J. S. Fletcher

Of my Remarkable Adventures with Gregory and our Fortunate Discovery, of Sir Nicholas’s Burial in his own House, and of my Flight with Mistress Alison.

I.

Alison was in the death chamber, where Sir Nicholas’s body lay stiff and stark in its shroud. They had prepared him for his burial, Alison and old Barbara, with as much care as if he had been like to be buried with all the pomp and ceremony that is the due of a man of rank. The good old knight lay in his finest night clothes, the best linen the house afforded was spread on his bed, and they had lighted candles on either side of him, and hung the walls with black cloth. And since everything in that room was so mournful I would not talk there, but took my cousin down the stairs to the hall, where I made her sit near the fire while I addressed myself to her on the business then troubling me. She was looking pale and wearied, which was no matter of surprise, seeing that there had been precious little rest for anybody in that house since the investment began.

“Now, cousin,” says I, “there is need for some counsel ’twixt you and me. We are come to a sharp pass, cousin,” I says, “and unless we use our wits we are like to be undone.”

“What is it?” she says. “Has aught of moment happened to us?”

“Why,” says I, “’tis difficult to say what is and what is not of moment—one thing so leads to another. But I fear that the worst will happen to us in the morning.”

“The worst?” she says. “And what is that?”

“We killed their captain this afternoon,” says I. “As pleasant a fellow as e’er I spoke to, poor gentleman! And now I hear from that knave Wiggleskirk—though, indeed, he has done us more than one good turn—that another commander is coming with the dawn, and will bring cannon with him.”

She raised her head and looked at me steadily.

“So we shall have the old house tumbling about our ears?”

“We shall,” says I.

“Well?” says she, after regarding me again at some length.

“Well?” says I.

“Is that all you had to say?” she asks.

“Nay,” says I, not seeing aught of her meaning, “I wanted to speak with you of our escape.”

She lifted her head somewhat, and stared at me for a full minute ere she broke into a shrill laughter.

“Escape?” she said. “Escape? Did you say escape, Master Richard? So you would flee the old house, eh, and leave”—she turned and pointed her hand towards the stair—“and leave his body to—come, I think you did not mean escape?” she says, with a searching look at me.

“Faith!” says I, not taking her at all, “but I did, cousin. Bethink you—what can we do against cannon? The old walls will be shattered to pieces with half a score discharges. ’Tis our duty, I take it, to think of our own lives—and besides, there are those in the house,” I says, “that we must needs consider, for we’ve no right to peril their lives for the sake of ours.”

“Let them begone, then,” says she. “Did I ever ask them to come here? Escape? We might be rats that have crept to the very bottom o’ the stack!” she says, with a flash of the old temper.

“Egad!” says I, laughing in spite of myself. “And that’s a marvellous neat comparison, cousin. Rats we are, and prettily caged, too, and so——”

“And so keep your comparisons to yourself, Master Richard,” says she, rising with a mighty fine air of dignity and marching across the hall. “And your escape, too,” she says, with a glance over her shoulder. “As for me,” she says, pausing with one foot on the stair and looking me steadily in the face, “here I am, and here I stay while one stone stands on another,” and she went up the staircase and vanished, leaving me there full of wonder. “What the devil am I to do?” says I, biting my nails with vexation. “Was ever such a contrary piece of woman flesh? And I thought she was beginning to show me some softness—Lord!” I says, with a sigh that seemed to come from my boots, “the vagaries of these women——”

However, there was no good to be got in standing there, so I went out into the kitchen and sent for old Gregory, whom I presently led into a quiet corner. “Gregory,” says I, “set your wits to work, for, faith, there’s need!” And I told him of the news that I had received from Merciful Wiggleskirk and of my cousin’s attitude.

“Was ever such a coil?” says I. “You see, Gregory, I swore to my uncle that I would defend and protect her, and how can I do that if she won’t listen to reason? I must get her out of this house and across country to her father’s, and there might be some manner of doing it if only she were not so averse to the notion.”

“True,” says he, “but I would not trouble myself over much with that, Master Richard. The best way with women,” says he, “is to make ’em do a thing without argument about it.”

“Humph!” says I, feeling somewhat doubtful on that score.

“What we want to find out,” says he, “is whether there is some manner of escape that we can avail ourselves of. Is there any chance of leaving the house during the night?” says he.

