Ketch, in sheer helplessness, was fain to comply. He resigned the keys to Jenkins, and Jenkins tried them: but he was none the nearer unlocking the gate. In their increasing perplexity, they resolved to return to the place in the quadrangle where the keys had fallen--a very forlorn suggestion proceeding from Mr. Jenkins that the right keys might be lying there still, and that this rusty pair might, by some curious and unaccountable chance, have been lying there also. They commenced their search, disputing, the one hotly, the other temperately, as to which was the exact spot. With feet and hands they hunted as well as the dark would allow them; all in vain; and Ketch gave vent to a loud burst of feeling when he realized the fact that they were positively locked up in the cloisters, beyond hope of succour, in the dark and lonely night. CHAPTER XII. -- A MISHAP TO THE BISHOP. “Fordham, I wonder whether the cloisters are closed?” “I will see, my lord.” The question came from the Bishop of Helstonleigh; who, as it fell out, had been to make an evening call upon the dean. The dean’s servant was now conducting his lordship down the grand staircase, on his departure. In proceeding to the palace from the deanery, to go through the cloisters cut off quite two-thirds of the distance. Fordham left the hall, a lamp in his hand, and traversed sundry passages which brought him to the deanery garden. Crossing the garden, and treading another short passage, he came to the cloisters. The bishop had followed, lighted by Fordham, and talking affably. A very pleasant man was the Bishop of Helstonleigh, standing little upon forms and ceremonies. In frame he was nearly as active as a college boy. “It is all right, I think, my lord,” said Fordham. “I hear the porter’s voice now in the cloisters.” “How dark it is!” exclaimed the bishop. “Ketch must be closing late to-night. What a noise he is making!” In point of fact, Mr. Ketch had just arrived at that agreeable moment which concluded the last chapter--the conviction that no other keys were to be found, and that he and Jenkins were fast. The tone in which he was making his sentiments known upon the calamity, was not a subdued one. “Shall I light you round, my lord?” “By no means--by no means. I shall be up with Ketch in a minute. He seems in a temper. Good night, Fordham.” “Good night to your lordship.” The servant went back to the deanery. The prelate groped his way round to the west quadrangle. “Are you closing, Ketch?” Mr. Ketch started as if he had been shot, and his noise dropped to a calm. Truth to say, his style of complaint had not been orthodox, or exactly suitable to the ears of his bishop. He and Jenkins both recognized the voice, and bowed low, dark though it was. “What is the matter, Ketch? You are making enough noise.” “Matter, my lord!” groaned Ketch. “Here’s matter enough to make a saint--saving your lordship’s presence--forget his prayers. We be locked up in the cloisters.”