“Thou art but a slovenly workman, after all,” remarked Saint Cuthman. “The sides of thy Dyke are rough and uneven, and want levelling. A mortal labourer would be shrewdly reprimanded if he left them in such an untidy condition.”
“No mortal labourer could make such a trench,” cried the Fiend. “However, it shall never be said that I am a slovenly workman.”
Whereupon he seized his spade, and proceeded to level the banks of the Dyke, carefully removing all roughness and irregularity.
“Will that satisfy thy precise notions?” he called out, when he had done.
“I cannot deny that it looks better,” returned the holy man, glad to think that another hour had passed — for a soft touch falling upon his brow made him aware that, at this moment, Sister Ursula had turned the hour-glass for the second time.
A sharp sudden pain smote the Fiend, and made him roar out lustily, “Another stitch, and worse than the first! But it shall not hinder my task.”
Again he fell to work. Again, the hill was shaken to its base. Again, mighty masses of chalk were hurled into the valley, crushing everything upon which they descended. Again, the strokes of the pickaxe echoed throughout the Weald.
It was now dark. But the fiery breath of the Demon sufficed to light him in his task. He toiled away with right good will, for the Devil can work hard enough, I promise you, if the task be to his mind. All at once he suspended his labour. The hourglass had been turned for the third time.
“What is the matter with thee?” demanded the Saint.
“I know not,” replied the writhing Fiend. “A sudden attack of cramp in the arms and legs, I fancy. I must have caught cold on these windy downs. I will do a little lighter work till the fit passes off.” Upon this, he took up the shovel and began to trim the sides of the Dyke as before.
While he was thus engaged, the further end of the chasm closed up, so that when he took up the pickaxe once more he had all his work to do again. This caused him to snort and roar like a mad bull, and so much flame and smoke issued from his mouth and nostrils, that the bottom of the Dyke resembled the bed of a volcano.
Sister Ursula then turned the glass for the fourth time. Hereupon, an enormous mass of breccia, or gold-stone, as the common folk call it, which the Fiend had dislodged, rolled down upon his foot, and crushed it. This so enraged him, that he sent the fragment of gold-stone whizzing over the hills to Hove. What with rubbing his bruised foot, and roaring, a quarter of an hour elapsed before he could resume his work.
The fifth turning of the glass gave him such pains in the back, that for some minutes he was completely disabled.
“An attack of lumbago,” he cried. “I seem liable to all mortal ailments to- night.”
“Thou hadst better desist,” said the Saint. “The next attack may cripple thee for all time.”
“I am all right again,” shouted the Demon. “It was but a passing seizure, like those that have gone before it. Thou shalt now see what I can do.”
And he began to ply his pickaxe with greater energy than ever; toiling on without intermission, filling the chasm with flame from his fiery nostrils, and producing the effect of a continuous thunderstorm over the Weald. Thus he wrought on, I say, uninterruptedly, for the space of another hour.
Sister Ursula had turned the glass for the last time.
The Fiend was suddenly checked — but not this time by pains in the limbs, or prostration of strength. He had struck the pickaxe so deeply into the chalk that he could not remove it. He strained every nerve to pluck it forth, but it continued firmly embedded, and the helve, which was thick as the mainmast of a ship, and of toughest oak, broke in his grasp.
While he was roaring like an infuriated lion with rage and mortification, Saint Cuthman called out to him to come forth.
“Wherefore should I come forth?” the Fiend cried. “Thou thinkest I am baffled; but thou art mistaken. I will dig out my axe-head presently, and my shovel will furnish me with a new handle.”
“Cease, if thou canst, for a short space, to breathe forth flame and smoke; and look towards the east,” cried the Saint.
“There is a glimmer of light in the sky in that quarter!” exclaimed the Demon, holding his breath; “but dawn cannot be come already.”
“The streak of light grows rapidly wider and brighter,” said the Saint. “The shades of night are fleeing fast away. The larks are beginning to rise and carol forth their matin hymns on the downs. The rooks are cawing amid the trees of the park beneath us. The cattle are lowing in the meads — and hark! dost thou not hear the cooks crowing in the adjacent village of Poynings?”