“Not the least,” says I. “They have patrols on every side, and our doors and windows are so barricaded that we could not remove the barricades without attracting the enemy’s notice.”

“Then what was it that you had in your mind, Master Richard?” says he.

“Faith!” says I, “I don’t know, Gregory. We’re in as pretty a trap as e’er I heard of. Now I come to think on it,” I says, “I don’t see how we are to escape.”

He sat silent for a time, stroking his chin, which was his habit when he thought hard. “Master Dick,” says he at last, “did you ever hear of that old passage that leads from our cellar to Farmer Wood’s house?”

“A passage?” says I. “Do you mean that there’s an underground passage betwixt our house and Farmer Wood’s? No,” I says, “I never heard of it that I know of, Gregory.”

“But there is one,” says he, nodding his head. “When I first came here—and that’s nigh on to sixty years since, Master Richard—it was open at one end, and I’ve been in it. Sir Nicholas’s father had it closed up. ’Twas a relic of the Popish days,” he says, “and there was some old woman’s tale about it that I ha’ forgotten.”

“But if it’s closed up?” says I.

“It was only a matter o’ stout boarding put over the mouth,” says he. “I make no doubt that it’s open all the rest of the way, though I say naught as to Wood’s end on’t. If we could get a clear passage,” he says, looking at me, “there’s an easy deliverance out of our present difficulties, Master Richard.”

“Marry, so there is!” says I. And indeed there was naught that could be easier. I sat thinking the matter over for a moment. “Egad, Gregory!” I says, “if only this passage is open we can circumvent the enemy and put Mistress Alison in safety with no trouble beyond a trifling discomfort. Come,” I says, starting up, “let’s down into the cellars and examine things for ourselves.”

Now, I am a bit slow at taking some things in, as for instance, a woman’s meaning, which always seems to me to be the exact opposite of what it really is, but at contrivances and strategies I am, I think, as sharp as any, and I lost no time in making up my mind as to what I would do supposing this passage proved open to us. Our position was this—the Manor House stood at the west side of East Hardwick village, some one hundred and twenty yards away from Wood’s farmstead, which was the only considerable house in the place beside our own. Between the two houses stood certain cottages, tenanted by labourers that worked in the fields. Beyond Wood’s house the land dropped away to the foot of Went Hill, a long low range of hillside extending from Darrington Mill to the village of Wentbridge. If Alison and I could escape by the passage and make our way across the fields to Wentbridge, we should there come into the Great North Road which ran thence in a straight course, through Barnsdale, to Francis French’s house, where I could deliver her in safety. It was possible that we might find horses or some conveyance at the “Blue Bell,” on Wentbridge Hill, but if that plan failed we were neither of us unfitted to walk some twelve miles in the darkness.

But as we went down the steep steps into the cellar my thoughts turned back to Mistress Alison. If it was her pleasure to stand by the old house, how on earth was I going to persuade or oblige her to leave it? It was all very well for Gregory to say that a woman must be commanded and not argued with, but there was something in me that whispered grave doubts as to the wisdom of trying his advice on my cousin. “But I’ll leave that till last,” thinks I; “the passage comes first,” and I hastened to join Gregory, who was fumbling at the cellar door.

II.

The cellar lay in a thick darkness on which the light of our lanthorn made but a little impression. It was a great dismal hole, hewn deep into the rock, and was damp as a garden wall in February. I could never remember that it was used for aught in my time, save that one corner of it had been set apart and prepared for a wine-cellar. It was too cold or too damp for the keeping of ale—a hogshead of October kept down there would have come out more dead than it went in. Then there was nobody but Gregory ever descended the steps, though in bygone times there must have been considerable wear of them seeing that they were hollowed out in the middle to such an extent that it was dangerous to walk down them without exceeding care.

“A dismal hole, Gregory,” says I, holding up the lanthorn and gazing round me at the damp walls, up the chiselled face of which crawled a multitude of slugs and snails that left a slimy silver track behind them. “I should not care to spend much time down here.”

“I ha’ spent many a merry hour here,” says he, glancing at the door of the wine-cellar. “’Tis a quietish spot enow, but a man gets used to that. Give me the lanthorn, Master Richard,” he says, “and look to your footing as you come after me, for the floor’s ill-paved and as slippery as mud can make it.”

