Although Dame Shedlock had fully explained to Zedekiah and Abigail the mystery of Sir Walter Raleigh’s pipe, it must not be supposed that those two individuals were satisfied, by this unsupported testimony of their mistress, that the said pipe was merely a harmless source of recreation, and no way allied to the powers and elements of the infernal regions. They forbore to alarm the neighbourhood, and, to the eye of their mistress, appeared to award her explanation implicit credence; but their belief that the pipe was Sir Walter’s familiar demon, by means of which he corresponded with Lucifer, was unshaken, and too firmly rooted in their minds to be easily removed.

Zedekiah, indeed, did not care much, after his first fright had subsided, whether it were true or not, so long as he was beyond Sir Walter’s reach; but Abigail’s horror of the Evil One was more inveterate. No sooner had Dame Shedlock retired, than she made Zedekiah sensible, by a few hurried words, how deeply this horror was now moving her, and implored him to lend his aid towards blocking the Enemy out. There was but one way, in her opinion, in which the blocking out could be effected; and this was by procuring a horseshoe, and nailing it, with the fore-part upwards, on the outside of the kitchen-door. Without ever having been suspected of sorcery, she had the reputation of being deeply versed in the science of charms, as her whole life, in private, was one uninterrupted precaution against bad luck and witches; and, therefore, Zedekiah readily believed that this contrivance would be fully adequate to the purpose in view, and constitute a barrier that the devil could not pass. There was one bar to its success, however, that he thought calculated to cause them some inconvenience; and this was, that they had no horseshoe.

“Be that all thou canst say?” asked Abigail, in answer to this objection of the man-of-all-work. “Doth thy horse run barefoot, then?”

“Scoff not, woman!” replied Zedekiah; “for the beast hath in nothing offended thee. Verily, he is shod complete.”

“Then, we will straight unshoe him,” returned Abigail. “Better a lazy beast should go barefoot, than harm should come to any Christian folk.”

This, however, was a proposition that Zedekiah would not concur in; and it required all the arguments that Abigail could muster, independent of a forcible and highly-coloured representation of the danger that threatened them, and which might be so easily averted, before he would engage to carry it into effect. Even when he did give a reluctant consent, he had nearly marred all, in Abigail’s estimation, by setting forward for the stable with his right foot, instead of taking the first step with his left. This mistake brought them to a stand, and, in order to render it of no effect, it became necessary, according to the rules which Abigail followed, that they should turn round three times, and then set forward anew. Having made these gyrations, they prepared to proceed, Zedekiah going first, and Abigail following with the poker.

Moving along in this order, they had just gained the kitchen-door, when a loud crack, like the report of a pistol, which came on them from their rear, brought them both to a halt. The report emanated from the fire, and was caused by a large log of wood, which had been for some time consuming, splitting in twain, and discharging a small fragment into the middle of the room. Some people would have considered this a natural consequence of the wood splitting, and would have had no notion, in their views of cause and effect, that it could refer to, or foretoken, a coming event; but, fortunately for her design, Abigail was not so simple. She knew well, from a long experience of such matters, that it portended something of moment, and, therefore, directly she became aware that the noise emanated from the fire, and that it had been caused in the manner described, she hastened to gain possession of the small fragment of wood which had been shot forth.

It was lying in the middle of the room, and seemed, on a cursory view, to be of a shape perfectly unmeaning, and to have no resemblance to any one thing in the whole world. Abigail, however, did not view it with ordinary eyes, and she quickly discerned that its shape was but too indicant of its melancholy import.

“Woe’s me!” she exclaimed: “’tis a coffin!”

“A coffin!” cried Zedekiah, in ecstasy. “Is’t for me?”

“By cock and pie, I think it be!” answered Abigail, very willing to take the impending calamity off herself.

Zedekiah, far from being dejected, was quite elated by the prospect thus opened, and received the reputed coffin from Abigail with the greatest eagerness.

“I am to be at Cummer Griffin’s burying to-day,” he said. “What a goodly corpse the cummer makes!”

