"I, Sir John Pringle of Palmer stede,
Give an hundred markis of gowd sae reid,
To help to bigg my brigg ower Tweed."

Pringle of Galashiels, afterwards of Whytbank, was the Baron to whom
the bridge belonged.]

But it was most frequently with the Monks of Saint Mary's that the
warder had to dispute his perquisites. These holy men insisted for,
and at length obtained, a right of gratuitous passage to themselves,
greatly to the discontent of the bridge-keeper. But when they demanded
the same immunity for the numerous pilgrims who visited the shrine,
the bridge-keeper waxed restive, and was supported by his lord in his
resistance. The controversy grew animated on both sides; the Abbot
menaced excommunication, and the keeper of the bridge, though unable
to retaliate in kind, yet made each individual monk who had to cross
and recross the river, endure a sort of purgatory, ere he would
accommodate them with a passage. This was a great inconvenience, and
would have proved a more serious one, but that the river was fordable
for man and horse in ordinary weather.

It was a fine moonlight night, as we have already said, when Father
Philip approached this bridge, the singular construction of which
gives a curious idea of the insecurity of the times. The river was not
in flood, but it was above its ordinary level--_a heavy water_,
as it is called in that country, through which the monk had no
particular inclination to ride, if he could manage the matter better.

"Peter, my good friend," cried the Sacristan, raising his voice; "my
very excellent friend, Peter, be so kind as to lower the drawbridge.
Peter, I say, dost thou not hear?--it is thy gossip, Father Philip,
who calls thee."

Peter heard him perfectly well, and saw him into the bargain; but as
he had considered the Sacristan as peculiarly his enemy in his dispute
with the convent, he went quietly to bed, after reconnoitring the monk
through his loop-hole, observing to his wife, that "riding the water
in a moonlight night would do the Sacristan no harm, and would teach
him the value of a brig the neist time, on whilk a man might pass high
and dry, winter and summer, flood and ebb."

After exhausting his voice in entreaties and threats, which were
equally unattended to by Peter of the Brig, as he was called, Father
Philip at length moved down the river to take the ordinary ford at the
head of the next stream. Cursing the rustic obstinacy of Peter, he
began, nevertheless, to persuade himself that the passage of the river
by the ford was not only safe, but pleasant.  The banks and scattered
trees were so beautifully reflected from the bosom of the dark stream,
the whole cool and delicious picture formed so pleasing a contrast to
his late agitation, to the warmth occasioned by his vain endeavours to
move the relentless porter of the bridge, that the result was rather
agreeable than otherwise.

As Father Philip came close to the water's edge, at the spot where he
was to enter it, there sat a female under a large broken scathed
oak-tree, or rather under the remains of such a tree, weeping,
wringing her hands, and looking earnestly on the current of the river.
The monk was struck with astonishment to see a female there at that
time of night. But he was, in all honest service,--and if a step
farther, I put it upon his own conscience,--a devoted squire of dames.
After observing the maiden for a moment, although she seemed to take
no notice of his presence, he was moved by her distress, and willing
to offer his assistance. "Damsel," said he, "thou seemest in no
ordinary distress; peradventure, like myself, thou hast been refused
passage at the bridge by the churlish keeper, and thy crossing may
concern thee either for performance of a vow, or some other weighty
charge."

The maiden uttered some inarticulate sounds, looked at the river, and
then in the face of the Sacristan. It struck Father Philip at that
instant, that a Highland chief of distinction had been for some time
expected to pay his vows at the shrine of Saint Mary's; and that
possibly this fair maiden might be one of his family, travelling alone
for accomplishment of a vow, or left behind by some accident, to whom,
therefore, it would be but right and prudent to use every civility in
his power, especially as she seemed unacquainted with the Lowland
tongue. Such at least was the only motive the Sacristan was ever known
to assign for his courtesy; if there was any other, I once more refer
it to his own conscience.

To express himself by signs, the common language of all nations, the
cautious Sacristan first pointed to the river, then to his mule's
crupper, and then made, as gracefully as he could, a sign to induce
the fair solitary to mount behind him. She seemed to understand his
meaning, for she rose up as if to accept his offer; and while the good
monk, who, as we have hinted, was no great cavalier, laboured, with
the pressure of the right leg and the use of the left rein, to place
his mule with her side to the bank in such a position that the lady
might mount with ease, she rose from the ground with rather portentous
activity, and at one bound sate behind the monk upon the animal, much
the firmer rider of the two. The mule by no means seemed to approve of
this double burden; she bounded, bolted, and would soon have thrown
Father Philip over her head, had not the maiden with a firm hand
detained him in the saddle.

At last the restive brute changed her humour; and, from refusing to
budge off the spot, suddenly stretched her nose homeward, and dashed
into the ford as fast as she could scamper. A new terror now invaded
the monk's mind--the ford seemed unusually deep, the water eddied off
in strong ripple from the counter of the mule, and began to rise upon
her side. Philip lost his presence of mind,--which was at no time his
most ready attribute, the mule yielded to the weight of the current,
and as the rider was not attentive to keep her head turned up the
river, she drifted downward, lost the ford and her footing at once,
and began to swim with her head down the stream.  And what was
sufficiently strange, at the same moment, notwithstanding the extreme
peril, the damsel began to sing, thereby increasing, if anything could
increase, the bodily fear of the worthy Sacristan.

               I.

  Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright,
  Both current and ripple are dancing in light.
  We have roused the night raven, I heard him croak,
  As we plashed along beneath the oak
  That flings its broad branches so far and so wide,
  Their shadows are dancing in midst of the tide.
  "Who wakens my nestlings," the raven he said,
  "My beak shall ere morn in his blood be red.
  For a blue swoln corpse is a dainty meal.
  And I'll have my share with the pike and the eel."

               II.

  Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright,
  There's a golden gleam on the distant height;
  There's a silver shower on the alders dank.
  And the drooping willows that wave on the bank.
  I see the abbey, both turret and tower,
  It is all astir for the vesper hour;
  The monks for the chapel are leaving each cell.
  But Where's Father Philip, should toll the bell?

               III.

  Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright,
  Downward we drift through shadow and light,
  Under yon rock the eddies sleep,
  Calm and silent, dark and deep.
  The Kelpy has risen from the fathomless pool.
  He has lighted his candle of death and of dool.
  Look, Father, look, and you'll laugh to see
  How he gapes and glares with his eyes on thee.

               IV.

  Good luck to your fishing, whom watch ye to-night?
  A man of mean, or a man of might?
  Is it layman or priest that must float in your cove,
  Or lover who crosses to visit his love?
  Hark! heard ye the Kelpy reply, as we pass'd,--
  "God's blessing on the warder, he lock'd the bridge fast!
  All that come to my cove are sunk,
  Priest or layman, lover or monk."


How long the damsel might have continued to sing, or where the
terrified monk's journey might have ended, is uncertain. As she sung
the last stanza, they arrived at, or rather in, a broad tranquil sheet
of water, caused by a strong wear or damhead, running across the
river, which dashed in a broad cataract over the barrier. The mule,
whether from choice, or influenced by the suction of the current, made
towards the cut intended to supply the convent mills, and entered it
half swimming half wading, and pitching the unlucky monk to and fro in
the saddle at a fearful rate.

As his person flew hither and thither, his garment became loose, and
in an effort to retain it, his hand lighted on the volume of the Lady
of Avenel which was in his bosom. No sooner had he grasped it, than
his companion pitched him out of the saddle into the stream, where,
still keeping her hand on his collar, she gave him two or three good
souses in the watery fluid, so as to ensure that every other part of
him had its share of wetting, and then quitted her hold when he was so
near the side that by a slight effort (of a great one he was
incapable) he might scramble on shore. This accordingly he
accomplished, and turning his eyes to see what had become of his
extraordinary companion, she was nowhere to be seen; but still he
heard, as if from the surface of the river, and mixing with the noise
of the water breaking over the damhead, a fragment of her wild song,
which seemed to run thus:--

  Landed--landed! the black book hath won.
  Else had you seen Berwick with morning sun!
  Sain ye, and save ye, and blithe mot ye be,
  For seldom they land that go swimming with me.

The ecstasy of the monk's terror could be endured no longer; his head
grew dizzy, and, after staggering a few steps onward and running himself
against a wall, he sunk down in a state of insensibility.




Chapter the Sixth.


  Now let us sit in conclave. That these weeds
  Be rooted from the vineyard of the church.
  That these foul tares be severed from the wheat,
  We are, I trust, agreed.--Yet how to do this,
  Nor hurt the wholesome crop and tender vine-plants,
  Craves good advisement.

THE REFORMATION.

The vesper service in the Monastery Church of Saint Mary's was now
over. The Abbot had disrobed himself of his magnificent vestures of
ceremony, and resumed his ordinary habit, which was a black gown, worn
over a white cassock, with a narrow scapulary; a decent and venerable
dress, which was calculated to set off to advantage the portly mien of
Abbot Boniface.

In quiet times no one could have filled the state of a mitred Abbot,
for such was his dignity, more respectably than this worthy prelate.
He had, no doubt, many of those habits of self-indulgence which men
are apt to acquire who live for themselves alone. He was vain,
moreover; and when boldly confronted, had sometimes shown symptoms of
timidity, not very consistent with the high claims which he preferred
as an eminent member of the church, or with the punctual deference
which he exacted from his religious brethren, and all who were placed
under his command. But he was hospitable, charitable, and by no means
of himself disposed to proceed with severity against any one. In
short, he would in other times have slumbered out his term of
preferment with as much credit as any other "purple Abbot," who lived
easily, but at the same time decorously--slept soundly, and did not
disquiet himself with dreams.

But the wide alarm spread through the whole Church of Rome by the
progress of the reformed doctrines, sorely disturbed the repose of
Abbot Boniface, and opened to him a wide field of duties and cares
which he had never so much as dreamed of. There were opinions to be
combated and refuted--practices to be inquired into--heretics to be
detected and punished--the fallen off to be reclaimed--the wavering to
be confirmed--scandal to be removed from the clergy, and the vigour of
discipline to be re-established.  Post upon post arrived at the
Monastery of Saint Mary's--horses reeking, and riders exhausted--this
from the Privy Council, that from the Primate of Scotland, and this
other again from the Queen Mother, exhorting, approving, condemning,
requesting advice upon this subject, and requiring information upon
that.

These missives Abbot Boniface received with an important air of
helplessness, or a helpless air of importance,--whichever the reader
may please to term it, evincing at once gratified vanity, and profound
trouble of mind.  The sharp-witted Primate of Saint Andrews had
foreseen the deficiencies of the Abbot of St. Mary's, and endeavoured
to provide for them by getting admitted into his Monastery as
Sub-Prior a brother Cistercian, a man of parts and knowledge, devoted
to the service of the Catholic Church, and very capable not only to
advise the Abbot on occasions of difficulty, but to make him sensible
of his duty in case he should, from good-nature or timidity, be
disposed to shrink from it.

