Over these rooms, on what we may call the _second_ floor, lay the _dormitories_, where each monk had had his little cell containing a bed, a table, a crucifix and a drawer for papers and books. Hard by was the schoolroom, and the apartments of the choristers and other boys, who had lived in the house. While in the cloister, calling back the past to mind, he heard a step,--was it that of Father Ambrose? Cuthbert called in a subdued voice, but no answer was returned; he hurried up to the end of the cloister, his hand on his sword, but saw no one. Well might the ruined desecrated pile suggest awe in this midnight hour. “O’er all there hung the shadow of a fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is haunted.” Then he remembered that the unhappy Nicholas in his dying gasps had cried-- “Sir John; the secret chamber; midnight; beware!” and had died before he could offer the reparation of explanation. And now he had reached the Abbot’s former dwelling, a detached building, connected by a covered way with the cloisters. It stood west of the refectory and great hall; it had suffered less from violence than the rest of the building, being probably designed for use as a private dwelling. Ascending the short flight of steps which led to the porch, he entered the chamber on the right, which had been the Abbot’s especial retreat; it was in that room, with its old oak wainscotting and carved ceiling, that he had received the momentous communication which had changed the whole course of his then future life, and accepted the trust about to be fulfilled. And, as he waited, old familiar shapes seemed to gather around him, and for one instant, he thought he saw the Abbot seated in his chair, gazing benignantly upon him. He strove to pray, as the best way of driving away imaginary visions, when he heard the clock of the town church begin to strike the midnight hour. But before it had struck six times, a firm step was heard on the stairs; it mounted higher and higher, Cuthbert knew the tread and his heart beat lighter; another moment and Father Ambrose stood before him in the doorway. “Father!” “Thou wert here first, then, Cuthbert my son, and hast met with no accident by the way.” “How long hast thou been in the ruins, father?” “But just arrived from the inn where I have left my horse,--why?” “Because I heard a footfall.” “Nay, it was fancy; we will soon do our errand and depart. Has thy journey been, like mine, uneventful?” [Illustration: “HE PRESSED THE CENTRE OF THE BUD SHARPLY WITH HIS THUMB.” _Page 239._] “Not uneventful, father; Nicholas Grabber, the red-haired page at the inn, is no more. He had played the spy over night, learnt all our arrangements, and even the fatal secret of the chamber: had he lived we had been lost.” “Didst thou slay him, then?”