And here, to explain this morbid disposition of Zedekiah, it may be observed, that that worthy considered everything that related to coffins and funerals, in what shape soever it might present itself, as one of the most fruitful sources of human enjoyment. Some people might think a bridal, or a christening, in which all is life and festivity, worthy of attention; but Zedekiah’s object of desire was a burial. Many would have preferred to pass the summer evenings in the green fields, where, if the weather served, every object looked fresh and cheerful, and the air was laden with fragrance; but Zedekiah, with a singular constancy, took his walks in the churchyard, and recreated himself among the tombs. He could tell the date of every death in the neighbourhood for a whole age; and could repeat literally, at a moment’s warning, the epitaph and inscription on any given tomb. He attended every funeral for miles round; and though, by his own account, he had never yet had the happiness to officiate as chief mourner, he always held a conspicuous and prominent place in the procession, and was considered as indispensable at a decent interment as the undertaker himself.

These circumstances being borne in mind, it will be readily imagined, on a closer glance at his character, that Zedekiah looked forward to the funeral of Cummer Griffin with no small degree of pleasure. Abigail, however, having a mortal horror of death, did not participate in this feeling, and she replied to Zedekiah’s remarks in a tone of some asperity.

“What a pestilent din dost thou make o’ this burying!” she said. “Thou’dst like all the world to die, so thou mightst but see them buried. But let us to our work, or the Evil One, mayhap, will be upon us anon, and lead us some other dance.”

“Art advised that the horseshoe will keep him out?” inquired Zedekiah.

“Ay, and conjure him into the Red Sea, too,” answered Abigail. “But, go to! Let us about it!”

Zedekiah acquiesced, and, without more ado, they set forward, taking care to put out the left foot first. They passed along unmolested, and, in due time, reached the stable, where Dobbin—by which humble name the Rosinante-looking steed described in a former chapter was known—was lodged.

Abigail, pursuant to a concerted understanding, stood on sentry without, with the poker clutched tightly in her hand, while Zedekiah proceeded to bring Dobbin forth. That patient beast passively submitted to his hand, and he was brought out, unconscious of his doom, to undergo the operation that Abigail had suggested.

“Be wary now, Zedekiah,” remarked Abigail, at this juncture; “for the demon, thou mayst be sure, will be well on his guard. Do thou look to Dobbin, and I will keep watch against harm.”

“I begin to be marvellously afeard,” replied Zedekiah, in a tremulous voice. “I would the demon were well in the Red Sea.”

But there was, he knew, no hope of the demon absconding, or being transported to the remote locality alluded to, until the horseshoe should be fixed on the kitchen-door; and therefore, trusting that Abigail would not fail to keep a good watch, he proceeded to take the preliminary and foremost step in this great undertaking.

Turning his face towards the back of Abigail, a pace or two in her rear, he lowered his head to a level with her waist; and, drawing one of the hind legs of Dobbin between his own legs, raised it up, with the foot uppermost, so as to view the shoe. Meantime, Abigail, with commendable caution, swung her poker round, on either side, as far as her arm would reach, and this rendered any intrusion of the demon almost an impossibility. But how can mortals, however skilled in charms, expect to be able to cope with demons? The very precaution which, in the simplicity of her nature, Abigail considered inductive to success, and a bar to every demoniacal approach, was destined to be the engine of their overthrow. While the trembling Zedekiah was yet surveying Dobbin’s shoe, preparatory to commencing operations, Abigail, in swinging round the poker, dealt the poor horse a tremendous blow in the ribs, and let the poker rebound from her hand. Dobbin struck out instantly, and, with a spirit which seemed scarcely his own, kicked Zedekiah bodily forward, knocking down both him and Abigail at one and the same time. This done, he gave utterance to a neigh of triumph, and cantered gaily into his stable.

Zedekiah was on his feet in a moment. He had no doubt, from what had passed, that the demon had baffled the precaution of Abigail, and was about to visit them with summary vengeance. His terror was excessive; but it did not blind him to the fact, as he thought it, that his safety lay in flight; and, therefore, on gaining his feet, he made off at his last speed.

He kept on his course till he came to the outer boundary of the front garden, where a gate, which had formerly been protected by a porter’s lodge, but at this time was wholly unguarded, opened into the high-road. Here, as it was some distance from the stable, he ventured to halt, and sought to recover his interrupted breath.

Zedekiah’s mind was not very retentive, and though, on the present occasion, his memory of the demon was kept alive for a time by his terror, he gradually began to recede from this fixed idea, and to fall back on such fancies as, from their giddy and fleeting character, were more natural to his mind, and more consonant with his temper. A few minutes after he had come to a halt, the first cause of his flight, having made no settled impression upon him, had passed from his recollection, and left him to wander at will over the various and disordered images of an unbridled mind. While he was thus engaged, a sprinkle of rain fell around, and this—so easy is it always to call the imagination to its leading theme—reminded him that he had an interest in the weather for the passing day, as it was to witness the celebration of Cummer Griffin’s funeral. His countenance, which hitherto had been sad and gloomy, brightened as the rain increased, and, after a while, he gave utterance to his feelings in an old distich:—

“Happy is the bridal that glistens in the sun,
And blessed is the corpse that the rain rains on.”

