“Where are we?” asked a priest of the verger, when he had pulled the stone close and joined them.

“In the family vault of the noble Count van Valkenburg, whom your reverence buried three days ago.  Fortunately the masons have not yet come to cement down the stone.  If your Excellencies find it close, you can get air by standing upon the coffin of the noble Count.”

Adrian did find it close, and took the hint, to discover that in a line with his head was some filigree stonework, pierced with small apertures, the front doubtless of the marble tomb in the church above, for through them he could see the pale moon rays wavering on the pavement of the choir.  As he looked the priest at his side muttered: 

“Hark!  The doors are down.  Aid us, St. Pancras!” and falling upon his knees he began to pray very earnestly.

Yielding at last to the blows of the battering-beam, the great portals had flown open with a crash, and now through them poured the mob.  On they came with a rush and a roar, like that of the sea breaking through a dyke, carrying in their hands torches, lanterns hung on poles, axes, swords and staves, till at length they reached the screen of wonderful carved oak, on the top of which, rising to a height of sixty feet above the floor of the church, stood the great Rood, with the images of the Virgin and St. John on either side.  Here, of a sudden, the vastness and the silence of the holy place which they had known, every one, from childhood, with its echoing aisles, the moonlit, pictured windows, its consecrated lamps twinkling here and there like fisher lights upon the darkling waters, seemed to take hold of them.  As at the sound of the Voice Divine sweeping down the wild waves at night, the winds ceased their raving and the seas were still, so now, beneath the silent reproach of the effigy of the White Christ standing with uplifted hand above the altar, hanging thorn-crowned upon the Rood, kneeling agonised within the Garden, seated at the Holy Supper, on His lips the New Commandment, “As I have loved you, so ye also love one another,” their passions flickered down and their wrath slept.

“They are not here, let us be going,” said a voice.

“They are here,” answered another voice, a woman’s voice with a note of vengeance in it.  “I tracked them to the doors, the Spanish murderer Ramiro, the spy Hague Simon, the traitor Adrian, called van Goorl, and the priests, the priests, the priests who butcher us.”

“Let God deal with them,” said the first voice, which to Adrian sounded familiar.  “We have done enough.  Go home in peace.”

Now muttering, “The pastor is right.  Obey the Pastor Arentz,” the more orderly of the multitude turned to depart, when suddenly, from the far end of the transept, arose a cry.

“Here’s one of them.  Catch him! catch him!” A minute more and into the circle of the torchlight rushed the Abbe Dominic, his eyes starting from his head with terror, his rent robe flapping on the ground.  Exhausted and bewildered he cast himself down, and grasping the pedestal of an image began to cry for mercy, till a dozen fierce hands dragged him to his feet again.