put forth the manner in which you do design to bring about this good."

"That document, my Lord, of which my letter told, is hidden in a box within a secret department of a certain chamber of the Abbey; may it please you to accompany me hither, I will then make it over to your hands.”

"You have it not then upon you?" asked the Count, with some appearance of surprise.

'Oh no, my Lord, I dared not trust myself with ought so precious, when walking abroad at this late hour o'night; beside which, I am come from making a long round, and should have found it troublesome to carry; but I hold the key of this gate, which leads into the Abbey gardens, and will conduct you to the chamber where the indenture lies.

you to accompany me."

Please

"A word, Father, ere we begin," said D'Artois. "Were you not he who left the letter at my residence in the palace?"

"You have said it, Seigneur,-it was I." "How haps it then that not only you arrived here as soon as I, but that, outstripping the

fleetness of my steed, you did precede me, and were waiting for my entrance at the gate to thrust that paper into my hand? Persons of your estate ordinarily travel not the country with such quickness."

"Even so, my Lord. The reason I arrived so soon, is that I quitted Paris the very instant I had delivered my commission, and on the road I chanced on others travelling hitherward with great speed on horseback; they were my acquaintances, so I joined the party. As to the intimation I received of your arrival, 'twas given me by one I despatched to look out for it."

"Tell me, holy Father, how chances it that you know me so well, whilst I have no knowledge of you?"

"A Seigneur of your Lordship's rank and bearing, passeth not by unnoted when he doth walk the streets,-I have seen you often."

"In many places, at Paris, and elsewhere."

Again. Now, Father, satisfy me on this

head! Who are you; and what prompteth you, by this late penitence of evil deeds, to seek out and right him who bath been so long wronged?"

"Nay, Seigneur, scarcely may I name this just; have I e'er said that I was he who did secrete the document? I have but promised to restore it; never did I avow myself to be the robber. What mattereth it to you, or unto any one, who stole the deed, so that you be possessed of it at last? Come, my Lord, time hastens on apace,-I wait your Lordship's leisure, say, shall I proceed?"

"Speed on thy ways, good monk, I follow thee."

The monk then, flinging back his stole, took from his girdle a key, which he appeared to choose from amongst many by its size; and unclosing the small gate separating them from the convent garden, he stepped lightly over the bridge, followed by the Count, who kept close at his heels.

On approaching the convent, the monk wound his way through a path towards a

small private door, concealed from general observation by a cluster of low trees and bushes which grew before it.

On applying a key of a very peculiar form to its lock, the postern flew back, to a certain extent, without making the slightest noise, and thus remained until, having both entered the building, the monk again closed it after them, when so smoothly did it glide upon its hinges, that scarcely could the sound it made, be heard.

Within was a lamp, suspended on one of the many pillars which clustered round and supported the pile that rose towering over them. Dully and dimly it glimmered through the vaulted passages through which they had to pass. Drawing another lamp from beneath his tunic, the monk lighted it, and then, begging the Count to follow him, proceeded on with a cautious and almost noiseless step, until arriving at another low door in the wall, he applied the same key to it.

As it flew open, D'Artois perceived a flight of steps ascending lengthways along the wall.

This they mounted, and then being on even ground, again proceeded on through so many passages, they made so many turns, sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left,— sometimes going down, and sometimes ascending stairs, that the Count soon lost himself in the labyrinth: and had his guide quitted him there, he must inevitably have perished so impossible would it have been for him to have found his way out of it.

Having hurried on in this manner, for a space of time which, to Robert, seemed of long duration, though perhaps it was but the novelty of the scene which made it so appear: they arrived before another door, which also was locked, but being opened, presented to their view a small-a very small chamber, pierced in one of the buttresses of the convent's wall. Around it were strewed books and papers of various sizes and descriptions, and on a table appeared implements for writing.

At one end of this room and in a corner of it, there was a recess, cut out of the wall