Father Eustace played the same part in the Monastery as the old
general who, in foreign armies, is placed at the elbow of the Prince
of the Blood, who nominally commands in chief, on condition of
attempting nothing without the advice of his dry-nurse; and he shared
the fate of all such dry-nurses, being heartily disliked as well as
feared by his principal. Still, however, the Primate's intention was
fully answered. Father Eustace became the constant theme and often the
bugbear of the worthy Abbot, who hardly dared to turn himself in his
bed without, considering what Father Eustace would think of it. In
every case of difficulty, Father Eustace was summoned, and his opinion
asked; and no sooner was the embarrassment removed, than the Abbot's
next thought was how to get rid of his adviser. In every letter which
he wrote to those in power, he recommended Father Eustace to some high
church preferment, a bishopric or an abbey; and as they dropped one
after another, and were otherwise conferred, he began to think, as he
confessed to the Sacristan in the bitterness of his spirit, that the
Monastery of St.  Mary's had got a life-rent lease of their Sub-Prior.

Yet more indignant he would have been, had he suspected that Father
Eustace's ambition was fixed upon his own mitre, which, from some
attacks of an apoplectic nature, deemed by the Abbot's friends to be
more serious than by himself, it was supposed might be shortly vacant.
But the confidence which, like other dignitaries, he reposed in his
own health, prevented Abbot Boniface from imagining that it held any
concatenation, with the motions of Father Eustace.

The necessity under which he found himself of consulting with his
grand adviser, in cases of real difficulty, rendered the worthy Abbot
particularly desirous of doing without him in all ordinary cases of
administration, though not without considering what Father Eustace
would have said of the matter. He scorned, therefore, to give a hint
to the Sub-Prior of the bold stroke by which he had dispatched Brother
Philip to Glendearg; but when the vespers came without his
reappearance he became a little uneasy, the more as other matters
weighed upon his mind. The feud with the warder or keeper of the
bridge threatened to be attended with bad consequences, as the man's
quarrel was taken up by the martial baron under whom he served; and
pressing letters of an unpleasant tendency had just arrived from the
Primate. Like a gouty man, who catches hold of his crutch while he
curses the infirmity that induces him to use if, the Abbot, however
reluctant, found himself obliged to require Eustace's presence, after
the service was over, in his house, or rather palace, which was
attached to, and made part of, the Monastery.

Abbot Boniface was seated in his high-backed chair, the grotesque
carved back of which terminated in a mitre, before a fire where two or
three large logs were reduced to one red glowing mass of charcoal. At
his elbow, on an oaken stand, stood the remains of a roasted capon, on
which his reverence had made his evening meal, flanked by a goodly
stoup of Bordeaux of excellent flavour. He was gazing indolently on
the fire, partly engaged in meditation on his past and present
fortunes, partly occupied by endeavouring to trace towers and steeples
in the red embers.

"Yes," thought the Abbot to himself, "in that red perspective I could
fancy to myself the peaceful towers of Dundrennan, where I passed my
life ere I was called to pomp and to trouble. A quiet brotherhood we
were, regular in our domestic duties; and when the frailties of
humanity prevailed over us, we confessed, and were absolved by each
other, and the most formidable part of the penance was the jest of the
convent on the culprit. I can almost fancy that I see the cloister
garden, and the pear-trees which I grafted with my own hands. And for
what have I changed all this, but to be overwhelmed with business
which concerns me not, to be called My Lord Abbot, and to be tutored
by Father Eustace? I would these towers were the Abbey of
Aberbrothwick, and Father Eustace the Abbot,--or I would he were in
the fire on any terms, so I were rid of him! The Primate says our Holy
Father, the Pope hath an adviser--I am sure he could not live a week
with such a one as mine. Then there is no learning what Father Eustace
thinks till you confess your own difficulties--No hint will bring
forth his opinion--he is like a miser, who will not unbuckle his purse
to bestow a farthing, until the wretch who needs it has owned his
excess of poverty, and wrung out the boon by importunity. And thus I
am dishonoured in the eyes of my religious brethren, who behold me
treated like a child which hath no sense of its own--I will bear it no
longer!--Brother Bennet,"--(a lay brother answered to his call)--"
tell Father Eustace that I need not his presence."

"I came to say to your reverence, that the holy father is entering
even now from the cloisters."

"Be it so," said the Abbot, "he is welcome,--remove these things--or
rather, place a trencher, the holy father may be a little hungry--yet,
no--remove them, for there is no good fellowship in him--Let the stoup
of wine remain, however, and place another cup."

The lay brother obeyed these contradictory commands in the way he
judged most seemly--he removed the carcass of the half-sacked capon,
and placed two goblets beside the stoup of Bourdeaux. At the same
instant entered Father Eustace.

He was a thin, sharp-faced, slight-made little man, whose keen grey
eyes seemed almost to look through the person to whom he addressed
himself. His body was emaciated not only with the fasts which he
observed with rigid punctuality, but also by the active and unwearied
exercise of his sharp and piercing intellect;--

  A fiery soul, which working out its way,
  Fretted the puny body to decay,
  And o'er-informed the tenement of clay.