As he went before me in the gloom and I followed, keeping a strict watch over my ways, I saw and heard things that made me turn cold and shiver with a nauseous dread. There was the scatter of rats amongst the old timber that lay strewn here and there, there were slimy creeping things that seemed to writhe and quiver in helpless silence under one’s foot, and more than once a foul, cold shape that had hung or crawled on the roof detached itself and fell on my face or neck.

“This cellar of yours is like to give me the horrors, Gregory,” says I. “Egad, it seems to be the home of all that’s foul—I should not wonder to see ghouls and afrites in it!”

“I never heard of them,” says he, “but, faith, Master Dick, there be things here that pass a christened man’s understanding. Look here,” says he, going a little way aside and holding his lanthorn to the floor. “What do you make of that?” says he.

I looked and saw that which turned me sick. There was a pool of black water in the floor, and on the edge of it, their staring eyes and wide mouths turned upward to the glimmer of the light, sat a row of great toads, fat and slimy, that stretched their webbed feet along the damp brink of the rock. “In with you!” says Gregory, swinging the lanthorn towards them, and they plunged in, sending the foul water in brimming beads about our feet. “They feed on the slugs,” says he, with a chuckle, “faith, there’s some nice picking down here! But that’s naught, toads and slugs is common enough, Master Dick. Now, here’s something that’s of a vast difference. Look at it, Master Richard—faith, I never can make it out!”

He turned away in another direction and swung his lanthorn over a little basin in the rock, full of clear water, that came bubbling to the surface. “It looks like a spring,” says I. “Aye, but look closer,” says he, whereupon I bent my head and saw a hundred little fishes that darted hither and thither, turning their heads towards the light. “Why, that’s curious!” says I. “But not half so curious as you shall find,” says Gregory, and bends down to scoop up a palmful of water. “Look thee there, lad,” says he, holding the light over his hand. “The Lord have mercy!” says I, as I stared; and faith, there was excuse for my fear. For the fish that he had taken up, smaller than the minnows that lads draw out o’ the streams, was blind as a bat, having a thin white skin drawn over its eyes, and ’twas pitiful to see its head dart this way and that, and the white scale that blinded it turn to the glint of the candle. “For God’s sake, Gregory!” says I, “No more o’ thy horrors. Let us to this passage, ere I go crazy. Why, man, this is the very infernal pit—to think there is a gentleman’s house above it!”

“We are a good way from the house, Master Richard,” says he; “Hark, that’s the horses stamping in the stable over us. But the passage should be here under this heap o’ timber, which we must remove.”

There was a pile of logs leaned up against the corner of the cellar, damp, rotten, falling to pieces, and giving harbour to more foul things that crept about the scaling bark. “This is a very palace of vermin!” says I, as I helped Gregory to shift the logs. “God send the passage have less of horrors than its porch!”

“You can soon find out about that,” says he, as we laid bare the boards that covered the entrance. “’Twas dry enough when I was last in it, nigh on to sixty year ago.”

The boards were damp and rotten. They came down with small effort on our part, and we were presently gazing into the mouth of the passage. It presented itself as a low-roofed tunnel of some five feet in height and four in width, hewn out of a sandstone bed which there separated itself from the rock. It was carpeted with a fine thick sand and seemed dry, though its looks were belied by a breath of foul moisture that came from it as we stood peering into its darkness. The entrance was strengthened by rude masonry that extended for some yards along the passage: it was evident that in days gone by there had been constant use of it for some purpose or other.

“There it is, master,” says Gregory, swinging his lanthorn along the walls.

“Aye,” says I, not half-liking the task that I knew I must needs undertake, “and the next thing is to find out, if ’tis possible, how far it is from this spot to Wood’s house?” I says.

“Let’s see,” says he, scratching his head. “Why, come, we are under our own stable now, and that’s a good twenty yards from our scullery window. We must be,” says he, “a hundred yards from Wood’s cellar.”

“Ah, it runs into Wood’s cellar, does it?” says I. “And how on earth are we to get out o’ that, I wonder, even if we get through the passage? You were never through it yourself, eh, Gregory?”

“No,” says he, prompt enough. “I never went along more than a dozen yards on’t, and wouldn’t now if t’were not for the fix we’re in,” he says, shaking his head.

