Secrets get deeper. No glass plates in a magic lantern. No hidden glass factory. What they really had, these monks, was cinema. They made films. How all this was possible at that time, in such a place I cannot develop beyond my own conjecture. Later at the trial these good men had insisted in the face of worldly belief that these moving pictures had been received in answer to a prayer. Though to see their barely suppressed laughter, as I did on that troubled day, was to make one wonder. Cinema they had, that was undeniable. I had seen it, we had projected their films before ordering their destruction. But let me not anticipate the course of this chronicle. Return to the evening that our three young agents entered naked and shivering, then wrapped in blankets before the fire. Under orders to infiltrate this secret brotherhood to establish the degree of its perversity and potential to corrupt, our boys doing without question whatever necessary to pursue this end. They considered themselves our weapons. I had trained them well. The contents of their lives defined for them by the requirements of duty. Outwardly, through their dedication, they attempted to fit themselves to the requirements of the monks. In order that they might reveal themselves. As, in their bid for power, they did. We know from fragments remaining from hastily destroyed journals that they were aware of our influence and had consciously attempted to break their allegiance to our empire. Exposed through vainity. Vain error.