He turned with conventual reverence to the Lord Abbot; and as they
stood together, it was scarce possible to see a more complete
difference of form and expression. The good-natured rosy face and
laughing eye of the Abbot, which even his present anxiety could not
greatly ruffle, was a wonderful contrast to the thin pallid cheek and
quick penetrating glance of the monk, in which an eager and keen
spirit glanced through eyes to which it seemed to give supernatural
lustre.

The Abbot opened the conversation by motioning to his monk to take a
stool, and inviting to a cup of wine. The courtesy was declined with
respect, yet not without a remark, that the vesper service was past.

"For the stomach's sake, brother," said the Abbot, colouring a
little--"You know the text."

"It is a dangerous one," answered the monk, "to handle alone, or at
late hours. Out off from human society, the juice of the grape becomes
a perilous companion of solitude, and therefore I ever shun it."

Abbot Boniface had poured himself out a goblet which might hold about
half an English pint; but, either struck with the truth of the
observation, or ashamed to act in direct opposition to it, he suffered
it to remain untasted before him, and immediately changed the subject.

"The Primate hath written to us," said he, "to make strict search
within our bounds after the heretical persons denounced in this list,
who have withdrawn themselves from the justice which their opinions
deserve. It is deemed probable that they will attempt to retire to
England by our Borders, and the Primate requireth me to watch with
vigilance, and what not."

"Assuredly," said the monk, "the magistrate should not bear the sword
in vain--those be they that turn the world upside down--and doubtless
your reverend wisdom will with due diligence second the exertions of
the Right Reverend Father in God, being in the peremptory defence of
the Holy Church."

"Ay, but how is this to be done?" answered the Abbot; "Saint Mary aid
us! The Primate writes to me as if I were a temporal baron--a man
under command, having soldiers under him! He says, send forth--scour
the country--guard the passes--Truly these men do not travel as those
who would give their lives for nothing--the last who went south passed
the dry-march at the Riding-burn with an escort of thirty spears, as
our reverend brother the Abbot of Kelso did write unto us. How are
cowls and scapularies to stop the way?"

"Your bailiff is accounted a good man at arms, holy father," said
Eustace; "your vassals are obliged to rise for the defence of the Holy
Kirk--it is the tenure on which they hold their lands--if they will
not come forth for the Church which gives them bread, let their
possessions be given to others."

"We shall not be wanting," said the Abbot, collecting himself with
importance, "to do whatever may advantage Holy Kirk--thyself shall
hear the charge to our Bailiff and our officials--but here again is
our controversy with the warden of the bridge and the Baron of
Meigallot--Saint Mary!  vexations do so multiply upon the House, and
upon the generation, that a man wots not where to turn to! Thou didst
say, Father Eustace, thou wouldst look into our evidents touching this
free passage for the pilgrims?"

"I have looked into the Chartulary of the House, holy father," said
Eustace, "and therein I find a written and formal grant of all duties
and customs payable at the drawbridge of Brigton, not only by
ecclesiastics of this foundation, but by every pilgrim truly designed
to accomplish his vows at this House, to the Abbot Allford, and the
monks of the House of Saint Mary in Kennaquhair, from that time and
for ever. The deed is dated on Saint Bridget's Even, in the year of
Redemption, 1137, and bears the sign and seal of the granter, Charles
of Meigallot, great-great-grandfather of this baron, and purports to
be granted for the safety of his own soul, and for the weal of the
souls of his father and mother, and of all his predecessors and
successors, being Barons of Meigallot."

"But he alleges," said the Abbot, "that the bridge-wards have been in
possession of these dues, and have rendered them available for more
than fifty years--and the baron threatens violence--meanwhile, the
journey of the pilgrims is interrupted, to the prejudice of their own
souls and the diminution of the revenues of Saint Mary. The Sacristan
advised us to put on a boat; but the warden, whom thou knowest to be a
godless man, has sworn the devil tear him, but that if they put on a
boat on the laird's stream, he will rive her board from board--and
then some say we should compound the claim for a small sum in silver."
Here the Abbot paused a moment for a reply, but receiving none, he
added, "But what thinkest thou, Father Eustace? why art thou silent?"

"Because I am surprised at the question which the Lord Abbot of Saint
Mary's asks at the youngest of his brethren."

"Youngest in time of your abode with us, Brother Eustace," said the
Abbot, "not youngest in years, or I think in experience. Sub-Prior
also of this convent."

"I am astonished," continued Eustace, "that the Abbot of this
venerable house should ask of any one whether he can alienate the
patrimony of our holy and divine patroness, or give up to an
unconscientious, and perhaps, a heretic baron, the rights conferred on
this church by his devout progenitor. Popes and councils alike
prohibit it--the honour of the living, and the weal of departed souls,
alike forbid it--it may not be. To force, if he dare use it, we must
surrender; but never by our consent should we see the goods of the
church plundered, with as little scruple as he would drive off a herd
of English beeves. Rouse yourself, Reverend father, and doubt nothing
but that the good cause shall prevail. Whet the spiritual sword, and
direct it against the wicked who would usurp our holy rights. Whet the
temporal sword, if it be necessary, and stir up the courage and zeal
of your loyal vassals."

The Abbot sighed deeply. "All this," he said, "is soon spoken by him
who hath to act it not; but--" He was interrupted by the entrance of
Bennet rather hastily. "The mule on which the Sacristan had set out in
the morning had returned," he said, "to the convent stable all over
wet, and with the saddle turned round beneath her belly."

