When I cum' to, I wur i' Nick Demdike's cottage, wi' his woife watching ower me, and th' unbapteesed chilt i' her arms." All exclamations of wonder on the part of the rustics, and inquiries as to the issue of the adventure, were checked by the approach of a monk, who, joining the assemblage, called their attention to a priestly train slowly advancing along the road.
"It is headed," he said, "by Fathers Chatburne and Chester, late bursers of the abbey.

Alack! alack! they now need the charity themselves which they once so lavishly bestowed on others." "Waes me!" ejaculated Ashbead.

"Monry a broad merk han ey getten fro 'em." "They'n been koind to us aw," added the others.
"Next come Father Burnley, granger, and Father Haworth, cellarer," pursued the monk; "and after them Father Dinkley, sacristan, and Father Moore, porter." "Yo remember Feyther Moore, lads," cried Ashbead.
"Yeigh, to be sure we done," replied the others; "a good mon, a reet good mon! He never sent away t' poor--naw he!" "After Father Moore," said the monk, pleased with their warmth, "comes Father Forrest, the procurator, with Fathers Rede, Clough, and Bancroft, and the procession is closed by Father Smith, the late prior." "Down o' yer whirlybooans, lads, as t' oly feythers pass," cried Ashbead, "and crave their blessing." And as the priestly train slowly approached, with heads bowed down, and looks fixed sadly upon the ground, the rustic assemblage fell upon their knees, and implored their benediction.

The foremost in the procession passed on in silence, but the prior stopped, and extending his hands over the kneeling group, cried in a solemn voice, "Heaven bless ye, my children! Ye are about to witness a sad spectacle.
You will see him who hath clothed you, fed you, and taught you the way to heaven, brought hither a prisoner, to suffer a shameful death." "Boh we'st set him free, oly prior," cried Ashbead.

"We'n meayed up our moinds to 't.