im, diaphanous-looking and flimsy in the starlight. He went
up to them and shook them; and a loose shield jangled fiercely overhead.
Then he peered through, holding the bars, and saw the familiar patch of
grass beyond the gravel sweep, and the dark cottages over the way. Then
he made his way back to the front door, unlocked it with his private key,
passed through the hall, through a parlour or two into the lower floor of
the priests' quarters; unlocked softly the little door into the walled
garden, and went out on tip-toe once more. Even as he went, Anthony's
light overhead went out. Mr. Buxton went to the garden door, unfastened
it, and stepped out into the road. Above him on his left rose up the
chancel of the parish church, the roofs crowded behind; and immediately
in front was the high-raised churchyard, with the tall irregular wall and
the trees above all, blotting out the stars.

Then he came back the same way, fastening the doors as he passed, and
reached the hall, where the tapers still burned. He blew out one and took
the other.

"I suppose I am a fool," he said; "the lad is as safe as in his mother's
arms." And he went upstairs to bed.

* * * *

Mary Corbet rose late next morning, and when she came down at last found
the others in the garden. She joined them as they walked in the little
avenue.

"Have not the priest-hunters arrived?" she asked. "What are they about?
And you, dear Isabel, how did you sleep?"

Isabel looked a little heavy-eyed. "I did not sleep well," she said.

"I fear I disturbed her," said Mr. Buxton. "She heard me as I went round
the house."

"Why did you go round the house?" asked Anthony.

"I often do," he said shortly.

"And there was no one?" asked Mary.

"There was no one."

"And what would you have done if there had been?"

"Yes," said Anthony, "what would you have done to warn us all?"

Mr. Buxton considered.

"I should have rung the alarm, I think," he said.

"But I did not know you had one," said Mary.

Mr. Buxton pointed to a turret peeping between two high gables, above his
own room.

"And what does it sound like?"

"It is deep, and has a dash of sourness or shrillness in it. I cannot
describe it. Above all, it is marvellous loud."

"Then, if we hear it, we shall know the priest-hunters are on us?" asked
Mary. Mr. Buxton bowed.

"Or that the house is afire," he said, "or that the French or Spanish are
landed