PEREGRINE found his interest fired by these matters that I have shown you. Menippus giving solid proof of his power, he doubted not that eventually at his will he could make good his word, bring him in contact with the woman he sought; though, to speak truth, his desire for the meeting had somewhat lessened. There was enough here to absorb his mind. Subtle flattery led him to belief in his own power. He saw himself presently a rival of his teacher, his equal if not his master in the possession of knowledge.

This led him to desire quicker advancement than Menippus was willing to allow. He knew full well there were at times mystic ceremonies in progress at which his presence was not requested. They were held in the Temple. This he learned by midnight prowling. Soft-footed he had slipped more than once from his chamber. The guidance of a murmuring voice had led him to the Temple door. Courage was not strong enough to bring him to an entry; his ear pressed against the door he had listened. Here and there he caught a Latin word, isolated enough to bring him no inkling of the context. Curiosity fell hot upon him. He had made scrupulous avoidance of the turret stair. Menippus having put a request in that matter, honour as a guest bound him to its observance. Here he felt no such qualm; it was merely that he lacked courage to turn the handle of the door. An’ he could gain knowledge of what passed within, without Menippus being aware of his entry, he would do so.

He set himself to think. Observance showed him, that on such nights as the murmuring voice proceeded from the Temple, Menippus first made visit to the precincts beyond the turret stair, moreover marked that when he descended again he was not alone. This brought him to a conclusion. In the future he sought not his couch before midnight: ear alert he awaited the Sage’s ascent of the stair.

Six nights he waited to no purpose. Judging the passing of time by the march of the moon across the sky, he relaxed his visit when she was over, or near, a yew tree without. He made allowance each night for her later rising. Clear skies favoured this reckoning. The seventh night, patience being by now well-nigh exhausted, and sleep lying heavy on his eyelids, he heard a footfall without, marked its ascent of the turret stair. Here was his opportunity. He slipped softly from his chamber, and adown the corridor.

He had time enough for his purpose. Never less than twenty minutes or so had elapsed betwixt the Sage’s ascent and descent of the stair. He passed down the corridor, made his way to the dimly lighted hall, and thence to the vaulted passages leading to the Temple. The silence was profound: here in the passages darkness reigned. He groped his way along them, feeling to the left for the Temple door, as he had felt more than once already. Anon his fingers touched it. Excitement beating high in his heart, he found the handle, turned it softly. The door did not yield to his pressure. Bringing his shoulder to bear against it, he found it locked. Here, at the moment he believed his purpose accomplished, defeat faced him. An’ he had not waited seven nights for this moment the disappointment had been less hard to endure. Now he felt it very bitterly.

Casting about in his mind what next course to pursue, he saw on a sudden from afar whence he had come, a swaying light. A dim speck at the first, it grew larger. There was small doubt but that it came from a lamp carried by one approaching the place where he was standing. To remain where he was were madness. Turning, he groped swiftly down the passage away from the light.

Some twenty paces or so further he found the wall come to an end. Feeling cautiously he found the passage turn leftwards. An’ the bearer of the light stopped at the Temple door, this gave him cover. He paused to listen, ready to make further flight should the steps come near him. He heard them echoing softly in the vaulted spaces; anon they came to a halt. He fetched a deep breath of relief. He heard the turning of a key.

Waiting to be sure of safety, he saw on a sudden a gleam of light above him, perceived that it came from a square opening in the wall. His brain worked quickly. Someone within the Temple had lighted a lamp or candles. Here was a wall of the Temple, and a window giving on to it. An’ he could gain the window, chance had brought him a safer means of viewing the ceremony about to take place than had he ventured through the door. Also he saw no means whereby he could now enter undiscovered. Had he guessed at the truth of the happening, he would have known that Castrano had forgotten to make the place ready; had come swiftly to repair the omission, and return to his couch before Menippus arrived at the Temple. Even now Castrano was leaving it, and Peregrine would have found entrance easy; though for exit later I am none so sure.

Peregrine felt the wall below the window. The stones, rough and jutting forward in places, would afford him slight foothold. He set himself to climb. Grazing knee and hand somewhat, and with danger of a fall, he gained the aperture above him. It was a square opening, barred, giving on to the Temple within; sufficiently deep, too, to afford him seating of some sort. He saw clearly the risk of Menippus glancing towards it, perceiving his crouching figure. This risk he was ready to take. There is naught to be gained without some venture. Getting his seat secure, and holding to the bars, he looked within. The place was as he had seen it on the night of his entry there, save that, instead of the stone pillar in the middle of the floor, there was now an altar against the wall to his right. Peregrine guessed some new ritual about to be performed.

No one was in sight. Whoever had lighted the candles on the altar had now withdrawn. Peregrine debated for a moment, had idea of making descent, of trying again the Temple door. This thought he put aside for two reasons. First, he ran grave risk of coming upon Menippus; second, he saw himself vastly safer without the Temple than within it. He drew his cloak close around him, trusting to its darkness to give appearance of shadow in the embrasure, and waited.

He had not long to wait. The door opened: through the gloom Peregrine saw two figures enter, one small, in size no more than a child. He heard the lock turned behind them. An’ he had possessed courage sufficient to try the door formerly, it would have availed him little.

The figures descended the steps, came forward towards the light. Now Peregrine saw them plainly, a small boy dressed as an acolyte, and swinging a golden censer; behind him Menippus vested as a priest. They came before the altar. Then Menippus began to speak. Familiar words struck on Peregrine’s ear, setting his heart thumping. He heard the boy’s voice come in with response,—a lifeless voice, as of one drugged.

