It was the hour of the night when there be none stirring save churchyard ghosts--when all doors are closed except the gates of graves, and all eyes shut but the eyes of wicked men. When there is no sound on the earth except the ticking of the grasshopper, or the croaking of obscene frogs in the poole. And no light except that of the blinking starres, and the wicked and devilish wills-o’-the-wisp, as they gambol among the marshes, and lead good men astraye. When there is nothing moving in heaven except the owle, as he flappeth along lazily; or the magician, as he rides on his infernal broomsticke, whistling through the aire like the arrowes of a Yorkshire archere. It was at this hour (namely, at twelve o’clock of the night) that two beings went winging through the black clouds, and holding converse with each other. Now the first was Mercurius, the messenger, not of gods (as the heathens feigned), but of dæmons; and the second, with whom he held company, was the soul of Sir Roger de Rollo, the brave knight. Sir Roger was Count of Chauchigny, in Champagne; Seigneur of Santerre, Villacerf and _aultre lieux_. But the great die as well as the humble; and nothing remained of brave Roger now but his coffin and his deathless soul. And Mercurius, in order to keep fast the soul, his companion, had bound him round the neck with his tail; which, when the soul was stubborn, he would draw so tight as to strangle him well-nigh, sticking into him the barbed point thereof; whereat the poor soul, Sir Rollo, would groan and roar lustily. Now they two had come together from the gates of purgatorie, being bound to those regions of fire and flame where poor sinners fry and roast _in sæcula sæculorum_. ‘It is hard,’ said the poor Sir Rollo, as they went gliding through the clouds, ‘that I should thus be condemned for ever, and all for want of a single ave.’ ‘How, Sir Soul?’ said the dæmon. ‘You were on earth so wicked, that not one, or a million of aves, could suffice to keep from hell-flame a creature like thee; but cheer up and be merry; thou wilt be but a subject of our lord the Devil, as I am; and, perhaps, thou wilt be advanced to posts of honour, as am I also:’ and to show his authoritie, he lashed with his tail the ribbes of the wretched Rollo. ‘Nevertheless, sinner as I am, one more ave would have saved me; for my sister, who was Abbess of St. Mary of Chauchigny, did so prevail, by her prayer and good works, for my lost and wretched soul, that every day I felt the pains of purgatory decrease: the pitchforks which, on my first entry, had never ceased to vex and torment my poor carcass, were now not applied above once a week; the roasting had ceased, the boiling had discontinued; only a certain warmth was kept up, to remind me of my situation.’ ‘A gentle stewe,’ said the dæmon.