“‘That is the long dead choir of monks chanting vespers,’ remarked my guide, sadly.
“At this period the monk and I entered a large, rock-hewn chamber, wide and lofty. In it there were numerous huge old iron clamped chests of different sizes and shapes.
“‘These,’ said the monk, ‘are packed full of treasures, jewels, and vestments. They will be needed again some day. Above us now there are ploughed fields, but long ago right over our heads there existed a church and monastery to which these things belonged.’ He pointed with a skinny claw of a hand to one corner of the chamber. ‘There,’ he said, ‘is the staircase that once led to the church above.’”
Ashton stopped and lit a cigar, then resumed.
“Well, on we went again, turning, twisting, going up steps, round corners, through more holes, and stepping over pitfall shafts. It was a loathsome and gruesome place.
“Out of a side passage I saw a female figure glide quickly along. She was dressed as a bride for a wedding; then she disappeared.
“‘Fear not,’ said the monk, ‘that is Mirren of Hepburn’s Tower, the White Lady, she can materialise herself and appear when she chooses, but she is not reincarnate as I am.’
“Well, after we had gone on it seemed for hours, as I have described, the monk paused.
“‘I fear I must leave you,’ he said, suddenly. ‘I am wanted. Before I go, take this,’ and he placed in my hand a tiny gold cup delicately chased; ‘it is a talisman and will bring you good luck always,’ he said. ‘Keep it safe, I may never see you again here, but do not forget.’
“Then I was alone in black darkness. He and his candle had vanished in a second. Quite alone in that awful prison, heaven only knows how far below the ground, I could never have gone back, and I feared to go forward. I was entombed in a worse place than the Roman Catacombs, with no hope of rescue, as it was unknown and forgotten by all.”