Heart and brain sick, he crouched rigid. Here was horror of which he had never dreamt. But for the bars, he had made an entry at whatever danger to life and limb, stopped the horrid sacrilege. He could not look at it. Slithering from the wall, bruising himself in the descent, he gained the passage, made along it, and thence to his own chamber. Here he found his breath coming in deep sobs.

“I had not known,” he said; and sank upon his knees.

Shuddering he knelt there, knowing nothing of the passing of time. Horror had beaten upon his soul: his body was numbed. This was where his quest had brought him. Dazed and sick he found his strength spent.

Steps passing his door brought him to himself. Wit in a measure returned, he saw that flight must be his with no delay. Then another thing struck him. He thought of the child he had seen. What an’ he had been trapped to this pass? Peregrine saw not his own flight without some assurance on this score. To leave the child were sheer cowardice.

He waited; presently heard Menippus descend. A moment or so later the place lay in dead silence. Peregrine made for the door. No thought of honour held him now. He had his foot upon the turret stair, was up it in soft bounds. Atop he came upon a door, a staple pushed across it. To pull it back was but an instant’s work; the next, he had entered the chamber.

The moonlight fell across the floor, and upon a couch. On the couch lay a boy, a small thin child. He started up on the sound of the opening door, turned a pitiful face, and great dark eyes towards it.

“Yes?” he queried, alert, ready for bidding. Then on a sudden he shrank. “Who is it?” he asked fearfully.

“Hush!” whispered Peregrine.

“Ah, who is it?” pleaded the child frightened. “I am blind.”

The pathetic utterance smote straight to Peregrine’s heart.

“You poor little misery!” he ejaculated on a note of tenderness. “See here, listen well. I wish you no ill, naught but good. Bide you willingly here?”

The boy fell to trembling. “Willingly? Ah, no!”

“Was what you did this night willing service on your part?” asked Peregrine, striving to keep severity from his voice.

“I know not what I did,” replied the boy. “I act as he bids me; I say words which he has taught me. Knowing not their meaning yet I dread to say them.”

“That,” said Peregrine very low, “is well. Will you trust yourself to me?”

“Sir,” replied the child, “I know not who you are. But, an’ your heart is like to your voice, I trust you very freely.”

Peregrine smiled grimly. “We’ll leave my heart out of the question,” he said. “Truly it, or my own foolishness, has brought me to a pretty pass. Would you leave this place an’ you could?”

The boy started from the couch.

“You will take me from it! Ah, sir, sir!” Groping towards Peregrine he found his hand. Down on his knees he fell to kissing it with fervour.

Peregrine hauled him to his feet.

“Save your gratitude till the matter is accomplished,” quoth he. “We have first to make our way from the place.”

This brought the child to his senses. “I know not how that may be done,” he faltered. “Castrano sleeps across the hall door. I have heard him snore as we passed the hall from the Temple. There is no other way out.”

“Then we must make a way,” said Peregrine very cheerfully. “And first you must put on some clothes.”

He found doublet, breeches, and hose lying on a chair; aided the boy with their donning. The child clad himself, ear alert, fearful of his own breathing. Long imprisonment he had borne with resignation: hope bringing life to his heart quickened it also to fear of hope frustrated.

The boy garbed, the two slipped softly down the turret stair, careful of each footfall. Thence they gained Peregrine’s chamber. Here he made the bolt fast: this gave him, he felt, breathing space.

“Since no exit can be made by the door,” he remarked, “we must e’en make it by the window. ’Tis somewhat narrow, but I have had my head through it more than once; and where a man’s head can pass, his body can certainly follow. You, I think, can go through it with ease.”

Crossing to the bed he pulled a rough woollen blanket from below the bearskin. With the aid of a knife he proceeded to tear it into strips. These he knotted firmly. Mounting the table, he threw one end from the window measuring its length.

“’Tis somewhat short,” he said peering downwards, “and ’twill mean a drop, but with luck no bones need be broken. First I will lower you, then make descent myself.”

He hauled up the improvised rope. Making one end fast to the table, he knotted the other under the boy’s arms.

“When I come down above you,” he said, “I must needs cut the rope below me, and let you fall. Get to your feet on the instant, and go some paces away, that I fall not on the top of you.”

He helped the boy to the table, put him through the window.

“You must trust me,” said Peregrine kindly.

“Oh, I do!” replied the boy fervently.

“Keep off the wall with your feet, an’ you can,” said Peregrine, and began to lower.

The rope paid out to its fullest, Peregrine got to the window himself. On the ledge he dragged the table upwards, wedged it across the narrow opening.

“Pray Heaven the rope bears us both,” he muttered. “There was no other way.”

Feet braced against the wall he began the descent. To the child below it appeared an eternity before Peregrine’s foot touched his shoulder.

“Ha!” said Peregrine. “Now prepare to drop.”

Swinging by one arm he felt for the rope by his knees, and hacked. A moment’s work, and it gave. The boy rolled on the grass below, none the worse save for a slight jarring.

“All well,” he whispered, scrambling away from the wall. Now Peregrine dropped lightly; was up in a moment but little shaken. He looked at the hanging rope.

“Leaving traces of our flight behind us, we depart,” he said grimly.

Taking the boy by the arm he made swift way across the grass, out of the moonlight, into cover of an adjoining wood.