"He is not killed," said Marcos breathlessly.
"For which we may thank Heaven," added Sarrion with a short laugh. "Come, let us find the chapel."
They hurried on through the dimly lighted corridors guided by the sound of the distant organ. There seemed to be many closed doors between them and it; for only the deeper and more resonant notes reached their ears. They gained the large patio where the grass grew thickly, and the iron-work of the well in the centre was hidden by the trailing ropes of last year's clematis.
"The chapel is there, but the door is built up," said Sarrion pointing to a doorway which had been filled in. And they paused for a moment as all men must pause when they find sudden evidence that that Sword which was brought into the world nineteen hundred years ago is not yet sheathed.
Marcos had already found a second door leading from the cloister that surrounded the patio, back in the direction from which they had come. They entered the corridor which turned sharply back again--the handiwork of some architect skilful, not in the carrying of sound, but in killing it.
"It is the way to the organ loft," whispered Marcos.
"It is probably the only entrance to the chapel."
They opened a door and were faced by a second one covered and padded with faded felt. Marcos pushed it ajar and the notes of the organ almost deafened them. They were in the chapel, behind the organ, at the west end.
They passed in and stood in the dark, the notes of the great organ braying in their ears. They could hear the panting of the man working at the bellows. Marcos led the way and they passed on into the chapel which was dimly lighted by candles. The subtle odour of stale incense hung heavily in the atmosphere which seemed to vibrate as if the deeper notes of the organ shook the building in their vain search for an exit.