That is, nobody but angels; they are always on deck when there is a miracle to the fore--so as to get put in the picture, perhaps.

Angels are as fond of that as a fire company; look at the old masters.
The well-chamber was dimly lighted by lamps; the water was drawn with a windlass and chain by monks, and poured into troughs which delivered it into stone reservoirs outside in the chapel--when there was water to draw, I mean--and none but monks could enter the well-chamber.

I entered it, for I had temporary authority to do so, by courtesy of my professional brother and subordinate.
But he hadn't entered it himself.

He did everything by incantations; he never worked his intellect.

If he had stepped in there and used his eyes, instead of his disordered mind, he could have cured the well by natural means, and then turned it into a miracle in the customary way; but no, he was an old numskull, a magician who believed in his own magic; and no magician can thrive who is handicapped with a superstition like that.
I had an idea that the well had sprung a leak; that some of the wall stones near the bottom had fallen and exposed fissures that allowed the water to escape.