The Project Gutenberg eBook of Antonio, by Ernest Oldmeadow (2024)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74116 ***

BY

ERNEST OLDMEADOW

NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1916

Copyright, 1909, by
THE CENTURY Co.

Published, June, 1909

Contents

BOOK I THE EXODUS

BOOK II THE RETURN

BOOK III MARGARIDA

BOOK IV THE AZULEJOS

BOOK V ISABEL

BOOK VI "ITE, MISSA EST"

BOOK I

THE EXODUS

ANTONIO

I

From a cork bench on the flat roof of the cloister,the monk Antonio gazed over dim orange-groves andvineyards toward the quiet Atlantic. For many aday no wind had vexed the waters, and the oceanswell, as it searched the creeks and caves, hummed noloudlier than a bee mining deeply in the bells offlowers. Overhead thousands of stars burned mildly.The May night's soft airs were rich with scents oflemon-blossom and honeysuckle: and, like a perfumefrom a great hidden lily, peace filled earth and heaven.

Peace. It was the watchword of Antonio's Order.Pax was chiseled boldly in the old stone lintel overeach choir-monk's door; and, for the sake of thelay-brethren whose Latin was less fluent than theirPortuguese, Paz had been painted between each pair ofwindows on the kitchen walls. On every one of themonastery's books, both in the library and in the choir,Pax was stamped in dull gold; and from the lips ofSt. Benedict's sons as they met in cloister or gardenthe salutation was ever going forth: Peace be withthee.

Peace. Within Antonio's breast as well as withoutthere reigned on this summer night a peace whichpassed understanding. Hardly fifteen hours before, theapostolic hands of a saintly bishop had raised the youngmonk to the awful dignity of the priesthood, and hadgiven him power to offer sacrifice for the dead and forthe living.

With eyes at rest upon the dreaming sea the youngAntonio recalled some of the hours he had spent sittingupon this same cork bench. All of them had not beenhours of peace. Antonio remembered March nights ofstorm, when mountainous waves uplifted white crestsin the cold shine of a racing moon. He rememberedAugust dusks, when the thunder pounded and boomedlike great guns, or like enormous breakers on a sandyshore, while the lightning unsheathed its blinding blade,bright and jagged as a scimitar. He rememberedDecember gales, with the pine-trees cowering andcreaking before the blast; and January floods raging downthe mountain. But, most vividly of all, Antoniorecalled his hours of inward strife and tempest. Heremembered that long night's vigil when he wrestledand prayed against a sudden temptation to renouncethe religious life and go back to the warm, sweet world.And he remembered those many, many hours of lesssultry, more nipping and stinging tempest whenall the arguments against religion in general, andagainst monasticism in particular, went on burstinglike hailstones about his head. Thrice during hisnovitiate and once more on the very eve of his fullprofession a tornado of doubt had well-nigh swunghim off his feet and hurled him back into the world.But on this May night, within him and without, therewas peace.

Peace. Better still, there was peace at last inAntonio's beloved fatherland, in beautiful Portugal. Formore than five-and-twenty years the garden of theWest had lain under the blight of war. At thebidding of Wellington had not the peasantry laid wastetheir fields, so that there should be neither a blade ofgrass nor a cob of maize for Napoleon's horses andmen? And after Napoleon was flung back had notthe ancient kingdom sunk to be a mere colony of Brazil,with Englishmen lording it amid the ruins? Worsestill, had not the fratricidal strife of the Absolutistsand the Constitutionalists soaked Portugal's hill-sideswith her best blood? But now the civil war was ended.Napier, the amazing Englishman, had done his work,and Dom Miguel's cause was lost. At Evora Monte,with the coming of May, the faithful remnant ofsixteen thousand Miguelistas had broken their swordsacross their knees and dashed their muskets to piecesagainst the stones at the news of their betrayal by aselfish and ungrateful master.

During the long siege of Oporto the echoes of thebugles had often resounded in Antonio's cell,challenging him to imitate many a monk of bygone ages andto exchange the cowl for the helmet. This was oneof the most frequent shapes in which his doubtsassailed him. He was young, he was ardent, he lovedhis country; and sometimes a flush of shame wouldburn his cheek as he heard of some desperate sortiefrom the beleaguered city. To be praying in a cloisterat such a time was a good work: but, so long as thebattles were actually raging, was it not a work forwomen, like preparing lint? Once, indeed, he wentso far as to approach the abbot for leave to interrupthis monastic life while he struck a good blow forPortugal: but the abbot confounded him by demandingsadly on which side Antonio felt it his duty tofight. To the old man's question the young one couldgive no clear answer. His political sympathies werewith sterling liberalism: but he had read enoughhistory and seen enough of the world to know that thosewho preach mostly of liberty often tolerate others'liberty least, and that both the constitutionalism ofDom Pedro and the absolutism of Dom Miguel weremere passwords of opportunists rather than sincereutterances of convictions and principles. In responseto his silence and confusion the abbot charged him,under obedience, to dismiss the idea of soldiering fromhis mind: but whenever tidings of fresh carnage onthe banks of the Douro reached the monasteryAntonio's heart bled anew. That Portuguese should havehelped to slay the thousands of Frenchmen whomMassena had flung at the ridges of Bussaco was athing for which Massena's master was alone to blame:but the shooting down of Portuguese by Portuguesewas a different thing. And so it was with a brimmingheart that Antonio, as he sat on his cork bench underthe mild stars, thanked God for peace at last inPortugal.

Peace. Best of all, peace seemed to have beguneven for the Church and for her religious Orders.It was true that the victorious Liberals had decreedthe expected confiscation of the military Orders' richpossessions: but, instead of heeding the firebrands fromFrance and suppressing the religious Orders altogether,the new Government had contented itself with closingthe smaller houses and distributing their old inmatesamong the larger monasteries. And, it was true thatthe State was seeking to impose vexations upon theChurch: but it seemed probable that patience andcharity and prudence on the Church's part would soonmake the crooked straight, and that the Portuguesefamily would once more dwell in harmony and peace.

Peace. From the peace of the sea Antonio's eyeswandered at last to the peace of the earth. Rovingover wood and meadow and stream, his gaze cameto rest at last in a little clearing between the endingof the orange-groves and the beginning of thevineyards. This was the monks' cemetery. It was threehundred years old, and the bones of nearly all themen who had lived and breathed and walked in thecloister under his feet lay beneath its pleasant turfand flowers. In the midst of the clearing a talland slender cross glimmered pale through the dusk.

There was not a trace of morbidity in his mood;yet Antonio beheld God's acre with more of longingthan of shrinking. On so soft and gracious a nighteven a pagan would have found something alluringin the thought of death. After the day's glare thedimness was like a veil for tired eyes, and the scentedair was like caressing arms, wooing one to everlastingrest. Antonio was no pagan and no voluptuary. Hewanted to live strenuously for God, according to theHoly Rule: but it was good to feel that wheneverthe body should be worn and weary even unto death,there would be this plot of hallowed earth for itsrepose. With his eyes upon the pale cross Antoniolooked through it into his future. He picturedhimself living his life, as the hundreds of dead men inthe cemetery had lived theirs, in the cell, in the chapel,and in the cloister, studying the divine mysteries,ever advancing toward perfection, praying for thosewho would not pray for themselves, rendering toGod some of the praise and worship whereof thecareless deprive Him, and striving, as it were, toredress the balance of the world. He saw himselfgiving his keen mind, his eager spirit, his youngstrength, his whole manhood to the divine office, sothat the praising of God should not all be left to theweak, the simple, the aged, and to the fearful soulsin the shadow of death. He knew full well thatthe world did not understand such a sacrifice, andthat the mass of men were so entirely blind to themonastic ideal that they would look on him eitheras a cowardly shirker of life's duties or as a fanaticalabstainer from its joys. But he had long ago learnedto despise the judgments of the world. His sacrificewas acceptable to his Lord and it was the groundworkof his spirit's peace. It was as though Antonio heardfrom the midst of the stars His voice saying, Pacemrelinquo vobis, pacem meam do vobis: non quomodomundus dat, ego do vobis—"Peace, I leave with you.My peace I give to you; not as the world giveth giveI to you."

Humility made haste to stifle the beginning ofpride. This sacrifice of his—what was it, after all?What great merit was there in yielding back to Godhis body, soul and spirit? They were God's own, andat any moment he could revoke them. Antoniobrought his mind back firmly to the stupendoushappenings of the morning, and to the scene in the chapelwhen the bishop laid hands upon his head. He,Antonio, with all his unworthiness was a priest atlast, and very soon he would be called upon to offerthat ineffable Sacrifice, compared with which his ownwas nothing worth. He, Antonio, would soon standbefore the altar, offering up the Lord and Maker ofall these stars and seas and mountains, the very Godof very God, for the dead and for the living.

For the dead. Still gazing at the pale cross, hevowed to remember in his first Mass the faithfuldeparted whose dust lay beneath its pitiful arms. Andfor the living. A league away two lights still beamedfrom the windows of a farm-house, and, far out atsea, the mast-head lamp on a fisherman's boattwinkled like another star. They reminded him ofthe toiling men and women whose cheerful labor isthe Te Deum most beloved of heaven, and he vowedmore heartily still that he would always exercise hispriesthood in spiritual communion with these obscuresaints. And, from them, his charity widened to allPortugal. Portugal had reeled long enough underthe shocks of war, even as her cliffs had seemed toreel and shudder under the enormous assault andbattery of winter storms: and Antonio yearned over her,almost as if he already held the chalice in his hand,praying with his whole heart that this May night, withthe soft waters nestling to Portugal's side and crooninga lullaby, might be an earnest of his country's abidingpeace.

He rose from the bench and sought the stone stairway.Less than a mile from the monastery gate twolanterns were bobbing violently up and down on theroad, as if they were being carried by gallopinghorsem*n. Antonio strained his ears, and made out theclattering of many hoofs and a faint clink of steel.

II

"Go down quickly and meet them at the gate,"said the Prior to Antonio as soon as the young monkhad finished his rapid story. "If they are Miguelistastell them they cannot be harbored here. Say the waris over and we have suffered enough."

"And what if they are Liberals?"

"If they are Liberals—" the Prior began. Buthe stopped short with trouble in his face. "If theyare Liberals," he repeated slowly, "they are cominghere for no good."

"There is not a moment to lose," said Antonio.

As he spoke the door of the nearest cell opened anda third monk appeared. He was older than Antonio—perhapsforty years of age. His fine features werepain-worn, and, in spite of the softness of the night,he was drawing his black habit closely round hisslender body.

"Here is Father Sebastian," cried the Prior. "Hewill go with you. Father Sebastian, there is freshtrouble. Antonio has heard soldiers. Meet them atthe gate. Tell them of the Abbot's illness. Takethem to the guest-house. Say I will speak to themthere. Run!"

Antonio gathered up his habit and sped off like ahare. But at the entrance of an avenue flanked bygiant camellias he halted, suddenly remorseful.Sebastian overtook him.

"Don't wait for me. Run on," he panted.

Antonio plunged into the dark tunnel. Before hehad run half its length the cracked bell at themonastery gate broke into an insolent din. Where thecamellias ended he slackened pace and allowed hishabit to fall once more in dignified amplitude to hisfeet. Meanwhile somebody was noisily clanking thescabbard of a sword against the iron bars of the gate.He drew nearer and made out a throng of cloakedmen on little white horses.

"We demand entrance," piped a weak voice, as atrooper flashed the light of a lantern through the barsinto Antonio's face.

"If you are Miguelistas," returned Antonio, "I mustrefuse."

"Miguelistas?" squeaked the weak voice. "Miguelistas!If we were Miguelistas you would make uswelcome like the traitors you are. Miguelistas! Weare no Miguelistas. Open in the name of the Queen."

"Why?" asked Father Sebastian quietly, as he tookhis place at Antonio's side.

The beam of the lantern searched Father Sebastian'sface also. Then the weak voice began again. Butit was immediately drowned by the strong and heartytones of an officer, who plucked the lantern out ofthe soldier's hand and held it close to his own faceso that he could be seen while he was speaking.

"Your Reverences," he said, "we ask pardon. Butwe must enter. We are simply doing our duty.Your Reverences have not heard of the decrees."

"Your Excellency is wrong," answered FatherSebastian. "We have studied them all. The militaryorders are suppressed; but ours is not a militaryorder. The smaller monasteries are to be closed; butthis is not one of the smaller monasteries. Whathave the decrees to do with us?"

"Everything," retorted the weak voice in triumph.The officer turned in his saddle and held the lanternup so as to exhibit a squat, blonde, elderly man,clinging precariously to a thick-legged horse. "Yes,everything. The new decree is only forty-eight hoursold. All the orders are suppressed. All of them,big and little. All of them, in all Portugal. All ofthem, bag and baggage, root and branch, lock, stockand barrel. It was high time. Here is the decree inmy hand. Open the gates before we smash themdown."

"If this is true," flung back Antonio in an outburstof indignation, "the Government has broken its word.But I don't believe it. Your decree is a forgery.You have come here to cheat and rob us. You havecome—"

"Be silent, Father Antonio," said Father Sebastian."Help me draw the bolt. Leave this affair to me."

The principal gate had not been opened since thedays when Wellington and his staff had made themonastery their headquarters: but the bolt gave wayat last. The gates turned upon their rusty hingeswith a piercing sound which cut through the darknesslike a wail. One might almost have believed that thegenius of the place was crying to heaven for help.Men and horses began pressing through the gate, butFather Sebastian stood in their way.

"Senhor Captain," he said, "our Prior is at yourExcellency's service. But our Abbot is lying sick.He is nearly eighty years old. This path leads to ourguest-house. The Prior begs that he may attend youthere. It is not far. We will show your Excellencythe way."

The captain hesitated. Even the feeble light ofthe lanterns was enough to show that he did not relishhis task. But before he could speak the squat, blondeman piped out:

"Most decidedly and emphatically not. The sickand the aged shall have every consideration; but thereare no longer people here entitled to call themselvesPriors and Abbots. Senhor Captain, our duty isclear. Let us get on."

"Your Reverence," said the captain to FatherSebastian. "I am sorry. But what can I do? Myinstructions are to support the Senhor Visconde intaking possession of the monastery. The Prior shallsee the decree. I will do my best not to distress thereverend Abbot. But I cannot follow you to theguest-house."

He leaped down from his horse, and led it behindAntonio and Sebastian into the avenue of camellias.The squat civilian followed, without dismounting, andabout thirty troopers brought up the rear. The twomonks walked with bowed heads, Sebastian praying,Antonio burning. No one spoke: but the rattle ofhoofs and weapons was so loud that the Prior guessedthe failure of his ambassadors almost as soon as thelast soldier had crossed the sill of the gate.

Before the noisy procession clattered into the pavedspace in front of the monastery, the eighteenchoir-monks, with the Prior at their head and the laybrethren behind, were already assembled under thestone vault of the vestibule. As every one of themissued from his cell carrying a lamp or a candle theyseemed to be assembled for some solemn religiousfunction, such as a mass or requiem. Most of themonks were old men; for the long years of foreigninvasions and civil wars had not been fertile inreligious vocations. To more than half of themthe monastery had been their only home for fortyyears or more. Hardly ten words had been exchangedamong them as to the meaning of the Prior'ssummons; yet one and all of them divined their fate.Two or three of the oldest and weakest huddled againsttheir younger and stronger brethren, with the look ofhunted animals who hear the dogs beginning to noseand work at the mouths of their burrows.

Expressing his failure by a sad gesture, FatherSebastian bowed to the Prior and passed in to join thecrowd in the vestibule, with Antonio in his wake.The captain followed on their heels, uncoveringrespectfully as the Prior advanced to meet him. Therewas a silence; but it was quickly ended by a wheezycry from without: "Wait for me! This is mybusiness. Wait for me, I say."

"We are waiting for the Senhor Visconde," rappedback the captain with a touch of scorn.

"Then bring me a stool," the Viscount demanded."Help me down. Bring me a stool or a chair. HereFerreira, you fat dog, help me down."

The fat dog Ferreira backed up and with his armsclasped round the burly trooper's neck, the Viscountwas rescued from the perils of the thick-legged horse.Either from stupidity or from malice, Ferreira didnot set him down upon his feet but carried him upthe monastery steps as sailors carry land-lubbersashore through the surf. When he finally landed onthe vestibule floor the Viscount might have recoveredhis dignity had not another trooper, safely hidden inthe outer darkness, uttered a loud guffaw. He turnedround angrily with a threat at his tongue's end: butthe weird black ranks of monks silently staring athim in the smoky light scared him into speechlessness.

"The most illustrious and most excellent SenhorVisconde will explain to your Reverence why we arehere," announced the captain dryly.

"I am at your Excellency's service," said the Prior,stepping forward and looking the Viscount in the face.

For two whole days during his carriage-ride fromLisbon the Viscount had been jotting down a discourseon the inevitable victory of the emancipated humanintellect over priestcraft and superstition. It was inthe best French manner. Even during his fearsomehour on the thick-legged horse, after the roughnessof the by-roads had compelled him to descend from hischariot, he had contrived to add a flourish or two tohis peroration. But the steady eyes of the Priorburned up all the Viscount's fine phrases like stubble,and he could only stutter:

"You are suppressed. All convents are suppressed.This Order is suppressed. Here is the decree. I tellyou, you are suppressed."

An indescribable sound burst from the listeningmonks. It was composed of the prayers of some,blended with the moans of despair or the cries ofincredulity or indignation of the others. The smokyvault re-echoed it strangely. But the Prior turnedupon his brethren sharply.

"We will be silent," he said.

They were silent. A few lips moved in prayer.Many eyes flashed fire at the despoiler and more thanone fist was fiercely clenched. But not a word wasspoken until the Prior demanded:

"Let me read the decree."