"Sancta Maria!" said the Abbot, "our dear brother hath perished by the
way!"

"It may not be," said Eustace, hastily--"let the bell be tolled--cause
the brethren to get torches--alarm the village--hurry down to the
river--I myself will be the foremost."

The real Abbot stood astonished and agape, when at once he beheld his
office filled, and saw all which he ought to have ordered, going
forward at the dictates of the youngest monk in the convent. But ere
the orders of Eustace, which nobody dreamed of disputing, were carried
into execution, the necessity was prevented by the sudden apparition
of the Sacristan, whose supposed danger excited all the alarm.




Chapter the Seventh.


     Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
     Cleanse the foul bosom of the perilous stuff
     That weighs upon the heart.
                                         MACBETH.

What betwixt cold and fright the afflicted Sacristan stood before his
Superior, propped on the friendly arm of the convent miller, drenched
with water, and scarce able to utter a syllable.

After various attempts to speak, the first words he uttered were,

  "Swim we merrily--the moon shines bright."

"Swim we merrily!" retorted the Abbot, indignantly; "a merry night
have ye chosen for swimming, and a becoming salutation to your
Superior!"

"Our brother is bewildered," said Eustace;--"speak, Father Philip, how
is it with you?"

  "Good luck to your fishing,"

continued the Sacristan, making a most dolorous attempt at the tune of
his strange companion.

"Good luck to your fishing!" repeated the Abbot, still more surprised
than displeased; "by my halidome he is drunken with wine, and comes to
our presence with his jolly catches in his throat! If bread and water
can cure this folly--"

"With your pardon, venerable father," said the Sub-Prior, "of water
our brother has had enough; and methinks, the confusion of his eye, is
rather that of terror, than of aught unbecoming his profession. Where
did you find him, Hob Miller?"

"An it please your reverence, I did but go to shut the sluice of the
mill--and as I was going to shut the sluice, I heard something groan
near to me; but judging it was one of Giles Fletcher's hogs--for so
please you he never shuts his gate--I caught up my lever, and was
about--Saint Mary forgive me!--to strike where I heard the sound,
when, as the saints would have it, I heard the second groan just like
that of a living man. So I called up my knaves, and found the Father
Sacristan lying wet and senseless under the wall of our kiln. So soon
as we brought him to himself a bit, he prayed to be brought to your
reverence, but I doubt me his wits have gone a bell-wavering by the
road. It was but now that he spoke in somewhat better form."

"Well!" said Brother Eustace, "thou hast done well, Hob Miller; only
begone now, and remember a second time to pause, ere you strike in the
dark."

"Please your reverence, it shall be a lesson to me," said the miller,
"not to mistake a holy man for a hog again, so long as I live." And,
making a bow, with profound humility, the miller withdrew.

"And now that this churl is gone, Father Philip," said Eustace, "wilt
thou tell our venerable Superior what ails thee? art thou _vino
gravatus,_ man? if so we will have thee to thy cell."

"Water! water! not wine," muttered the exhausted Sacristan.

"Nay," said the monk, "if that be thy complaint, wine may perhaps
cure thee;" and he reached him a cup, which the patient drank off to his
great benefit.

"And now," said the Abbot, "let his garments be changed, or rather let
him be carried to the infirmary; for it will prejudice our health,
should we hear his narrative while he stands there, steaming like a
rising hoar-frost."

"I will hear his adventure," said Eustace, "and report it to your
reverence." And, accordingly, he attended the Sacristan to his cell. In
about half an hour he returned to the Abbot.

"How is it with Father Philip?" said the Abbot; "and through what
came he into such a state?"

"He comes from Glendearg, reverend sir," said Eustace; "and for the
rest, he telleth such a legend, as has not been heard in this
Monastery for many a long day." He then gave the Abbot the outlines of
the Sacristan's adventures in the homeward journey, and added, that
for some time he was inclined to think his brain was infirm, seeing he
had sung, laughed, and wept all in the same breath.

"A wonderful thing it is to us," said the Abbot, "that Satan has been
permitted to put forth his hand thus far on one of our sacred brethren!"

"True," said Father Eustace; "but for every text there is a
paraphrase; and I have my suspicions, that if the drenching of Father
Philip cometh of the Evil one, yet it may not have been altogether
without his own personal fault."

"How!" said the Father Abbot; "I will not believe that thou makest
doubt that Satan, in former days, hath been permitted to afflict
saints and holy men, even as he afflicted the pious Job?"

"God forbid I should make question of it," said the monk, crossing
himself; "yet, where there is an exposition of the Sacristan's tale,
which is less than miraculous, I hold it safe to consider it at least,
if not to abide by it. Now, this Hob the Miller hath a buxom daughter.
Suppose--I say only suppose--that our Sacristan met her at the ford on
her return from her uncle's on the other side, for there she hath this
evening been--suppose, that, in courtesy, and to save her stripping
hose and shoon, the Sacristan brought her across behind him-suppose he
carried his familiarities farther than the maiden was willing to
admit; and we may easily suppose, farther, that this wetting was the
result of it."

"And this legend invented to deceive us!" said the Superior, reddening
with wrath; "but most strictly shall it be sifted and inquired into;
it is not upon us that Father Philip must hope to pass the result of
his own evil practices for doings of Satan. To-morrow cite the wench
to appear before us--we will examine, and we will punish."

