admitted him instantly, with many praises of his industry and adorations of his skill.
"You have a heavy door there?" said Erceldoune, turning to glance at the ponderous mass of iron-clamped oak that swung slowly behind him.
"Ah—heavy indeed!" sighed the Benedictine, as he stooped to draw the huge bolts, which were only drawn stiffly and with effort into their sockets. "It is heavy enough, but it is these are the misery."
"These? I will soon make them run smoother. I have something of a smith's skill. Fetch me a file and a little oil."
The Umbrian fetched them gladly, marvelling what manner of man this was who knew every craft under the sun. A little while, and the rusted iron bolts ran noiselessly and smoothly in their massive channels; the monk's lament had given him an opportunity more precious than any other could have been in that moment, and in easing the run of the bolts for the gatekeeper's indolence, he paved the way to a facile exit by night from the monastery, if by any means he could also obtain the great key that swung from the Umbrian's girdle.
"You have a wonderful science, my son," said
