precedence, on the episcopal bench, locked up ignominiously in the
cloisters of Helstonleigh, with Ketch the porter, and Jenkins the
steward's clerk; likely, so far as appearances might be trusted, to
have to pass the night there! The like had never yet been heard of.

The bishop went to the south gate, and tried the keys himself: the
bishop went to the west gate and tried them there; the bishop stamped
about the west quadrangle, hoping to stamp upon the missing keys; but
nothing came of it. Ketch and Jenkins attended him--Ketch grumbling in
the most angry terms that he dared, Jenkins in humble silence.

"I really do not see what is to be done," debated the bishop, who, no
doubt, wished himself well out of the dilemma, as any less exalted
mortal would have done, "The doors leading into the college are sure to
be closed."

"Quite sure," groaned Ketch.

"And to get into the college would not serve us, that I see," added the
bishop. "We should be no better off there than here."

"Saving that we might ring the bell, my lord," suggested Jenkins, with
deference.

They proceeded to the college gates. It was a forlorn hope, and one
that did not serve them. The gates were locked, the doors closed behind
them. No reaching the bell that way; it might as well have been a
hundred miles off.

They traversed the cloisters again, and tried the door of the