"Under your reverence's favour," said Eustace, "that were but poor
policy. As things now stand with us, the heretics catch hold of each
flying report which tends to the scandal of our clergy. We must abate
the evil, not only by strengthening discipline, but also by
suppressing and stifling the voice of scandal. If my conjectures are
true, the miller's daughter will be silent for her own sake; and your
reverence's authority may also impose silence on her father, and on
the Sacristan. If he is again found to afford room for throwing
dishonour on his order, he can be punished with severity, but at the
same time with secrecy. For what say the Decretals! Facinora ostendi
dum punientur, flagitia autem abscondi debent."

A sentence of Latin, as Eustace had before observed, had often much
influence on the Abbot, because he understood it not fluently, and was
ashamed to acknowledge his ignorance. On these terms they parted for
the night.

The next day, Abbot Boniface strictly interrogated Philip on the real
cause of his disaster of the previous night. But the Sacristan stood
firm to his story; nor was he found to vary from any point of it,
although the answers he returned were in some degree incoherent, owing
to his intermingling with them ever and anon snatches of the strange
damsel's song, which had made such deep impression on his imagination,
that he could not prevent himself from imitating it repeatedly in the
course of his examination. The Abbot had compassion with the
Sacristan's involuntary frailty, to which something supernatural
seemed annexed, and finally became of opinion, that Father Eustace's
more natural explanation was rather plausible than just. And, indeed,
although we have recorded the adventure as we find it written down, we
cannot forbear to add that there was a schism on the subject in the
convent, and that several of the brethren pretended to have good
reason for thinking that the miller's black-eyed daughter was at the
bottom of the affair after all. Whichever way it might be interpreted,
all agreed that it had too ludicrous a sound to be permitted to get
abroad, and therefore the Sacristan was charged, on his vow of
obedience, to say no more of his ducking; an injunction which, having
once eased his mind by telling his story, it may be well conjectured
that he joyfully obeyed.

The attention of Father Eustace was much less forcibly arrested by the
marvellous tale of the Sacristan's danger, and his escape, than by the
mention of the volume which he had brought with him from the Tower of
Glendearg. A copy of the Scriptures, translated into the vulgar
tongue, had found its way even into the proper territory of the
church, and had been discovered in one of the most hidden and
sequestered recesses of the Halidome of Saint Mary's.

He anxiously requested to see the volume. In this the Sacristan was
unable to gratify him, for he had lost it, as far as he recollected,
when the supernatural being, as he conceived her to be, took her
departure from him. Father Eustace went down to the spot in person,
and searched all around it, in hopes of recovering the volume in
question; but his labour was in vain. He returned to the Abbot, and
reported that it must have fallen into the river or the mill-stream;
"for I will hardly believe," he said, "that Father Philip's musical
friend would fly off with a copy of the Holy Scriptures."

"Being," said the Abbot, "as it is, an heretical translation, it may
be thought that Satan may have power over it."

"Ay!" said Father Eustace, "it is indeed his chiefest magazine of
artillery, when he inspireth presumptuous and daring men to set forth
their own opinions and expositions of Holy Writ. But though thus
abused, the Scriptures are the source of our salvation, and are no
more to be reckoned unholy, because of these rash men's proceedings,
than a powerful medicine is to be contemned, or held poisonous,
because bold and evil leeches have employed it to the prejudice of
their patients. With the permission of your reverence, I would that
this matter were looked into more closely. I will myself visit the
Tower of Glendearg ere I am many hours older, and we shall see if any
spectre or white woman of the wild will venture to interrupt my
journey or return. Have I your reverend permission and your blessing?"
he added, but in a tone that appeared to set no great store by either.

"Thou hast both, my brother," said the Abbot; but no sooner had
Eustace left the apartment, than Boniface could not help breaking on
the willing ear of the Sacristan his sincere wish, that any spirit,
black, white, or gray, would read the adviser such a lesson, as to
cure him of his presumption in esteeming himself wiser than the whole
community.

"I wish him no worse lesson," said the Sacristan, "than to go swimming
merrily down the river with a ghost behind, and Kelpies, night-crows,
and mud-eels, all waiting to have a snatch at him.

  Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright!
  Good luck to your fishing, whom watch you to-night?"

"Brother Philip," said the Abbot, "we exhort thee to say thy prayers,
compose thyself, and banish that foolish chant from thy mind;--it is
but a deception of the devil's."

"I will essay, reverend Father," said the Sacristan, "but the tune
hangs by my memory like a bur in a beggar's rags; it mingles with the
psalter--the very bells of the convent seem to repeat the words, and
jingle to the tune; and were you to put me to death at this very
moment, it is my belief I should die singing it--'Now swim we
merrily'--it is as it were a spell upon me."

He then again began to warble

  "Good luck to your fishing."

And checking himself in the strain with difficulty, he exclaimed, "It
is too certain--I am but a lost priest! Swim we merrily--I shall sing
it at the very mass--Wo is me! I shall sing all the remainder of my
life, and yet never be able to change the tune!"

The honest Abbot replied, "he knew many a good fellow in the same
condition;" and concluded the remark with "ho! ho! ho!" for his
reverence, as the reader may partly have observed, was one of those
dull folks who love a quiet joke.

The Sacristan, well acquainted with his Superior's humour, endeavoured
to join in the laugh, but his unfortunate canticle came again across
his imagination, and interrupted the hilarity of his customary echo.

