Ovingdean Grange by W. Harrison Ainsworth

“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.

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 depart. 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.

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