Lacrymosa dies illa,
          Qua resurget ex favilla
          Judicandus homo reus. 
          Huic ergo parce, Deus! 
          Pie Jesu Domine! 
          Dona eis requiem.

“Amen!” exclaimed the abbot.  And bowing his head to the ground, he earnestly repeated—­

          “Pie Jesu Domine! 
          Dona eis requiem.”

Then he looked up, and resolved to ask for a confessor, and unburthen his soul without delay.

The offertory and post-communion were over; the “requiescant in pace”—­awful words addressed to living ears—­were pronounced; and the mass was ended.

All prepared to depart.  The prior descended from the altar to embrace and take leave of the abbot; and at the same time the Earl of Derby came from the stall.

“Has all been done to your satisfaction, John Paslew?” demanded the earl, as he drew near.

“All, my good lord,” replied the abbot, lowly inclining his head; “and I pray you think me not importunate, if I prefer one other request.  I would fain have a confessor visit me, that I may lay bare my inmost heart to him, and receive absolution.”

“I have already anticipated the request,” replied the earl, “and have provided a priest for you.  He shall attend you, within an hour, in your own chamber.  You will have ample time between this and daybreak, to settle your accounts with Heaven, should they be ever so weighty.”

“I trust so, my lord,” replied Paslew; “but a whole life is scarcely long enough for repentance, much less a few short hours.  But in regard to the confessor,” he continued, filled with misgiving by the earl’s manner, “I should be glad to be shriven by Father Christopher Smith, late prior of the abbey.”

“It may not be,” replied the earl, sternly and decidedly.  “You will find all you can require in him I shall send.”

The abbot sighed, seeing that remonstrance was useless.

“One further question I would address to you, my lord,” he said, “and that refers to the place of my interment.  Beneath our feet lie buried all my predecessors—­Abbots of Whalley.  Here lies John Eccles, for whom was carved the stall in which your lordship hath sat, and from which I have been dethroned.  Here rests the learned John Lyndelay, fifth abbot; and beside him his immediate predecessor, Robert de Topcliffe, who, two hundred and thirty years ago, on the festival of Saint Gregory, our canonised abbot, commenced the erection of the sacred edifice above us.  At that epoch were here enshrined the remains of the saintly Gregory, and here were also brought the bodies of Helias de Workesley and John de Belfield, both prelates of piety and wisdom.  You may read the names where you stand, my lord.  You may count the graves of all the abbots.  They are sixteen in number.  There is one grave yet unoccupied—­one stone yet unfurnished with an effigy in brass.”

“Well!” said the Earl of Derby.