Without waiting for an answer he took the papersout of the Viscount's clasp and perused them frombeginning to end. Then he handed them back andbegan to think deeply. At last he raised his head andsaid loudly:

"Senhor Viscount; Senhor Captain; soldiers—youhave come here to rob God. For years your comradeshave been pouring out their blood in civil strife—andwhy? On the plea that Portugal must be ruled by thewill of the people instead of by the will of kings. Isthis the will of the people? Answer me. If DomPedro had told you amidst the shot and shell ofOporto that these were to be the first-fruits of hisvictory, I say that Donna Maria would never havereached her throne. You have been deceived. Youwere fighting for Absolutists after all. It is notLiberalism to trample on every liberty save your own."

"This is stark treason," sputtered the Viscount.

"It is stark truth," rejoined the Prior. "But I willreturn to our business. Senhores, give me leave toprepare him for your visit, and I will lead you tothe cell of our Abbot. Father Isidoro, go and makeall ready."

"The Abbot?" echoed the captain astonished. Andthe Viscount turning very red as Father Isidorodisappeared, gasped out:

"The Abbot? No. Certainly not. Decidedly not.The Abbot is very old and very ill. Your young menhave told me so. It is unnecessary. Decidedly not.We will treat the sick and the aged with morehumanity."

"These papers," said the Prior curtly, tapping theroll in the Viscount's hand, "are addressed to theAbbot. They are his death-warrant; and yourExcellency shall not shirk executing it."

"It is inhumanity!" the Viscount cried.

"Not on our part," answered the Prior. "Weare his children, and we know our Abbot. He shallnot be carried away in a litter to-morrow to die amongstrangers. Kill him here. Kill him now. Ourbeloved father would have it so. Senhores, excuse me.In five minutes I will return."

Before the Prior's sandals had ceased to resound onthe cloister flags twenty tongues were loosened. Theranks of monks broke up into little groups, somedismayed, others defiant. As for the Viscount heturned upon the captain wrath fully.

"We are fools to allow it," he cried. "What havewe to do with dying old men? It's a trick to workon our feelings. They mean to turn the soldiersagainst us. Yes, we're fools. I say we're a pair offools."

"Perhaps your Excellency will speak for himself,"grunted the captain, whose disgust for his work wasgrowing as rapidly as his contempt for the civilian.

"Aren't we masters here?" the Viscount demanded."We will parley with no Abbots. Aren't we inpossession?"

"I think not," said the captain. "I'm no lawyer:but the Prior says these papers are addressed firstand foremost to the Abbot."

A confused murmuring had been growing louderand louder among the troopers who crowded thedoorway. All of a sudden it rose to an uproar, and twostruggling men lurched into the light, locked in afierce embrace. The captain sprang upon them as ifthey had been two fighting terriers, cuffing themroundly about the ears till they fell apart.

"What is this?" he thundered.

"It's about religion," sang out the fat Ferreira.

The two men bent their shoulders and eyed oneanother with tigerish eyes as they prepared for asecond spring; but their comrades rushed upon themand held them apart.

"Miguelite hunchback!" snarled the one.

"Liberal nigg*r!" hissed the other.

"Hold your tongues!" roared the captain, firing avolley of oaths.

They held their tongues. But the Viscount did nothold his. "Captain," he piped out, "this is mutiny,rank mutiny. nigg*r, Liberal nigg*r, indeed! Surelyyou will do your duty. This man is a Miguelista.He is a spy and a traitor. He must be shot."

"Let your Excellency mind his business with theAbbot and I'll mind mine with my men," retortedthe officer thoroughly roused and, ignoring theViscount's sputterings, he strode up to the soldier whohad cried "Liberal nigg*r" and demanded:

"José, you were wounded in Oporto?"

"Three times," said José sullenly. There was asaber wound in his cheek and two fingers were gonefrom his left hand. As he spoke he laid his thumband two fingers upon some third wound hidden by histhread-bare coat.

"And cholera? You had cholera?"

"Yes, Senhor Captain. They gave me up for dead.A monk saved my life. And by all the saints ofGod," he cried, raising his voice to a shout, "I'll beshot before I do such dirty work as this."

The Viscount threw out two stumpy arms wide.But the captain was too cunning for him.

"And sunstroke?" he put in quickly. "I remember.Sunstroke. What do you mean enlisting again whenyou know you ought to be in a mad-house? Wheredo you live?"

"At Pedrinha das Areias."

"Near Oliveira?"

"It is fourteen leagues from here."

"Then take yourself off."

"Senhor Captain—"

"Take yourself off before you are shot or hanged.Ferreira, Da Silva, take his weapons. He can keephis horse because it's his own."

The scared peasant flushed and would haveanswered. But his boor's personality was top-heavy andlop-sided, and he went down like a skittle before thecaptain's next ball.

"Go home this instant!" bellowed the captain.And helped by the friendly hustling of his wisercomrades, José soon found himself hoisted on his oldhorse and ambling under the camellias toward hismother's roof-tree.

Meanwhile a lay-brother had returned from theAbbot's cell. In a loud voice and with a ceremoniousair he said:

"The most excellent and most reverend Lord Abbotis at the service of your Excellencies."

III

The cell of the Abbot was a room about twenty feetsquare. Its furniture consisted of a small paintedtable, two stools, two straight-backed chairs, a portraitof Saint Benedict, a very large crucifix of ebony andivory, an old oak desk covered with papers and a narrow bed.

To his surprise and relief the viscount found thebed empty and the Abbot throned upon one of thehigh-backed chairs. But his fears returned when alay-brother set eight candles, in a bronze candelabrum,upon the painted table. By their light he saw aface which seemed to gaze on him from beyond thegrave. To the old man's right and left stood thePrior and Father Isidore, supporting him. They hadvested the Abbot in a cope stiff with gold embroidery,and they had placed his miter on his head and hiscrozier in his hand.

The captain paused in the doorway, embarrassed.Then he ducked his head and crooked his knee inawkward obeisance and blurted out, "YourReverence, here is the Senhor Visconde."

"To what noble Visconde am I speaking?" askedthe Abbot.

The civilian recovered himself and answeredproudly:

"Your Excellency is speaking to the Visconde dePonte Quebrada."

"I thought I knew all the titulars of Portugal," theAbbot returned in his small, clear tones, "but I donot know the Viscondes of Ponte Quebrada."

The Visconde was nettled, but he held his chin highand retorted:

"It is a new creation. I am the first Visconde.I am proud to say I have won the title by my ownmerits, and not merely because I am my father's son."

"Your Excellency has commanded in action?" theAbbot asked. "No doubt Ponte Quebrada was thescene of a battle—a victory?"

"Your most reverend Lordship is wrong," interruptedthe captain. "The illustrious Visconde hasserved her majesty in other ways. To hire theEnglish transports for Belle Isle and the Açores meantmoney. To pay the French and Belgian and Englishofficers and men at Oporto meant more money. TheEnglish Admiral Napier, who destroyed the Miguelistafleet, required still more money. Money was hard tofind: but the noble Visconde had powerful friends inLondon. He knows the Senhor Rothschild, that cleverman who kept back from the English the news ofWaterloo while he made his own fortune in the Funds.The Visconde helped to find the money."

"At what rate of interest?" asked the Abbot quietly.And when the officer only shrugged his shoulders headded, "Is the noble Visconde a born Portuguese?"

The Viscount boiled over with rage. "I have notcome here to be cross-examined and insulted," he cried,"I am here to execute a decree of the Government.This monastery is suppressed."

"I am told the Government has sent a strong forceof soldiers," the Abbot answered. "Why? Becausethe Government fears we may tear the decree to pieces.I have not questioned your Excellency out of idlecuriosity. I am the father of this family; I amresponsible for their little patrimony; and when I go tostand, as go I so soon must, before my Lord, I mustnot go as an unfaithful steward."

"The monastery is suppressed," the Viscount repeated.

"The question for me," continued the Abbot, ignoringhim, "is whether I can obey this decree or not.We have always rendered unto Cæsar the things thatare Cæsar's; but we cannot render unto Cæsar thethings that are God's."

"The monastery is suppressed. It belongs to thePortuguese people," piped the Viscount.

This time the Abbot did not ignore him. "Portuguese?"he echoed. "All these fathers and brethrenare Portuguese. The Senhor Captain is a Portuguese.The humblest of these soldiers is a Portuguese.Apparently we are all Portuguese save your Excellency.The Portuguese people! Yes. Here it is in thedecree. From this date the possessions of the religiousorders are declared to be the possessions of thePortuguese people. Senhores, listen. In time of need wehave never failed to share our last crust and our lastcoin with the Portuguese people. We are Portugueseas well as monks. When the French were in the landwe cheerfully gave up all we had to drive them out.More. There are three fathers standing here who hidesoldiers' scars under their habits, and there is onewho carried dispatches under a hotter fire than anyof your Worships have even seen."

"This is not the point," whined the Viscount.

"It is the only point there is. Your Excellencyshall answer me plainly. If we bow to this decree,which of 'the Portuguese people' will enjoy our houseand goods? Will they be sold to feed the poor andto clothe the hungry and to pay the just debts of theState?"

"I say the monastery is suppressed," the Viscountresponded uneasily. "My duty is simply to takepossession. How do I know what the Governmentwill do with it?"

"Your Excellency knows one thing at least. Hecan assure the fathers and brethren that he has nosecret authority, no plan, no ambition of keeping thisplace for himself or his friends?"

The Viscount of Ponte Quebrada clutched the backof the unoccupied chair for support. Outside his darlingbusiness of usury he had always been a weak,foolish, poor creature, easily cowed by any strong man whostood up to him; but the Abbot's words doubly terrifiedhim. Not only did they forebode the miscarriageof his plans; they also filled him with supernaturaldread. The dying man had spoken in low andeven tones, as if he and his visitors were discussingsome commonplace transaction: but the unearthly face,almost immobile between the cope and the miter,would have frightened the Viscount out of his wits ifhe had not averted his eyes from it. But while hecould turn away his eyes, he could not close his ears;and the Abbot's final question probed the depths ofthe Viscount's scheming so unexpectedly that theschemer quailed in superstitious horror. For amoment or two the cell and the black figures and thesmoky lights swung round with him.

"Also our gold monstrance," the low, even tonespersisted, "our Limoges triptych, our two chalices withthe great rubies, our Saint Jerome in the Wilderness,painted on wood by Gran Vasco, our five silverreliquaries, the seven-branched candlestick from Venice,our illuminated Conferences of the Solitaries ofCassian, and all our plate and vestments? We savedthem from the French, burying them in the woods;and Father Leo was shot because he would not revealthe hiding-place. What about these things? Willthey be respected? Will they be honorably preservedin our Portuguese cathedrals and parish churches?No doubt his Excellency does not know: but, I repeat,he can assure us that he will not lay a finger uponthem for his own profit?"

Every face turned towards the Viscount of PonteQuebrada. Fifty eyes seemed to be boring like fiftywhite-hot gimlets into his most secret thoughts. Hepulled himself together for a final attempt at bullyingbluster.

"I have been insulted enough!" he screamed. "Youare suppressed. That's enough. You're suppressed,and you ought to have been suppressed long ago.You are the Queen's enemies. You've given shelterto every traitor that knocked at your door."

"This latest war, thank God, almost passed us by,"said the Prior, stepping forward. "While it lastedwe gave shelter to five combatants only. Two wereDom Miguel's, three were the Queen's. They wereall wounded. If they came here wounded again weshould once more take them in."

"My questions have not been answered," interruptedthe Abbot's clear, small voice.

"And they shan't be," retorted the Viscount, whohad regained his courage. "And hark you all, youare on sufferance here. Keep civil tongues in yourheads and clear out quietly. We have the right topitch you out into the road."

"I think not," the Abbot answered. "The decreespeaks of to-morrow noon. We shall remain hereuntil that hour; and perhaps longer. Meanwhile yourExcellency has time to answer my questions. Ourown answer turns upon his."

"I am afraid, my Lord Abbot, there is only oneanswer possible," said the captain. "By noon thishouse must be empty, save for the guard."

"And if we resist?"

The captain meditated before he replied in gravetones: "Your Reverences will not resist. YourReverences will protest and bow, without disgrace,to superior force. And if any injustice has beendone, the Queen, or the judges in Lisbon, or theministers, or the Parliament must be moved to put itright."

"And in the meantime," said the Abbot, "what willbecome of this consecrated place, and of its sacredbelongings? We have an inventory of every valuablething. If we go at noon will your Excellencies signa copy of it, to remain in our hands?"

"They are not yours," squeaked the Viscount ingreedy ire as he saw the loot slipping out of his hands."All the things are Portugal's."

"Then, as a Portuguese, I will take care, SenhorVisconde, that Portugal does not lose them," theAbbot answered.

A grunt of delight came from the soldiery throngingthe cell doorway. The Abbot took advantage of it toclose the interview.

"Senhores," he said, "we will exchange our finalanswers to-morrow morning, after High Mass, ateleven o'clock. Till then these men will be ordered,no doubt, to respect our house and the life we leadin it. The guest-house is being prepared. I wishyour Excellencies good-night."

The Viscount of Ponte Quebrada framed an answer,but as he glanced at the Abbot's face the words frozeon his lips and he made haste to escape from the cell,at the captain's call. The monks remained behind,and the door was shut.

"Surely we are not going to let ourselves be orderedoff to the guest-house?" the Viscount began as theyregained the vestibule.

"I prefer it," said the captain curtly. "Hi,Ferreira, you and Pirez and Pedro Telles will come withus. Carvalho, I leave you in charge of the monastery.Place four guards at the sacristy door and two ateach outlet. Understand, no monk must be allowed tolock or unlock any door, or gate, or cupboard, or togo outside; no, not even the Prior or the Abbothimself. If they want to say their prayers in the chapel,they may: but watch them yourself and see thatnothing is taken or hidden. Treat them with completerespect: but if there is any sign of trouble, send for meon the instant."

As soon as he had approved Carvalho's choice ofsentries the captain strode out into the open airwithout another word to the Viscount. A dozen pacesahead went a lay-brother with a lantern, Ferreira andPirez and Telles crowding behind him. A momentlater the little nobleman was puffing at the captain'sside. The captain quickened his pace by artful butunmistakable degrees until the nobleman could onlykeep up with him by a succession of little runs.Needing all his breath for this exercise, he could nottalk.

The guest-house was not much more than fiftyyears old. An aristocratic abbot had built it for theaccommodation of his too numerous visitors, whosecomings and goings had excessively disturbed the peaceof the cloister. It was an oblong building of granite,standing high in a clearing. From its moss-grownterrace there was a view by daylight of the monastery'swhole domain, of the plain beyond, and of the Atlanticfilling all the West.

There were plentiful lights in the best rooms of theguest-house, and broad pans of charcoal burning cosilyon the floors. Even for their evictors the Prior andAbbot were keeping up the best traditions of monkishhospitality. Two bottles of wine—one red, onewhite—stood on a table, flanked by a giant loaf, agoat's-milk cheese, and a basket of black cherries. An ironpot of soup exhaled comfortable odors from a braziernear the window.

"Is this stuff all right?" sniffed the Viscount themoment they were alone.

The captain arched his brows.

"I mean," explained the other, "is it safe? Onehas heard of such things as poisons."

"Your Excellency is not obliged to touch it," thecaptain answered. He emptied half a bottle of redwine into a coarse glass and drank it at a singledraught. Then he broke off a hunk of bread and fellupon his soup. The civilian followed his example.For a Viscount he ate a little unpleasantly.

"About this affair down there," began the captainbrusquely as he swallowed his last crumb of cheese,"what are we going to do?"

"To begin with, we're not going to be dictated to.They're suppressed. It's not for them to maketerms."

"The Abbot's questions? Does your Excellencymean to answer them?"

"Questions!" cried the Viscount in a fury; "theAbbot's questions! The Abbot's insults, you mean."

Weighing his words and maintaining his politenesswith an effort the captain said:

"My orders are to go to almost any extremityrather than use force against these monks. And onthe whole we have succeeded better than I hoped.If we permit the Abbot to save his face, he willevacuate the position to-morrow, and will fight onlyin Lisbon to regain it. At the same time I quiteunderstand that your Excellency can hardly answerquestions which sound like insults. But he can leaveit all to me. It can do no harm to sign their inventory;and, with due permission, I assure the Abbot that thenoble Visconde de Ponte Quebrada has not the faintestidea of dealing with the monastery for his own ends.At noon they will go."

The Viscount looked searchingly at the captainacross the crumbs and rinds. The captain looked noless searchingly at the Viscount. Each saw a certaindistance into the other's mind.

"Captain," said the Viscount at last, "as that ghastlyold corpse of an Abbot was impudent enough toobserve, I am not a born Portuguese. Give me leaveto drop this flummery of 'Excellency,' and all the restof it, so that we can talk openly for five minutes.About this inventory. Some of the things arevaluable. The whole lot might be worth nearly a thousandpounds."

"I should have thought nearly eleven hundred,"said the captain.

The Viscount pricked up his ears: but detectingnothing ironical or suspicious in the captain's voice orexpression, he continued:

"Say a round thousand. Out of that the Governmentmust have four hundred. What do you say to—"

He paused, studying the captain's face narrowly.Then he jerked out:

"To three hundred each?"

The captain's conscience was not clear of pastpilferings from the noble purse. This the Viscount knew;for he would never have dared to depend on hisface-reading powers alone. Yet in spite of the absence ofwitnesses, he was taking a certain risk, and he awaitedthe captain's answer nervously. It came without muchdelay:

"I draw the line somewhere," said the captain. "Idon't rob churches. Besides," he added in acontemptuous outburst, "I believe in honor, even amongthieves. I'm not a fool. The stuff is worth fivethousand pounds if it's worth a penny."

