing as wives are apt to do, when they are kept 
 out of their beds beyond midnight, by the neg- 
 lectful absence of their husbands. She proba- 
 bly thought it was her husband, and (not having 
 the fear of the cucking-stool before her eyes) 
 was prepared with a greeting, which had 
 been ready for him a good hour or twain. But 
 when she perceived Peverell only, her counte-
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 301 
 
 nance suddenly ch^nged^ from that of a scold- 
 ing wife to a quarrelsome woman. 
 
 *' You are well encountered !'' quoth she ; 
 " and save me a trouble which I had laid up 
 for the morning ; when I intended to ask you, 
 an' you are not ashamed of yourself, thus to lead 
 an honest man astray ?''^ 
 
 " Stay your tongue, good housewife," said 
 Peverell ; " this is no time for brawling.'"* 
 
 " Xo, marry ,^ interrupted the dame ; " it is 
 no time for anything that I wot of, save being 
 in bed and asleep. But where is the simpleton, 
 after his second fool's frolic ?'" 
 
 '* He has fallen suddenly ill," replied Peve- 
 rell. 
 
 " 111 !" exclaimed she. " Now, ill befal thee, 
 for thy part in his malady, whatever it be. How, 
 ill ? The cholic, I dare be sworn I pinched 
 with a griping cholic, from that cold, dank 
 place. I'll go warm a yard of new flannel, and 
 toss up a comfortable posset for his bowels, that 
 he may take i' bed ; or I shall have no wink 
 o' sleep to-night, with his grumblings.'' 
 
 '' Stay," said Peverell, as Dame Clayton was
 
 302 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 hurrying away. " Has my friend Hugh ever 
 been subject to fits ?" 
 
 " Fits V replied the dame, " not he ! He 
 was once brought home dead from the corpo- 
 ration dinner ; but he got better of that, and 
 never had a fit in his life."" 
 
 " How, dead ?'' inquired Peverell. 
 
 '' I mean — why I don't mean he was stark, 
 he was alive afterwards — only he could not 
 speak — no nor move ; — no, nor didn't speak nor 
 move, nor hardly breathed, for, I believe, the 
 better part of a day and night, as I remember, 
 now you mention it : — but what of this ?" 
 
 " Why, I do fear," said Peverell, greatly 
 relieved by this communication^ '' that he has 
 been seized to-night with another of these 
 swoonings." 
 
 " Now the Lord comfort me !" she exclaimed, 
 " what have you been doing with him ?" 
 
 Peverell was about to reply, when he saw 
 those whom he had left in the Abbey approach- 
 ing. 
 
 "Here he is f said he, *' and be not dis- 
 tressed, for he will soon recover, I doubt not.""
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 303 
 
 At this moment they arrived. They had 
 contrived to convey Clayton in the chair in 
 which he had sat, without altering his position, 
 so that he still looked as if he were only sleep- 
 ing. His wife, indeed, deemed it no more at 
 first, and began to mutter something about 
 being, " in a fit of too much drink C\ but when 
 she perceived how calm and motionless he was, 
 and, that to all appearance he breathed not, she 
 changed to sobbing and lamentation. 
 
 " Your tears," said De Clare, '• will not do 
 this man half so much good as the instant aid 
 of the doctor. Dry them up, therefore, and go 
 fetch one."' 
 
 Mistress Clayton looked at De Clare, as 
 though she felt a strong inclination to dispute 
 this peremptory interference with her prerogative 
 of crying ; but she held her tongue. 
 
 " A skilful leech lives hard by," said mine 
 host, " and Til rouse him. Master Simcox hath 
 had good practice in his time, and breathes a 
 vein while another man is thinking on't." 
 
 He set off', and in less than ten minutes re- 
 turned with Peter Simcox, who no sooner be-
 
 304 X THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 held Cla}'ton, than he gathered up his mouth, 
 looked unutterable dismay, and shook his head 
 with becoming gravity. He felt Clayton's pulse, 
 and cried, " Humph !"' — Lifted up his eye-lids 
 to examine the eyes, and said, " Ah ! ah ! "" — 
 Put his hand upon his heart, and exclaimed, 
 " Oh, oh !'' Then looking at those who were 
 standing round, he shook his head again, with 
 a most determined foreboding of the worst. 
 
