ring and lasting curse upon its innocent head, and
through it transfixed its mother's heart. If you had complied with that
poor girl's request, I would have forgiven you your wrong to me, and
have saved you."

There was a long, fearful silence. At last Demdike advanced to the
abbot, and, seizing his arm, fixed his eyes upon him, as if to search
into his soul.

"Answer me, John Paslew!" he cried; "answer me, as you shall speedily
answer your Maker. Can that malediction be recalled? Dare not to trifle
with me, or I will tear forth your black heart, and cast it in your
face. Can that curse be recalled? Speak!"

"It cannot," replied the abbot, half dead with terror.

"Away, then!" thundered Demdike, casting him from him. "To the
gallows!--to the gallows!" And he rushed out of the room.

CHAPTER VII.--THE ABBEY MILL.

For a while the abbot remained shattered and stupefied by this terrible
interview. At length he arose, and made his way, he scarce knew how, to
the oratory. But it was long before the tumult of his thoughts could be
at all allayed, and he had only just regained something like composure
when he was disturbed by hearing a slight sound in the adjoining
chamber. A mortal chill came over him, for he thought it might be
Demdike returned. Presently, he distinguished a footstep stealthily
approaching him, and almost hoped that the wizard would consummate his
vengeance by taking his life. But he was quickly undeceived, for a hand
was placed on his shoulder, and a friendly voice whispered in his ears,
"Cum along wi' meh, lort abbut. Get up, quick--quick!"

Thus addressed, the abbot raised his eyes, and beheld a rustic figure
standing beside him, divested of his clouted shoes, and armed with a
long bare wood-knife.

"Dunna yo knoa me, lort abbut?" cried the person. "Ey'm a freent--Hal o'
Nabs, o' Wiswall. Yo'n moind Wiswall, yeawr own birthplace, abbut? Dunna
be feert, ey sey. Ey'n getten a steigh clapt to yon windaw, an' you con
be down it i' a trice--an' along t' covert way be t' river soide to t'
mill."

But the abbot stirred not.

"Quick! quick!" implored Hal o' Nabs, venturing to pluck the abbot's
sleeve. "Every minute's precious. Dunna be feert. Ebil Croft, t' miller,
is below. Poor Cuthbert Ashbead would ha' been here i'stead o' meh if he
couldn; boh that accursed wizard, Nick Demdike, turned my hont agen him,
an' drove t' poike head intended for himself into poor Cuthbert's side.
They clapt me