“And why not?” says I.

“There were queer tales about it,” he says, looking elsewhere than at me.

I stood and stared at him for a full minute, during which he affected not to know that my eyes were on him. “Look here, Gregory,” says I, at last. “I’m going along this passage. Faith, queer tales or no, there can’t be more that’s horrible in it than there is in that cellar o’ yours. So give me the lanthorn,” I says, “and wait me there.”

“I’m going with thee, lad,” says he, holding the lanthorn away from me.

I reflected for a while. “Very well,” I says. “But I’ll lead the way—and here goes,” and I took the light out of his hand and advanced along the passage. “It’s a low roof for a big man,” I says. “Keep your head down, Gregory.”

The first twenty yards of the passage yielded naught in the way of adventure. The sand and dust was a foot thick on the floor, and there were great cobwebs stretched from side to side along which the spiders, big as a penny-piece, scattered and hurried as the light drew near. But there were no obstacles to surmount nor pitfalls to tumble into, and though the air was thick and musty it was possible to breathe with some slight discomfort. “If it’s all like this,” says I, “we shall do, though it’s poor work walking with your body bent double.” “Why,” says Gregory, “we can crawl on hands and knees if need be. Master Dick—we must needs expect——” But there he stopped, for I had started back and thrown out a hand behind me to keep him off. “God in Heaven!” says I, “Look there, Gregory—there—there!”

As I swung the lanthorn to the floor he poked his head over my shoulder and we stared together at the thing that lay in the dust a yard from our feet. It was the skeleton of a man that had fallen forward on his face, and now lay with outstretched arms and bony fingers that clutched the yielding sand. There were bits of ragged linen here and there, and between his arms, but rolled a little way out of their reach, lay a coffer, or box, the lid of which had burst open and revealed a quantity of jewels that sparkled dully in the light of the lanthorn. As for the bones they shone as white as if they had been bleached, and I shuddered to think of the rats in the cellar behind us whose forefathers had no doubt picked them clean.

“There’s naught to be afeard on, lad,” says Gregory after a while. “’Tis some poor body that has striven to escape with his treasure many a generation ago and had fallen here to die. But there’s matter there, Master Dick,” he says, pointing to the jewels, “that’s well worth the picking up, and you’ve a right to them, sir, for this must ha’ been a Coope in bygone days. But let’s on, lad, and see where this passage ends, for that’s the main thing after all.”

I stepped over the skeleton with a shudder, being already made squeamish by the horrible things in the cellars, and we went slowly along the passage, I half-expectant of discovering some further horror. But despite an occasional obstacle in the way of a fallen mass of stone or earth there was little to hinder us, and at last we came to where the passage narrowed and seemed to end in an approach no wider than a fox hole.

“It’s useless after all, Gregory,” says I, sore disappointed. “The tunnel has been blocked at this end. There’s no way out here that I can see.”

“Softly, lad, softly,” says he. “Let me come by you,” and he pushed his way along the rapidly narrowing passage until I thought he must have stuck fast. “By the Lord Harry!” he says, “but there is an opening here, Master Dick, and ’tis into the open air, too—I can smell it. And if so be as you’ll put out the light for a moment, I’ll lay aught we shall see a glimpse of the sky, for the moon was rising two hours ago.”

But I had no mind to put out the light, though we had flint and steel with us, so I settled matters by taking off my doublet and wrapping it about the lanthorn. “There!” says Gregory, “Said I not so?” and I looked and saw a space of grey light, the size of a man’s hand, high above us where the passage shot upward.

“What’s to be done now?” says I: “We can’t squeeze through that.”

“No,” says he, “but we can make it bigger. This is naught but soft earth that’s gradually fallen in to the mouth o’ the passage, Master Richard. Do you scoop it away at that side,” he says, “and I’ll scoop at this, and it shall go hard if we don’t make a good road on’t.”

We set to work at this without more ado and toiled hard for a good hour. “There,” says Gregory at last, “if I cannot push my shoulders through what’s left may I never lift sack of corn again i’ my life!” He gave a mighty heave and the loose soil came tumbling about him. I saw his neck twisting and turning about “May I die!” he says, as he drew it within, leaving a good two feet square of moonlit sky to fill the hole, “if it doesn’t open into Matthew Wood’s orchard! I ha’ been over this place many a time,” says he. “From without it looks like an old drain that’s been filled in long ago. And now, lad,” he says, as we drew back into the passage beneath, “there’s a free road for us. What’s to be done next?”