The Viscount fidgeted about miserably, crumblingup bread. "Not five," he whined. "Say twothousand seven hundred. Or three at the outside.Now we'll suppose—"

"Senhor Visconde de Ponte Quebrada, we will supposenothing," retorted the captain, getting up indisgust. "I don't know what you are yourself: but damnit all, I'm a Christian. Will you sign that inventory... or shall I? And what is your answer onyour honor—if you've got any—to the Abbot?"

The Viscount climbed off his chair and struck anattitude.

"You are armed to the teeth, while I am defenseless,"he said grandly, "but I will not brook theseinsults. Have a care."

The captain laughed a scornful laugh.

"We'll see who laughs last," squeaked the Viscount,stamping up to the soldier and shaking both his fists."We'll see who laughs in Lisbon. What about José?What about Liberal nigg*rs? Who is it that protectstraitors? Pah! You're a Jesuit in sheep's clothing;you're a Miguelista spy; you're a—"

The captain's long-pent rage brimmed over andburst forth like a tide of molten lava. He seized theViscount's velvet collar as if it had been the scruffof a cat and rammed him down upon the nearest chair,hissing:

"Take that back or I'll kill you."

The Viscount sputtered.

"Then down on your knees," said the captain: andin five seconds he had his victim groveling on thefloor. "Take those words back, and ask my pardon,here and now, on your knees, before I wring yourneck."

"I ... take them back. I ... I begyour pardon," moaned the Viscount.

He was about to rise when the captain droppeda heavy hand on his shoulder and forced him downagain.

"And to-morrow you sign that inventory?"

With a very foul oath the Viscount said at length,"I sign."

"Very well. As for the Abbot's questions you andhe shall settle it between you. But mark. Don'ttry revenge. If anything goes wrong with me inLisbon—with my promotion, with my career—I sha'n'tlet you off a second time, you blackguard. Even ifit's some other man's intrigue, it's your dirty neckI shall come and wring. If you want to be on thesafe side you'd better see to it that I'm major nextweek and colonel before next year is out. You sonof a pig, get up!"

IV

When the door of his cell had fairly closed behindthe captain and the Viscount, the Abbot made a signthat all should gather round him. For eight monthshe had not been seen in choir, and for many daysdisease and weakness had imprisoned him in his bed;but, as his spiritual family pressed forward, a measureof strength returned to him. Perhaps it was theexcitement; perhaps it was supernatural assistance. Herose slowly to his feet and, leaning on his crozier,began:

"Carissimi, nolite peregrinari in fervore, qui adtentationem vobis fit, quasi novi aliquid contingat: sedcommunicantes Christi passionibus gaudete, ut inrevelatione gloriae ejus gaudeatis exsultantes."

The Abbot's eye rested upon Brother Cypriano, theleast lettered of the lay-monks, and, for BrotherCypriano's benefit, he sought to turn St. Peter's words intothe vernacular.

"'Most beloved, do not think strange this fiery trialwhich comes to try you, as if some new thing werehappening to you: but, sharing in the sufferings ofChrist, rejoice, so that at the revelation of his gloryyou may rejoice with great joy.'"

His translation did not wholly satisfy the Abbot,and he sought to mend it. "Nolite peregrinari," herepeated. "Brother Cypriano, a peregrinus is one whocomes from a foreign land. If a peregrinus fromChina should land in Portugal, he would find many ofour most familiar customs new and strange. Noliteperegrinari. It is as though Saint Peter would sayto us all to-night: 'My beloved, men are smiting youand driving you forth from your only shelter. Whyare you surprised? Do not stand like peregrini gapingand staring, as Greeks might gape and stare atBarbarians. This is not a strange thing: it is the oldway, the natural way of the world with our Lord andwith his own.' If He suffered, shall not we suffer?Non est servus major domino suo: 'A servant isnot greater than his Lord.' Yes, Saint Peter, after all,is only echoing our divine Lord's own words. Beatiestis cum maledixerint vobis, et persecuti vos fuerint, etdixerint omne malum adversum vos mentientes, propterme: gaudete et exsultate quoniam merces vestracopiosa est in coelis: sic enim persecuti sunt prophetasqui fuerunt ante vos. 'Blessed are ye when they shallrevile you and shall persecute you, and shall falselyspeak all that is evil against you for My sake: be gladand rejoice, for abundant is your reward in heaven;for so they persecuted the prophets which were beforeyou.'"

The aged man's voice became almost sonorous ashe rolled forth the Latin words. He so pronouncedthe vowels that one thought of bells, some silvern,some of bronze. Most of his hearers hadextinguished the lamps and candles which they still heldin their hands: but here and there a flame still flickered.Unconsciously they had fallen into such groups andattitudes that the sable monks, with the white and goldenAbbot in their midst, might have stepped down fromsome painted and gilded altar-piece of the fourteenthcentury. For a brief spell the venerable Abbotcontinued comforting his children, striving to subdue theirworldly anger and to lift their dire trouble to the heightof the Cross. He knew the whole of the New Testamentby heart, in Latin, and as he had begun hisexhortation with words of Saint Peter, he went onquoting from the letters of that apostle only.

"Et quis est qui vobis noceat?" he demanded."'Who is he that can hurt you?' Humiliamini subpotenti manu Dei, ut vos exaltet in tempore visitationis;omnem sollicitudinem vestram projicientes in eum,quoniam ipsi cura est de vobis. 'Humble yourselfunder God's mighty hand, that He may exalt you inthe time of visitation; casting upon Him all your care,because He careth for you.'"

Growing fatigued at last, he sat down and becamefully conscious for the first time of his miter andcrozier and cope. Praying Father Isidoro to divest himof this magnificence, he seemed to recover strengthagain as he faced the fathers clad simply in his habitwith a gold cross upon his breast. With the layingaside of his pomps his manner became more intimateand free.

"I have been preparing," he said, "for this blow.The characters of those men who have struck us leftme little hope. Dom Pedro's advisers are taking aleaf from the book of the English King Henry theEighth. They want money so as to carry on aspendthrift government, and they want lands andgreat houses so as to create a new aristocracy whichwill maintain them in power. Therefore the monasteriesmust be besmirched by false accusations andGod must be robbed."

"But, my father, we shall resist," broke out BrotherCypriano, clenching his enormous hands.

The Abbot shook his head sadly.

"No," he said, "there can only be one end. Weare men of peace, not of blood. In my weakness andsickness our Lord has seemed to open my eyes to thefuture. Saint Peter's words might be mine: Certusquod velox est deposito tabernaculi mei secundum quodet Dominus noster Jesus Christus significavit mihi. Iam 'certain that the laying down of my tabernacle isat hand, as our Lord Jesus Christ also hath signifiedto me.' Fathers and brethren, to-morrow will see theend of this community. For more than three hundredyears Saint Benedict's children have sought to live byhis Holy Rule on this spot; but to-morrow ends all.We can do no more than frustrate the sacrilegiousgreed of this foreign Visconde and save our patrimonyfor Portugal."

Taken by themselves the Abbot's words would nothave stifled discussion, and even the unconditionalobedience they owed to him would not have held backthe more militant monks from trying to defeat his will.But the unearthly light in the old man's eyes, whichhad so terrified the Viscount, beamed forth upon thesem*n like a pillar of fire guiding them in God's way.Even the burly and unmystical Cypriano yielded tothe spell. Accordingly no one felt that there wasanything dictatorial in the Abbot's procedure when hetook their assent for granted and passed quietly onto arrange the details of the community's last hoursbeneath its historic roofs.

After the Prior, the Cellarer, and two other monkshad been consulted, it was agreed that the life of themonastery should proceed as if nothing had happened.Conformably to the Holy Rule, Matins were appointedto be sung at about two o'clock, so that Laudscould follow at break of day. In the order of themonks' Low Masses no alteration was made: but, forthe High Mass, the Abbot asked all to pray that hemight be given strength to pontificate. As for theinventory, it was decided to adhere to the Abbot'sdemands. Finally, the tiny town of Navares, fourleagues away, was chosen as the first night's shelterafter the exodus. In Navares the Cellarer hada kinsman, a corn-merchant, in whose house and barnssome sort of lodgings could be found.

When the Abbot was lain down at last on his hardand narrow bed, the Prior would have had the throngwithdraw: but the Abbot forbade him. He wishedto speak, he said, to all the fathers and brothers inturn. One by one the monks knelt down beside thebed and kissed the wasted hand with love and reverence;and to each and every one he spoke some wordof affectionate encouragement or counsel, and humblyasked their prayers.

Antonio was the last of the choir-monks to comeforward. As he knelt down a hush fell upon all.Amidst the general affliction they had lacked time tothink of Antonio's bitter trial: but when the Abbotspoke he put the thoughts of all into words.

"Father Antonio," he said, laying his old whitehand on the young monk's curling black hair, "mayour Lady of Perpetual Succor comfort you. For thepresent God does not suffer you to say your firstMass. But remember Saint Ignatius of Loyola, who,of his own will, prepared himself for a year beforehe presumed to offer the holy sacrifice. Your greatday will come; and when it shall dawn, I pray you tooffer that first Mass for my poor soul and for all whoare standing here."

Antonio, deeply moved, was about to rise: but, ashe lifted his head, he felt the Abbot's hand suddenlygripping his arm with superhuman strength. At thesame time he saw the benign light which had beamedfrom the old eyes grow brighter and brighter, till theAbbot's whole face was transfigured and glorified.His brethren saw it too; and, by a common impulse,every one of them knelt down on the stones. At lastthe Abbot's voice began playing upon the tensesilence, like an unseen hand on silver strings.

"My son," said the far-away, clear tones. "My son,rejoice. I was wrong. This is not the end. Godclears my eyes. Long years must pass away; but Isee our chapel swept and garnished. I see Antoniositting once more in choir, doing the Work of God inhis old place. I see him standing before the highaltar. I see him holding up our great chalice. I seehim offering the Holy Sacrifice for us all. Rejoice."

He ceased; and while all were still marveling at hisprophecy the light quickly faded from the prophet'sface. With closed eyes he sank wearily back upon hishard pillow. The Prior made a sign. Father Isidoroand a lay-brother remained to tend the sufferer; and,with full hearts and moving lips, the other monkspassed out of the chamber one by one.

V

The short night passed without any grave disorder.Indeed, only two light conflicts occurred. DuringMatins one of Carvalho's guards fell asleep on the floorof the nave, and his unseemly snoring would havehindered the general devotion if the giant BrotherCypriano had not picked up the slumberer and carriedhim out into the cloister as easily as he would havecarried a little child. The other conflict, which wasonly settled by dragging the captain from his bed atthe guest-house, broke out soon after sunrise, when theBrethren entered the sacristy to prepare for servingthe Fathers' Masses. At first Carvalho and his menstoutly refused to allow a single chalice or paten orvestment to be brought out of the drawers andcupboards: but the Prior had stood by the community'srights and the captain gave way.

Never before, in the oldest monk's memory, had theHours been so fervently recited. Words which hadbecome trite through thousands of repetitions glowedagain with timely meaning. For instance, at thebeginning of Matins, the verse "O God, incline unto mineaid, O Lord make haste to help me" burst forth withpassionate entreaty. The same thought was in everymind. In ten hours it would be noon: the Lord mustmake haste indeed. As for the Lord's Prayer everyclause of it searched the monks' hearts. God'skingdom seemed to be departing: but they said, "Thykingdom come." With food and shelter both uncertainthey pleaded, "Give us this day our daily bread." Thesquat Viscount's greedy face rose up before themall: yet they strove after sincerity when they said,"As we forgive them that trespass against us." Asdirected by the Holy Rule this petition was breathedsilently: but it was aloud that they cried, "Deliver usfrom evil."

Despite their exaltation and their quickened faith,all were amazed when the Abbot sent word that theirloving prayers had been answered and that he feltstrong enough to pontificate at the High Mass. AfterPrime he called Antonio to his cell that he might speakwith him alone. When the door was shut the youngpriest was about to kneel: but the Abbot preventedhim.

"Rather," he said, speaking with the utmost solemnity,"ought I to kneel, Father Antonio, to you. Godand our holy father Saint Benedict have called you toa glorious work. It is yours to lead our Order back tothis place. But not yet. Be patient. Be humble.Be prudent. Keep your own counsel. Wait for theguidance of God."

Antonio's heart glowed like a live coal within him.

"Whither God shall guide you I do not know," theAbbot continued. "Perhaps through dark and stonyplaces. It may even be that for long years you will beunable to exercise your priesthood and to follow upyour religious life. But, if such should be His trial ofyou, remember this. Our blessed Lord Himself didnot break the Bread and take the Cup until the nightbefore He died. Go in peace."

Throughout the High Mass the flame burned evermore and more hotly in Antonio's breast. He seemed,like Saint Teresa, to have the very stuff of his heart onfire. From the Introit to the Communion he dulysang every note that belonged to his duty; but, as thesacred mysteries proceeded, he felt as if only his bodyremained on the earth, and that his spirit was dwellingwith the Abbot's in a supernal world of pure ecstasy.

The Viscount, the captain, and half the soldiers werepresent at the Mass, some of them assisting withdevotion. They salved their consciences by remindingthemselves that the Almighty was more powerful thanthe Government in Lisbon, and that He could be leftto look after His own business. As for the Viscountand the captain, in some amazing fashion they hadmade up their quarrel of the night before, and it wasevident that a mysterious understanding existedbetween them. As the Mass neared its close theirnervousness could not be concealed. After all, thesoldiers were Catholics; for even the most irreligiousof them would not wish to die without a priest. TheViscount repeatedly whispered to the captain his fearthat the Abbot was meditating a coup, and that hewould suddenly win a strong bodyguard to his defenseby threatening the despoilers with excommunication.

After the last gospel the Abbot advanced and stoodleaning on his crozier. The Viscount went very red;the captain nearly white. But the bolt did not fall.In solemn tones the venerable man simply repeated thewords of Jeremias:

"Hereditas nostra versa est ad alienos; domusnostrae ad extraneos."*

* "Our inheritance is turned to aliens; our houses to strangers."

After a long pause he stretched out a fatherly handand pleaded in the words of Saint Peter:

"Et ipsi tamquam lapides vivi superaedificamini,domus spiritualis, sacerdotium sanctum, offerrespirituales hostias acceptabiles Deo per Jesum Christum."*

* "Be ye also as living stones built up, a spiritual house, aholy priesthood, to offer up spiritual sacrifices, acceptable to Godby Jesus Christ."

That was all. But it was too much for the Viscountand the captain. The captain's Latin was restricted toa confused recollection of an assertion of Julius Cæsar'sto the effect that all Gaul is divided into three parts,while the Viscount, who fully believed that nil meant"never," knew the single phrase Nil desperandum.Accordingly, as the Abbot retired to make histhanksgiving, they laid their puzzled heads together,wondering what secret words of command he had spoken tohis followers.

It was five minutes to eleven.

"You saw that chalice?" whispered the Viscount."There's another like it, only bigger. The rubies arefrom India. They're Burmese. They came throughGoa from the hoard of some Indian king or other. Iknow their whole history."

He was developing a humbugging tale about thedifficulty of marketing large rubies for their full valuewhen a gong-like sound, rich and deep, stopped himshort. It was the great bell of the abbey which hadbeen ungeared during the Abbot's illness. Ten morestrokes slowly followed.

"Eleven o'clock," said the captain. But nothinghappened and nobody appeared. The Viscount andhe exchanged nervous glances.

A minute later Carvalho entered and announcedthat the community was assembled, with the Abbot atit* head, in the paved space which fronted the chapel.The captain at once ordered that all the soldiers, savethe sacristy guards, should fall in and attend him onthe same spot.

At five minutes past eleven Carvalho's words ofcommand had ceased echoing through the cloisters,and the men's heels were already resounding on thestones outside. Some one threw open the westerndoors of the chapel, and a wave of warm air, heavywith the scent of orange-blossom, surged into the cooldimness to mingle itself with the lingering fragranceof the incense. The captain looked out. He couldsee the monks, all in black, drawn up in two linesbehind the Abbot, and, facing them, his own troopers,dismounted and unkempt. The captain strode forthboldly into the bright sunshine, and the Abbot cameforward a step to meet him. It was like an encounterof two old-world champions for single combat, withtheir little armies looking on. They exchangedsalutations punctiliously.

As the Viscount pottered up in the captain's rearthe Prior took a place beside the Abbot, and began tospeak in such far-ringing tones that the soldierstwenty yards away could hear every syllable.

"His most illustrious Reverence the Lord Abbot,"he said, "charges me to give your Excellencies hisanswer and the answer of this community. We cannotgive up these holy places either to Portugal or to anyman within her borders: because they are not ours togive. If we must abandon our patrimony for a while,we shall do so under protest against this robbing ofGod and of the faithful departed. But there are limitsto our meekness. We are Portuguese men as well asCatholic monks, and we shall not surrender this abbeyto your Excellencies until the inventory has been signedand delivered."

To the consternation of the more aged and timidmonks the captain made a gesture of scorn. All hiswords and actions the night before had encouragedthem to hope that he would prove their stanchest allyagainst the Viscount. They did not know and couldnot guess that he had bartered away the remains of hishonor for a promise of twelve hundred and fiftyEnglish pounds.

"And if we refuse?" he said. "If the noble Viscountand I refuse; if no inventory is signed or delivered:then what will your Worships do?"

The Prior answered promptly and firmly:

"We will see to it that your Excellencies do not robtheir masters on earth as well as their Master inheaven. We will see to it that your Excellencies, aswell as ourselves, obey this decree. Portugal shallnot be cheated. Let the inventory be signed and wewill go forth without strife to regain our rightselsewhere. Peace is our watchword, and we are vowedto poverty. But let your Excellencies refuse—"

He made a long pause, and only when the suspensehad become intolerable did he add in ringing tones:

"Then these brave men who have bled for Portugalwill do their duty. They are not hirelings: they arevolunteers and patriots. Senhor captain, do notdeceive yourself. Men are not born in cowls. UnderWellington I led Portuguese troops into fourteenbattles. Your men love Portugal, and they do not hateGod. I have only to give the word and more thanhalf of them will be mine. Here is the inventory andhere are pens and ink. Your Excellencies will verifyit—and sign."

