It was a long chamber with a groined roof and stone walls, panelled as high as a tall man might reach with dark chestnut wood.

Gloomily lighted by three grated windows, which looked on a small inner green, the last resting-place of the Benedictines, the room itself seemed at first sight no more than the last resting-place of worn-out odds and ends.

Piles of thin sheepskin folios, dog's-eared and dirty, the rejected of the choir, stood against the walls; here and there among them lay a large brass-bound tome on which the chains that had fettered it to desk or lectern still rusted.

A broken altar cumbered one corner: a stand bearing a curious--and rotting--map filled another.

In the other two corners a medley of faded scutcheons and banners, which had seen their last Toussaint procession, mouldered slowly into dust--into much dust.