That dreary vault of red granite, half-veiled in dusky obscurity, save where the moonlight struggled through a narrow slit on one hand; while, on the other, the flickering light of a single torch shed its fitful glare on the unearthly form of the dying Earl—hollow-eyed, pale, and attenuated to a skeleton—chained by the waist to his bed of straw, and sinking fast, with the death rattle almost in his throat; the bald head and dark robe of the priest, who knelt by his side writing down his dying words—that priest in other days his friend and knightly comrade—on the tall, burly figures of the sleepy Danish governor and his friends, with their long beards, and fantastic costumes trimmed with sable fur, stooping over the sputtering torch, to hear the faint but terrible words of those pale lips that were about to close for ever.
"Now, blessed be God, it is done!" cried the Earl, closing his eyes; "for I feel that I am passing from among you. I am dying! Oh, John of Bolton! in this dread moment let me think that thou at least will stand by my grave—will say one prayer for my soul; and, in memory of the days of other years, will remember me with pity and forgiveness!"
Bolton pressed his clammy hand, but there was no return, for the jaw relaxed, and the eyes turned back within their sockets, announced that the soul of the Earl had fled.
* * * * * * * *
His grave lay under the old castle wall, in a lonely little dell.
It was shaded by the light leaves of the dwarf-birch and the purple flowers of the lilac tree; the blue forget-me-not, the white strawberry, and the yellow daisy, were planted there by the kind-hearted Swedes, in memory of the poor stranger that had found a grave so far from his home, and from where the dust of his forefathers lay.
On St. Bothan's eve, for many a returning year, a wandering priest was seen to kneel beside that lonely grave, with eyes downcast, and a crucifix in his clasped hands; and after praying he would go sadly away, but whither no one knew.
Year after year passed on, and still he came to offer up that promised prayer for the repose of the dead man's soul; though on the grave the weeds grew long and rank, and he who lay within it had long since mingled with the dust.
Those who first remembered the priest when they were little children, saw him still returning when they were men and women in the prime of life—but then he was decrepit and old.
The last time he was seen was in the reign of King Christian IV., about the year 1622. His form was then bent with extreme old age, and he leaned upon a staff; his hair was thin and white—his cheeks were hollow, and he wept as he prayed.