Two lay brethren approached carrying a deal table,upon which Father Sebastian laid two copies of theinventory, an earthenware inkstand and a bundle ofgoose-quills. At the same time Brother Cypriano boreforward a carved chair, in which the Abbot sat down.

Ungovernable rage set fire to the captain's wits atthe very moment when he needed all his coolness.He had sold his soul and his country for gold which,after all, he was not to receive. He turned savagelytowards his seducer, and saw with disgust that theViscount, whose sense of dignity was nearly as smallas his sense of humor, had opened a vast umbrella.

"What are we to do?" the captain rapped out.

"Do? We refuse, of course. It's all bravado.Leave them to me. I will answer."

He turned to the Prior with a ridiculous air ofimportance and shut up his umbrella. But before hecould speak a word the guffaw which had so muchdisconcerted and offended him the night before in thevestibule broke again from one of the soldiers. Asthe Prior had said, these men were not mercenaries.Their ranks comprised a salt-winner from Aveiro, thetwo sons of a Lisbon saddler, a fisherman fromFigueira da Foz, two quarrymen from the Minho, anda score or so of peasants from the Beiras: but one andall of them had something of the fidalgo in his air, andone and all of them was dimly conscious of the upstartViscount's low breeding.

The guffaw was not the worst. Although the troopersstill stood at attention, the captain's sharp earsdetected mutterings and whisperings. During themorning the men had debated among themselves themotives of the Viscount for risking his neck on horsebackin order to do work which pertained to a sheriff'sofficer, and they had decided that the Abbot's demandwas prudent, patriotic and just. Again, the hospitalityof the Cellarer, the impressive rites in the chapel, and,above all, the holiness of the Abbot had increased theirdistaste for the work they were come to do.

"Our final word—" began the Viscount, pitchinghigh his tin-whistle voice. But the captain came to hissenses in time. He seized the little man's fat armangrily and hissed in his ear:

"You cursed fool, be quiet. Wait." And, in a loudvoice, he said to the Prior, "I will sign."

A cheer from the soldiers greeted his words. Then,so that they might verify the treasures detailed in theinventory, the Prior conducted his glowering visitorsto the sacristy. The Blessed Sacrament had alreadybeen removed: but he seemed to shrink from pollutingthe chapel with their presence, and therefore he chosea roundabout route. Passing through the cloisters heled the way through the kitchen.

As he entered the lofty room the Viscount, despitehis chagrin, could not repress a cry of admiration.A dado of blue and white tiles ran all round to a heightof six feet; and, above, the lime-washed walls were aswhite as the purest snow, save where the word Paxhad been painted upon them in shapely letters of blue.Above the fireplace, which was in the middle of theroom, rose a canopy of burnished copper, so elongatedthat it pierced the vaulted roof. This was the chimney.But the great surprise was a rivulet of clear waterwhich rushed down a stone channel the whole lengthof the room. Centuries before, the monks haddiverted a mountain stream from its bed, and ever since,night and day, winter and summer, the cheerful watershad gone on leaping and singing through the greatwhite hall. Near its egress, at the north-west cornerof the kitchen, the rivulet ran through a square frameof perforated boards. Like a similar contrivance inthe vast and famous abbey of Alcobaça this frameformed a place of storage for a few freshwater fish,so that the refectory tables should not go unfurnishedeven when the Atlantic storms kept the monks' boatidle.

But the Prior was not in a mood to act as ciceroneto sightseers, and he strode on until the sacristy wasreached. Carvalho's guards were at their posts, andthey had been joined by four monks who had comedirectly through the chapel. Among them wereSebastian and Antonio.

The sacristy was dustless and spotless; and whenthe cupboards were opened every inch of embroideryand every ounce of plate were found in their places asdescribed in the inventory. At the sight of the goldand silver and precious stones the Viscount's eyesglittered like glass beads. He would have taken theholy vessels in his fat hands to fondle them had not thePrior sternly repelled him. By way of revenge, as wellas to mislead the captain, the Viscount then sethimself to depreciate everything. The triptych was notLimoges, and he had his doubts about the rubies. Thevestments were falling to pieces. As for the GranVasco, who was Gran Vasco, after all? He was apainter whom not one collector in a thousand hadever heard of. Besides, the painting was certainly acopy.

To these remarks the Prior did not pay the smallestheed. When everything had been verified, he kissedwith exceeding reverence a reliquary containing therelics of martyrs who had suffered for the Church.Then he replaced this last treasure on its shelf andlocked the cupboard. The captain held out his handfor the keys, but the Prior answered:

"After you have signed, Senhor Captain. At noon.Till then your guards are keys enough."

Together with the four monks he quitted the sacristy,leaving the two men to follow. But they lingered.To get out of earshot of the guards the captain drewthe Viscount into the chapel, and muttered hurriedly:

"We sign. Then we pack up the stuff and bury it.To-night we send to the Government a report. Wetell them how these fellows threatened resistance andtried to win over my soldiers. We tell them how theAbbot is an old miser doting on the gold and silver;that we fear a raid of their sympathizers in force; andthat we have thought it wise to bury the treasure. Weask them to send a lock-up van and twenty more mento bring it away. And meanwhile..."

"Yes. Meanwhile..." repeated the Viscount,beaming and chuckling. "Meanwhile... Bythe way, you see these tiles on the walls?"

Yes, the captain saw them. The walls of the oblongnave were almost entirely clothed with azulejos, orblue-and-white tiles. The multitudinous squaresformed large pictures crowded with life-size figures.

"If we could get them down some day from thewalls," murmured the Viscount, "I know an Englishmanwho would pay a thousand pounds for them."

He was interrupted by Brother Cypriano, whodemanded in a peremptory tone:

"How much longer are we to wait for your Excellencies?"

They did not return through the kitchen and cloister,but followed Brother Cypriano out of the chapeldirectly into the paved space. The captain lookedhaggard, but the Viscount was radiant.

"The keys are here?" he asked. "Good. Then giveme a pen."

Forgetting himself in his elation, he began to signthe name of his humble days: but he quickly scratchedout the half-written word and substituted hisgrandiose signature as Visconde de Ponte Quebrada. Thenhe handed the quill to the morose captain, who slowlysubscribed his name.

"There!" cried the Viscount, picking up the greatiron keys of the abbey and the small steel keys of thesacristy cupboard. "Now I hope everybody issatisfied. I wish your Reverences a pleasant journey."

VI

The big bell banged noon. In front of the chapelSaint Benedict's heavy-hearted sons were ready todepart. Only Brother Cypriano was absent.

No one stirred. The captain glanced round withnew anxiety. But his suspense did not last long. Alighter bell smote through the dull resoundings of thegreat gong. It was Brother Cypriano ringing theAngelus. With bowed heads the monks repeated theAngelic Salutation. The soldiers and the captainuncovered: and, with an awkward grab at the brim ofhis sombrero, even the Viscount made a show offollowing their example.

This last act of faith being ended, the Abbot madea sign, and two of the brethren approached him witha litter. The old man's miraculous tide of vitality wasebbing as fast as it had flowed, and the captain knewthat, in the circ*mstances, the Minister in Lisbonwould not approve of this indecent haste. But he hadinvolved himself too deeply with the Viscount to drawback, and it was essential to his plans that the wholemonastic garrison should vacate their barracks withoutdelay. Therefore he contented himself with utteringa string of regrets which nobody heeded.

It was a quarter-past twelve when the processionstarted. The monks went forth two and two, like theSeventy in the gospel. At their head walked the Priorand the Cellarer, who had much to discuss concerningways and means. The Abbot's litter was borne at firstby Father Isidore and Father Antonio. BrotherCypriano and the other lay-monks brought up the rear.They led five pack-mules, whose burdens containedlittle more than the monks' winter shoes and habits, anda blanket for each one. The Prior had not asked leaveto take either the mules or their loads, but the captainhad not raised any objection. As for their personalbelongings, the fathers and brethren seemed to bealmost literally fulfilling the Holy Rule, and to becarrying away almost nothing of their own. Each monkheld a small bundle, in which the four volumes of hisbreviary were the principal item.

They wound down the paved way without lookingback. The Viscount grinned and rubbed his hands.Soon the black files were lost to sight in the avenue ofcamellias, and a few minutes afterwards the stridentgrinding of iron on iron proclaimed their arrival atthe rusty gate.

The captain gave a signal to Carvalho, whose menhad been busy saddling their horses, and immediatelya detachment twenty strong cantered afterthe exiles.

"A guard of honor," chuckled the Viscount.

"I am obeying the Minister's instructions,"answered the captain dryly.

"Like a good boy. And at the same time you'vegot rid of half these prying peasants. But come, wehaven't sampled the cellar. And I could eat a coupleof those fat trout."

The captain flung aside his uncomfortable thoughtsand agreed, with an oath, to a carouse. The pairplunged into the cool corridors, to ransack the larderwith small success.

Meanwhile the unpitiful sun was beating on themonks' heads and on the Abbot's rude litter. Thecruel ball of fire hung in a dome of so hard a blue thatit might have been cut from one immense sapphire.The Atlantic chafed in its bed with a simmering sound,and blinded the eyes like molten copper.

Carvalho and his troopers, who had been hanging onthe monks' rear, were the first to surrender. Ridingforward to the head of the train, Carvalho in personsuggested that both drivers and driven should encampamicably in a neighboring grove of eucalyptus untilthe fiercest heat had passed. The Prior agreed.

Of all the eucalyptus groves in Portugal, the grovewhich the travelers entered was one of the oldest andmost grandly grown. Just above it a small pine woodoffered a deeper and cooler shade, and a rapid brookmade the oasis complete. Almost immediately someof the soldiers began to fraternize with the monks,pressing upon them dark broas baked from maize andrye, and handing round the wine-skins. The monks,in their turn, offered salt fish, which the soldiersjoyfully ate quite raw. After the repast the soldiers flungthemselves down full length to sleep upon thepine-needles; and although the monks produced theirbreviaries and tried to say the Office, ere long most ofthem succumbed to drowsiness.

Antonio was wide awake. His share of the frail oldAbbot's weight had seemed not much more than afeather to his youthful strength. He looked round.The mules and horses were browsing happily in thelush herbage. Carvalho and a corporal were spellingout some papers in low tones. The Cellarer and thePrior were equally engrossed in writing and figuring.Under the densest pine tree Father Isidore and FatherSebastian were keeping vigil over the sleeping Abbot.

The young monk sauntered eastward, following upthe course of the stream. He suspected that itsdancing waters were those which had flowed through themonastery kitchen, and a few minutes' breasting of thepine-crowded slope proved that he was right. Fromthe top of the knoll he could make out the dazzlingwhite front of the chapel, framed in dark granite, andhe could hear the dull boom of the great bell strikingtwo o'clock.

At the foot of the knoll, half hidden in verdure, somedilapidated buildings huddled on the banks of therivulet. He descended to explore them. The windows ofthe little house were broken, and weeds choked thegarden. There were also two barns, raised on stonepillars to thwart the rats, a byre, a threshing floor, anda little orangery in full blossom. Apparently manyyears had slipped by since the place was inhabited.

Having satisfied his curiosity Antonio was turningaway when a thought struck him. He approached thebuildings again and examined them much more closely.Then he took his resolution. With his eyes fixed onthe glittering white chapel, which shone down upon himlike the Bride of the Lamb, he knelt in the long grassand repeated the Benedictine prayer, Excita Domine.His prayer done, he remained a few minutes inmeditation before he sought his brethren.

Regaining the knoll's top and beginning to descend,Antonio found that the scene had changed for theworse. The attitudes of some of his drowsy companionswere neither dignified nor picturesque. Theywere wearing their worst tunics for the journey, andthe grey dust from the road did not improve the rustyblack of the garments. Their bundles looked untidyand paltry. More disenchanting still, some of themonks who were still awake seemed to have descendedfrom their exaltation and to be sourly grumblingtogether over their misfortunes; while the faces of thePrior and the Cellarer shewed that they were stilldeeply debating the community's creature-comforts.

For a moment Antonio's enthusiastic faith wasshocked and chilled. Was this cause worthy, after all,of the bitter sacrifice he had resolved to make? Buthis doubt vanished in an instant in the light of athought which came to him as if from heaven. Hethought of the great flights, the great martyrdoms, andunderstood that if he could have been a looker-on atthem all, he would have seen the jewel of faithful loveshining out from a dull alloy. Saint Benedict's flightfrom Subiaco to Monte Cassino, the martyrdom ofSaint Laurence—no doubt even these holy happeningshad had their ugly elements, their sordid accompaniments.Their realities did not correspond with theidealized versions of stately altar-pieces, and stainedglass, and illuminated parchments, and statuary.More: he reminded himself that, according to humanstandards, even his divine Master had passed poorlyfrom a mean birth to a base death. He recalled thewords of Isaias, Non est species ei, neque decor; etvidimus eum et non erat aspectus et desideravimus eum:"There is no beauty in him nor comeliness; and wehave seen him, and there was no sightliness that weshould desire him."

VII

Two miles outside Navares a hurrying horsemanalmost collided with the head of the monks' procession.He turned out to be a courier from Lisbon with anurgent letter for the Prior.

Pleased to be spared the rest of the journey to themonastery, and still better pleased with the broad coinwhich the Cellarer gave him from the community'sscanty purse, the messenger delivered his package andwas about to set his horse's head homewards, withoutinquiring what the monks' exodus might mean, whenCarvalho bade him halt.

"Your Reverence," said Carvalho to the Prior nonetoo respectfully, "I have no orders to stop letters, butI have positive orders that your Reverences must notattempt to harangue the people of Navares. And Ihave further orders that your Reverences must notremain in Navares beyond noon to-morrow. I am toconduct all who wish it to Lisbon, where the Governmentwill settle the matter of the pensions of yourReverences as soon as possible."

He showed the Prior two more sheets from theViscount's inexhaustible store of papers in support ofhis announcement. For a moment the Prior lost hisself-control.

"Cur!" he said.

Carvalho bowed, with the scornful smile of borrowedpower towards fallen greatness, and rode off to disposehis men in two extended files, which could, if necessary,envelop the monks completely. The Prior also wentback along the line, briefly telling the news to eachpair of monks and bidding them be ready for a councilin their lodging at Navares.

As the Cellarer's kinsman, the Navares corn-merchant,lived on the outskirts of the town, the shelterof his house was gained before news of the monks'arrival had reached the townspeople. The corn-merchantwas a convinced Liberal, and something of ananti-clerical: but he received the Cellarer's brethrenwith hearty sympathy and lavish hospitality. Hegave up to the Abbot his own room. The beds ofclean straw which he caused to be made along thewhole length of a newly lime-washed granary weresofter than the mattresses at the monastery, and hissupper of soup and salt fish and cheese and wine wasappetizing and abundant. Perhaps his best deed,however, was his expulsion of Carvalho and the corporal,who coolly walked into the granary so as to listen tothe monks' discussions.

"Very well," shouted Carvalho after the Cellarer hadconvinced him that his precious papers gave him noright to violate a private domicile, "I go: but I forbidtheir Reverences to hold any kind of assembly."

"Their Reverences," retorted the corn-merchant,who feared man even less than he feared God, "will doas they please so long as they are in my house. Asfor your Worship, he will kindly walk out of it."

After supper the council began. Veni CreatorSpiritus was sung. Then the Prior rose, with theletter from Lisbon in his hand, and said.

"Dear Fathers and Brethren. God help us to bearour many sorrows. The courier has brought badnews.

"For some reason, which the Visconde de PonteQuebrada could explain, our house was the first to beseized. But before many days have passed the spoilerswill possess themselves of all the houses of our Order.We are forbidden to take counsel with any othercommunity of outcast religious, or to establishourselves in new houses. Without God's help this is theend of the Portuguese Benedictine congregation.

"From man we have nothing to hope. The Governmentis one of bad faith. In my hand I have theproofs that the earlier laws of this Spring were shams.All the time it was intended to suppress the Ordersentirely: but the Government dared not let the peoplesee the thick end of the wedge. They have revealed itat last with fear and trembling. Their Bill wasfathered upon one Minister alone, the Senhor Joaquimd'Aguiar. It was arranged that, in the event ofpublic indignation, the other Ministers were to repudiateopenly both the Senhor d'Aguiar and his Bill, although,in secret, it was their joint act and deed. Portugalis being governed in a poisonous mist of tricks andlies.

"But why does the Portuguese people suffer Godto be robbed and His servants thrown into thehighway without crowding to the rescue? Alas, dearFathers and Brethren, I know the answer. Our poorland is sick of war: but there is a deeper reason whyeven the most fervent Catholics will not unsheath thesword again in our defense. Dom Miguel deceivedthem. Just as Dom Pedro has made a sham ofLiberalism, so Dom Miguel has made a sham of piety.Dom Miguel raised the cry of 'Throne and Altar.' Buthe cared only for the Throne. If Saint Michaeland all the angels should descend to earth in ourdefense, the Catholics of Portugal might join theirbanners: but the Portuguese Catholics will not believeagain in any merely human leader. They rememberEvora Monte.

"More: in many lands this tyranny and treacheryof the Government will be applauded and upheld.Many lands have lent the Emperor Pedro money, andthey claim the right to influence him in secret. TheProtestants of England will rejoice in our downfallbecause we are Catholics and monks: the atheists andJews of France and the Low Countries because we areChristians. The oppression of monks will spread.Spain, France, even Italy, will suffer. Pater dimitteillis; non enim sciunt quid faciunt: 'Father, forgivethem; they know not what they do.'"

The long room was growing dimmer while the Priorwas speaking, and when he had finished he couldhardly see the features of his auditors. For two orthree long minutes silence blended itself with the dusk.The livelier-minded among the monks sat still becausethey felt that the Prior's words were all too true,while the simpler souls were cowed and hushed by thesplintering of their last props of hope.

