Then, as this thing had become a scandal and a dread, the Abbot, in his robes, solemnly laid the ghost, Thomas Bolle showing him exactly where it had passed.
This spirit being well and truly laid (like a foundation-stone), the Abbot and his monks returned homeward through the wood, but as they went a dreadful voice, which all recognized as that of Sir John Foterell, called these words from the shadows of an impenetrable thicket--for now the night was falling-- "Clement Maldonado, Abbot of Blossholme, I, whom thou didst murder, summon thee to meet me within a year before the throne of God." Thereon all fled; yes, even the Abbot fled, or rather, as he said, his horse did, Thomas Bolle, who had lagged behind, outrunning them every one and getting home the first, saying _Aves_ as he went.
After this, although the whole countryside hunted for it, Sir John's ghost was seen no more.

Doubtless its work was done; but the Abbot explained matters differently.

Other and worse things were seen, however.
One moonlight night a disturbance was heard among the cows, that bellowed and rushed about the field into which they had been turned after milking.

Thinking that dogs had got amongst them, the herd and a watchman--for now no man would stir alone after sunset at Blossholme--went to see what was happening, and presently fell down half dead with fright.

For there, leaning over the gate and laughing at them, was the foul fiend himself--the fiend with horns and tail, and in his hand an instrument like a pitchfork.
How the pair got home again, they never knew, but this is certain, that after that night no one could milk those cows; moreover, some of them slipped their calves, and became so wild that they must be slaughtered.
Next came rumours that even the Nunnery itself was haunted, especially the chapel.