“The only way I can think of,” said Henry, “is to get out one of the small, diamond-shaped panes of glass from one of the low windows, and then we can one of us put in our hands, and undo the fastening, which is very simple, when the window opens like a door, and it is but a step into the church.” “A good way,” said Marchdale. “We will lose no time.” They walked round the church till they came to a very low window indeed, near to an angle of the wall, where a huge abutment struck far out into the burial-ground. “Will you do it, Henry?” said George. “Yes. I have often noticed the fastenings. Just give me a slight hoist up, and all will be right.” George did so, and Henry with his knife easily bent back some of the leadwork which held in one of the panes of glass, and then got it out whole. He handed it down to George, saying,— “Take this, George. We can easily replace it when we leave, so that there can be no signs left of any one having been here at all.” George took the piece of thick, dim-coloured glass, and in another moment Henry had succeeded in opening the window, and the mode of ingress to the old church was fair and easy before them all, had there been ever so many. “I wonder,” said Marchdale, “that a place so inefficiently protected has never been robbed.” “No wonder at all,” remarked Mr. Chillingworth. “There is nothing to take that I am aware of that would repay anybody the trouble of taking.” “Indeed!” “Not an article. The pulpit, to be sure, is covered with faded velvet; but beyond that, and an old box, in which I believe nothing is left but some books, I think there is no temptation.” “And that, Heaven knows, is little enough, then.” “Come on,” said Henry. “Be careful; there is nothing beneath the window, and the depth is about two feet.” Thus guided, they all got fairly into the sacred edifice, and then Henry closed the window, and fastened it on the inside, as he said,— “We have nothing to do now but to set to work opening a way into the vault, and I trust that Heaven will pardon me for thus desecrating the tomb of my ancestors, from a consideration of the object I have in view by so doing.” “It does seem wrong thus to tamper with the secrets of the tomb,” remarked Mr. Marchdale. “The secrets of a fiddlestick!” said the doctor. “What secrets has the tomb, I wonder?” “Well, but, my dear sir——” “Nay, my dear sir, it is high time that death, which is, then, the inevitable fate of us all, should be regarded with more philosophic eyes than it is. There are no secrets in the tomb but such as may well be endeavoured to be kept secret.” “What do you mean?” “There is one which very probably we shall find unpleasantly revealed.” “Which is that?” “The not over pleasant odour of decomposed animal remains—beyond that I know of nothing of a secret nature that the tomb can show us.” “Ah, your profession hardens you to such matters.”