The Prior, not wishing to impose his bare opinionsupon the community, went to the window and readaloud the long and clear letter from Lisbon which adevout layman had made so much haste to despatch. Atthe end of his reading he called for candles; and, assoon as they were brought, he threw the council open.

No one spoke. All eyes were fixed on Antonio, allears were waiting for his words. Amidst the prosaicdiscomforts of their hot march the monks had seen theyoung priest merely as one more dusty and perspiringexile: but, after the speech of the Prior, they recoveredsome of the mood in which they had listened to theAbbot's prophecy the night before. The scene had asolemnity of its own. Instead of carved stalls themonks sat on boxes, casks, and heaps of straw: butthe few candles, casting vague shadows of black-robedfigures upon the death-white walls, filled the mind withbodings of supernatural mystery. One and all gazedupon Antonio's face, fully persuaded that he wouldspeak and ready to obey.

Antonio, becoming conscious of their expectation,flushed and fastened his eyes upon the ground. ThePrior, putting into words the general feeling, saidgently:

"Father Antonio, be not afraid. What said ourFather Saint Benedict in the Holy Rule? Ideo autemomnes ad consilium vocari diximus; quia saepe junioriDominus revelat quod melius est: 'We have ordainedthat all be called to Council, because it is often to theyoungest that God revealeth what is best.' Speak."

The Prior's words, the intent looks of his brethren,the shadows, the candle-flames, the silence, seemed toAntonio like so many hands, great and small, held outhungrily for his words. Besides, was it not disloyal,mean, unbrotherly, to lock away a secret from hisbrethren? At this thought the hands came searchingand plucking in his very breast. But the heavenly light,which had been burning like a bright lamp within himall day long, once more showed him his duty. Heknew that among the monks were old men of enfeebledmind and weakened will, whose worn wits would not beproof against the artful pryings and questionings ofspies, and that he had no right to burden them with asecret they could not keep. Yet this was a minorconsideration. The supreme fact was that God wassaying to him, "Hold thy peace."

Only when the silence had become unbearable didAntonio answer:

"Father Prior, indulge me. If I must speak, I craveleave to speak last."

As affectation and false humility were faults whichhad long been cast out of the community, the Priorreluctantly took Antonio at his word. Indeed, therewas that in the young priest's voice which compelled theacquiescence of all.

"Then let us, Fathers and Brethren," said the Priorat length, "speak in turn. I will begin. But all I shallsay is subject to alteration, nay, perhaps to completereversal, by the council Father Antonio shall give us."

A low murmur of approval rounded off his words.

"My own council," continued the Prior, "would bethis. The Father Cellarer knows to a vintem howmuch money we can find. Let us, for the present,turn our cheek to the smiter and abandon ourcommunity life. Let each of us decide where and how hecan best live till we have bettered or worsened ourcase in Lisbon, and let him declare to the FatherCellarer what money he will need. For the presentFather Isidoro and Brother Cypriano and I willremain here with our beloved Father Abbot. Hebelieves"—here the Prior's voice trembled—"that Godwill call his soul away to-morrow; and it is not forus to say 'God forbid.' But be it to-morrow, or nextweek, or next month, or next year, here we stay,Father Isidoro, Brother Cypriano and I, even thoughall the horses and men in Portugal be sent to moveus. And, when we have laid our beloved Father'sremains in the earth, I will join the Father Cellarerin Lisbon. We shall live in the house of the writerof this letter, the Senhor Aureliano Gonçalves deSousa, the notary, in the Rua Augusta. Let every oneof us keep in touch, one with another, at that addressuntil our future is clearly known."

The Cellarer spoke in the same sense. He wasfollowed by the monks in turn. Every one of them, withvarying degrees of conviction, repeated the Prior'ssaving clause about Antonio's coming words, and everyone of them endorsed the Prior's counsel.

Father Isidoro and seven other choir-monks addedthat their refuge would be in a house of their Orderon Spanish soil, just across the Guadiana. It appearedthat they had been discussing the matter all day, andthat they had fixed upon this particular Spanishmonastery because it was within two hours' ride of Portugal.Father Sebastian announced that he would take shelterat the Inglezinhos in Lisbon. These English Fathers,he said, could not be suppressed because they weresecular priests and British subjects: but they had acloister and something of community life. Othermonks spoke of Vigo, of Santiago de Compostela, ofSalamanca, and of a new house in Belgium wherethere was a strict observance. Two dreamed of MonteCassino itself, and one surprised the Council bymentioning a Benedictine house in Protestant England, notfar from legendary Glastonbury. Some of the oldestFathers named friends, clerical and lay, in variouscities of Portugal, beneath whose roofs they could diequietly if the Prior's and the Cellarer's fight in Lisbonshould end in defeat. As for the lay-brethren, theydecided to go in a body to Evora, where BrotherLorenzo had claims on the protection of the Archbishop.

It was inevitable that these announcements shouldgenerate in the Council an unmonkish excitement.After having been so long persuaded that they wouldlive the rest of their lives and die their due deathswithin the same square mile of earth, there wassomething strangely fascinating in this sudden unrolling ofthe map of Europe. The solid sorrow of theirdispossession was almost hidden for the moment undera whirl and flutter of little arrangements; even as afatal reef is hidden under the pretty spray of the rollersit has smashed to glittering atoms. The buzz of talkwhich followed on the more formal speaking was notwithout the shrill note of schoolboys as they discuss athousand plans for an approaching holiday.

The Cellarer who, despite his preoccupation with itstemporals, was one of the community's mostspiritually-minded members, swiftly detected the danger.

"Father Prior," he said loudly, "all have spoken saveFather Antonio."

His bright firm voice cut through the dull buzz likean eagle dashing through starlings, scattering them allin flight. Every monk felt the just rebuke, and oncemore there was silence.

"Father Antonio," said the Prior, quietly and kindly.

Antonio felt that he could not speak from his placeby the wall. He rose and advanced with bowed headinto the midst of his brethren. The corn-merchant'stiny candles were flickering down into their sockets;and he waited a few moments in the hope that darknessmight enveil him before he opened his mouth. But thelights leaped into fuller brightness. He raised hishead. Everywhere he saw eyes, eyes—old eyes andyoung eyes, loving eyes and stern eyes, dull eyes andeager eyes, hopeful eyes and fearful eyes—everywhereeyes, eyes fixed on him, Antonio, alone.

"Father Prior—" he began. But his preparedwords were taken away. The eyes went on piercinghim until he felt like the holy martyr Sebastian in themidst of the sharp arrows. At last words burst fromhim.

"My Fathers, my Brethren," he cried. "Forgiveme. To-morrow I am going back into the world."

One of the lights went out suddenly, as if Antonio'sapostasy had struck it down like a blow. But for fiveor six seconds no one stirred or spoke. A secondcandle-flame leaped up and died away. Then, in thedimness, uprose a confused murmuring, sharpened hereand there by exclamations of scorn or anger or bittersorrow. More distinctly than the rest was heard thegarrulous contempt of Father Bernardo, whose lapsesinto the sin of gluttony had so often scandalized thebrethren. Father Bernardo's righteous scorn wassincere. He had no vocation to be a saint or a herohimself; but he knew that saints and heroes were necessary,and he despised Antonio for turning his back upon thelight.

The Cellarer left his seat and came to Antonio's side.Isidore and Sebastian followed him, and other monksshowed signs of doing the same. But before a wordcould be breathed into his ear, Antonio wrenched himselfout of the midst of the increasing group and threwhimself on his knees at the Prior's feet.

"For the love of Jesus Christ," he pleaded, in lowintense tones, "bid them leave me in peace."

The Prior took one of the remaining candles andlooked at Antonio intently. At first a shade of scorndarkened his cheek; for he imagined that he saw inAntonio's eyes no more than the physical anguish ofa hunted animal. But he looked more deeply; andhe saw more.

"Fathers and Brethren," he commanded. "Let ushave order and silence. Father Sebastian shall speakwith Father Antonio; and, after him, the FatherCellarer. It is time for Compline."

As everybody knew the almost invariable prayersand psalms of Compline by heart, there was no needfor fresh candles, and the community began to recitethe office. All had resumed their places save Antonio,who moved slowly away to the obscurest corner, nearthe granary door. There he stood, blending hisprayers and praises with those of his brethren for thelast time. He joined in the Confession with deephumility, smiting his breast: and when theHebdomadarius gave the Absolution, Antonio crossed himselfas if Calvary itself were before his eyes. In due timethe Psalms, the Hymn, the Little Chapter, and PaterNoster had been said, and the monks began the properAntiphon of the Blessed Virgin, Salve Regina.Repeating the pious words, Antonio quietly opened thegranary door; and, at the end of the prayer Omnipotenssempiterne Deus, he slipped forth into the soft night.

Across the courtyard a light was burning in the roomwhere the Abbot still lay in unnatural sleep. Antoniodrew near and gazed through the glass. The old man'shands were clasped on his breast, and his garment fellinto stiff folds like the alabaster draperies of a miteredeffigy on a tomb. Antonio breathed towards the frailbody the prayer he had heard at the beginning ofCompline, Noctem quietam et finem perfectum: "May theAlmighty Lord grant him a quiet night and a perfectend."

As he turned away with a bursting heart he cameface to face with Father Sebastian, who had seen hisstealthy flight. Sebastian, as usual, was drawing hishabit closely round his body. There was more thanusual of the consumptive glow on his cheek and of thetoo bright fire in his eyes. The two men faced eachother searchingly.

"Father Antonio," asked Sebastian at last, "is thisour Lord's work or the devil's?"

"It is our Lord's," returned Antonio in a firm voice."Take heed that you do not hinder it."

He brushed past and opened the wicket which ledinto the high road. But, before he passed out, heseized his friend's thin hand in a fierce grip.

"Sebastian," he said, "ask all my brethren to forgiveme and to pray for me. Take care of my breviary,if you can. Good-bye."

A sentry challenged him as he strode forth: butAntonio threw him aside. "I am not your prisoner,"he said; and the fellow, bemused by wine and byfatigue, fell back without another word.

Hurrying though Navares he contrived to pass theapothecary's shop unobserved by the throng of leadingtownsmen who were warmly debating the rights andwrongs of the monks' case. Outside the taverns hewas less successful; and in one instance, a lewd insultwhich was flung after him led to bitter rejoinders anda scuffle. A young man, whose pleasant face contrastedoddly with his words, ran after Antonio to saythat the monks ought to have been driven out longago: but, on the other hand, four separate men offeredhim hospitality, ranging from a pull of wine to anight's lodging.

Thanking friends and forgiving foes, the youngpriest pressed forward until the last houses of Navareswere more than a league behind him. Only then didhe sink down to rest. His halting-place was on a morenortherly point of the long range of hills on whichstood the monastery from which he had been cast intoexile. By the stars he knew that exactly twenty-fourhours had passed since his reverie on the cork bench,on the flat roof of the cloister.

The airs around him, like the airs of the night beforein the monastery garden, were rich with scents oflemon-blossom and honeysuckle. The Atlantic stilllay unvexed by wind: but the ocean swell, as it searchedthe creeks and caves, hummed heavily and wearily,like a great bee mining in the bells of flowers that heldno honey.

BOOK II

THE RETURN

I

Antonio slept soundly until sunrise. When he awokethe larks were in full song. He sat up. The carpet ofpine-needles around him was curiously patterned withlong black stripes—the tree-trunks' shadows cast bythe low, strong sun. No wind moved in the wood: butout at sea the weather seemed to have freshened, forthe chaunt of the Atlantic was quicker and louder.

The monk knelt down and said his morning prayers.Then, obeying the call of the great waters, he arose andstruck along the margin of a maize-field towards theshore. In half an hour he was ankle-deep in fineyellow sand. But the beach fell away too steeplyand the undertow sucked too strongly for a plunge, sohe turned and plodded northward.

Two miles of toilsome going brought him to a littleestuary, about a furlong wide. Along the further banksprawled a white village with a considerable tower:but none of the villagers appeared to be astir. Theout-flowing tide had left a deep pool of clear water.Antonio swiftly stripped and jumped in; and only whenthe level of the water had so far fallen that furtherswimming was impossible did he emerge from hisbath.

Refreshed and strengthened he turned inland andpushed up-stream until he reached a point to whichthe salt water never rose. There, in a cold cascade, hewashed his under-garments; and while they weredrying in the sun he sat under an evergreen oak,wrapped in his coarse habit, and began to recite theDivine Office. Although he had perforce left behindat Navares the bundle which contained three volumesof his breviary, he had brought away in his hand thePars Æstiva, from which he had said the last Complinewith his brethren; and, by the time his clotheswere dry, he had recited the whole of Matins, Lauds,and Prime.

Having dressed himself Antonio sat down to maturehis plans. He decided, first of all, to forswear falsepride. Excepting one volume of a breviary and thepoor clothes he sat in he was without a possession inthe world. It was true that he owned a pair of brawnyarms, and he was willing and eager to use them hardfrom morning to night: but he felt that the prime necessitywas to exchange his habit for a layman's dress. Itwas not fitting that a monk of Saint Benedict shouldwander about like a mendicant friar. Accordingly,Antonio resolved to enter the village and to seek aid,for the first and last time, from the secular clergy.

He waded the stream above the cascade and descendedthe northern bank until he reached a laneroughly paved with boulders. The lane wound in andout between low walls: but it led at last to the foot ofa mound on which rose a vast oblong church withlime-washed walls and granite quoins. The sacristan, ina very short and skimpy scarlet gown, was in the act ofunlocking the doors; and, through his offices, Antoniosoon found himself in the ample presence of thepadre-cura.

The padre-cura received his visitor with uncertainapproval. He was a hard-headed old man, whosecounsels were less eagerly sought by his flock in theconfession than in difficult cases of calving, orboat-caulking, or bush-vine pruning. He believed everyarticle of the longest and latest of the creeds implicitly,and lived becomingly: but there was not a tinge of themystic in his personality. The sight of a monk slightlynettled him. This secular priest felt that a religiousmust be contemptuous of his common-sense, every-dayChristianity, and that he must be tacitly challenginghim to a superfine and unpractical piety. Besides, thecura's friends were Liberals, and they had quieted hisqualms concerning the new laws against the monasteriesby assuring him, as they assured so many others of hisclass, that the swollen revenues of the suppressed houseswould go to augment the wretched stipends of therural clergy.

Antonio began to explain whence he had come. Butthe sacristan was already tugging away at the bell-rope,and the cura interrupted.

"You are not a lay-brother?" he demanded. "Youare a priest?"

"I am a priest," answered Antonio.

"Then you shall say my Mass," said the curapromptly. "We will talk about your business atbreakfast."

"I cannot say your Mass, Father," respondedAntonio, flushing sadly. "I was ordained priest onlyforty-eight hours ago, and yesterday morning we weredriven from the abbey. God alone knows when andwhere my first Mass will be said."

The old cura's heart melted towards the young monk.Unmystical though he was, he recalled the high moodof his own ordination day, the fine happiness of hisown first Mass. He laid his rough hand kindly onAntonio's shoulder.

"Come," he said, "if you can't say my Mass, at leastyou shall serve it."

Antonio served the cura's Mass at a gilded altar,tricked out with gaudy vases of faded crimson paperroses in the very worst taste he had ever seen. But theold priest, despite the nasality of his Latin and thejerkiness of his genuflexions, said Mass with anintensity of recollection which edified the serverexceedingly; and the few peasants who knelt on the boardedfloor were not behind him in devotion.

The cura's breakfast was enlarged in Antonio'shonor. Over and above the inevitable bacalhau, orsalted stock-fish, there was a whole hake. It had beencaught only half a dozen hours before, and it made afine show with its head and tail projecting over theends of a long rough dish, gaily painted with birds andflowers. There was also a piled-up mess of boiled beefand ham sausage, banked on rice and white cabbageand moated round with a broth full of chick-peas.Each breakfaster was also served with a couple of eggs,fried in olive oil; and the meal was rounded off bya basket of late strawberries. To wash down the solidsthe cura opened three bottles of sharp green wine.

Antonio ate and drank sparingly. During the mealhe confined himself to answering his host's innumerablequestions, and listening, without resentment, to slyhints about monkish arrogance and luxury: but whilethe cura was busy with his strawberries, he told simplyand shortly the tale of the alien Visconde de PonteQuebrada. As he ceased speaking he saw that the oldman was half won round to the monks' side.

"And now, what are you going to do?" asked the cura.

"For the present," said Antonio, "I am going backinto the world. I will be a burden upon none. I amgoing to work; and, when I have put a little money by,I have a plan of doing something for my Order."

"What can you do for a living?"

"I understand vines and wine. At the abbey I hadcharge of the vineyard."

"You are making your way to Oporto?"

"Yes. To Oporto."

"Very well. I sell two pipes of green wine everyyear to a firm there. I will give you a letter. Butwhat about your clothes? You can't go back into theworld like this."

"I sought you this morning, Father," said Antoniowith a great effort, "for this very reason."

"How much money have you?"

"Not any, Father. Beyond one volume of mybreviary and the clothes you see me wearing, I havenothing in this world."

The old man emitted his amazement in a protracted,clucking noise. Then he rose abruptly andcommanded:

"Come with me."

In an otherwise empty room at the head of the stairsstood a large clothes-press. As the cura threw open itsdoors a waft of camphor and lavender filled Antonio'snostrils. Unfolding some linen wrappers the cura tookout a suit of black clothes, such as country tailorsmake for doctors and lawyers and officials.

"I have worn these clothes twice," said the cura,"once at the Bishop's funeral and once at my niece'swedding. Ah, my friend, I was a man in those days,not a shrimp. That was before I had my fever. Icould eat a dinner with any man in the diocese; yes,and empty a bottle too. But since I've lost my appetiteand come down to skin and bone, what good are theseclothes to me? They'd flap about on me like a sackon a scarecrow. Take them, my son, and a goodriddance to them."