“Cocks crowing at Poynings!” yelled the Fiend. “It must be the dawn. But the sun shall not behold my discomfiture.”
“Hide thy head in darkness, accursed being!” exclaimed the Saint, raising his staff. “Hence with thee! and return not to this hill. The dwellers within the Sussex Weald are saved from thy malice, and may henceforth worship without fear. Get thee hence, I say.”
Abashed by the awful looks of the Saint, the Demon fled. Howling with rage, like a wild beast robbed of its prey, he ran to the northern boundary of the rampart surrounding the camp, where the marks of his gigantic feet may still be seen indelibly impressed on the sod. Then springing off, and unfolding his sable pinions, he soared over the Weald, alighting on Leith Hill.
Just as he took flight, Sister Ursula’s taper went out. Instant darkness fell upon the hill, and Night resumed her former sway. The village cocks ceased crowing, the larks paused in their songs and dropped to the ground like stones, the rooks returned to roost, and the lowing herds became silent.
Saint Cuthman had to make a considerable circuit to reach Sister Ursula’s cell, a deep gulf having been placed between it and the headland on which he had taken his stand. On arriving at the little structure he found that the recluse’s troubles were over Her loving heart had for ever ceased to beat. Her failing strength had sufficed to turn the hour-glass for the last time, and just as the consecrated taper expired, she passed away. In death, she still retained the attitude of prayer — her clasped hands being raised heavenwards.
“Suspice Domine, preces nostras pro animâ famulœ tuœ; ut si quœ ei maculœ de terrenis contagiis adhœserunt, remissionis tuœ misericordia deleantur!” ejaculated the holy man. “She could not have had a better ending! May my own be like it! She shall have sepulture in my mother’s grave at Steyning. And masses and trentals, according to my promise, shall be said for the repose of her soul. Peace be with her!” And he went on his way.
Thus was the Demon banished by Saint Cuthman from that hill overlooking the fair Sussex Weald, and the people of the plain ever after prayed in peace. But the Devil’s handiwork — the unfinished Dyke — exists to this day. Though I never heard that his pickaxe has been found.
CHAPTER V.
How Stelfax Took The Cavalier To The Grange;.
And What Happened By The Way
SOME few interruptions were offered to the schoolmaster’s narration both by Stelfax and his men; and when it came to an end, the Roundhead leader observed that it was a monkish and superstitious legend, fit only for old wives and children, and that for his own part he did not believe in the pretended miracles of Saint Cuthman, or those of any other Romish saint in the calendar. On this observation being made, Captain Goldspur got up, and looking as if he would no longer remain in the company of a person who expressed such heterodox opinions, he was marching out of the room, when, at a sign from Stelfax, two of the troopers caught hold of him, and forced him back to his seat. In doing this, they deprived him of his long rapier, which Stelfax consigned to the host, bidding him put it aside for the present. In an authoritative tone the Roundhead leader then informed the company that none of them must leave the house until after his departure with the prisoner — a piece of good news to Simon Piddinghoe, who ventured to express a hope that the worshipful captain would prolong his stay to as late an hour as possible. Stelfax, indeed, seemed in no hurry to depar
t. His seat by the fireside was very comfortable, and the mulled sack super-excellent — so remarkably good, indeed, that, having finished his pottle during the progress of the schoolmaster’s legend, he ordered the host to brew a second.
