The night went on. She saw other boats come: she saw boats go back; she saw them come again. Surely she was not dreaming all this! and yet it seemed an impossible pageantry. At length a powerful impulse took possession of her--she would go through the secret passage and try and solve the mystery: go then and there. Fastening her warm black shawl more securely round her, and tying on a dark silk hood, she unlocked her drawers to get the keys of the passage, and descended softly the stairs. In descending them it had not seemed very lonely--though a sense of loneliness does strike upon one when making a solitary pilgrimage about even an inhabited house at the dead of night, when everybody else is abed and asleep. But when she came to go down the stone steps to the damp vaults below, lighted only by the solitary lantern she held, then Mary's courage deserted her. Brave and good woman though she was, she halted in a kind of terror, and asked herself whether she could go on alone. Alone she must go if she went at all: not for a great deal would she disclose the fact of this existing passage to any of the Sisters, or let them know of her errand in it. Sister Mildred was the only one who shared the secret, and Sister Mildred was not there. Taking a few minutes to recover herself; to strive, ay, and to pray for returning courage; Mary at length went on. Arrived at the door, she unlocked it with great trouble: the lock was no less rusty than before, and now there was only one pair of hands to it; and she went swiftly along the passage in a sort of desperate perseverance. The door at the other end unlocked, but with just as much difficulty, she once more, for the second time in her life, found herself in the cloistered vaults underneath the Keep. Pausing again to gather what bravery would come to her, her hand pressed on her beating heart, she then proceeded about the place with her lantern; throwing its light here, throwing it there. At first she could see no trace of anyone, living or dead; could hear no sound. Soon she halted abruptly; a thought had come across her, bringing a sick fear--suppose she should not be able to find her way back to the passage door, but must remain where she was until daylight? Daylight! what light of day could penetrate those unearthly vaults?--they must be always, by day and by night, as dark as the grave. As she stood undecided whether to search further or to go back at once, she became conscious of a whiff of fresh air, that brought with it a smell of the sea. Stepping gently in its direction, she found herself at an opening. A door, it seemed: whatever it was, it was open to the strip of beach under the Friar's Keep, and to the sea beyond it. All seemed perfectly still: there was neither sight nor sound of human being; but as she stood in the stillness she caught the distant regular dip of the oars in the water, belonging no doubt to the retreating boats.