“Beyond my power!” exclaimed the Demon. “It is a trifle in comparison with what I can achieve. I have had a hand in many wonderful works, some of which are recognized as mine, though I have not got credit for a tithe of those I have performed. Devil’s bridges are common enough, methinks, in mountainous gorges—devil’s towers are by no means rare in old castles. Most of the camps upon these downs were planned and executed by me—the very rampart upon which we stand being partly my work. The first Cæsar has got the credit of many of my performances, and he is welcome to it. He is not the only man who has worn laurels belonging by right to others. Saint as thou art, it is meet thou give the devil his due. Do so, and thou must needs praise his industry.”
“Thy industry in evil-doing in unquestionable,” rejoined the Saint. “But good work is out of thy power. Thou darest not affirm that thou hast had any hand in the erection of temples and holy piles.”
“Ask thy compeers, Saint Dunstan and Saint Augustine—they will tell thee differently. But I disdain to boast. I have certainly had no hand in thy ugly little wooden church at Steyning.”
“And thy present feat is to be performed before to-morrow, thou sayest?” demanded the Saint, highly offended at this uncalled-for allusion to his own favourite structure.
“Between sunset and sunrise, most saintly sir.”
“That is but a short time for so mighty a task,” said the holy man, in an incredulous tone. “Bethink thee a September night is not a long night?”
“The shortest night is long enough for me,” the Fiend replied. “If the dawn comes and finds my work incomplete, thou shalt be at liberty to deride me.”
“I shall never treat thee otherwise than with scorn,” the Saint rejoined. “But thou hast said it, and I hold thee to thy word. Between sunset and sunrise thy task must be done. If thou failest—from whatever cause—thy evil scheme shall be for ever abandoned.”
“Be it so! I am content,” the Fiend rejoined. “But I shall not fail,” he added, with a fearful laugh. “Come hither at sunset, and thou wilt see me commence my work. Thou mayst tarry nigh me, if thou wilt, till it be done.”
“Heaven forfend that it should be done!” ejaculated the Saint, casting his eyes upwards.
When he looked up again towards the spot where the Evil one had stood, he could no more perceive him.
“No!” exclaimed the good Saint, allowing his gaze to wander over the smiling and far-stretching Weald, “I cannot believe that I am taking farewell of this lovely plain. I cannot for an instant believe that its destruction will be permitted. Its people have not sinned, but have incurred the hatred of the Arch-Fiend solely because of their piety and zeal. It shall be my business to defeat his hateful design.
The holy man turned away, and quitting the camp, proceeded in an easterly direction over the hill, until he came to a small stone structure, standing near a grey old thorn-tree, on an acclivity covered with gorse and heather. The occupant of this solitary cell belonged to a priory of Benedictine nuns, situated at Leominster, near Arundel, and attached to the Abbey of Almenesches, in Normandy. Sister Ursula Braose had retired to this lonesome spot in order to pass the whole of her time in devotion, and had acquired a reputation for sanctity and asceticism scarcely inferior to that of holy Cuthman himself. She was a daughter of the noble house of Braose of Bramber Castle. Once a week the purveyor of the priory at Leominster brought her a scanty supply of provisions (for the poor soul needed but little), and it was from him that Saint Cuthman had heard of her illness, and of her desire to be shriven by him.
He found the recluse occupied in her devotions. She was kneeling before an ivory crucifix fastened against the wall of her cell, and was so absorbed as to be entirely unconscious of the Saint’s approach. He did not make his presence known to her till she had done. Sister Ursula Braose had once been remarkable for beauty, but years, the austere life she had led, and the frequent and severe penances she had undergone, had obliterated all traces of loveliness from her features. She was old and wrinkled now; her hair white as snow, and her fingers thin as those of a skeleton. She was clothed in a loose black robe, with a cincture of cord round her waist. Reverentially saluting the holy man, she prayed him to be seated upon a stool, which, with another small seat hewn out of stone, a stone table, and a straw pallet, formed the entire furniture of her cell. An iron lamp hung by a chain from the roof. On the table were placed a missal written on vellum, an hour-glass, and a small taper.