“Silence!” said the Archdeacon, his finger on his lips, “here is Maître Jacques. Hark you, Jehan,” he added in a low voice, “beware of ever breathing a word of what you have seen or heard here. Hide yourself quickly under this furnace, and do not make a sound.”

The scholar was creeping under the furnace when a happy thought struck him.

“Brother Claude, a florin for keeping still!”

“Silence! I promise it you!”

“No, give it me now.”

“Take it, then!” said the Archdeacon, flinging him his whole pouch angrily. Jehan crept under the furnace, and the door opened.