“Now, my son, thou hadst better write thy billet, and if thou dost not find one to carry it, I will be along directly and do the service for thee.  I must visit the village and the tree, my son.  Now I’ll give thee a bit of advice.  Never again go about looking for anything where ’tis supposed there is treasure.  If it had not been for my timely interruption, my brothers there would have found thee and not so easily forgiven thy inclination for discovery.  Go, go in peace—­remember always, that discretion is the wit of safety.”

Cantemir was frightened, and glad to get away, for he feared the Abbe’s smooth tones masqued treachery, and he slid through the panelling and in very earnest sought the kitchen.

The deceitful monk hastened toward the open trap and kneeling gazed for a moment below.  There came up a foul odour that made him flinch and draw back; he drew his handkerchief and placed it to his nose and leant again and looked.  There was a faint glimmer that showed in which direction the lights were.  He lay flat and putting his head beneath the opening, saw the priests leaning over a chest.  Quickly he prepared to descend and was upon the second rung of the ladder, when the panelling again opened and a half-dozen faces looked through; anger and indignation upon all but one, and that was the Russian’s, which bore joy of a discovery.  He had gone to the refectory with good intent to write his letter; but finding a small company of monks gathered there and they appearing much perturbed, he asked the cause.  One said there was a strange Abbe in the monastery, whose hands were as bejewelled as any fop’s, and that a number had gone in search of him.  The false monk’s hand had betrayed him, as ’twas seen from a window as he uncovered it to open the door.  Now Cantemir thought it a good, safe moment to become a hero and straightway told of his encounter; saying he was in search of the refectory and had lost his way; making a plausible story.  He was carried forth with the party in search and now came toward the opening in the passage with drawn sword, his face wearing the masque of bravery.

The man upon the ladder was the same that had listened to the “Kyrie eleison” from without, and before it concluded had made his way inside:  the Duke of Buckingham.

He jumped like a cat under cover of his pursuer’s noisy entrance and slipped away from the opening.  Quickly he drew from him the robe and cowl and flung them down upon the ladder and drawing his sword stood waiting and almost eager for a fight.  He did not forget, however, that there is often a practiced and keen thrust from the folds of a priest’s habit.  But they were confident the false Abbe was beneath, and with less noise and more subtleness moved toward the opening.  As they did so, his Grace swung round and cautiously approached the wall where the panelling was.  “Aye, aye,” he heard, as the foremost man found the robe.  Straightway they all rushed below stair, and as the head of the last man disappeared, his Grace went through the panelling, and within five minutes stood safe in the forest, happy with the knowledge he had gained.