“Whose burying comes off to-day?” asked a voice behind him, apparently speaking through the gate.

Zedekiah, with the view of facing the quarter from which he might expect any danger, had his back to the gate, and his face turned in the direction of the stable; but on being thus accosted, he altered his position, and, with fear and trembling, turned his face round to the gate. His fear, however, was not of long continuance; for, on effecting this evolution, he perceived that the individual who had accosted him was no more than a mortal man, and one, moreover, whom he well knew.

“Old Cummer Griffin’s, Master Gray,” he answered.

Bernard Gray—for the person addressed was no other—appeared to be somewhat downcast by his intelligence.

“So, the old cummer is dead,” he said. “Well, she was a round age, I ween; and led an indifferent good life.”

“She was fifty odd when Gaffer Wiggins was buried,” remarked Zedekiah, “and that is twenty years agone, come Martinmas.”

“So long?” said Bernard, “Ah! life fleets fast. But how comes it, Zedekiah, thou art not at the cummer’s now? Thou art not wont to be thus tardy.”

“The Lord required me elsewhere,” answered Zedekiah. “We have been at the Grange all the morning.”

“How?” inquired Bernard. “Had ye aught to do at Sir Edgar de Neville’s?”

“Ay, ay, we have chained down the arch-malignant,” replied Zedekiah. “The Pope may deliver him now, an’ he can.”

His information, though full of weight and meaning, was not very explicit, or calculated to give Bernard a correct idea of the momentous event it referred to. Still it let him know that something strange had happened, in which, if it should any way have affected Hildebrand Clifford, he might himself be interested; and he applied himself diligently to learn from Zedekiah the full particulars. Some time elapsed before he could bring matters to such a satisfactory issue; but, in the end, he accomplished his purpose, and thus became acquainted, among other things, with the exact position of affairs at the Grange, excepting only the solitary circumstance of the disappearance of Hildebrand.

Satisfied that he had learned from Zedekiah all he knew, he bade that worthy a hasty adieu, and took his departure. It was now approaching the hour at which, according to their appointment of the previous day, he was to have an interview with Hildebrand, and, with an anxious and troubled spirit, he hastened towards the spot where they had agreed to meet.

He did not expect that Hildebrand would keep his appointment. He felt that, in the existing state of things, it would be difficult for him to absent himself from the Grange, though it were only for a few moments, without showing disrespect to his host; and from what he had seen of Hildebrand, and the views he entertained of his character, he thought it unlikely that he would incur an imputation of that sort. Indeed, he was not without some apprehension, from all that he had heard, that Hildebrand might be threatened with danger himself, and, perhaps, be involved in the charge which had been brought against Sir Edgar. It was true, he argued, when this apprehension first occurred to him, that Hildebrand had not been mentioned by Zedekiah, but that might arise from his supposing that he did not know Hildebrand, and therefore, in the ordinary course of things, could feel no curiosity about what should happen to him. He knew that Shedlock, if he found any opportunity, would strive his utmost to make away with Hildebrand, and his proceedings against Sir Edgar might be a mere feint, designed, with a Satanic cunning, to cover an attack on Hildebrand. As he mused on these possibilities, he was almost inclined, at one time, to turn back to Zedekiah, and see if he could glean anything more from him; but ultimately, thinking this would be a fruitless mission, he changed his mind, and pursued his original intention of proceeding straight to his appointment with Hildebrand.

It may speak little in Bernard’s favour, on a first view, that the unhappy consequences of the attack on Sir Edgar’s carriage, though they now caused him some anxiety of themselves, awakened in him no remorse or compunction for his share in the attack. The outrage had been attended with the loss of two lives, and had since, through the interference of Shedlock, involved the innocent family against whom it had been levelled in the deepest affliction; but, for all this, the enthusiast, amidst his concern for these evils, had not one prick of repentance. Was he, then, void of every sense of humanity? was his heart insensible to the most urgent calls of feeling and affection? No! It was stored, to the very brim, with choice and noble sympathies; it was naturally melting and pitiful as a child’s; but the remembrance of horrors that it would curdle the blood to mention, and which no interval of time could soften or deface, locked up his gentle qualities, and mailed his nature in revenge.