 '' Well, Sir,'"* said Peverell, " what is your 
 opinion .?"" 
 
 " That he is grievously sick," replied Peter 
 Simcox. 
 
 " We could have sent you word to that 
 effect," observed De Clare, " and not troubled 
 you to leave your bed, to come here and tell us 
 only that." 
 
 " Moreover," continued Peter Simcox, " his 
 life is in peril — in marvellous great jeopardy." 
 
 " Oh, my poor dear husband !" exclaimed 
 Mistress Clayton, '^ my sweet Hugh, open your 
 eyes and speak to me. Oh ! oh ! oh !" — Then 
 turning to the doctor, ** Am I wife, or a widow, 
 gentle Sir .^" she continued.
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 305 
 
 " As I should judge," replied Peter Simcox, 
 " you stand between the two conditions ; even 
 as your good man here, is poised, as I might 
 say, 'tmxt heaven and earth, like the suspended 
 coffin of the Prophet." 
 
 " Woe worth the time," ejaculated the dame, 
 '' that ever he deemed it of profit to suspend 
 his honest calling, and go fiend-hunting to 
 yonder Abbey !" 
 
 " What should be done with liim .^" inquired 
 Peverell. 
 
 " That appertaineth to me to perform, rather 
 than to expound," replied Peter Simcox. " And 
 that I may perform, I crave of you all. forth- 
 with, to void the chamber. He requireth much 
 quietness, and free air — ergo, we should be 
 alone. Leave him to me, and his disconsolate 
 spouse ; and my utmost art shall not be want- 
 ing to vanquish the enemy that now layeth so 
 close siege to his life." 
 
 This intimation was sufficient. They retired 
 immediately, and directed their steps towards 
 Lacy's house. Peverell was somewhat com- 
 forted by the declaration of Mistress Clayton,
 
 306 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 that his friend, who had once before been in 
 the like danger, recovered ; and he mentioned 
 this as they walked along. 
 
 When they arrived at Lacy's, their discourse 
 naturally turned upon the occurrences of the 
 last two hours, and it was easy to perceive a 
 growing distaste in nearly all of them, except 
 Peverell and Overbury, (the latter acting from 
 a merely brute ferocity of character), to the 
 further prosecution of this business. The feel- 
 ing that seemed to predominate, was not so 
 much one of fear, as of vexation ; an irritable 
 consciousness that they were accomplishing 
 nothing by their submission to mysterious influ- 
 ence, or their observance of apparently super- 
 natural commands. Their curiosity had been 
 inflamed — their excited spirits brought into 
 action — their proceedings reduced almost to a 
 specific form and character, but to what end F 
 No one thing had occurred that held out a defi- 
 nite or intelligible motive for going on. When, 
 therefore, Peverell vaguely adverted to what 
 was yet to come, and spoke of their next night's 
 watching, De Clare expressed himself vehe-
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 30? 
 
 mently against repeating their visit to the 
 Abbey. 
 
 " I, for one," said he, " declare freely, that 
 here I renounce the enterprise ; or, at least, (so 
 to qualify my abjuration), till I have some 
 fresh and better incentive thereto, than any that 
 now prevails in me."" 
 
 " I am much of your thinking," observed 
 Walwyn. "It hath rarely chanced, in my 
 life, that I have ever taken the first step in 
 any thing, where I could not see, or believed 
 I could, the last. Here, however, I may be 
 said to have taken many steps, and not only the 
 last is hidden from me, but I have no certain 
 knowledge whether my very next should be 
 to the right or to the left. It is like walking 
 blindfold among pit-falls ; which he who does, 
 for he cannot choose, is to be pitied ; but he 
 who shuts his eyes, witK folly aforethought, 
 and commits himself to so perilous an adventure, 
 is a fool, to be pitied only for that he is one." 
 
 " Nay," quoth Mortimer, addressing Wal- 
 wyn, " if you be purblind in this business,
 
 308 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 what am I to do, who profess myself a natural 
 blinkard in such things, if not whole blind ?" 
 
 «f Why," replied De Clare, (who, were he in 
 the last agony, must have shot his bolt at 
 Mortimer, though he had gasped out life in 
 the doing of it), " I'll tell you what you are 
 to do ; fulfil the Scriptures in the only way 
 thou canst, by seeing a straw in another man's 
 eye, though you cannot see the block in your 
 own." 
 
