And foremost of them all, driven by some inexplicable dread, the Abbot rushed out into the storm, bareheaded, heedless of the pelting of stones and tiles, past the lofts that were threatening to fall, across to the eastern tower--the door was locked.
"The key! see for the key of the eastern tower," he ordered across the dark court-yard; no one had followed him but Correntian; the rest stood scared in the door-way--their lamps blown out.
Correntian hurried out to the gate-house. The key was gone! beyond a doubt Donatus had locked himself up in the tower.
"Hapless, struggling child!" cried the Abbot. "What demon is tormenting you that you must fly up there and tell your woes to the winds." And for the first time in his life he turned upon one of the brethren in anger; in the glare of the lightning that relieved the darkness and revealed them to each other, he fixed his eye piercingly on Correntian.
"I fear, I fear,"--he said, "that you must have a heavy burden on your conscience and that the cry of anguish of that poor tortured soul is gone up to God against you."
Correntian stood before him, dogged and invincible, "I only did my duty."
"Donatus!" cried the Abbot again. "Donatus, come down, open the door to me, your father--Donatus--my son."
No answer, all was still; it seemed as though the very storm had paused to listen; but in vain--nothing was moving.
"He cannot hear us call," said Correntian. "The storm roars too wildly round the detached tower; leave him, it is midnight and time for the service for the dead. The bell will soon ring and he will hear that. When the bell calls him he will come--I know him well." And he went back into the house.
The Abbot followed him with a deep sigh.