By this time, the prisoner had shaken off in a great measure the effects of his fall. Of a reckless turn, like most Cavaliers, he either felt — or feigned to feel — indifferent to his present position. His chair was next that of Stelfax, and hearing the praises bestowed by the latter upon the sack, he begged to be allowed a measure for himself — and the favour was unhesitatingly granted. After the failure of his attempt to march off, Captain Goldspur’s audacity seemed to forsake him, and withdrawing as far as he could from the presence of the hateful Stelfax, he lapsed into gloomy silence. His companions were equally taciturn and moody. But the rest of the company took no umbrage at their detention, appearing rather pleased by the excuse it offered them for making a night of it. Whether Stelfax sat long to vex Goldspur and his sullen comrades — or whether, as is more probable, he felt disposed to rest and enjoy himself after a hard day’s work — certain it is that eleven o’clock had struck ere he rose to depart. The reckoning was then paid — rather to Simon Piddinghoe’s surprise, for the soldiers of the Republic were not notorious for scrupulously discharging their scores; the horses were brought out; the prisoner was placed on the crupper behind Nathan Guestling, and strapped to that stout trooper as he had previously been. All these arrangements made, Stelfax mounted, and after partaking of a stirrup-cup proffered by the host, put himself at the head of the little troop, and rode out of Poynings.
Notwithstanding the Roundhead leader’s injunctions to the contrary, one person had contrived to slip out of the house unobserved. When the host returned to his guests to tell them they were now free to depart if they were so minded, he remarked that Captain Goldspur was gone, and had taken his rapier with him. Upon which he muttered, “There will be mischief, I fear — And who, think you, yon red-coated knaves have got as a prisoner, my worthy masters?” he added.
“Nay, I know not,” the schoolmaster rejoined. “Who should it be?”
“No other than Colonel George Gunter of Racton,” the host replied; “as worthy a gentleman as any in the county, and as staunch a partisan as ever breathed of the — of — You know whom I mean.”
“Was that Colonel Gunter of Racton?” cried a personage in a tarnished lace cloak and dilapidated Spanish hat. “Would I had known it.”
“Why, what wouldst thou have done, Master Jervoise Rumboldsdyke?” demanded the inquisitive schoolmaster.
“No matter,” the other rejoined. “It may not yet be too late. Tell me the way taken by those cursed troopers,” he added to the host.
“They rode towards Patcham,” Simon Piddinghoe replied. “No doubt they are bound for Lewes, where the detachment is quartered.”
“To Lewes!” exclaimed Rumboldsdyke. “To Lewes, then, let us hie. Here is thy reckoning, mine host.” And flinging a double-crown upon the table he rushed out of the house, followed by his comrades.
It was a clear starlight night, and by no means dark. Stelfax kept a little in advance of his men, but did not urge his horse beyond a walk. Their road lay partly along a valley, partly over a lower range of downs. After a while, they reached Patcham, and were passing the thick hanging wood on the hill-side, when a pistol — for such the fire-arm seemed to be from its report — was discharged at Stelfax. The bullet struck the Roundhead leader’s gorget, but did him no injury. He instantly turned, and dashing to the edge of the wood, called, in a voice of thunder, upon his dastardly assailant to show himself, and come forth if he dared. But no answer was returned to the summons, neither could any lurking assassin be detected. Deeming search useless at such an hour, Stelfax set off again; but he now mended his pace, and being under no apprehension of losing his way, he rode over the silent and solitary downs in the direction of Ovingdean, where he arrived without further molestation of any kind, and deposited his prisoner at the Grange.
CHAPTER VI.
By What Means The Prisoners Escaped From The Church
We must now return to the church, and see what the disorderly rout left within it were about. It was past midnight. The torches were still blazing, but the thick vapour that rose from their flames, combined with the tobacco-smoke, filled the whole body of the fabric, and so obscured its-more distant portions, that the arched screen separating the chancel from the nave could scarcely be discerned. The light, struggling through this vapour, only imperfectly revealed the figures of the Ironsides stretched upon the benches, some of them, as we have said, asleep, and the rest in a drowsy state, half-stupefied with drink. All their boisterous merriment had long since ceased, and nothing was heard but the heavy breathing of the slumbering topers. All at once, a slight noise reached the ears of the sergeant, and looking in the direction whence it proceeded, he thought he discerned a dark figure in the pulpit. After steadily regarding the object for a few moments, during which it continued perfectly motionless, a superstitious terror took possession of Delves, and be began to think it was the Enemy of Mankind standing before him in prison. Rousing up Besadaiah Eavestaff, who was near to him, he directed his attention to the mysterious figure, and asked him, in accents that betrayed his alarm, what he thought of it?