As the cura had just consumed fully three pounds'weight of bacalhau, hake, beef, vegetables, and darkbread, to say nothing of the strawberries and the eggs,Antonio's gravity was shaken. His host was still sorosy and rotund that the young monk dared not picturehim as he must have been before he sank to his shrimp-likeand skin-and-bone condition. But it was only fora moment that he found the old man ridiculous. Themain thing was that he was relieving Antonio's needwith a tact as beautiful as his generosity.

The cura went to the window while Antonio donnedthe clothes. They fitted him ill, but not intolerably.Indeed, the cura, when he turned round, affirmed thatthere was not a tailor in Lisbon itself who could havefitted Antonio better. There was a difficulty about ahat, the monk's head being larger than the cura's;and it was finally agreed that a decent hat must bedispensed with until the traveler reached the nearesttown, and that an improvisation of straw or grass mustmeanwhile serve in its stead.

Leading the way to his bedroom the old manunlocked a large coffer of chestnut-wood, and drew upfrom its depths a tarnished silver snuff-box. Withinthe snuff-box nestled a tiny leather pouch. The curashook its contents into his left palm. Altogetherthere were eleven pieces of English gold, seven wholesovereigns and four halves. Such English pounds,libras esterlinas, and "half-pounds" were almost thesole gold currency in Portugal.

"I am going to lend you five pounds," said the cura."If you can save enough to repay it while I am alive,so much the better. If you can do nothing till after Iam dead, have Masses said for my soul. Here, take it,my son, and God bless you."

So big a lump swelled in Antonio's throat that it wasa long time before he could answer. At last he managedto utter his thanks and to declare stoutly that hewould accept one pound only, to be repaid within theyear. The cura grew angry, but the monk was firm.After much argument the dispute was ended byAntonio's accepting two half-pounds in English gold anda further half-pound in Portuguese tostões and vintens.*

* The Portuguese real (plural reis) is an imaginary coin.Twenty reis make one vintem (plural vintens) the Portuguesepenny. One hundred reis, or five vintems made one tostão(plural tostões). The large silver piece called mil reis (1000reis) is nominally worth 4s. 5d., but is practically a dollar.

By this time the sun was pouring down floods of firefrom the heights of heaven. The cura closed theshutters and insisted that Antonio should rest on his bedtill the fiercest heat should be passed. He himselfdescended to the living-room to say his Office and toindite the letter to the Operto wine-merchants—anunfamiliar and formidable task, which was onlyachieved after two hours of grunting and groaning andink-spilling and striding about.

Lying on the straw-stuffed bed, with his head on ahard pillow less than ten inches square, Antonio triedto recall all that had happened since the clink of steelcut short his reverie on the roof of the cloister. Butout of forty-eight hours he had slept barely five.Drowsiness crept over him, and he fell asleep.

When he awoke and opened the shutters he knew bythe sun that it must be about five o'clock in theafternoon. He hastened downstairs. A smell of salt fishand warmed-up beef and hot oil prepared him for thecura's pressing invitation to stay to dinner, which hegratefully and decisively refused.

At the presbytery door a handsome young peasant,goad in hand, was waiting alongside a pair of bullocksand a cart. The bullocks, fawn-colored, with greatsoft eyes, had horns a yard long. The cart was of atype unchanged since the days of the Romans. Thewheels were simply iron-bound disks of wood cut inone piece from the round trunks of big trees: the cartit*elf was stuck round with a dozen upright staves, tofence in the load.

Wringing his benefactor's hand for the seventh timeand uttering a final word of gratitude, Antonio wasabout to begin his march when the peasant came forwardto help him into the cart. It was vain to protest.The cura, who had never walked three continuousleagues in his life, laughed to scorn the monk's earnestdeclaration that he preferred to go afoot. The cart,he said, was hired and paid for as far as the nearesttown, and he was not going to have a thousand reisthrown away.

There was nothing for it but obedience. The peasanthad softened the rigors of the vehicle by flingingin a heap of heather and bracken: and as soon as hispassenger was stretched full length on the greenery hemade haste to rig up an awning on the poles. Thisconsisted of one of the huge waterproofs, plaited fromreeds or grass, in which the Portuguese peasantry walkabout on rainy days looking like animated Kaffir huts.The son of Saint Benedict winced at so much pampering:but the cura was not to be withstood.

As the bullocks began to slouch forward Antoniofelt some kind of a package being thrust through thebars behind his head, while a rough voice muttered inhis ear:

"Adeus! And pray to God for an old sinner!"

The peasant gently plied the goad, and the bullocksquickened their pace to about two miles an hour.Fortunately the road was deserted, and no one met orovertook the chariot. At the first turning Antonio'simpulse to leap out and walk was nearly irresistible;but respect for the cura restrained him. Leaning onone elbow he opened his breviary and recited theremainder of the day's Office as far as the end of Vespers.This done, he could tolerate his position no longer.The jolting of the rigid cart over an ill-made and worsem*nded road, and the skriking of the unoiled axle, hemight have endured: but the snail's pace, and, worstof all, the feeling that he was like a fatted beast in thepen on the way to a fair, chafed him beyond bearing.So at sunset he descended, and, giving the driver oneof his tostões, declared that he would complete thejourney on foot. For five minutes the peasantobstinately insisted on marching with his passenger, cartand bullocks and all, as far as the town: but this themonk, fearful of being led to an inn where he wouldhave to spend more tostões, would not allow. Thepeasant gave way at last; and, placing in Antonio'shand the packet which the cura had thrust between thebars of the cart, he wished him God-speed, and turnedhis clumsy beasts and creaking machine back towardsthe south.

With legs half-paralyzed by the cramping cart andsadly encumbered by his unfamiliar clothes, Antonio'sfirst steps were like those of a drunken man. But hesoon got into his stride and reached the town beforethe shops were closed. The felt sombrero which hebought amidst an increasing crowd of gaping idlerswas the cheapest he could find: but it left him lesschange than he expected out of one of his half-pounds.Outside the shop a brown-eyed, bare-footed boy waswaiting to guide the stranger to the inn; but Antoniogave him a vintem and pressed forward on his journey.

About an hour before midnight he reached a moss-grownaqueduct which supplied the water-wheel of alonely orangery. Climbing the bank from which itsclear spring gushed forth, the tired wayfarer sat downon the warm stones and opened the cura's package. Itheld a bottle of green wine, a loaf of rye bread, andsome hunks of cold boiled beef; also, wrapped up inmany wrappings, one more English pound.

Tears came into the monk's eyes. Throughout thegriefs and partings of the two days just past he hadbeen dry-eyed and calm: but this was beyond bearing.Mechanically holding open in his hand the book whichit was too dark to read, he recited Compline, adding aheartfelt supplication for the cura's good estate. Thenhe ate a little of the dark bread, drank a few cooldraughts from the hurrying spring, and lay down tosleep.

Before slumber had fully sealed his eyelids somesudden influence roused Antonio up. As plainly as ifan angel's voice had spoken, he knew that in thatmoment the soul of the Abbot had passed to God. Hearose and sank upon his knees, devoutly offeringfervent prayers. Then he lay down once more, strangelyfilled with peace and with a feeling that all was well.He could not sleep; but he lay looking up into theviolet heavens as though he half expected to seeappearing in their highest heights a new bright star.

II

June morn after June morn, June eve after June eve,Antonio steadily tramped towards Oporto. He usuallyrested in some grove or on the seashore from nightfalluntil dawn, and from about ten in the morning untilfour in the afternoon: but he was rarely on the marchless than twelve hours a day.

Jealously guarding his little hoard he never spent avintem that he could fairly save. For example, as heapproached the mouth of the Mondego, he learned thatthe ferryman expected a pataco for the passage. Apataco is two vintens: so Antonio made a detour tothe east and swam the stream at a lonely spot, pushinghis clothes before him on a tiny raft of osiers. Thecura's beef and bread and wine fed him for two days,and when they were consumed the monk lived on atostão a day. His food was mainly dark bread; buthe allowed himself, morning and evening, a smallgoat's-milk cheese and a draught of wine at a roadsidetavern, for which he paid one pataco, or sometimes less.Once he caught two trout in a wayside stream, takingthem with his hand from a pool as he had learned todo as a boy. A bit of a broken horseshoe and a flintenabled him to kindle a cook's fire in a little hollow.

In the plain to the west of Bussaco a farmer whomhe overtook on the road from Coimbra gave him twodays' work in his vineyard, for which he paid Antoniofive tostões and his board. Again, at Aveiro, a youngcanon who had surprised the monk conning his breviaryin a dim corner of the insignificant cathedral, not onlyforced upon him a dinner and a night's lodging, buttook him next morning aboard a kind of gondola whichbore him along a Venetian-looking canal all the way toOvar. From Ovar Antonio made a forced march oftwenty miles; and that night he slept on sand, underpines, close to the mouth of the Douro. At daybreakhe turned inland in time to see the first rays of the sunstriking the tower of the Clerigos and the piled-upwhite houses of Oporto.

With the flashing Douro between himself and thecity, he took out the cura's unsealed letter to thewine-merchant and read it for the twentieth time. Theperusal strengthened his conviction that he could notpresent it. Throughout three pages the cura enlargedupon his young friend's troubles as an expelled monk:and this was not the light in which Antonio wished theemployers of Oporto to regard him.

Descending into Villa Nova de Gaia, he was surprisedand delighted to find that he was already amongthe warehouses and caves of the more famouswine-merchants, and that he did not need to cross the bridgeof boats in order to begin his search for employment.But as it was still too early for the magnates to havereached their bureaux, he determined to hear Mass.On a height above him rose a fine domed church, andthither he climbed. Antonio did not know that he wasgazing upon the famous Augustinian convent of NossaSenhora da Serra do Pilar, whence the Duke ofWellington, helped by monks, had made his wonderful dashacross the Douro five-and-thirty years before; nor didhe know that less than two years had passed since thegallant Liberal Marquis Sa da Bandeira had held thesame spot against heavy Miguelista odds. Whatengrossed Antonio was the confusion, which showed thatthis convent was faring little better than his own abbeyand that the Augustinians were faring no better thanthe Benedictines. He waited for Mass in vain.

Dropping down again into Gaia he bought a piece ofbread and turned into a tavern for a short rest and adraught of wine. When the tavern-keeper wasinquisitive Antonio candidly stated that he had come toGaia to look for employment. The tavern-keepershook his head.

"Your Worship has come at the wrong time," hesaid. And he went on to tell how one of the Frenchsoldiers of fortune, who had been hired for the siege,had wantonly destroyed nine thousand pipes of wine ina single warehouse. The port-wine trade, he said, wasall at sixes and sevens.

A little daunted, Antonio arose at last and made hisway to the first of the warehouses. Like many otherswhich he visited in the course of the day, it wasprotected by a small representation of the Union Jack,painted correctly in red, white, and blue, andsuperscribed, "British Property." An English foremanbarred Antonio's way to the office with a surlyannouncement that the manager had not arrived, andthat in no case were new hands required. At thesecond warehouse he was less curtly but no more usefullyanswered. At the third and fourth he was deniedadmittance. At the fifth he would have been given atemporary post had he been able to speak English: butthe monk could only read and write it. At theeleventh and last he was told that he might apply againin a week's time.

With weary limbs and a wearier heart the wanderercrossed the bridge of boats in the blaze of the Juneafternoon and toiled up the hill to the cathedral. Inthe granite cloisters, face to face with some unchurchlyazulejos depicting scenes from the Song of Solomon,he sat with closed eyes until the heat was passed. Thenhe descended one hill and ascended another in searchof the great Benedictine monastery. He found thecommunity still in possession: but an inward voiceforbade him to make himself known and he turnedsadly away.

Many broken windows and a few wrecked housesreminded Antonio of the siege so lately ended; but,on the whole, he was surprised to see so few signs ofthe strife. The streets were full of bullock-carts,fishwives, and busy people of all sorts, and the river wasalive with shipping. Amidst so much activity surelythe morrow would find a post for him to fill. Heplucked up heart and set about securing a cheaplodging. Happily the first he inspected met his needs.For six tostões a week he hired a narrow room over acobbler's, with the right to use the cobbler's wife's firetwice a day.

In order that he might pick up the manners andspeech of the world, Antonio dined that night in aquay-side eating-house. Throughout the meal heheard little more than a loud conversation between aNorwegian captain and his mate: but while he waslingering at the table, lamenting the wasting of twelvevintens, three or four Portuguese entered and satdown at the table of the departing Norwegians. Inaudible tones they continued a debate in which theywere engaged on the suppression of the religiousorders. They were coarsened men, whose languagewas one-fourth oaths.

As one monstrous slander after another was utteredagainst his brethren, Antonio's blood began to boilwithin him. Very little more would have overbornehis self-control: but suddenly a black-mustached manwith the Lisbon accent, who had taken a minor partin the argument, rapped the table and made himselfheard.

"Monks and friars are wastrels and loafers," hebegan, "but the men who're turning them out are tentimes worse. Listen to me. I'll tell your Worshipswhat everybody was talking about in Lisbon the daybefore yesterday, when I came away."

Through the waiter setting down the newcomers'plates with a noisy rattle, Antonio lost most of the nextsentence: but, with a start of surprise, he caught thename of his own abbey.

"It's only a little abbey," continued the man fromLisbon, "and nobody guessed it was so rich. But itseems the monks had got stuff worth a hundred thousandpounds. They had dozens of golden cups allcovered over with diamonds as big as pigeons' eggs,and a lot of pictures by the famous Italian painterRaphael.

"Your Worships have heard of our new Viscount,the Viscount of Ponte Quebrada. He comes fromAmsterdam, or London, or Frankfort—it doesn'tmatter which. He's a Jew, or an atheist, or aProtestant—it's all the same thing. The Government hasmade him a Viscount because he found money lastyear. For every thirty English pounds he brought,Portugal has to pay back a hundred, and the interestas well. So he's been made a Viscount."

"We're not Miguelistas here," growled one of thecompany. But the Lisbon man ignored him and went on:

"Somehow the Viscount of Ponte Quebrada gotwind of the diamond cups. He went off himself withthe troopers, so that he could lay hold of them forhimself. I know exactly what happened. My brotheremploys a man whose cousin was one of the soldiers.When the Viscount demanded possession of themonastery, the monks insisted that he should give receiptsfor all the pictures and cups. There was a terriblequarrel. Then the Viscount tried to steal the thingsin the night. But he was caught. The next morningit turned out that the Prior was really a general,and that he had been second in command to the famousWellington. He threw off his monk's dress beforeall the soldiers and stood up in full uniform, andoffered to fight the Viscount either with swords orpistols. Then the Viscount signed the receipts.

"As soon as the monks had passed out of the gates,the Abbot, who was nearly a hundred years old,dropped down dead from the excitement. When theyburied him, at a place called Navares, there was nearlya riot against the Government."

"I tell you, we are not against the Government here,"gruffed out the Oporto man with increasing resentment.But the Lisbon man ignored him again.

"The Viscount sent all the soldiers to this placeNavares, to put the riot down. Then he pretended tobe afraid that the Prior was going to make a dash backfor the diamond cups: so he pretended to bury themin the woods, and sent an express to the Governmentto come with half a regiment and carry the stuff safelyto Lisbon. The Government sent fifty more soldiers:but, when the Viscount took them to the place in thewoods, all they found was an empty hole."

Even the Oporto Liberal whistled his surprise.Antonio, bending forward unconsciously, strained hisears to catch every word.

"They say," concluded the man from Lisbon, "thatno play-actor in the world could have done better thanthe Viscount. When he saw the empty hole he threwup his hands and began raving like a madman, and torehis hair. But nobody is taken in. He has stormedand raged and threatened: but Lisbon's too hot forhim, and he's taken himself off on an Englishpacket."

"And the diamond cups?" demanded two voices at once.

"Don't ask me," chuckled the man from Lisbon."Ask the Viscount of Ponte Quebrada. After all,what does it matter? Portugal has been robbed athousand times before, and this is simply the thousandand first. As I've said already, friars and monks areloafers and wastrels; but they're being driven out byknaves and thieves."

"The whole tale's a pack of lies!" roared the OportoLiberal. And, rising up, he banged the table with hisfist until the wine leaped out of the glasses.

The Lisbon man, who had told his tale in bantering,almost jovial tones, sprang up in his turn and blazedout with a brace of lurid oaths. In a moment thewhole place was in an uproar and things looked uglyfor the Southerner. But just as the first blow wasabout to be struck Antonio leaped between the combatants.

"Senhores," he cried, "the whole tale is not a pack oflies. I used to work for that old Abbot in the monks'vineyards. It is true that the Viscount of PonteQuebrada tried to seize the abbey's treasures for himself."

For two or three seconds everybody stared at Antonioin speechless surprise. Then the din of angry voicesbroke out louder than ever. The tavern-keeper bawledout commands which no one heeded, while threats andcurses filled the air. From other tables excited mencame hurrying to the fray.

Antonio saw that the odds were a dozen to two: sohe gripped the man from Lisbon by the shoulders andhalf shoved, half swung him to the open door and intothe safety of the street. And, in spite of being wellcursed and hustled for his pains, he did not relax hishold until they had gained a dim and quiet alley.

When Antonio said good-night and would haveturned homeward, the Southerner had the grace andsense to know that a service had been rendered to him.Rather sulkily he grunted:

"Stop. One moment. You meant well. Who are you?"

"My name," answered the monk, "is FranciscoManoel Oliveira da Rocha." It was Antonio's truename, but from long disuse it came haltingly from hislips.

"What are you doing in Oporto?"

"Looking for work," said Antonio. "I only arrivedthis morning. Perhaps I shall have better luckto-morrow. In Gaia the wine-merchants do not wanthands."