“Back to the Manor,” says I, and took my doublet off the lanthorn. “The road’s there, to be sure,” I says, “but whether we can persuade Mistress Alison to take it——”

“Why, Master Richard,” says he, “if she wont——”

“Aye, what?” says I.

“We must carry her through,” says he. “But I think she’ll listen to reason,” he says—and so we made our way back along the passage to where the skeleton lay white and ghostly. I picked up the coffer and hurried on—there was no time to remove the bones and inter them decently. It struck midnight as we came into the kitchen, and there was much to do before daybreak.

III.

We had no sooner returned to the house than I sent Walter to John and Humphrey Stirk, bidding them come to me in the hall, where I went with Gregory to meet them. They reported that all had been quiet during the evening, save that the lad Peter incautiously carrying a light past one of the upper windows had been shot at and hit in the shoulder, though not dangerously.

“He will quickly mend of that,” says I. “We have something more serious than flesh wounds to think of. Now, John and Humphrey, listen to me. We are in sore need,” I says, looking on them earnestly, “and must use desperate remedies. In the morning the house is to be assaulted with cannon—nay, for aught I know the cannon may be on its way now. There is naught for us but to escape before the old place comes tumbling about our ears. What say you?” says I, looking from one to the other.

John shook his head. “I fear ’tis impossible, Master Richard,” says Humphrey. “We have observed that they are keeping a strict patrol round the house, and besides, ’tis a light night—we should be seen ere we could cross the garden.”

“That’s certain,” says I, “but what if we tell you of another way, lads?”—and I forthwith recounted to them the recent doings of Gregory and myself, and informed them of my intentions with regard to placing Mistress Alison in safety. “What do you think?” I says, when I had told them all. “Is it a good plan?”

“Naught could be better,” says John.

“And now for the rest of you,” says I, “I have no mind that any of you should fall into the hands of the enemy, and therefore I propose that you should all make your escape in the same way. You, John, and you, Humphrey, will have no difficulty in reaching home, and faith, since there’s none can prove you have been here, why, there’s none can injure you for it,” I says. “But what about thee, Gregory, and the rest?”

“Why, Master Dick,” says he, “I ha’ thought of all that while you have talked, and it seems to me that the best plan is to let John and Humphrey here, and yourself and Mistress French, make your escapes during the night, leaving the rest of us in the house. In the early morning, Master Dick, ere they begin to torment us with their cannon, we will put out a flag and submit to them—gog’s wounds, they will do naught against us serving-men and women!—and ’twill save the old house,” he says, “that would otherwise be blown to pieces with their artillery.”

“A good plan,” says John Stirk.

“But,” says I, “I don’t like the notion of leaving any of you in the house, Gregory.”

“I am sure ’tis the best way out o’ present difficulties, Master Richard,” says he.

“Well,” says I, “then so be it. If I only live and have power,” I says, looking at all three in turn. “I will see that your devotion is richly rewarded. But now, lads, there is another matter to settle. Upstairs lies my uncle’s body—we cannot leave it to be stared at by the enemy. What shall we do with it?”

We stood looking at each other. “It should be carried to Badsworth churchyard,” says Gregory, “but that’s impossible, Master Richard. If we could lay him somewhere until all this trouble is at an end——?”

“And so we will,” says I, a sudden thought coming to me. “We will lay him in his own house until such times as we can inter him with his fathers. Gregory, do you and Jasper take up the pavement here in the hall and prepare a grave while I see Mistress Alison, and have him made ready,” and therewith I requested John and Humphrey to come with me, and went upstairs to my uncle’s chamber.

Faith, it was no easy task that lay before me in making Alison acquainted with my plans, but I was resolved that she should obey me in everything—it meant ruin to all of us if she refused compliance. So I tapped at the chamber door and asked her to come forth and speak with me and to bring Barbara with her, these two having kept close watch over Sir Nicholas’s body ever since they had put it into his grave-clothes. I led them into a neighbouring room, where I had already bestowed John and Humphrey, and entered upon the matter at once.

