The chaplain was of the type of the sporting parson of later days. He
loved the hunt. He loved a good bottle, a good horse, a good dog. "_The
Hundeprest"_ was the name he went by. Other things he also loved that
made not for sanctity, and when, at last, he died, his death was no more
holy than his selfish, sensual life had been. No protecting aspen stake
had been driven through his body, and so when he was laid to rest under
the shadow of the monastery, for him rest there was none. The holy
brothers inside the walls protected themselves from him, when he came
a-wandering, by vigils and by prayers. The lady whose chaplain he had
been was less well protected, and when, night after night, her sleep was
broken by horrible groans and murmurings from a thing that always seemed
just without her room, and almost about to enter, she became nearly
frantic. She came to Melrose, and with tears besought the holy fathers,
who owed much to her bounty, to wrestle for her in prayer and drive this
evil thing away. The monks of Melrose did for her what they could. Not
only did they pray, but two stout-hearted friars and two powerful young
laymen all well armed were appointed to guard the grave of the lady's
late chaplain, and to go on duty that very night.
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