He stumbled against a chest. A strange curiosity, mixed with dread, impelled him irresistibly to open it; perhaps here the sly old fellow hid the treasures of his church! He lifted up the lid; the chest contained nothing but papyrus rolls and parchments; spread over them was a white, priestly garment with a hood, exactly like that which Johannes had worn. An idea struck the fugitive. He hastily drew the wide robe over his own garments. "I shall not stay long in this place, and I am now safely disguised--better than in armour." After a time, as all remained still, he became uncomfortable in the damp air of the vault; he carefully half-raised the slab, mounted the ladder and looked into the empty church. His eye fell on the glittering gold pieces, which shone in the light of the altar-lamp. A few had been picked up by his pursuers, but they thirsted more for blood than gold. Already the miser repented having promised the priest so much. "He, moreover, rejected the gold; so I am no longer bound to give it. And these scattered pieces--they shall not fall to the scoundrels." He now lifted the slab quite up, and listened again anxiously. All was silent. Then he deliberately placed money-bag and purse of jewels in the chest, closed the lid, climbed quickly out and picked up the solidi--at first those that lay nearest, then those by the altar; he then saw to the right of the altar a whole heap lying together, as they had fallen out of the burst bag. He went now from the left of the altar towards the right, stooped down--oh, horror! he heard steps approaching from the priest's house! Only one man, certainly, but that was not Johannes--there was the clang of metal! He quickly attempted to regain his hiding-place, but before he could pass the altar, a black shadow fell across his path. Zeno could not, unnoticed, spring into the vault. His knees failed him; so, drawing the hood quickly over his head, he threw himself into the position in which he had found Johannes, with his arms encircling the relic shrine on the altar. At the same moment cold steel penetrated his neck. He was dead before he had heard the words, "Die, priest!" CHAPTER XIII. But the murderer now thought it was not the high-towering form of the Presbyter. He bent down so that the black horse-tail of his high helmet fell forwards, and drew back the hood, and with it the head of the murdered man. With a short scream he let it again fall. "Irony of fate! The usurer! How comes he here? How in this disguise? Where is the priest?" But before the Tribune could think about these questions, his whole attention was drawn towards the chief entrance of the church, by a noise of the most startling kind.