with halberds and a lantern, beating their hands; and they saw

nothing suspicious about the cemetery of St. John.

Yet there was a small house, backed up against the cemetery wall,

which was still awake, and awake to evil purpose, in that snoring

district. There was not much to betray it from without; only a

stream of warm vapour from the chimney-top, a patch where the snow

melted on the roof, and a few half-obliterated footprints at the

door. But within, behind the shuttered windows, Master Francis