"That's all stuff and nonsense!" snorted the manfrom Lisbon. "They want a man badly at the cellarsof Castro and de Mattos."

Antonio explained that he had approached the SenhoresCastro and de Mattos and had been turned out.

"Meet me outside their offices at nine to-morrowmorning," said the stranger, "and they'll let you in."

III

Not only the next morning, but also on hundredsof mornings following, Castro's and de Mattos'doors opened to Antonio. Somewhat straitenedfinancially, Senhor Castro, the only surviving partner, wascoquetting with a rich English wine-merchant whowished to acquire a direct interest in an Oportowine-lodge of repute. The negotiations demanded an exactstock-taking, and to this end Antonio was engaged forthree months at a wage of four milreis a week.

The hours were long and the work was heavy. Twoporters were at his disposal; but Antonio had often toput his own shoulder to the shifting of a cask. As forthe brain-work it was harder than the manual.Following Portuguese custom the Castro wines had beenreckoned by weight; and it was the young monk's dutyto work out difficult sums in weights and measures,transmuting the awkward Portuguese almudes intoequally awkward English tuns and hogsheads.

On the last day of July, more than four weeks beforeanybody expected the work to be finished, Antonioplaced a neatly-written summary in his employer'shands. Senhor Castro was delighted. Not only washe able to resume his negotiations a month earlier thanhe had hoped, but his losses during the siege proved tobe less than he had feared. Recalling the strenuousAntonio to his private room he renewed his engagement,and entrusted him with important duties far upthe Douro, where the Castro vineyards lay.

Throughout a torrid August, in a profound gorgewhere the quivering heat abode like fiery vapors in acrater, Antonio labored on, tightening the lax Castrodiscipline and overhauling the muddled organization.Before the feast of Saint Michael and All Angels thevintage was over, and an unusual quantity of goodwine had been pressed with exceptional care. Themonk returned to Oporto in a wine-boat, and hisvoyage was not without excitements. Here swirlingthrough a deep ravine, there spreading over wideshallows, the Douro kept its navigators ever on the alert.Once, at sunrise, a bark which was outstrippingAntonio's came to grief. Two hogsheads of winesmashed like egg-shells against a jagged reef of slate,and the chocolate-colored water was empurpled withthe spilt blood of the vine.

On reporting himself to Senhor Castro Antoniofound his hours shortened, his importance heightened,and his salary raised to twenty-five milreis a month.But he did not abandon his cheap lodging over thecobbler's shop nor did he soften the austerities of his life.By the beginning of October, continued self-denialenabled him to send to the old cura five English poundsin return for the clothes and money which had startedthe monk on his secular career.

Antonio's were strenuous days. In the cellar and inthe counting-house he gave his whole body and mindto his work. Yet he performed every day the Work ofGod. Soon after the disappearance of his Benedictinebrethren from their convent in Oporto, he saw in apoor shop a complete monastic breviary which hebought for a few coppers. Every morning, week-dayand Sunday, he heard Mass, and every day he recitedthe whole of the Divine Office. And over and aboveall this he found time for perfecting himself in spokenand written English. A swim and a long tramp on aSunday, followed by a meal in a tavern, were his solepleasures; and his Sunday evenings were cheerfullysacrificed to the needs of Oporto's poor and illiterateGallegos, or Spanish porters from Galicia, whoseletters to their friends at home were often written byAntonio's pen.

At the Whitsuntide holidays he would tramp off tothe shrine of Bom Jesus, or Our Lord of the Mount, ona hill overlooking the primatial city of Braga. Therehe would eat the penny stews and halfpenny loaves,cooked for the pilgrims in the great hill-side ovens, andafter a farthing draught of wine he would lie down tosleep in the open air.

After three years of this kind of life, in which eachnew week was almost a replica of the week before,Antonio found himself with a hundred English pounds.He had saved it by laying vintem on vintem, milreison milreis. But he needed two hundred for theexecution of his plan. The dreary prospect of three moregrinding years, during which his opportunity mightvanish away, suddenly dismayed him; and, falling onhis knees in the ancient little church of Cedofeita, hedesperately challenged heaven to make haste.

Two hours later Senhor Castro summoned the youngman to his presence. He said that the quickly-waxingrepute of the firm's ports in England had led to a largeorder for the cellars of the English king. His Londonpartner, he added, was rising to the occasion, and hadalready chartered a small ship for the transport of thejuice. The idea was that no one outside the firm's ownstaff should handle the wine throughout its voyagefrom the Castro warehouses to King William's cellars.Senhor Castro concluded by asking Antonio to takeentire charge of the affair. Nothing was said about anincrease in his salary, but he was to receive a specialallowance of four pounds a week for traveling expensesfrom the moment of dropping anchor in the Thamesuntil he landed again in Oporto.

Antonio thanked his employer warmly; but thesecret places of the monk's heart were loud with stillwarmer thanks to the Lord. He swiftly reckoned thatthe journey would increase his little hoard by not lessthan thirty pounds. Besides, he would see England inthe full beauty of her famous spring and summer. Hewould tread the pavements of the greatest city in theworld. Best of all he would hear and speak nothingbut the English tongue which he had worked so hardto master.

As he walked out of the chief's office and gazedacross the familiar river to the blinding whiteness ofOporto, Antonio suddenly realized that his goodfortune had not befallen him a day too soon. During hisdaily, weekly, monthly plodding at a routine of doggedoverwork he had not perceived that he was drawingaway his reserves of health and courage. But, all in amoment, the unutterable staleness of his duties andsurroundings sickened him. He shrank back from thetorrid glare into a patch of shade and gasped greedilyfor air, like a newly-caught fish. Until he recoveredself-control it seemed impossible to wait anothermoment for the waters and fresh breezes of the Atlantic,and for the green meadows and cool glades of England.

Ten mornings later the Queen of the Medway, withAntonio and his precious pipes of port on board,dropped down the Douro on a strong ebb-tide. Agentle wind blew favorably from the south, and beforesunset the schooner had lost sight of Monte Luzia, theholy hill which watches over the towers and roofs ofVianna do Castello. As the last lights faded Antonioalmost made out through the captain's glasses themouth of the little river which divides Portugal fromSpain. At daybreak the wind freshened and the monk,climbing the ladder with difficulty, peeped out at thearid peaks of Galicia. His next three days were lesshappy, for the Bay of Biscay was not in one of itssofter moods.

Turning round Ushant, the Queen of the Medwayswam as gently as a swan into summer seas. The wind,after veering round to the west, had weakened into thesoftest of zephyrs, so that the log during the voyageup Channel never showed more than fifty knots a day.But Antonio inwardly gave thanks. At the first sightof Brittany his sea-sickness ceased. He began to eatlike a hunter and to sleep like a log. In his portmanteauwere English books and a grammar; but, outsidethe Divine Office, he did not read a word. For nine orten hours a day he lay full-length on the deck, baskingin the temperate sunshine while the immense tranquillityof sky and sea healed his nerves, and the soft airbought back color to his cheeks and light to his eyes.

The snow-white precipices of the English coast, andespecially Shakespeare's Cliff, were so unlike anythinghe had ever seen before that they would have stirredAntonio even if there had been nothing within him ofthe poet and the student. But as they gave place tothe flat beaches of Whitstable and the earth-banks ofSheppey he forgot the white walls in his eagerness tosee the wonders they guarded. With the rosy breakingof the sixteenth day of the voyage he was alreadyon the deck scanning the banks of the Thames. Thechill landscape looked un-English and reminded him ofDutch pictures.

As day broadened the Thames narrowed. Manyships, great and small, came closer to the Queen of theMedway as she moved forward with the flowing tide.Suddenly a frigate, pushing seaward against the stream,set the Thames on fire with curiosity. Her flag wasflying at half-mast. A minute later the incoming crafthad read her signals. King William was dead.

The captain, the mate, and Antonio uncovered; and,rather tardily, the crew did the same. A big EastIndiaman, just ahead, began firing signal-guns in anaimless way, while a small collier half-masted a grimyUnion Jack of incorrect design. If all the ships'companies were like the crew of the Queen of the Medway,there was much less grief than excitement. EvenAntonio, who immediately went below with a troubledface, was selfish in his regrets. Now King Williamwas dead, would the new King take the pipes of port?

Mr. Austin Crowberry, Senhor Castro's Londonpartner, was not at the wharf when the Queen of theMedway made fast. But Antonio had no trouble. Asthe cargo was wholly for the King it was not subjectto customs-duties, and the formalities were completedin a few moments. Indeed, one high official of theExcise was so anxious to be obliging that he strovehard to carry Antonio off to dine at a famous tavern.

When Mr. Crowberry arrived at last it was evidentthat he had been honoring the Castro juices with hisactive patronage. He recognized Antonio, whom hehad seen twice in Gaia, and shook him so warmly bythe hand that it was no longer possible to doubt hisexhilarated condition. He would have drunk twobottles more in the captain's cabin if Antonio had notschemed to show him an empty cupboard. Very soonhe lost his temper and launched into imprudent anddisloyal grumblings. The House of Hanover, he said,was a house of spendthrifts and madmen. Who buta madman, he demanded of Antonio point-blank,would go and die on the very eve of filling his cellarwith Waterloo port? And who was this chit Victoria?She was a slip of a wench nobody had ever heard of.He wound up by thanking his stars that he had onlyone child, seeing that the country could not possiblylast another ten years.

Like the gorgeous officer of the Excise, Mr. AustinCrowberry tried his best to drag Antonio away to atavern. But the monk stood firm. Until some officerof the royal household should take the cargo off hishands, not Senhor Castro himself could have inducedhim to leave the Queen of the Medway for a moment.His quarters were narrow, the deck was malodorous:but Antonio stuck to his post.

IV

Under a heat which amazed Antonio the quays andthe dock became more unsavory every day: but he didnot quit the Queen of the Medway. His friend theExcise officer agreed with Mr. Crowberry that decencyrequired patient waiting until after the King's funeral.Meanwhile, however, the dock charges and otherexpenses were running on. Accordingly, Antonio drafteda discreet and respectful letter to the comptroller ofthe royal cellars, asking him to affix seals to a smallbonded warehouse in which the wine could await hisconvenience. Mr. Crowberry admired and signed theletter and despatched it through a privileged middleman.The comptroller's people accepted the proposalwith surprising alacrity; and within a week of hisreaching London the cargo lay safely under lock andseal and Antonio was free.

Through pure thoughtlessness Mr. Crowberryrecommended Antonio to a hostelry where his expenseswere a pound a day. After one night's stay he quittedthese noisy and expensive quarters for a modestlodging within sight of green fields, up Tottenham CourtRoad. At first English habits upset him. He triedboth beer and porter, and could not decide which wasthe more undesirable. The clarets, and even the ports,which he tasted at Mr. Crowberry's were heavy and allwrong. The saddles of mutton, the sirloins of beefand the boiled salmon were supremely excellent: but,on the whole, Antonio could not divine why the wealthyand table-loving English fed so unwisely and so unwell.

Mingling with a good-humored co*ckney crowd, whomade room for "the Dago," Antonio saw the funeralprocession of the King. He found the state-coachesmuch inferior to those he had seen in Lisbon: but themilitary pageant was beyond everything he hadimagined. His chief thrill, however, went through himat the sight of the Duke of Wellington, whom a youngco*ckney, with vague notions concerning the PeninsularWar, pointed out to Antonio as "the good old Djookwot beat yer 'oller." Antonio was much more deeplymoved by the figure of the veteran warrior than by thegorgeously empalled royal coffin. He had heard manyan evil word against the Iron Duke and against thecynical selfishness of England in making poor Portugalher cat's paw under a guise of magnanimity: but heinstinctively uncovered as the grand old soldier rode by.

A more indefatigable sightseer than Antonio neverdescended upon the monuments and public collectionsof London. He saw every notable object once, andthe worthier sights many times over. The picturesoverpowered him. As for the churches, he enteredevery one of the few that were open: but Wren'sbuildings to Antonio, like Lisbon's churches to anEnglishman, seemed nearly all alike.

He heard Mass every morning at the lumberingSardinian Chapel, near Lincoln's Inn Fields. He alsovisited the new Catholic church called St. MaryMoorfields, of which the London Papists were immenselyproud: but he thought it poor and small. Now andagain he attended, without assisting in sacris, someProtestant services. At the first of them he heard aCity incumbent harangue a somnolent congregation oftwelve against the idolatrous practice of setting upimages in churches: but Antonio was more bewilderedthan edified, because the very small communion-tablewas overtopped by a very large image of a lion assistinga very large image of a unicorn to sustain the royalarms. In the too bare Saint Paul's Cathedral and thetoo much encumbered Westminster Abbey he heardorgan-playing and anthem-singing beautiful beyond hisdreams: but he could not understand why the Churchof England should have renounced the Mass whilelavishing pains and money on two fragments of the DivineOffice. Again, one Sunday night, at Wesley's Chapelin City Road, Antonio heard so sound a sermon onrepentance and restitution that his heart grew warmwith thankfulness until the preacher took a sudden hop,skip, and jump into a confused doctrine of Justificationwhich made God less just than man.

A week after the King's obsequies Antonio waitedon Mr. Crowberry to remind him that the comptrollerof the Queen's cellars had made no sign. Mr. Crowberry,fearful of giving offense, was for indefinitewaiting: but Antonio at last obtained leave to bring thematter to a head on the ground that he wished tosupervise the bottling before returning to Portugal. Thecomptroller's secretary received the young Portuguesewith courtesy: but, unfortunately, he had nothingsatisfactory to say.

One morning, when the hourly thought of his inaction,at an extra cost to the Castro firm of four poundsa week, had begun to corrode his self-respect, thePortuguese called on the comptroller again and pressed himto name a date.

"I am glad you have called," said the great man."I could not write what I am about to say. Will itderange the firm of Castro if I cancel the order?"

Antonio started.

"I should add," the comptroller continued, "that inno case can I accept, or pay for, these wines for aconsiderable time. You have heard, no doubt, that theadministration of the Privy Purse and of the royalhousehold has not been, in all points, whollysatisfactory."

Antonio turned very pale. Had he, by his headstrongimportunity, annoyed the firm's most distinguishedcustomer and done irreparable harm? Itseemed so. But a moment later a plan flashed into hismind.

"If I could have a letter," he said, rising, "to say thatowing to His Majesty's death no more wine can bereceived at present, and that we are free to sell ourshipment elsewhere, I think Mr. Crowberry will write atonce relieving your Excellency of further anxiety inthe matter."

The comptroller purred with pleasure at Antonio's"Excellency," a word which he had only heard appliedto the persons of ambassadors. He thanked Antonioand showed him out graciously. The next dayMr. Crowberry was reading such a letter as his assistanthad asked for.

Antonio, entering the Jermyn Street office as hischief was ending the perusal, noted with concern thatthere had been another bout of drinking. SuddenlyMr. Crowberry, flaming with rage, dashed the letterdown on his desk and exploded like a shell. His fearfulthreats flew out like red-hot nails and the air seemedsulphurous with his blasphemies. His nouns and verbswere few, and the solid matter of his discourse couldhardly be discerned through the lurid vapors of hiscursings. He swore that, although he had been TrueBlue all his life, he would straightway turn Republican.Concerning the comptroller he was contradictory, firstvowing that he would see him burning in hell before hewould excuse him from receiving a single bottle, andthen declaring that he would pour every drop of theliquid down the cur's throat. He added a rudeexpression about the young Queen, whereupon Antoniointervened.

"All this is my doing," he said. "I asked thecomptroller yesterday to write this letter."

Mr. Crowberry swung round and faced him inspeechless astonishment.

"He told me flatly that he could neither receive norpay for our wine for a very long time," Antonioexplained. "He asked us to release him from thebargain. At first I was aghast. But a plan occurred tome. Perhaps I did wrong—"

"Wrong?" roared Mr. Crowberry. "Wrong?" Andhe hurled out half a dozen fresh oaths. "I'll tellyou what it is, Mr. Rocha," he bellowed. "You're adamned upstart, and it was a damned bad day foreverybody when that silly old idiot Castro picked youup out of the gutter."

"Mr. Austin Crowberry," flashed back Antonio intones as sharp as knives, "you will be good enough notto insult me. If we begin comparing pedigrees it willnot be to your advantage."

"Pssh!" sneered the other, "you remind me of thedamned Irish. Every drunken Paddy you meet isdescended from a king. I never met a foreigner yet whodidn't turn out to be a count or a marquis. Pah!Shut up. You make me sick."

A tremendous effort enabled Antonio to hold histongue and to move towards the door. But this silentmove only served to drive his employer mad.

"So this letter is your doing?" he roared, flinginghimself with his back against the door-handle.

"I thought—" Antonio began.

"Thought? You thought? Who are you to beginthinking? For two pins I'd give you a damned goodhiding."

Antonio's face became as white as a sheet. Therewas no longer a monk in the room: only a man. Hefaced his employer with eyes which made him quail.But he did not lose his head. Suddenly he wheeledround and drew from a brass bowl on the table twoof the tiny pins which were used to attach enclosuresto letters.

"Here are your two pins, Senhor," he said, flingingthem with infinite scorn at Crowberry's feet. "Nowgive me my damned good hiding."

He fell back two paces with his left arm raised inguard and his right fist clenched to return blow forblow. But Mr. Crowberry did not take up thechallenge. He blenched; blinked; gasped; smirked; edgedaway; and finally blurted out peevishly:

"Leave the room. Go out of my office at once."

Antonio brushed him aside and stepped into thestreet. His heart was still hot with anger, and he stillsmarted under the insults. With long strides hehastened mechanically along Piccadilly towards ApsleyHouse, which had come to be his favorite walk. Buthe had hardly reached the old French Embassy whenthere was a turmoil behind him, and voices crying"Stop!" He turned round and saw Mr. Crowberry'soffice-boy and one of the junior clerks.

"Mr. Crowb'ry, 'e ses will yer come back at once."

