The midnight bell has struck twelve--or, rather, has been struck
twelve times by the sexton, in the absence of machinery.
All is silence and gloom in the church of St. Frideswide, and upon
the burial ground around.
Three muffled figures stand in a recess of the cloisters.
"This is the door," said the sexton; "but, holy St. Frideswide, to
go down there tonight!"
"Thou forgettest I am a bishop; I can lay spirits if they arise."
The sexton stood at the open door--a group of the bishop's
retainers farther off--that iron door which never opened to inmate
before.
Geoffrey and the Jew advanced to the grave, amidst stone coffins
and recesses in the walls, where the dead lay, much as in the
catacombs.
They stopped before a certain recess.
There, swathed in woollen winding sheets, lay the mute form of
Wilfred of Aescendune.
"Let him see thee when he arises. The sight of this deathly place
may slay him. He will awake as from sleep. Take this sponge--bathe
well the brow; how the aromatic odour fills the vaults!"
A minute--no result. Another.
"Dog, hast thou deceived me and slain him? If so, thou shalt not
escape."
"Patience," said the Jew.
A heavy sigh escaped the sleeper.
"Thank God, he lives," said the bishop.
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