“Here!  They’re waiting for you!” whispered the other young man excitedly to the organist.

“By——!” whispered the alarmed organist, not stopping to say by what, but leaping like an acrobat back to his seat.  His fingers and boots were at work instantly, and as he played he turned his head and whispered—­

“Better fetch some one.”

One of the young men crept quickly and creakingly down the stairs.  Fortunately the organ and choristers were now combined to overcome the sobbing, and they succeeded.  Presently a powerful arm, hidden under a black cassock, was laid on Priam’s shoulder.  He hysterically tried to free himself, but he could not.  The cassock and the two young men thrust him downwards.  They all descended together, partly walking and partly falling.  And then a door was opened, and Priam discovered himself in the unroofed air of the cloisters, without his hat, and breathing in gasps.  His executioners were also breathing in gasps.  They glared at him in triumphant menace, as though they had done something, which indeed they had, and as though they meant to do something more but could not quite decide what.

“Where’s your ticket of admission?” demanded the cassock.

Priam fumbled for it, and could not find it.

“I must have lost it,” he said weakly.

“What’s your name, anyhow?”

“Priam Farll,” said Priam Farll, without thinking.

“Off his nut, evidently!” murmured one of the young men contemptuously.  “Come on, Stan.  Don’t let’s miss that anthem, for this cuss.”  And off they both went.

Then a youthful policeman appeared, putting on his helmet as he quitted the fane.

“What’s all this?” asked the policeman, in the assured tone of one who had the forces of the Empire behind him.

“He’s been making a disturbance in the horgan loft,” said the cassock, “and now he says his name’s Priam Farll.”

“Oh!” said the policeman.  “Ho!  And how did he get into the organ loft?”

“Don’t arsk me,” answered the cassock.  “He ain’t got no ticket.”

“Now then, out of it!” said the policeman, taking zealously hold of Priam.

“I’ll thank you to leave me alone,” said Priam, rebelling with all the pride of his nature against this clutch of the law.

“Oh, you will, will you?” said the policeman.  “We’ll see about that.  We shall just see about that.”

And the policeman dragged Priam along the cloister to the muffled music of “He will swallow up death in victory.”  They had not thus proceeded very far when they met another policeman, an older policeman.

“What’s all this?” demanded the older policeman.

“Drunk and disorderly in the Abbey!” said the younger.

“Will you come quietly?” the older policeman asked Priam, with a touch of commiseration.

“I’m not drunk,” said Priam fiercely; he was unversed in London, and unaware of the foolishness of reasoning with the watch-dogs of justice.