“It was an error, I sent for Cuthbert, and he is here. Pax tecum, go to rest.” “My son,” said the Abbot, when Grabber was gone, “I am about to reveal to thee a mystery which thou alone mayest share, until the friend I have mentioned seeks thee, and presents thee with this ring, which thou now seest on my finger; it will not be till I am gone.” Cuthbert felt his spirits sink within him at the sad words of his protector, but he restrained himself, and listened reverently as to the words of a saint. “Shut the door carefully, and draw the bolt.” Cuthbert did so. “Now touch the rose which thou seest in the carving of the cornice there, the fourth rose in order from the door, and the third from the floor.” The wainscotting of the room was divided into small squares; in each one a rose--S. Joseph’s rose--formed the centre. “The third and the fourth, canst thou remember?” “Third from the floor, fourth from the door.” “Now press the centre of the bud sharply with thy thumb.” Cuthbert did so, and a bookcase, which seemed a fixture in the wall, and which none could have suspected to have been aught _but_ a fixture, flew open in the manner of a door, and revealed a flight of circular steps, such steps as we see in old towers to this day. “Follow me,” said the Abbot, as he took a lamp and descended the steps. Thirty steps down, and as the Abbot’s room was on the ground-floor, they must have been below the foundations of the Abbey when they came upon a solid iron door; the Abbot touched a spring, bidding Cuthbert observe the manner in which it worked, and entered. “Fasten the door carefully back by this stay,” said the Abbot, “for should it sway to, we are dead men; the lock is a spring lock, and opens only from the outside, nor is there other exit save into the vaults of the dead. Dost thou see this chest? Here is the key, open it.” Cuthbert turned the lock, raised the ponderous lid, and let it rest against the wall behind, then gazed upon the contents. There were the most precious jewels of the Abbey, gemmed reliquaries, golden and jewelled pixes, chalices of solid gold, coined money, and the like, but beyond all this enormous wealth were rolls of parchment, and bundles of letters. “My son, I have marked in thee from childhood a nature free from guile, and incapable of treachery, therefore do I place this confidence in thee. Those golden and jewelled treasures are not the most important things in the chest, but the _parchments_, the _letters_. They contain secrets, which, if made known, might cost many lives--lives of some of the truest patriots and most faithful sons of Holy Church.[11] I need not detail their nature to thee, nor why I may not destroy them now. The secret thou hast learned is not for thee, thou wilt keep it until the arrival of the hour and the man.” “His name?” “I will but tell thee this much, he will be known to thee as the Father Ambrose.” “Have I never yet met him?”