The muffled rattle of a rather ragged volley answered her prayer.
Outside the convent a sentry––a Kronstadt sailor––stood. He also heard the underground racket. He nodded contentedly to himself. Other shots followed––pistol shots––singly.
After a few moments a wisp of smoke from the crypt crept lazily out of the low oubliettes. The day was grey and misty; rain threatened; and the rifle smoke clung low to the withered grass, scarcely lifting.
The sentry lighted a third cigarette, one eye on the barred oubliettes, from which the smoke crawled and spread out over the grass.
After a while a sweating face appeared behind the bars and a half-stifled voice demanded why there was any delay about fetching quick-lime. And, still clinging to the bars with bloody fingers, he added:
“There’s a damned novice in the chapel. I promised to cut her throat for her. Go in and get her and bring her down here.”
The novice was nowhere to be found.