"By the rood, Brother Philip," said the Abbot, much moved, "you become
altogether intolerable! and I am convinced that such a spell could not
subsist over a person of religion, and in a religious house, unless he
were under mortal sin. Wherefore, say the seven penitentiary
psalms--make diligent use of thy scourge and hair-cloth--refrain for
three days from all food, save bread and water--I myself will shrive
thee, and we will see if this singing devil may be driven out of thee;
at least I think Father Eustace himself could devise no better
exorcism."

The Sacristan sighed deeply, but knew remonstrance was vain. He
retired therefore to his cell, to try how far psalmody might be able
to drive off the sounds of the syren tune which haunted his memory.

Meanwhile, Father Eustace proceeded to the drawbridge, in his way to
the lonely valley of Glendearg. In a brief conversation with the
churlish warder, he had the address to render him more tractable in
the controversy betwixt him and the convent. He reminded him that his
father had been a vassal under the community; that his brother was
childless; and that their possession would revert to the church on his
death, and might be either granted to himself the warder, or to some
greater favourite of the Abbot, as matters chanced to stand betwixt
them at the time. The Sub-Prior suggested to him also, the necessary
connexion of interests betwixt the Monastery  and the office which
this man enjoyed. He listened with temper to his rude and churlish
answers; and by keeping his own interest firm pitched in his view, he
had the satisfaction to find that Peter gradually softened his tone,
and consented to let every pilgrim who travelled upon foot pass free
of exaction until Pentocost next; they who travelled on horseback or
otherwise, contenting to pay the ordinary custom. Having thus
accommodated a matter in which the weal of the convent was so deeply
interested, Father Eustace proceeded on his journey.




Chapter the Eighth.


  Nay, dally not with time, the wise man's treasure,
  Though fools are lavish on't--the fatal Fisher
  Hooks souls, while we waste moments.
                                      OLD PLAY.

A November mist overspread the little valley, up which slowly but
steadily rode the Monk Eustace. He was not insensible to the feeling
of melancholy inspired by the scene and by the season. The stream
seemed to murmur with a deep and oppressed note, as if bewailing the
departure of autumn. Among the scattered copses which here and there
fringed its banks, the oak-trees only retained that pallid green that
precedes their russet hue. The leaves of the willows were most of them
stripped from the branches, lay rustling at each breath, and disturbed
by every step of the mule; while the foliage of other trees, totally
withered, kept still precarious possession of the boughs, waiting the
first wind to scatter them.

The monk dropped into the natural train of pensive thought which these
autumnal emblems of mortal hopes are peculiarly calculated to inspire.
"There," he said, looking at the leaves which lay strewed around, "lie
the hopes of early youth, first formed that they may soonest wither,
and loveliest in spring to become most contemptible in winter; but
you, ye lingerers," he added, looking to a knot of beeches which still
bore their withered leaves, "you are the proud plans of adventurous
manhood, formed later, and still clinging to the mind of age, although
it acknowledges their inanity!  None lasts--none endures, save the
foliage of the hardy oak, which only begins to show itself when that
of the rest of the forest has enjoyed half its existence. A pale and
decayed hue is all it possesses, but still it retains that symptom of
vitality to the last.--So be it with Father Eustace! The fairy hopes
of my youth I have trodden under foot like those neglected
rustlers--to the prouder dreams of my manhood I look back as to lofty
chimeras, of which the pith and essence have long since faded; but my
religious vows, the faithful profession which I have made in my
maturer age, shall retain life while aught of Eustace lives. Dangerous
it may be--feeble it must be--yet live it shall, the proud
determination to serve the Church of which I am a member, and to
combat the heresies by which she is assailed." Thus spoke, at least
thus thought, a man zealous according to his imperfect knowledge,
confounding the vital interests of Christianity with the extravagant
and usurped claims of the Church of Rome, and defending his cause with
an ardour worthy of a better.

While moving onward in this contemplative mood, he could not help
thinking more than once, that he saw in his path the form of a female
dressed in white, who appeared in the attitude of lamentation. But the
impression was only momentary, and whenever he looked steadily to the
point where he conceived the figure appeared, it always proved that he
had mistaken some natural object, a white crag, or the trunk of a
decayed birch-tree with its silver bark, for the appearance in
question.

Father Eustace had dwelt too long in Rome to partake the superstitious
feelings of the more ignorant Scottish clergy; yet he certainly
thought it extraordinary, that so strong an impression should have
been made on his mind by the legend of the Sacristan. "It is strange,"
he said to himself, "that this story, which doubtless was the
invention of Brother Philip to cover his own impropriety of conduct,
should run so much in my head, and disturb my more serious thoughts--I
am wont, I think, to have more command over my senses. I will repeat
my prayers, and banish such folly from my recollection."

The monk accordingly began with devotion to tell his beads, in pursuance
of the prescribed rule of his order, and was not again disturbed by any
wanderings of the imagination, until he found himself beneath the little
fortalice of Glendearg.

Dame Glendinning, who stood at the gate, set up a shout of surprise and
joy at seeing the good father. "Martin," she said, "Jasper, where be a'
the folk?--help the right reverend Sub-Prior to dismount, and take his
mule from him.--O father! God has sent you in our need--I was just going
to send man and horse to the convent, though I ought to be ashamed to
give so much trouble to your reverences."

"Our trouble matters not, good dame," said Father Eustace; "in what
can I pleasure you? I came hither to visit the Lady of Avenel."