“Cousin,” says I, “I wish to tell you and Barbara what I have decided upon. Events are now come to a desperate pass, and it is necessary that you and I, together with John and Humphrey, should escape the house ere daybreak. Therefore,” I says, “be pleased, cousin, to hearken attentively to what I have to say, and be sure that in everything I have taken most careful thought for your own safety.”

“I must decide matters for myself in spite of all that,” says she.

“Let me tell you what I have decided upon first, cousin,” says I. “There will be time enough to discuss personal likes and dislikes when we have got over our present difficulty.” And with that I set to and told them all that we had decided upon. John and Humphrey standing by me and nodding their heads in approval. But while old Barbara showed us that she also approved our plans, my cousin’s face plainly informed us that she had no liking for them. However, she heard me to the end, and faith, I spoke as long and as persuasively as I could, for I could see that she intended telling me her mind after the old fashion.

“And so that is all you have to say, Master Richard?” says she, when I had made an end. “’Tis a pretty story to have been put in such a long-winded fashion. Methinks I can make it shorter. ’Tis your notion,” says she, looking at me keenly, “to bury Sir Nicholas Coope like a dog, under the floor, without rite or ceremony, and then to skulk out of the house which he would have defended as long as one stone had remained upon another. Am I right?” she cries. “Am I right, sir?”

“Pray you, mistress,” says old Barbara. “Be guided by Master Dick—a man knows more o’ these things——”

“Answer me, sir!” says she, disregarding Barbara. “Have I caught your meaning?”

“Faith!” says I, somewhat nettled at her obstinacy. “I never knew man or woman who was less apt at apprehending anything. Prithee, cousin, since you think so badly of my schemes, will you be good enough to give us some plan of your own? Something,” I says, with a wave of my hand, “that will savour of more wisdom than aught my poor brains can invent. I am but a man and think after a slow fashion. You women, I am told, have a better ingenuity——”

She gave me a look that stayed me from saying aught further.

“I have naught to say,” says she, very quiet and dignified, “save that I shall do what I believe to be in accordance with my uncle’s wish and desires.”

“Why, cousin,” says I, sore inclined to lose what little temper I had left, “do you mean to say that I am not of the same mind?” My temper went as a bit of thistledown is swept away before the wind. “By God!” says I, “I am fulfilling my uncle’s last command, and that was to protect you, cousin, at all cost. And now we’ll talk no more,” I says, cooling as quick as I had grown hot, “I’m for action rather than words. Come, lads,” I says, starting for the door, “we have no time to lose.”

But ere I could lay hands on the sneck she was at my side, and her fingers held me tight by the arm. I looked into her eyes and saw them as full of entreaty as a moment before they had been bright with resentment.

“You will not bury him—where you said?” she cries. For a moment I stood irresolute, staring at her. “We waste time,” whispers John Stirk at my elbow. “I must carry out my plans, cousin,” I answers, roughly.

She drew away her fingers from my arm. “Cruel—cruel!” she says, and falls a-weeping on Barbara’s shoulder.

“The devil!” says I, under my breath. “Cousin!” I says, approaching her, “what can we do else? Would you leave my uncle’s body to be stared at by the fellows outside, and maybe suffer indignity at their hands? Lord!” I says, well nigh beyond myself, “why wont you listen to reason?”

But she put out her hand and waved me off. “Do what you please,” she says. Old Barbara gives me a look. “Come,” says I, and went out, followed by John and Humphrey. I wiped my forehead when I got outside—faith, it was warmer work debating with Alison than fighting a company of troopers!

Gregory and Jasper had made swift work with the grave, which they had dug under the very spot in the hall where my uncle’s chair used to stand. There was a rich, soft loam under the pavement, and they had dug into it some four feet and lined the hole with boards since there was no time to make a coffin. “All’s ready, Master Richard,” says old Gregory, and the five of us went softly upstairs. At the door of the chamber, where I had left Alison, I paused and knocked ere I went in. She was still weeping on Barbara’s shoulder, and the old woman talked to her as if she had been a child.

