it resisted long. The thud of the axes and the crash of rending
timbers could be heard from one end of Tavora to the other, yet from
the convent it evoked no slightest response. But presently, as the
door began to yield to the onslaught, there came another sound to
arouse the town. From the belfry of the little church a bell suddenly
gave tongue upon a frantic, hurried note that spoke unmistakably of
alarm. Ding-ding-ding-ding it went, a tocsin summoning the assistance
of all true sons of Mother Church.

Mr. Butler, however, paid little heed to it. The door was down at
last, and followed by his troopers he rode under the massive gateway
into the spacious close. Dismounting there, and leaving the woefully
anxious sergeant and a couple of men to guard the horses, the
lieutenant led the way along the cloisters, faintly revealed by a
new-risen moon, towards a gaping doorway whence a feeble light was
gleaming. He stumbled over the step into a hall dimly lighted by a
lantern swinging from the ceiling. He found a chair, mounted it, and
cut the lantern down, then led the way again along an endless corridor,
stone-flagged and flanked on either side by rows of cells. Many of
the doors stood open, as if in silent token of the tenants' hurried
flight, showing what a panic had been spread by the sudden advent of
this troop.

Mr. Butler became more and more deeply intrigued, more and more
deeply suspicious that here all was not well. Why should a community
of loyal monks take flight in this fashion from British soldiers?

"Bad luck to them!" he growled, as he stumbled on. "They may hide
as they will, but it's myself 'll run the shavelings to earth."