t," ordered
Red, grimly.

The monk turned to Hopalong. "Do you, too, want him?"

Hopalong nodded.

"My friends, he is safe from your punishment."

Red wheeled instantly and ran outside, returning in a few moments,
smiling triumphantly. "There are tracks coming in, but there ain't none
going away. He's here. If you don't lead us to him we'll shore have to
rummage around an' poke him out for ourselves: which is it?"

"You are right--he is here, and he is not here."

"We're waiting," Red replied, grinning.

"When I tell you that you will not want him, do you still insist on
seeing him?"

"We'll see him, an' we'll want him, too."

As the rain poured down again the sound of approaching horses was heard,
and Hopalong ran to the door in time to see Buck Peters swing off his
mount and step forward to enter the building. Hopalong stopped him and
briefly outlined the situation, begging him to keep the men outside. The
monk met his return with a grateful smile and, stepping forward, opened
the chapel door, saying, "Follow me."

The unpretentious chapel was small and nearly dark, for the usual
dimness was increased by the lowering clouds outside. The deep, narrow
window openings, fitted with stained glass, ran almost to the rough-hewn
rafters supporting the steep-pitched roof, upon which the heavy rain
beat again with a sound like that of distant drums. Gusts of rain and
the water from the roof beat against the south windows, while the
wailing wind played its mournful cadences about the eaves, and the
stanch timbers added their creaking notes to swell the dirgelike chorus.

At the farther end of the room two figures knelt and moved before the
white altar, the soft light of flickering candles playing fitfully upon
them and glinting from the altar ornaments, while before a rough coffin,
which rested upon two pedestals, stood a third, whose rich, sonorous
Latin filled the chapel with impressive sadness. "Give eternal rest to
them, O Lord,"--the words seeming to become a part of the room. The
ineffably sad, haunting melody of the mass whispered back from the roof
between the assaults of the enraged wind, while from the altar came the
responses in a low Gregorian chant, and through it all the clinking of
the censer chains added intermittent notes. Aloft streamed the vapor of
the incense, wavering with the air currents, now lost in the deep
twilight of the sanctuary, and now faintly revealed by the glow of the
candles, perf