“Hush,” said the Franciscan, “and keep close. The step of the sentinel on the wall above falls louder. He cometh this way.”
They drew themselves closer to the wall. The sentinel’s step passed onward to the extremity of his walk, and then slowly returning, it again moved by, and the sound of it sank along the wall.
“Try the key again, brother,” said the Franciscan; “the man is beyond hearing.”
Friar Rushak again applied the key; the great bolt yielded before it; the gate creaked upon its hinges, and the Franciscan deposited his trembling burden, more dead than alive, in a little skiff that lay in the creek of the river running under the vault.
“Thanks, kind brother,” said the Franciscan in a low tone of voice, to Friar Rushak; “a thousand thanks for thy friendly aid.”
“Hush! the sentinel comes again,” whispered Friar Rushak.
They remained perfectly still until the man had completed his turn, and was gone beyond hearing.
“Now thou mayest venture to depart,” said Friar Rushak—“away, and St. Francis be with thee!” And so saying, he waved his hand, shut the gate, and quickly disappeared.
The Franciscan got into the boat. A little crooked man, who had hitherto lain like a bundle of clothes in the bottom of it, started up, and began pushing it along by putting his hands against the side-walls until he got beyond the vault. Then he sat down and pulled the oars.
“Who goes there?” cried the sentinel, “who goes there?—Answer me, an thou wouldst not have a quarrel-bolt in thy brain.”