“Ay, I’ll throw it away,” muttered the old man, stuffing the heavy gold circle into his pocket: “I’ll throw it away. Hey, but lookye here.”
He held up the lanthorn, and revealed the state of the vestry—the chair overturned, the table driven into a corner, and the gown and surplice torn from the pegs on which they had hung, trampled and twisted, while in one place the tiles close to the wainscot were stained with blood, a few drops of which had splashed the panelled oak.
“Shut that window, man—quick! Hide your light.”
Moredock obeyed, screening his lanthorn, and then climbing on to the oak chest and drawing in and fastening the hasp.
“Shall I—” he began, as he got down.
“Hang it, man, no!”
“Hist! Don’t say that there word,” whispered Moredock excitedly.
“You can come up here to-morrow, and clean up, and arrange the place. Let’s get to the vault at once.”
The old sexton’s hands trembled as he opened the vestry door, but as he felt how calm and decisive his companion seemed to be, he took courage and followed North through the iron gate and down the steps to the mausoleum door.
“Keep that lanthorn well covered,” whispered North, as he unlocked the door; “and you have not locked the gates.”