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." They were brought up short at the end of that long, chill gallery by closed double doors.