'Honoured Sir Knight,' said he, 'let not a grief which is most natural, and worthy of all respect, overcome you at this moment; for all the people stand amazed, and know not what to do. Go forward, I entreat you, into the church, that the last sad rites may be performed, and the assembly dismissed.' Thus admonished, Sir Brian pressed both his hands across his eyes, and made a hurried and desperate attempt to reach the church door. But on the first step he slipped and fell headlong, shrieking out in a voice that rang over the crowd and penetrated to the coffin-bearers within the aisle-- 'I am cursed! Her blood is upon me!' It was an ugly and an ominous spectacle. No further attempt was made to induce him to enter the church, nor is it likely that any such attempt would have succeeded. From his behaviour, and from sundry obscure sentences that fell from him, it was inferred that the arched doorway, to his apprehension, was sentinelled by some grisly phantom that waved him back. And it is worthy of note that from this time to the very end of his life, he never made his way into the house of God, or even would accept the ministrations of any member of the sacred profession. To strive to bring his mind into a religious frame was tantamount to throwing him into one of his fits of superstitious delirium; so that those last words of his wife, on parting with him for ever--'May the blood which thou hast this day shed cause thee to slip and stumble in thy way heavenward!'--would seem to have found a sufficiently ample fulfilment.