s the
minster.

The foreman-mason called after him:

"There is only one door open, my lord--a little door by the organ."

"Yes, I know the door," Lord Blandamer shouted, as he disappeared round
the church.

A few minutes later he had forced open the belfry door. He pulled it
back towards him, and stood behind it on the steps higher up, leaving
the staircase below clear for Westray's escape. The eyes of the two men
did not meet, for Lord Blandamer was hidden by the door; but Westray was
much overcome as he thanked the other for rescuing him.

"Run for your life!" was all Lord Blandamer said; "you are not saved
yet."

The younger man dashed headlong down the steps, and then Lord Blandamer
pushed the door to, and followed with as little haste or excitement as
if he had been coming down from one of his many inspections of the
restoration work.

As Westray ran through the great church, he had to make his way through
a heap of mortar and debris that lay upon the pavement. The face of the
wall over the south transept arch had come away, and in its fall had
broken through the floor into the vaults below. Above his head that
baleful old crack, like a black lightning-flash, had widened into a
cavernous fissure. The church was full of dread voices, of strange
moanings and groanings, as if the spirits of all the monks departed were
wailing for the destruction of Abbot Vinnicomb's tower. There was a
dull rumbling of rending stone and crashing timbers, but over all the
architect heard the cry of the crossing-arches: "The arch never sleeps,
never sleeps. They have bound upon us a burden too heavy to be borne;
we are shifting it. The arch never sleeps."

Outside, the people in the market-place held their breath, and the
stream of white dust still poured out of the side of the wounded tower.
It was six o'clock; the four quarters sounded, and the hour struck.
Before the last stroke had died away Westray ran out across the square,
but the people waited to cheer until Lord Blandamer should be safe too.
The chimes began "Bermondsey" as clearly and cheerfully as on a thousand
other bright and sunny evenings.

And then the melody was broken. There was a jangle of sound, a deep
groan from Taylor John, and a shrill cry from Beata Maria, a roar as of
cannon, a shock as of an earthquake, and a cloud of white dust hid from
the spectators the ruin of the fallen tower:

EPILOGUE.

On the same evening Lieutenant Ennefer, R