 " You practise what you teach," retorted 
 Mortimer coldly ; " and would do so, I'll be 
 sworn, were your precept the affirmative of 
 the sixth commandment." 
 
 This was one of the few dextrous replications 
 which the gall of De Clare sometimes stung 
 out of Mortimer. De Clare felt it ; but before 
 he could throw back the recoil of his own bit- 
 terness, Lacy spoke. 
 
 " I am a soldier," said he, " and the dis- 
 cipline of the wars has ever taught me to go 
 through with an enterprize. I like not the 
 shewing of the back, except when an enemy
 
 OF ST. ALBAXS. 309 
 
 does it. Stand still, or go on ; but go on, 
 when you have once moved. Yet, soldier as I 
 am, and thus disciplined as I proclaim myself, 
 I must stipulate for one thing — a foeman, a 
 reason why I should advance, though it be 
 but a dismantled battery which stares me i' 
 the face, and would only mock my capture of 
 it. But confound me if I can see any thing 
 in this undertaking, beyond the mayor^s \vines 
 and viands — wonders to stare at when we are 
 awake, and sleep to deny after we are awake.'' 
 
 " That is just it," observed De Clare. "' We 
 are playing with shadows, trying to gather 
 moonbeams, or catch the lightning's flash ; a 
 fit occupation for a day-dreamer like Vehan, 
 but too volatile and unsubstantial for men who 
 count the hours they live, by what they do." 
 
 " And yet do nothing that is worth the 
 counting," added "N'ehan. *' Day-dreams are 
 oft-times better than day deeds ; and it were 
 well for some men, if they only dreamed of that 
 which they are fated to perform." 
 
 *' Well,'" said Hungerford Hoskyns, " I am 
 he that will eiiher go on or stand still, though
 
 310 THE FIVE NIGHTS 
 
 no soldier; but having, as you see, the two 
 elements of a right good one. I have been 
 frightened, I confess it ; and I have been forced 
 to grant that I slept with my eyes open, and my 
 senses awake ; but determine in this matter, as 
 may please yourselves, and it shall please me. 
 Go again, and I go with you ; stay away, and 
 I'll creep to my bed in reasonable hours, as I 
 have been wont ; or take daylight for your 
 inquest, and I'll be up with the sun." 
 
 " In other words," rejoined De Clare, laugh- 
 ing, " you are like the hungry fool i' the inter- 
 lude — always ready to fall to, whatever is set 
 before you." 
 
 " Yes," answered Hoskyns, gaily, "as the 
 bell clinketh, so the fool thinketh : you may 
 make the application." 
 
 Peverell had hitherto remained silent. He 
 now addressed them. 
 
 '' Or I am greatly mistaken," said he, " or 
 you will soon see cause to alter your present 
 resolves. How, or when, or where, that cause 
 is to shew itself, I pretend not to know ; but 
 that it will shew itself, is a conviction on my
 
 OF ST. ALBANS. 311 
 
 mind, scarcely, if at all, less strong, than that 
 of my now standing here. I read not this thing 
 by parts, but in the whole ; and in the whole, 
 I perceive consequences that must be unra- 
 velled. I am content, however, to follow the 
 general voice. Let it be, that we here pause. 
 We shall not be many hours nearer to our 
 graves, before the advent of some circumstance 
 or other shall determine us again to proceed." 
 
 " It is that circumstance, whateVr it be,'' 
 replied De Clare, *' which I lack ; and for my 
 single self, I re-affirm that I will not be made 
 an idle shew of, for men to gaze and point the 
 finger at ; as one who placed the cap and bells 
 upon his own head, and carried his bauble with 
 a proud heart, for grinning mockery to make 
 sport with." 
 
 " Well, then," said Walwyn, *' it is agreed, 
 not that we forswear for aye, but that we sus- 
 pend for awhile, all further proceeding in this 
 business ; in short, that we do nothing, till we 
 discern, more clearly than we now can. what it 
 is we have to do."
 
 312 THE FIVE NIGHTS OF ST. ALBANS. 
 
 " Exactly so," replied De Clare ; to which 
 Peverell signifying his assent, they all de- 
 parted. 
 
 END OF I'OL. I. 
 
 SHACKELL AND BAYLIS, JOHNSON's COURT, LONDON. 
 
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