"Well-a-day!" said Dame Alice, "and it was on her part that I had the
boldness to think of summoning you, for the good lady will never be able
to wear over the day!--Would it please you to go to her chamber?"

"Hath she not been shriven by Father Philip?" said the monk.

"Shriven she was," said the Dame of Glendearg, "and by Father Philip,
as your reverence truly says--but--I wish it may have been a clean
shrift--Methought Father Philip looked but moody upon it--and there
was a book which he took away with him, that--" She paused as if
unwilling to proceed.

"Speak out, Dame Glendinning," said the Father; "with us it is your
duty to have no secrets."

"Nay, if it please your reverence, it is not that I would keep
anything from your reverence's knowledge, but I fear I should
prejudice the lady in your opinion; for she is an excellent
lady--months and years has she dwelt in this tower, and none more
exemplary than she; but this matter, doubtless, she will explain it
herself to your reverence."

"I desire first to know it from you, Dame Glendinning," said the monk;
"and I again repeat, it is your duty to tell it to me."

"This book, if it please your reverence, which Father Philip removed
from Glendearg, was this morning returned to us in a strange manner,"
said the good widow.

"Returned!" said the monk; "how mean you?"

"I mean," answered Dame Glendinning, "that it was brought back to the
tower of Glendearg, the saints best know how--that same book which
Father Philip carried with him but yesterday. Old Martin, that is my
tasker and the lady's servant, was driving out the cows to the
pasture--for we have three good milk-cows, reverend father, blessed be
Saint Waldave, and thanks to the holy Monastery--"

The monk groaned with impatience; but he remembered that a woman of
the good dame's condition was like a top, which, if you let it spin on
untouched, must at last come to a pause; but, if you interrupt it by
flogging, there is no end to its gyrations. "But, to speak no more of
the cows, your reverence, though they are likely cattle as ever were
tied to a stake, the tasker was driving them out, and the lads, that
is my Halbert and my Edward, that your reverence has seen at church on
holidays, and especially Halbert,--for you patted him on the head and
gave him a brooch of Saint Cuthbert, which he wears in his
bonnet,--and little Mary Avenel, that is the lady's daughter, they ran
all after the cattle, and began to play up and down the pasture as
young folk will, your reverence. And at length they lost sight of
Martin and the cows; and they began to run up a little cleugh which we
call _Corri-nan-Shian_, where there is a wee bit stripe of a
burn, and they saw there--Good guide us!--a White Woman sitting on the
burnside wringing her hands--so the bairns were frighted to see a
strange woman sitting there, all but Halbert, who will be sixteen come
Whitsuntide; and, besides, he never feared ony thing--and when they
went up to her--behold she was passed away!"

"For shame, good woman!" said Father Eustace; "a woman of your sense
to listen to a tale so idle!--the young folk told you a lie, and that
was all."

"Nay, sir, it was more than that," said the old dame; "for, besides
that they never told me a lie in their lives, I must warn you that on
the very ground where the White Woman was sitting, they found the Lady
of Avenel's book, and brought it with them to the tower."

"That is worthy of mark at least," said the monk. "Know you no other
copy of this volume within these bounds?"

"None, your reverence," returned Elspeth; "why should there?--no one
could read it were there twenty."

"Then you are sure it is the very same volume which you gave to Father
Philip?" said the monk.

"As sure as that I now speak with your reverence."

"It is most singular!" said the monk; and he walked across the room in
a musing posture.

"I have been upon nettles to hear what your reverence would say,"
continued Dame Glendinning, "respecting this matter--There is nothing
I would not do for the Lady of Avenel and her family, and that has
been proved, and for her servants to boot, both Martin and Tibb,
although Tibb is not so civil sometimes as altogether I have a right
to expect; but I cannot think it beseeming to have angels, or ghosts,
or fairies, or the like, waiting upon a leddy when she is in another
woman's house, in respect it is no ways creditable. Ony thing she had
to do was always done to her hand, without costing her either pains or
pence, as a country body says; and besides the discredit, I cannot but
think that there is no safety in having such unchancy creatures about
ane. But I have tied red thread round the bairns's throats," (so her
fondness still called them,) "and given ilka ane of them a riding-wand
of rowan-tree, forby sewing up a slip of witch-elm into their
doublets; and I wish to know of your reverence if there be ony thing
mair that a lone woman can do in the matter of ghosts and fairies?--Be
here! that I should have named their unlucky names twice ower!"

"Dame Glendinning," answered the monk, somewhat abruptly, when the
good woman had finished her narrative, "I pray you, do you know the
miller's daughter?"

"Did I know Kate Happer?" replied the widow; "as well as the beggar
knows his dish--a canty quean was Kate, and a special cummer of my ain
maybe twenty years syne."

"She cannot be the wench I mean," said Father Eustace; "she after whom
I inquire is scarce fifteen, a black-eyed girl--you may have seen her
at the kirk."

"Your reverence must be in the right; and she is my cummer's nie'ce,
doubtless, that you are pleased to speak of: but I thank God I have
always been too duteous in attention to the mass, to know whether
young wenches have black eyes or green ones."

The good father had so much of the world about him, that he was unable
to avoid smiling, when the dame boasted her absolute resistance to a
temptation, which was not quite so liable to beset her as those of the
other sex.

"Perhaps, then," he said, "you know her usual dress, Dame Glendinning?"