Nothing more came; neither sight nor sound. The vaulted cloisters remained silent and inky-dark. Presently Mary Ursula ventured to show her light cautiously to guide their footsteps to the door, towards which she supported Sister Mildred: who once in the passage and the door locked behind her, gave vent to her suppressed terror in low cries and moans and groans. The light of the lantern, thrown on her face, showed it to be as damp as the wall on either side her, and ghastly white. Thus they trod the passage back to their own domains, Sister Mildred requiring substantial help. "Take the keys," she said to Mary Ursula, when they were once more in the warm and lighted parlour, safe and sound, save for the fright. "They belong to your custody of right now; and I'm sure a saint out of heaven would never induce me to use them again. I'd rather have seen a corpse walk about in its grave-clothes." "But, dear Sister Mildred--it was very terrifying, I admit; but it could not have been supernatural. There cannot be such things as ghosts." "My child, we saw it," was the all-convincing answer "Perhaps if they were to get a parson into the place and let him say some prayers, the poor wandering spirit might be laid to rest." That there was something strangely unaccountable connected with the Friar's Keep and some strange mystery attaching to it, Mary Ursula felt to her heart's core. She carried the two keys to her chamber, and locked them up in a place of safety. Her room adjoined Sister Mildred's; and she stood for some time looking out to sea before undressing. Partly to recover her equanimity; which had unquestionably been considerably shaken during the expedition; partly to indulge her thoughts and fancies, there she stood. An idea of the possibility of Anthony Castlemaine's being alive still, and kept a prisoner in some of these vaults underneath the Keep, had dawned upon her. That there were other and more secret vaults besides these cloisters they had seen, was more than probable: vaults in which men might be secretly confined for a lifetime--ay, and no doubt had been in the old days; confined until claimed by a lingering death. She did not think it likely that Anthony was there, alive: the conviction, that he was dead, had lain upon her from the first; it was upon her still: but the other idea had crept in and was making itself just sufficiently heard to render her uncomfortable.