out on the top and heard at the same moment a dull thud. It
was the friar's head against the floor, a Guipuzcoan trick of wrestling
which usually meant death to its victim, but the friar's thick cloak
happened to fall between his head and the hard floor. This alone saved
him; for Marcos was a Spaniard and did not care at that moment whether he
killed the holy man or not. Indeed Sarrion hastily leant down to hold him
back and Marcos rose to his feet with blazing eyes and the blood
trickling from a cut lip. The friar would have killed him if he could;
for the blood that runs in Southern men is soon heated and the primeval
instinct of fight never dies out of the human heart.

"He is not killed," said Marcos breathlessly.

"For which we may thank Heaven," added Sarrion with a short laugh. "Come,
let us find the chapel."

They hurried on through the dimly lighted corridors guided by the sound
of the distant organ. There seemed to be many closed doors between them
and it; for only the deeper and more resonant notes reached their ears.
They gained the large patio where the grass grew thickly, and the
iron-work of the well in the centre was hidden by the trailing ropes of
last year's clematis.

"The chapel is there, but the door is built up," said Sarrion pointing to
a doorway which had been filled in. And they paused for a moment as all
men must pause when they find sudden evidence that that Sword which was
brought into the world nineteen hundred years ago is not yet sheathed.

Marcos had already found a second door leading from the cloister that
surrounded the patio, back in the direction from which they had come.
They entered the corridor which turned sharply back again--the handiwork
of some architect skilful, not in the carrying of sound, but in killing
it.

"It is the way to the organ loft," whispered Marcos.

"It is probably the only entrance to the chapel."

They opened a door and were faced by a second one covered and padded with
faded felt. Marcos pushed it ajar and the notes of the organ almost
deafened them. They were in the chapel, behind the organ, at the west
end.

They passed in and stood in the dark, the notes of the great organ
braying in their ears. They could hear the panting of the man working at
the bellows. Marcos led the way and they passed on into the chapel which
was dimly lighted by candles. The subtle odour of stale incense hung
heavily in the atmosphere which seemed to vibrate as if the