It is quite abominable to have left Diggory Falgate for such a length of time in a cold damp vault, without anybody to keep him company but rats and mice and such small deer; but yet, dearly-beloved reader, it could not be helped without evident injustice to more important personages. Not that Diggory Falgate was an unimportant person, nor that his stay in the vault was unimportant to this history; far from it, as you shall speedily hear. The reader has already perceived that he was a man of action, fond of an enterprise, liking a certain sort of excitement; not always, indeed, quite confident of himself, and consequently exaggerating a little his sayings and doings, in order to keep himself up to the mark.

He drew back the shade of the lantern, then, as we have before said, and looked about. His next step was not quite determined, and it was wise to look about him. It always is wise, indeed, to look about one before one acts; but, nevertheless, the glance that Diggory gave around did not serve to strengthen him in any resolution or guide him in any course of action. On the contrary, it confused his mind and shook his firmness. The first feeling when Mr. Dry and the sexton made their escape from his pursuit, taking him to be a ghostly enemy, was one of triumph; but when he came to examine in what that triumph consisted, he felt induced to exclaim, like Napoleon, "Is this a victory?"

He was master of the field, it was true; the foe had fled; but there he was, left alone, with nothing but coffins, and shrouds, and other remnants of humanity, scattered around him. The door, too, was bolted; he had heard them fasten it; the other door they had talked of might be locked, and he might have to remain where he was till some person in the neighbourhood chose to die and be buried, or till hunger, fright, cold, and solitude, added his bones to the bones that were mouldering around. He calculated the chances; he entered into the details with painful minuteness; he knew that the parish was large, but very thinly peopled. There might be a funeral once a quarter, but not more, except when some epidemic raged in Hull, and people took a fancy for country lodging before or after death. Then he thought, with a glimpse of hope, that on Sunday there would be a congregation in the church, and he could make them hear; but Sunday was a long way off, for this was only Wednesday, and Diggory Falgate set himself to compute how long he could hold out. Thursday, Friday, Saturday--three days and a half! He had often fasted two, for very good reasons, but then it was not in a vault; it was not amongst dead corpses: it was under the free sky, with the fresh breath of heaven blowing on his cheek, and beautiful nature refreshing him with bright sights. The case was very different at present, and his knees began to shake at the very thought.

Then, however, he did what he should have done at first, but that Imagination, when she gets the bit between her teeth, is such a runaway jade that she carries one through all the ponds and quagmires of possibility in five minutes. He set out in search of the other door, to see whether there was any need of alarming himself at all. He took two steps forward, and then a third; the fourth struck against something that made a sort of creaking sound--something even softer than the skull of a man of fashion; and holding down the lantern he perceived the basket of Ezekiel Dry. His heart was instantly revived, and stooping over it he drew forth the bottle of genuine Nantz which the worthy Puritan had boasted of, and with a good conscience he put it to his mouth. The contents had certainly been diminished by the original proprietor and his friend; but still there was nearly half a bottle left, and that would, he thought, with prudence and economy, serve to keep him up till he could get help. There was some bread and cheese, too, in the basket, and the mouthful of spirits having acted speedily with cheering effect, he looked upon himself as provided against the worst contingency; and in a moment after his eye lighted on a crowbar, a mallet, and a chisel, with which he flattered himself he could unbar any door that ever yet was closed.

All Diggory Falgate's speculations, however, were vain, useless, unnecessary, as nine out of ten of all our speculations are. When he walked on, threading the lanes of coffins, till he reached a part of the vault where it was crossed by another under the chancel, there on his right hand stood the door that led into the churchyard, wide open, and moonlight shining in quite pleasantly. All his alarm took flight in a moment, the lion returned to his heart, and after an instant's pause he said to himself, "Hang me if I do not see before I go what these fellows were hunting after!" and with this doughty resolution he walked back, and began to examine the scene of Mr. Dry's operations.

There stood the coffin on the ground, the lid raised by tearing the screws out of the woodwork, and only holding by one at the end where the feet were placed. It was a very plain coffin; no velvet, no gilding spoke it to be that which contained the dust of high estate or noble birth; but simple black cloth was the covering, and a small lacquered plate upon the lid bore inscribed some letters, which the painter held the lantern to decipher. It was not without difficulty that he did so, and then could make nothing of them, for they were but

A: E: T:

A.D. MDCXXXIII.

A: Æ: 25.

The painter paused and gazed in silence. "There must be something more under this," he said at length, "or that old villain would not have come here to break open the coffin. I wish Captain Barecolt had told me more, for I cannot help thinking that he and that pretty young lady have some interest in this affair. I have a great mind to see what is in the inside: there is but one screw left in; it would be easily taken out."

He stooped and took up the chisel, but then paused again in doubt and hesitation. "Well," he said, "I can put it in again if I find anything. There is no harm in looking;" and quietly applying the chisel to the purposes of a turnscrew, without venturing to use any such violence as those who preceded him had displayed, he drew out the last remaining screw, and looked with an anxious face at the coffin-lid, with some feelings of awe and reluctance. Then giving a glance round the vault, he removed the covering and laid it down against the neighbouring pile.

Lifting the lantern, Falgate looked into the last receptacle of what had once been young, and fresh, and beautiful.

There was the dusty shroud, somewhat mouldy, but not decayed; and as the face of the dead was covered with a cloth, none of the ghastly appearances of corruption were visible; but the falling of the drapery of death, the sharp lines and angles that the folds presented, told plainly and solemnly that the flesh had long returned to dust, and that nothing but the bones remained uncrumbled. One thing, however, instantly attracted the poor painter's attention: a piece of parchment, covered with writing, lay upon the breast, and taking it up he read it with care. The words seemed to direct him to a further search, and putting his hand to the left side of the shroud, though with some reluctance, he drew forth a small packet folded up and sealed. Blowing away the dust from it, after a few moments' consideration he wrapped it in the parchment, and put it into his pocket, saying, "If I do not take it, others will, who may make a bad use of it. I will convey it to those who have a right to have it, if God helps me out of this scrape."

Then replacing the lid of the coffin nearly as he had found it, he ate some of the bread and cheese, applied his lips again to the bottle of Nantz, and walking to the door, peeped out into the churchyard. All was still and quiet, the moon shining upon the gravestones, and the wind whispering through the old yews; and stripping of the surplice which he had found in the vestry, Diggory Falgate stole forth into the open air, got over the low wall, and made speed toward some trees that he saw at a distance.