She had brought the keys inside with her, as a precaution, in case the door should close; they were tied together with string, and she had lodged the key belonging to this door in the lock on this side: Sister Mildred had done the same on the occasion of their first expedition. But now, as she stood there, Mary found she could not easily draw the key out: it might have got turned in the lock, and the lock was hard and unmanageable: so she had to put down the lantern, first of all closing its three sides, and take both hands to the key. She had just got it out and pushed the door open, and was gliding softly and swiftly through, when a great bright light was thrown upon her, and a rough hand grasped her shoulder. With a cry of awful terror, Mary turned, and saw a pistol held close to her face. "O don't!" she cried--"spare me! spare me! I am Sister Mary Ursula--I am Miss Castlemaine." The man, who looked young, and was short and sturdy, turned in the doorway, with his dark lantern, never speaking a word. At that unlucky moment, the door swung against his elbow, and the pistol went off. Down he dropped with a hoarse scream. Whether Mary Ursula retained her senses for the instant, she never afterwards knew. Fear, and the instinct of self-preservation, would have caused her to fly: but how could she leave the wounded man to his fate? The whole place seemed to be reeling around her; her head swam, and she stood back against the wall for support. "Are you here alone?" she asked, bending down, when she could get her breath and some little strength into her shrinking spirit. "I be, ma'am. The rest are all gone." Why! surely she knew that voice! Taking her lantern, she threw its light upon his face, and recognized Walter Dance, Dance the fisherman's son: a young fellow with whom she had had a friendly chat only yesterday: and to whom she had given many a little present when he was a lad. "Is it you, Walter!" she exclaimed, with the utmost astonishment--and to find that it was he seemed to chase away as by magic her worst fears. "What were you doing here?" No answer--except some dismal groans. "Are you much hurt?" "I am just killed," he moaned. "Oh, ma'am! who is to help me?" Who indeed! Mary Ursula had an innate dread of such calamities as this; she had a true woman's sensitive heart, shrinking terribly from the very thought of contact with these woes of life. "I do not know that I can help you, Walter," she said faintly. "Where are you hurt? Do you think you could get up?" He began to try, and she helped him to his feet. One arm, the left, was powerless; and the young man said his left side was also. He leaned upon her, begging pardon for the liberty, and looked about him in dismay. "Where does this here passage lead to, ma'am?" "To the Grey Nunnery. Could you manage to walk to it?"