“Cousin,” says I, “we are ready, and there is no time to lose. If you wish to see him——”

She turned her head and looked at me with a frightened enquiry in her eyes. “Give me your hand,” I says, and took it in my own. “Come,” says I, and led her out of the room and to the door of Sir Nicholas’s chamber. The men stood aside and bent their heads. I opened the door and let her in, and then shut it and waited. It was some minutes ere she came out, and then she was calm enough and faced us all with great composure. “Stand thee with her, Dick,” whispers old Gregory, and he motioned the rest of them to follow him into the room. And so I stood at Alison’s side, and neither of us spoke. But when the four men came out carrying my uncle’s body, closely wrapped in his grave-clothes, she gave a little shudder and put out her hand and I took it in mine and held it there, and so we followed them down the wide staircase and into the hall, and as we came in sight of the staring hole in the floor where his chair used to stand I felt her fingers close tighter on my own.

There was no more light in the hall than came from the two lanthorns brought there by Gregory and Jasper, and the grave-clothes looked ghastly white as we laid the good old knight in the only resting-place we could give him. As we stood looking down into his grave a thought came to me, and I stepped across the hall and took down from its shelf the great prayer-book which he was wont to use. And coming back, I knelt down by the grave with Alison at my side and the others about us, and read certain passages out of the service for the burial of the dead, and when we had all said the Lord’s Prayer, and Gregory had twice repeated “Amen,” we got up from our knees, and I led my cousin out of the hall, signing to the men to do what they had to do with all speed.

Outside the hall I released Alison’s hand. “Now, cousin,” says I, “you must prepare for your journey. I hope to see you in safety to your father’s house ere daybreak, but there may be obstacles that I have not reckoned for, and we must be prepared.”

“So we are to desert the house?” she says, looking at me.

“Let’s have no more of that, cousin,” says I. “We must leave the house within half-an-hour. Cloak yourself warmly, and cause Barbara to prepare you a flask of wine and some food in a parcel. In twenty minutes from now,” I says, “You will meet me in the kitchen.”

I watched her go slowly up the staircase ere I hurried back into the hall, where the four men were hastily filling up my uncle’s grave. When they had finished I sent them all to the kitchen, bidding them refresh themselves, and then shutting myself into the hall, I proceeded to take up the hearthstone, according to Sir Nicholas’s directions, and to secure the treasure which he had spoken of. In a strong box I found three hundred guineas in gold, together with a casket of jewels, to which I immediately added those which we had discovered in the passage. When I had replaced the hearthstone I called Gregory to me, and put in his hands fifty guineas to be divided amongst the servants for their present necessities. But John and Humphrey Stirk, whom I approached on the same subject, would take naught, having done what they had out of pure neighbourly feeling.

And now all was ready for our flight, and I arranged the last details with Gregory and the Stirks. Alison and I were to start at once and make what speed we could towards her father’s house; John and Humphrey were to follow soon afterwards and return to their farm at Thorpe (’gad, who could ha’ thought that it was but three days since I ran in upon them to crave their help!), and at daybreak Gregory was to surrender the house, craving leave for the servants to go their ways unmolested. This settled there was naught for us but to say farewell to each other, and for Alison and myself to descend into the cellar with Gregory, who was in readiness to light us to the passage.

Now I had said naught to my cousin of the passage itself, but had merely told her that I had found a sure means of escape. She trembled somewhat as we crossed the slimy floor of the great cellar and came to the entrance to the passage. “We are to pass through this?” says she, looking at me. “’Tis our only means, cousin,” says I, and turned to take the light from Gregory. I shook his hand—faith, it was the last time, for I never saw him again!—and bade her follow me. Then we turned into the passage, and I heard Gregory’s voice, calling down God-speed on us, die away as we advanced.

Within a few minutes the bones of the dead man’s skeleton gleamed white in the light of the lanthorn. “Cousin,” says I, “take my hand, and shut your eyes for a while. There is in the path what I have no mind for you to see.” And so we passed by, and ere long I put out the light for the patch of grey sky showed at the mouth of the tunnel. “Would it had been a darker night!” says I, as I went first and looked about me. But all was still and quiet, and so I helped her out of the passage, and together we stole across the land. As we hurried along behind the tall hedgerows an owl hooted from Matthew Wood’s barn. “An omen!” thinks I, but said naught to her save to encourage her to press forward. Thus we dipped into the meadows, wet and marshy with the November fogs and mists, and made with what speed we could for the foot of Went Hill, that loomed before us through the night.