“It is the Evil One,” Besadaiah rejoined, rubbing his eyes. “But how comes he here, in yonder pulpit, and in the garb of a minister of the Church? I am not afraid — I will address him.”
With this he got up, and supporting himself with his carabine, staggered towards the pulpit.
“Aha!” he exclaimed, as he drew near, “I have it now, sergeant. Whom dost thou think his Satanic Majesty turns out to be? No other than Master Increase Micklegift, the Independent minister, whom we ejected from the neighbouring mansion by our captain’s commands. How comes he here? Doth he take up his abode altogether within this church?”
“If it be indeed Master Micklegift, and not an evil spirit in his form,” Delves rejoined, “ question him thyself.”
“He shall not need to do so,” cried Micklegift, for it was he. “I have placed myself here to see how you who profess to be soldiers fighting for the cause of religion and truth would comport yourselves, and I find that ye are as riotous and intemperate as the scoffers, brawlers, and tipplers whom ye profess to reprobate. Are ye not ashamed to be wallowing in drunkenness when ye should watch and pray? Call ye yourselves good soldiers of the Republic? You are said to be the favoured host of our great Joshua, Cromwell; but is it by conduct like this that you have earned his regard? Hardly so, methinks! If you must needs turn this tabernacle into a place of duresse for your prisoners, why should you thus defile it? For your profaneness and irreverence ye ought to be driven forth with stripes, and if a judgment should fall upon your heads ye will have richly merited it.”
“Peace!” exclaimed Besadaiah; “I will hear no more from thee.”
“Nay, there is reason in what the good man saith,” cried. Delves. “We deserve his rebukes. It must be owned that our conduct this night hath not been in accordance either with our principles or our duty.”
“Our captain mislikes this man, and suspects him of being in league with the malignants,” cried Besadaiah. “By his own showing he hath been playing the spy upon us. Let him come down from that pulpit, and free us at once from his presence, or I will send a bullet through his brain.”
“Thou darest not lift thy hand against me, thou sacrilegious ruffian,” thundered Micklegift. “My purpose is to hold forth unto thee and to thy comrades, and to strive to awaken ye all to a sense of your sinfulness.”
“It will be labour thrown away, worthy sir,” said Delves, “so I pray you forbear. With what intent you have come hither, and hidden yourself away until this moment, is best known to your secret heart. But such conduct is questionable, and seems to justify our captain’s doubts as to your sincerity to the cause. I have prisoners in charge here, as you are aware-prisoners for whose security I
am responsible. I cannot tell but you may have some design to give them aid, and must therefore enjoin you to quit the church without delay.”
“What if I refuse to go?” rejoined Micklegift. “What if, in my turn, I command thee and thy sacrilegious crew to depart from the tabernacle which ye have profaned?”
“You will do well not to provoke me further,” Besadaiah cried, in a menacing voice, and levelling his musket at the Independent minister as he spoke. “Come down, I say, at once, and quit the church — or that pulpit shall be thy coffin.”
“Put down thy weapon, Besadaiah, and harm not the man,” interposed Delves. “Though his conduct be suspicious, he may have no ill intent. Hearken unto me, Master Micklegift, and compel me not to have recourse to harsh measures with thee. Thou canst not stay here.”
“The church is mine, and nothing but force shall make me quit it,” cried Micklegift, vehemently.
“I grieve to hear you say so,” the sergeant rejoined. “I desire not to use violence, but your obstinacy will leave me no other alternative.”
“Better let me put an end to the discussion, sergeant,” growled Besadaiah, again raising his carabine.
“Not in that way, I tell thee,” Delves rejoined. “For the last time, I say unto thee, Master Micklegift, wilt thou depart peaceably, or must I put thee forth?”
“I will not leave mine own church at thine, or at any man’s bidding,” the Independent minister rejoined; “and I counsel thee not to attempt to use force against me, or thou wilt rue it. Lay but a finger upon me, and I will render thine arm powerless.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 573
