Thither Matilda bent her course. She opened the wicket and sought for the door leading to the subterraneous vaults, where reposed the mouldering bodies of the votaries of St. Clare. The night was perfectly dark; neither moon or stars were visible. Luckily there was not a breath of wind, and the friar bore his lamp in full security: by the assistance of its beams, the door of the sepulchre was soon discovered. It was sunk within the hollow of a wall, and almost concealed by thick festoons of ivy hanging over it. Three steps of rough-hewn stone conducted to it, and Matilda was on the point of descending them when she suddenly started back.

“There are people in the vaults!” she whispered to the monk; “Conceal yourself till they are past.”