He smiled a little, as I thought, for my eyes were growing used to the dim light.

“They may burn some things, but roof and benches are soon made afresh.  There is oaken timber in plenty in Andredsweald, and ready hands to hew it.  Our stone walls they cannot hurt.”

Those were all the words we spoke of the matter at that time, for there came a great shouting.  One of the gates had fallen at last, and the Danes were in the place.

“Father,” said the sacristan, “surely they will find this place?”

The prior laughed a short laugh.

“That is a thought born of your fears, Brother,” he answered; and I who had had the same fear was rebuked also, for indeed that I should go down the well had never come into my mind, even in our need of shelter, so why should the Danes think of it?

Then we were silent, listening to the feet and voices overhead.  The Danes found the belfry presently, and began to toll the bell unskillfully while the men below jeered at those who handled the ropes.  Then the bell clashed twice strangely, and the prior laughed outright.

“The clumsy churls have overthrown her,” he said, “now I hope that one has had his head broken thereby.”

I marvelled that he could jest thus, though maybe, after the strain and terror of the danger we had so far escaped, it was but natural that his mind should so rebound as it were.

Very soon after this the Danes came clattering into the little court where the well was, and straightway came to its mouth, casting stones down it, as no idle man can help doing.  The sacristan crept to the furthest corner of our little den and sat there trembling, while I and the other monk listened with set teeth to the words that came down to us.  Nor will I say that I was not somewhat frightened also, for it seemed to me that the voices were unknown to me.  They were Rorik’s men, therefore, and not our crew—­who likely enough would but have jeered at me had they found me hiding thus.

“Halfden’s men have drunk all the ale in the place, and that was not much,” said one man; “let us try the water, for the dust of these old storehouses is in my throat.”

Then he began to draw up the bucket, and it splashed over us as it went past our doorway.

“There is naught worth taking in this place,” growled another man.  “Maybe they have hove their hoards down the well!”

Now at that the sacristan gave a stifled groan of terror, and I clutched my axe, ready for need.

“All right, go down and see!” answered one or two, but more in jest than earnest.

Then one dropped a great stone in, and waited to hear it bubble from the bottom, that he might judge the depth.  Now no bubbles came, or so soon that they were lost in the splash, and the prior took some of the crumbling mortar from the cell walls, and cast it in after a few moments.  And that was a brave and crafty thing to do, for it wrought well.