Walking at a quick pace, he soon arrived at Neville Park, and pursued his way, without meeting any interruption, to the spot where his appointment with Hildebrand was to come off. It was some time past noon, the hour agreed on: but though he looked round, as far as he could see, in every direction, there was no sign of Hildebrand coming. He lingered about for an hour, walking to and fro; but, at the expiration of that period, he was no nearer his object than at first. Although, in the main, this was no more than he had expected, it greatly increased his anxiety, and tended to confirm his doubts of Hildebrand’s safety. He remembered that Hildebrand was to take his departure from the Grange to-day, on business which, at their last interview, he had alleged to be extremely urgent; and he was assured, therefore, as they could not meet again for some time, that, if he were at liberty, he would make an effort to keep his appointment. But another hour passed, and Bernard, now grown impatient, was still pacing the park-walk, and still utterly alone. Wearied with his watch, he began to grow angry, and, as he came to a sudden pause, he gave utterance to his feelings in a passionate exclamation.

“The scornful boy neglects me!” he said. “I will even take me homewards.”

The idea of home reminded him that Hildebrand had inquired after his residence, and suggested, on a second thought, that, as he might be unable to meet him in the park, it was not improbable that he would seek him there. Meditating on this probability, he determined to repair to his lodgings at once.

It was in an obscure alehouse, distinguished by the sign of the “Angel,” and situated at the further extremity of the neighbouring village of Lantwell, that Bernard had fixed his residence. Although an alehouse, however, it was a retired tenement; and old Cummer Fisher, who was its proprietress, and only resident beside himself, was rarely invaded by any great influx of guests. Being at the other side of Lantwell, it was two good miles, if not more, from the spot he started from; but, after he had once determined what course he would pursue, he set off at a smart pace, and shortly arrived before the hostel-door.

But a brief greeting passed between Bernard and his hostess, and, this despatched, he proceeded to his own room, which was on the upper floor. Here, secure from interruption, he revolved over again all those reflections and conjectures that he had started in Neville Park, and impatiently waited for whatever might be the issue.

But no tidings reached him that night. The next morning, meditating as before, he made certain that he would that day receive some communication from Hildebrand; but, as on the previous day, hour after hour passed, and the morning gradually elapsed, without bringing him any intelligence of his friend’s situation. His worst apprehensions were now becoming confirmed, and he began to have no doubt, on mature and deliberate reflection, that Shedlock had involved Hildebrand in the charge which he had brought against Sir Edgar de Neville, and had committed them both to prison.

Directly this conjecture took full possession of Bernard’s mind, he formed a resolution to ascertain, by immediate and personal inquiries, how far it could be borne out by the facts. The only way of prosecuting such a purpose, in his situation—which, from his participation in the outrage that all these troubles had sprung from, prevented him from making any inquiries at the Grange—was by repairing to Exeter, and there learning who had been arrested; and the course thus open to him, though it was not unattended with some risk to himself, he resolved to pursue. Accordingly, having saddled and mounted his horse, he set out, and pushed forward for Exeter.

It was night when he entered the city; and he thought it advisable, before he advanced his mission any further, to provide himself a lodging, and procure bait for his horse. Both these objects being effected, he sallied forth on foot, determined to leave no means untried of finding out Hildebrand.

It was at the countinghouse of Shedlock and Craftall, in the High-street, that Bernard first paused in his excursion. The house was shut up; but in the part which might be more properly called the countinghouse, there was some trace of a light, peeping through the outlines of the window-shutters, which showed that one of the inmates was yet astir. The room in question, like the generality of commercial offices, opened into the street, and, consequently, Bernard was able to approach the door, and there listen a while before he solicited admittance.

All was still within; and it suddenly occurred to Bernard, on meditating how he should proceed, that it would be well to try if the door were unfastened before he knocked, and, should the result be favourable, enter without notice. In pursuance of this design, he cautiously raised the latch, and, pushing forward, the door flew open.

Hastily glancing in, Bernard perceived a man at a contiguous desk, immediately in front of a lighted lamp, whom he recognised as Craftall. He was leaning forward, with his elbows fixed on the desk, and his hands, which were raised to a level with his lips, clasped together before him, as if he were engaged in prayer. Hearing Bernard’s step, he snatched up some article that, while he was in the posture described, had been standing on the desk before him, and hastily slipped it into one of the drawers; and then, with the same precipitation, turned to see who was his visiter.

