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and a verse of poetry:

“Here lie I, between earth and sky,
Think upon me, dear passers-by,
And you who do my tombstone see
Be kind to say a prayer for me.”

“How horrid!” Alice said. “Do let’s get home.”

“We may as well go to the top,” Dicky said, “just to say we’ve been.”

And Alice is no funk–so she agreed; though I could see she did not like it.

Up at the top it was like the top of the church tower, only octagenarian in shape, instead of square.

Alice got all right there; because you cannot think much about ghosts and nonsense when the sun is shining bang down on you at four o’clock in the afternoon, and you can see red farm-roofs between the trees, and the safe white roads, with people in carts like black ants crawling.

It was very jolly, but we felt we ought to be getting back, because tea is at five, and we could not hope to find lifts both ways.

So we started to go down. Dicky went first, then Oswald, then Alice–and H. O. had just stumbled over the top step and saved himself by Alice’s back, which nearly upset Oswald and Dicky, when the hearts of all stood still, and then went on by leaps and bounds, like the good work in missionary magazines.

For, down below us, in the tower where the man whose beard grew down to his toes after he was dead was buried, there was a noise–a loud noise. And it was like a door being banged and bolts fastened. We tumbled over each other to get back into the open sunshine on the top of the tower, and Alice’s hand got jammed between the edge of the doorway and H. O.’s boot; it was bruised black and blue, and another part bled, but she did not notice it till long after.

We looked at each other, and Oswald said in a firm voice (at least, I hope it was):

“What was that?”

“He has waked up,” Alice said. “Oh, I know he has. Of course there is a door for him to get out by when he wakes. He’ll come up here. I know he will.”

Dicky said, and his voice was not at all firm (I noticed that at the time), “It doesn’t matter, if he’s alive.”

“Unless he’s come to life a raving lunatic,” Noel said, and we all stood with our eyes on the doorway of the turret–and held our breath to hear.

But there was no more noise.

Then Oswald said–and nobody ever put it in the Golden Deed book, though they own that it was brave and noble of him–he said:

“Perhaps it was only the wind blowing one of the doors to. I’ll go down and see, if you will, Dick.”

Dicky only said:

“The wind doesn’t shoot bolts.”

“A bolt from the blue,” said Denny to himself, looking up at the sky. His father is a sub-editor. He had gone very red, and he was holding on to Alice’s hand. Suddenly he stood up quite straight and said:

“I’m not afraid. I’ll go and see.”

This was afterwards put in the Golden Deed book. It ended in Oswald and Dicky and Denny going. Denny went first because he said he would rather–and Oswald understood this and let him. If Oswald had pushed first it would have been like Sir Launcelot refusing to let a young knight win his spurs. Oswald took good care to go second himself, though. The others never understood this. You don’t expect it from girls; but I did think father would have understood without Oswald telling him, which of course he never could.

We all went slowly.

At the bottom of the turret stairs we stopped short. Because the door there was bolted fast and would not yield to shoves, however desperate and united.

Only now somehow we felt that Mr. Richard Ravenal was all right and quiet, but that some one had done it for a lark, or perhaps not known about any one being up there. So we rushed up, and Oswald told the others in a few hasty but well-chosen words, and we all leaned over between the battlements, and shouted, “Hi! you there!”