“Why, look ye,” said the latter, as the coin jingled in his bag, “I was ever held in good repute as a guide, and can make my way blindfold over the bogs and mosses hereabout; and I would pilot thee to the place yonder, if my fealty to the prior—­that is—­if—­I mean—­though I was never a groat the richer for his bounty; yet he may not like strangers to pry into his garners and store-houses, especially in these evil times, when every cur begins to yelp at the heels of our bountiful mother; and every beast to bray out its reproaches at her great wealth and possessions.”

De Poininges was more and more convinced that his neighbour knew more of the matter than he durst tell; but it seemed expedient to conceal his suspicions for the present.  In the end it was agreed that the cunning clerk should accompany him so far as to point out the situation; but on no account would he consent to keep watch during the absence of De Poininges.  The latter assented to this arrangement, secretly resolving to dictate other terms where his will should both command and be obeyed.

They immediately set out on horseback, followed by the servants, to whom De Poininges had given a private signal.

The moon had risen.  One bright star hung like a “jewel in an Ethiop’s ear” in the dark sky above the sun’s track, which at this season sweeps like a lucid zone, dividing day from night, round the northern horizon.  Such a time of purity and brightness often succeeds the sultry and oppressive languor of the day, especially when refreshed by the passing storm; the air so clear that objects press, as it were, upon the eyeballs, affecting the sight as though they were almost palpable to the touch.  The dews had not descended, but the leaves were still wet.  Big drops glittered in the moonlight, pouring a copious shower on the travellers as they passed.  The clerk began a low chant, humming and whistling by turns:  this gradually grew more audible, until the full burst of the “Miserere” commenced, richly adorned with his own original quavers.  So enamoured was he of his qualifications in this respect that he was fairly getting through high mass, when, midway in a ravishing “Benedictus” he made a sudden halt.

“What is that creeping behind the bushes there?” inquired he, in a sort of half-whisper to his companion.  De Poininges looked in the direction pointed out, and thought he saw something, dark and mysterious, moving between the boughs on his left.  He stopped, but the object, whatever its nature, had disappeared.

Sore alarmed was the timid chorister; but though his melodies had ceased, a plentiful supply of credos and paternosters were at hand to supply their place.  Crossing himself with a great show of sanctity, he moved on with much caution, his deep hoarse voice having subsided into a husky and abrupt whisper, often interrupted when objects the most trivial arrested his glance and aroused his suspicions.