The Prior himself went to the chancel-door of the little chapel, leaving the poor fellows talking about their lord and his lost friend, and wondering in their own minds whether the vow would or would not be broken. Old John of Alneshborne went himself to the chapel. The Lord De Freston heard the noise upon the waters. The sounding of the alarm-bell from the monastery, the thunders roaring, and saw the lightnings flashing; but he firmly kept his vow, for he had resolved that nothing should tempt him to break it. A gentle but hasty knock was heard at the door, and a voice exclaiming: 'I am John of Alneshborne, I come to absolve thee from thy vow. Thy boat is upset, thy friend is lost; oh! leave off thy watch and come and help us.' But no answer from within gave any indications of slackened duty or of wavering vow. 'Open the door! watch no longer, thy men are exhausted, They are in the Priory! they want thy help! O, noble lord, let me entreat thee to come and advise us what we are to do. The light still burns in Freston Tower; shall we pass over to the castle? What shall we do?' Not a single word came in reply, though the noble heard the news with a deep pang, only to be imagined by those who felt for him. Yet he put up a silent prayer for support, and even that the morning's light might bring him better tidings. He felt as if he should hear better news, if he kept his vow; and, if he did not, that some fresh horror would approach with the matin-bell. Never was father, friend, or noble, more deeply tried; yet he kept his watch, and the Prior returned from his ineffectual attempt to move him. That night was, indeed, a night of horrors. Some of the monks attributed all these accidents to the admission of the hermit's body into their chapel; and took upon themselves to lecture their elders for ready acquiescence in the will of Lord De Freston. Others thought it a judgment upon Latimer, as he was the only one lost. They all made vows to be more strict in the performance of their duties, and some of the sailors confessed to them their sins. 'It was a bad night when we started,' said Harry Benns. 'I could tell by the clouds we should have a storm, and perhaps the judgment you speak of may have fallen heavily upon the priests of St. Peter's. A storm is but a storm, good monks, and there is a God above to rule that, as well as ourselves. He has delivered us out of peril, and we have reason to rejoice and be thankful.' 'Young man,' replied the Superior, 'dost thou know the means by which thou wast saved? St. Peter was our help.' 'I know that you and your brethren of this Priory were the instruments in the hands of God to save our lives; and I give God thanks first, and thee next; but I do not see how St. Peter helped us, any more than the dead St. Ivan.' The monks looked at each other, as much as to express astonishment at the youth's impiety, and one said to the other, 'I wonder this fellow was not lost!'