His face was deadly pale, and his thin, shrivelled lips, on his turning fully round, were agitated by a nervous quiver, which could only be caused by a very stirring emotion. Whatever it might be that thus discomposed him, the discovery that his visiter was Bernard Gray, whom he well knew, by no means tended to inspire and embolden him with new spirit. It was, however, no part of Bernard’s design, on the present occasion, to suffer him to see that he was sensible of his confusion, and, with the view of soothing and diverting his suspicions, he at once proceeded to draw him into discourse.

“The good time of the night to thee, Master Craftall,” he said. “Hath Master Shedlock been here of late?”

Though his faculties were somewhat disordered, Craftall’s characteristic caution, far from being asleep, was more prompt and lively under the pressure of his embarrassment, and he was less open to a surprise than at a moment of composure. The inquiry of Bernard, though deliberately and readily propounded, might signify nothing, and he believed that such was the case; but, however this might be, it was his laudable and discreet practice ever to be on his guard. Being obliged, however, on the passing occasion, to speak on the instant, and without forethought, it was difficult to frame an answer that would not some way commit him; and for once the man of craft hesitated. But his hesitation was so transient, that it could hardly be detected; and, after a moment’s interval, he was prepared with a reply.

“By dad, I don’t know,” he said.

Bernard smiled as he rejoined, “Doth he purpose to come here shortly?”

“In faith, Master Bernard, I cannot say,” answered Craftall.

Whether he sought to entangle him in talk, or merely to amuse himself, Bernard did not give over his inquiries with these rebuffs, but continued to push the cautious merchant for a straightforward answer.

“He still lives at New Bethlehem, I ween?” he said.

“By my troth, ’tis not unlikely,” returned Craftall.

It was clear that, say what he might, Bernard would be able to draw but little information from the wily trader; but, for all this, he was not inclined to let his project fall to the ground. He saw that Craftall was in momentary expectation of another visiter, and he thought that, if hard pressed, he might yield him some information, in order to induce him to retire. It was the fact of Craftall glancing repeatedly at a contiguous door, leading to an inner apartment, in the rear of Bernard, that induced him to lend this conjecture credit; and, from the anxiety of his glances, Bernard judged rightly, that he would regard his departure as a deliverance. For the reason stated, however, he determined to remain, and still sought to keep Craftall in discourse.

“Be the report true, Master Craftall,” he pursued, “that certain Papists have been lately hatching a new plot?”

Craftall, from whatever cause, was quite disconcerted by this inquiry, and again exhibited the liveliest confusion. Nevertheless, he rendered his watchful interrogator a prompt reply.

“Worthy Master Jenkins, the city-bailiff, hath told me there was such a report abroad,” he said. “Gentle Master Pry—”

At this moment, some person within, as it seemed, inflicted on the door behind Bernard, before alluded to, three distinct taps; and the speaker abruptly paused.

“Some one calls,” said Bernard, turning towards the door; “I had best see who it be.”

“No, no! I will see to that myself!” cried Craftall, springing nimbly before him.

Bernard, without objecting a word, suffered him to pass him, and he pushed on to the door. While he was yet on his way thither, Bernard stepped softly round the desk, and, with a quick and steady hand, drew open the topmost drawer. It was in this drawer that, on his first entry, he had observed Craftall place some article which he snatched from the desk, and which he evidently wished to conceal. Anxious to discover his secret, Bernard looked eagerly into the drawer, and found that the object of his search was its sole contents. With a trembling grasp, he raised it to the light; and his eyes lit up with a sparkling frenzy, strangely at variance with their previous serenity, as he discerned that it was a crucifix.

Craftall had by this time reached the door. Instead of drawing it open, however, he proceeded to lock it, and then, with a quiet smile on his face, turned to meet Bernard again. As he did so, Bernard held up the crucifix, and his smile, which had risen in exultation, passed into a quick spasm.

“I hold thee mine!” cried Bernard. “But the Spirit is upon me! The fire thou wot’st of, that makes saints, is blistering my very heart. I might do thee harm: so I’ll leave thee now.”

Thus speaking, he made towards the outer door. Before he could reach it, however, Craftall, nerved by despair, sprang after him, and fastened on his arm.

“Mercy! mercy!” he said.

“Mercy to a Papist!” cried Bernard. “Ha! ha!”

And, with a slight effort, he threw the supplicant from him, and dashed into the street.