“[2] A few years ago the chaplain of a certain
illustrious lady, casting off mortality, was consigned to the tomb in that
noble monastery which is called Melrose. This man, having little respect for
the sacred order to which he belonged, was excessively secular in his pursuits,
and – what especially blackens his reputation as a minister of the holy
sacrament – so addicted to the vanity of the chase as to be designated
by many by the infamous title of "Hundeprest," or the dog-priest;
and this occupation, during his lifetime, was either laughed at by men, or
considered in a worldly view; but after his death – as the event showed
– the guiltiness of it was brought to light: for, issuing from the grave
at night-time, he was prevented by the meritorious resistance of its holy
inmates from injuring or terrifying any one with in the monastery itself;
whereupon he wandered beyond the walls, and hovered chiefly, with loud groans
and horrible murmurs, round the bedchamber of his former mistress. She, after
this had frequently occurred, becoming exceedingly terrified, revealed her
fears or danger to one of the friars who visited her about the business of
the monastery; demanding with tears that prayers more earnest than usual should
be poured out to the Lord in her behalf as for one in agony. With whose anxiety
the friar – for she appeared deserving of the best endeavours, on the
part of the holy convent of that place, by her frequent donations to it –
piously and justly sympathised, and promised a speedy remedy through the mercy
of the Most High Provider for all.
[3] Thereupon, returning to the monastery, he obtained the companionship of
another friar, of equally determined spirit, and two powerful young men, with
whom he intended with constant vigilance to keep guard over the cemetery where
that miserable priest lay buried. These four, therefore, furnished with arms
and animated with courage, passed the night in that place, safe in the assistance
which each afforded to the other. Midnight had now passed by, and no monster
appeared; upon which it came to pass that three of the party, leaving him
only who had sought their company on the spot, departed into the nearest house,
for the purpose, as they averred, of warming themselves, for the night was
cold. As soon as this man was left alone in this place, the devil, imagining
that he had found the right moment for breaking his courage, incontinently
roused up his own chosen vessel, who appeared to have reposed longer than
usual. Having beheld this from afar, he grew stiff with terror by reason of
his being alone; but soon recovering his courage, and no place of refuge being
at hand, he valiantly withstood the onset of the fiend, who came rushing upon
him with a terrible noise, and he struck the axe which he wielded in his hand
deep into his body. On receiving this wound, the monster groaned aloud, and
turning his back, fled with a rapidity not at all interior to that with which
he had advanced, while the admirable man urged his flying foe from behind,
and compelled him to seek his own tomb again; which opening of its own accord,
and receiving its guest from the advance of the pursuer, immediately appeared
to close again with the same facility. In the meantime, they who, impatient
of the coldness of the night, had retreated to the fire ran up, though somewhat
too late, and, having heard what had happened, rendered needful assistance
in digging up and removing from the midst of the tomb the accursed corpse
at the earliest dawn. When they had divested it of the clay cast forth with
it, they found the huge wound it had received, and a great quantity of gore
which had flowed from it in the sepulchre; and so having carried it away beyond
the walls of the monastery and burnt it, they scattered the ashes to the winds.
These things I have explained in a simple narration, as I myself heard them
recounted by religious men.” (William of Newburgh)