Ovingdean Grange by W. Harrison Ainsworth

Thus communing with himself it may be, holy Cuthman reached the northern boundary of the rampart surrounding the old Roman camp, and cast his eyes over the vast Weald of Sussex, displayed before him like a map. The contemplation of this fair and fertile district filled his soul with gladness; but what chiefly rejoiced him was to note how the edifices reared for worship had multiplied since he first looked upon the extensive plain. He strove to count the numerous churches scattered about, but soon gave up the attempt—he might as well have tried to number the trees. But the difficulty he experienced increased his satisfaction, inasmuch as it proved to him that true religion had taken deep root in the land. And he gave glory and praise accordingly, where glory and praise are due.

Scarcely were his audibly-uttered thanksgivings ended, when he became aware that some one stood nigh him, and turning his head, he beheld a tall man of singularly swarthy complexion, haughty mien, and eyes that seemed to burn like coals of fire. The habiliments of this mysterious and sinister-looking personage were of blood-red hue, and though their richness and the egret in his velvet cap betokened princely rank, he bore the implements of a common labourer—namely, a pickaxe and a shovel. No sound had proclaimed the stranger’s approach, and his appearance was as sudden and startling as if he had risen from the earth. As Saint Cuthman regarded him with the aversion inspired by the sight of a venomous and deadly snake, yet wholly without fear, he knew that he was in the presence of the Author of III.

“Comest thou to tempt me, accursed one?” the holy man sternly demanded. “If so, learn that I am proof against thy wiles. Depart from me, or I will summon good spirits that shall cast thee hence.”

“Thou canst not do so,” the inauspicious-looking stranger replied, laughing derisively. “I am master here. Altars have been reared to strange gods upon this hill, and sacrifices made to them;—nay, I myself have been worshipped as Dis, and the blood of black bulls has been poured out upon the ground in mine honour. Therefore, the hill is mine, and thou thyself art an intruder upon it, and deservest to be cast down headlong into the plain. Yet will I spare thee—”

“Thou darest not so much as injure a hair of my head, Sathanas,” interrupted the Saint, in a menacing voice, and raising his staff as he spoke. “Approach! and lightnings shall blast thee.”

“I tell thee I have no design to harm thee,” returned the Fiend, with a look that showed he would willingly have rent the holy man in pieces. “But give heed to what I am about to say. Vainly hast thou essayed to count the churches in the Sussex Weald, and thou hast glorified Heaven because of the number of the worshippers gathered within those fanes. Now mark me, thou servant of God! Thou hast taken a farewell look of that plain, so thickly studded with structures pleasing in thy sight, but an abomination to me. Before to-morrow morn, that vast district—far as thine eye can stretch—even to the foot of you distant Surrey hills—the whole Weald of Sessex, with its many churches, its churchmen, and its congregations, shall be whelmed beneath the sea.”

“Thou mockest me,” returned Saint Cuthman, contemptuously; “but I know thee to be the Father of Lies.”

“Disbelieve me, if I fail in my task—not till then,” said the Fiend. “With the implements which I hold in my hand I will cut such a dyke through this hill, and through the hills lying between it and Hove, as shall let in the waters of the deep, so that all dwelling within yonder plain shall be drowned by them.”

“And thinkest thou thy evil work will be permitted?” cried the Saint, shaking his head.

“Thou, at least, canst not prevent it,” rejoined the Fiend, with a bitter laugh. “I will take my chance of other hindrance.”

The holy man appeared for a moment troubled, but his confidence was presently restored.

“Thou deceivest thy self,” he said. “The task thou proposest to execute is beyond thy power.”