"Did Mr. Crowberry say nothing else?"

"No, sir."

"Tell Mr. Crowberry I shall be in Hyde Park, justinside the arch beyond the palace of the Duke ofWellington. I shall not wait longer than twelve o'clock."

At five minutes before noon Mr. Crowberry dashedinto the Park upon a bony bay hack, hurriedly hired atthe nearest mews. The ride had sobered him: and, atthe sight of his honest shamefacedness, Antonio'swrath and pride broke down into love and pity. Hehelped his chief to alight: and at the mere touch ofhands both men knew that they were reconciled.

"It was brandy," said Crowberry very humbly.

"I'm glad to hear it," Antonio answered. "If Ithought it was wine I'd never help to make or sellanother drop as long as I live."

"Of course I apologize," added the merchant awkwardly.

"It's all over and done with," said Antonio. "Letus forget it and speak of other matters."

"Quite so," agreed Crowberry. "But there's justone point. Don't offer to fight me when I'm sober.English fists strike hard."

"And there's just one point more," retorted Antoniogenially but with conviction. "Don't offer tofight me when I'm drunk. Portuguese fists strikeharder. Now let me tell you my plan."

Mr. Crowberry insisted that the plan should not beunfolded until they were sitting at meat at his club;and, on the clear understanding that nothing should bedrunk beyond a bottle of Bordeaux and some soda-water,Antonio accepted the invitation.

Across a thoroughly English leg of lamb, with greenpeas, new potatoes and mint sauce, Antonio expoundedhis designs. He started from the fact that Royalty'shouse-managers were treating the firm of Castro withthoroughgoing selfishness. He went on to say thatwhen kings and queens, with incomes of half a millionpounds a year, were unscrupulous in guarding theirown convenience, it was high time that Senhor Castro,who had only been lifted out of imminent bankruptcyby the strong hand of Mr. Crowberry, should obtain hisjust due.

Mr. Crowberry agreed, and added a disloyal observation.

"But we shall make nothing of the comptroller,"Antonio continued. "I find it is your law that theQueen can do no wrong. Her Majesty cannot be sued.Even if she could, it would be madness to try it. No.Here is my plan. We will let the comptroller off witha mere trifle—say, a hundred dozen. Then we will sellthe bulk of the stuff to your nobility and gentry at ahigh price, on the strength of our having brought itover in a specially chartered vessel for the King, whoseuntimely decease has deranged the transaction."

Mr. Crowberry's face clouded. He had hoped tohear a less distasteful proposition. "I am not a CheapJack," he said a little stiffly.

"You misunderstand me," said Antonio, flushing."I should hate puffing and touting as much as anybody.We won't print or even write a single line. We willgo in person to your best clients and will offer them notmore than fifty dozens each as a great favor. We willshow them the original order and the comptroller'sletter. The news will spread; and we shall get backall our outlay and collect most of our profit six monthsearlier than we should get a penny from the Queen."

Senhor Castro's partner tilted back his heavy chairon its hind legs and knitted his brows. At last he said:

"You are right. We've been badly treated. Wemust look after Number One. Besides, Castro needsthe money, and I'm not going to lend the firm anymore. As you say, it can be done with discretion anddignity. To-morrow I'll give you a list of likelypeople. You shall start at once."

Antonio, however, insisted that Mr. Crowberryshould pilot him to the first half-dozen clients. ExceptMr. Crowberry's own establishment, where a laxhousekeeper looked very badly after the widower andhis son, the monk had never entered a private house inEngland, and he called it unreasonable to send him onso delicate an errand alone.

With a wry face Mr. Crowberry gave in. The sameafternoon the comptroller accepted his hundred dozens,and kindly wrote a further letter giving the house ofCastro leave to do as they pleased with the remainderof their own property. And by the evening of thefollowing day the odd pair of commercial travelershad sold nearly a thousand pounds' worth of wine. Infive houses out of six their visit was received withgushing gratitude. To possess the Castro port seemedto fire the knights' and baronets' imaginations; notbecause it was the magnificent remnant of an unparalleledvintage, but because it had narrowly escaped beingdrunk by a king.

So delighted was the volatile Crowberry with hisexperiences that he swung right round and announcedthat he would accompany Antonio on a fortnight's tourthrough the Home and Midland counties. He hired aroomy and well-hung post-chaise, loaded it with tendozen bottles as samples, and was out of London withinthirty hours of broaching the scheme.

After the smells and smoke and uproar of Londonthe fair English country was like paradise to Antonio.He knew the beautiful Minho of Portugal: but thisEngland was more beautiful still. Once, as they rolledthrough a village in Bucks, the gracious loveliness ofthe scene almost broke his heart. The mellow beams ofthe setting sun were softly caressing the square towerof the church and glorifying the solemn old yews whichgirt it round. Over all, the motionless, gilded weatherco*ckburned like a flame in a high wind. Children wereshouting and playing outside white cottages half hiddenunder red roses. Up to their knees in murmuringwater beside a steep gray bridge, dreamy-eyed cattleswished their tails and chewed their cud. The brightgreen meadows were enameled with myriads of whiteand pink and blue and yellow flowers, and the wantonhedgerows wore long streamers of convolvulus andhoneysuckle. High in the giant elms rooks cawedsteadily with a raucous but homely sound.

"Never mind," chaffed Mr. Crowberry, "you'll seeher again soon."

"Her?" echoed Antonio, starting.

"Yes. Her. Teresa or Dolores or Maria or Luizaor Carmen. Don't be down in the dumps. You'll seeher again before long."

"I think not," said Antonio. But he winced as herealized how nearly the wine-merchant had interpretedhis mood. The children's cries, the curling smoke ofthe homesteads, all the sweet sights and sounds of thevillage, had awakened in him a vague sense of hislovelessness and loneliness. He was glad when, half anhour later, they reached their inn: and before hesurrendered himself to imperious sleep he knelt for a long,long time beside the great mahogany bed and prayedas he had not prayed for many a day.

V

Altogether, Mr. Crowberry and Antonio sold sixthousand pounds' worth of wine. In only three out ofthe seven-and-forty houses they visited was theirreception suspicious or cool. Indeed, their errand wasso acceptable that they rarely slept or dined at an inn.

Antonio had heard much of English wealth andluxury: but the solid comfort and daily lavishnessamazed him. Often on the well-kept roads he wouldencounter a dashing equipage drawn by high-steppingslender grays and followed by a pack of spottedDalmatian dogs. Sometimes he got more than a glimpseof rigid, expressionless footmen, powdered andgorgeously appareled, and of bright-eyed, rosy-cheekedladies in high-waisted dresses and with plumes noddingover their pretty heads. Nor did his post-chaise everbowl many miles without passing some ivied castle orstately home.

At the squires' and lords' tables Antonio was asuccess. He rarely spoke until he was addressed: butsuch remarks as he made were all sensible and interesting,and his foreign accent made them piquant to hear.At every meal the talk turned sooner or later to thetownsmen's agitation for abolishing the Corn Lawsand for fostering industrialism at all costs untilEngland became the workshop of the world. In his rôleof the Intelligent Foreigner Antonio was generallyasked his opinion. He would reply that no nationcould be enduringly healthy and wealthy unless themajority of her children nourished themselves directlyfrom Mother Earth; and although this way of puttingit rather bewildered his hosts, Antonio's practicalconclusion in favor of agriculture was always applauded.

Too often for the monk's ease the table-talk turnedto religion. The English notables took it for grantedthat, as an Intelligent Foreigner, Antonio must be aFrench skeptic. They hated atheism less than Popery;and although most of them were church-going men,they would have preferred that Antonio should believenothing at all to his believing in the Christian religionplus the Pope. On such occasions Antonio alwaysstrained his wits to turn the subject: but wheneverhis host or a fellow-guest had the bad taste to bepersistent he would reply with spirit that Rome wasno more intolerant to Protestantism than Canterburywas to Dissent; that perfunctory and greedy priestswere no more common than perfunctory and greedyparsons; and that the essential truths of revealedreligion were far more widely and firmly believed inPortugal than in England. Once or twice afellow-diner, who had heard of the suppression of themonasteries, would launch a jest or a sneer against monks:whereupon Antonio would boldly answer:

"They were good men. I made wine for years inan abbey vineyard, and I ought to know."

Once, strangely enough, Antonio and Mr. Crowberryate a lugubrious luncheon in the house of a poorand proud Catholic family who had kept the faith,with occasional lapses, through the three centuries ofpersecution. But intermarriage and isolation haddone them no good. When Mr. Crowberry introducedhis lieutenant as a fellow-believer they respondeduneasily. They seemed to be without a traceof the missionary spirit, and to look with alarm uponthe incipient revival of Catholicism lest the mob shouldshout out for new penal laws. An extremely agedFrench priest, a refugee from the Terror, was theirchaplain; and all they wished was to be left alone ina tiny Popish enclave among the surroundingProtestantism.

In the long run, however, Antonio could not judgethem harshly. Five or six of the great houses hevisited were called This or That Abbey, or The OtherPriory, and their spacious halls had been therefectories or chapter-houses of religious orders. Often amouldering arch or a traceried window of the monks'church had been conserved for its picturesqueness; andas Antonio lingered among these holy relics he couldunderstand the negation of the Papacy and thedenunciation of monasticism on which the Tudor aristocratsfounded their fortunes and builded their houses.Early one morning as he stood beside a broken pillarwhich alone survived to mark the site of one of themost renowned monasteries in Britain, his heart sankat the thought of his own white chapel, fronting theAtlantic storms all neglected and forsaken. If, afterthree hundred years, no one had restored these wasteplaces of Zion in England, how could he hope,single-handed, to do better in Portugal? But he rememberedwith joy the essential difference. Portugal had torna limb from the Church: but she had not lost theFaith.

Amidst this whirl of distractions Antonio wassecretly living his religious life with unwonted fervor.Not only did he recite the Office with close attentionbut he lost no opportunity of fighting on the angels'side. As the acknowledged expert of the company hetold the truth emphatically about spirits, and evenpreached up French clarets as against the Englishman'sfavorite liquored port. At first these opinionsdisconcerted Mr. Crowberry: but, at the second hearing,he took Antonio on one side and astonished himby saying that it was the cleverest move he had everseen in his life. Antonio, however, could endure thiscynical misjudgment: for he had the satisfaction ofknowing that he had frightened at least one brandy-sotout of his ugly and suicidal habit.

It was at the dinner-table of an earl that the monkperceived most sharply the contrast between his inwardand his outward life. While he was donning in hisroom the fine clothes with which Mr. Crowberry hadequipped him for the journey, he had been suddenlyfilled with such a sense of God's love and presence ashe had never known before. Throughout the livelydinner, although he took his due part in conversation,this ecstasy endured. He seemed to be two personsin one body. Across the table he could see himselfreflected in the beveled mirror of a vast mahoganysideboard. At closer quarters the mirror reflected thebutler solemnly pouring champagne into tall Frenchflutes of purest silver. In the back of the picture,brilliantly lit by many candles, Antonio could see hisown reflection. He thought of the Antonio in flappingclothes who had lived for weeks in Oporto on salt fishand dark bread so that he might repay the cura's loan,and he compared him with the new Antonio, in broadclothand fine linen. On his left sat the earl's niece, amagnificent young dame with a rope of pearls roundher neck and a diamond tiara in her hair. Accordingto a custom of Puritan England, which has alwaysbewildered visitors from less prudish countries, shewas dining in a kind of ball-dress which revealed armsand shoulders as white and shapely as a statue's. Allthe themes of the talk were of the world, worldly:but Antonio's whole heart remained in heaven.

Not that he was always indifferent to the charmsand graces of beautiful women. On the contrary, hewas generally at his best in their presence. Andwomen, in their turn, were enchanted with Antonio,Indeed, one self-willed beauty concealed so little ofher admiration for the handsome and courtly Southernerthat during a tour of the greenhouses she pluckeda flower which he had admired and placed it in hishand. Her look, as she did so, had meanings: butAntonio was not a gawk, and he received the keepsakewith such easy tact that the affair would haveended had not the inquisitive Crowberry caught thelady's eye. From that day forward he hardly ceasedrallying Antonio on his conquest. Having heard that,in Portugal, a commoner shares the title of theduch*ess he marries, Mr. Crowberry began to callAntonio "Your Grace" and to paint lurid pictures ofthe frightful revenge shortly to be wreaked byAntonio's jilted Teresa.

On returning to London and to the Jermyn Streetoffice Mr. Crowberry found that the news of his offerhad spread, and that orders had arrived by post whichwould exhaust the whole shipment of wine. A littlefiguring showed that Antonio's plan had earned forthe firm of Castro eleven hundred pounds more thanthe sum which would have been tardily paid by theroyal household. Mr. Crowberry was radiant. Hepressed upon Antonio a hundred guineas, and addedthat if Senhor Castro did not give him a hundredguineas more he was an even worse miser than helooked. Mr. Crowberry concluded by saying thatAntonio was too good for a piggery like Oporto, andthat he must stay and make his fortune in London.

Antonio shook his head. How did he know that hewas not already too late, and that the abbey had notpassed irrevocably into desecrating hands? Now thathe had amassed his two hundred pounds his coursewas clear. Besides, he was home-sick. For days hehad been thinking of his famous namesake, the holyAntonio, called of Padua, but properly of Lisbon,whose crowning self-mortification was to exilehimself for life from beautiful Portugal.

Nevertheless, he gave way to the next request of hiskindly chief. Young Edward Crowberry, a muffishyouth with soft yellow hair, was to be placed for threeyears in the Oporto office; and, with a view to shakinghim up and opening his mind, Mr. Crowberry beggedAntonio to take him overland through France andSpain. He himself, he said, would go by sea andmeet them at Oporto.

Landing at Boulogne one August afternoon, Antonioand his charge traveled by a fast public coach toAmiens, and there, for the first time, the monk foundhis dreams of a Gothic cathedral come true. FromAmiens they went to Beauvais, whose overweeningchoir offended his religious sense. At Rouen helingered in wonder. The cathedral, with its unstudiedharmony of many styles, reminded him of the Churchherself—a divine idea working itself out in historythrough many minds, yet never in self-contradiction.Notre Dame de Paris also impressed him deeply: itseemed bigger than Paris, bigger than France, andto be challenging both the metropolis and the nationto a truer grandeur of spirit and conduct. In thedimness cast by the thirteenth-century glass ofChartres he thought of Westminster Abbey, with itshuddle of pagan monuments, and compared it with ourLady's glorious shrine, wherein not a single body, noteven a saint's, lay buried. The stone embroideries ofthe west front of Tours recalled to him Henry theFourth's saying that it ought to be under a glass case:and Antonio liked it the less on that account.

A torrential burst of rain had so replenished themeager Loire that the travelers reached the city ofSaint Martin in a light boat, from which they sawsome of the châteaux of Touraine. But at the riversideinns Antonio was as deeply engrossed in the commonwines as in the neighboring architecture. As hedrank them, white and red, he understood the wit andelegance of the Tourangeans, and wondered what theEnglish would become if they could daily drink suchdraughts in place of their nerve-destroying tea, theirbrandied port, and their sluggish beer. But, althoughMr. Crowberry senior had enjoined Antonio to showMr. Crowberry junior as many cellars and vineyardsas possible, the monk recognized the hopelessness ofsending the brisk juices of the Loire to the stoliddrinkers of the Thames; and therefore he pushed onthrough Poitiers and Angoulême to Bordeaux.

At Bordeaux the two inquirers hired an imposingchariot. They were armed with letters ofintroduction to the great growers; and decency required thatthey should keep up appearances during theirtriumphal progress through the Medoc. The vintagewas in full swing: but it lacked the gaiety of thevintage in Portugal. Most of the vintagers werestrangers from Poitiers, who did their work, drewtheir pay, and went home to spend it. The littlebush-vines also, though marvelously well tended, lacked thepicturesqueness of Portugal: and Antonio almostexcited his yellow-haired charge by describing the greatbunches of purple grapes pending from the green roofof a pergola, or blooming like clustered plums high insome tree with which the vine was intertwined.

The two were fêted at Brane Cantenac; patronizeda little at the Château Margaux; treated respectfullyat the Châteaux Lafitte, Leoville, and Larose; andreceived with open arms at the Château Latour.Young Crowberry expanded rapidly under the attentionswhich were lavished on him as the son of a bigbuyer: and it was only by hurrying him out of Pauillacin the nick of time that his mentor forestalled adesperate love-affair with a Basque maiden, dark andslender. As for Antonio, as an expert from Oporto,he was treated with deference, and he made the mostof his opportunities. He would taste attentively theripe grapes and then compare them with the wines ofthe same vineyard, both young and old.

From Royan, at the mouth of the Gironde, theyran before the wind in a smack as far as San Sebastian,in Spain, and posted thence, past bald limestonemountains, to Burgos. Young Crowberry, in whom Wineand his glimpse of Woman had wrought wonders,found the cathedral of Burgos worth all the cathedralsof France put together: and Antonio himself, whileconscious of its faults, felt strangely moved by itsbeauties. Three days later they were in Valladolid,where young Crowberry, making rapid progress,declared that with a box of building-bricks he himselfwould design a better cathedral than Herrera's fragment.At Salamanca, the last stopping-place in Spain,nearly all that Antonio had read about architecturewas contradicted. Here was a cathedral raised inalmost the worst period of Gothic: yet it impressed thebeholder as one of the grandest temples in the world.

They left Salamanca early one October morning,while the city's grand towers and domes were stillsharply silhouetted against the golden east. YoungCrowberry was garrulous and dogmatic about everything;but Antonio hardly spoke, for he was nearingPortugal. Mile after mile of dreary plain resoundedunder the mules' little hoofs. At last the road beganto climb awful mountains whence the malaria haddriven nearly every living thing. They passedstone-huts of prehistoric hill-men, and Roman militarymonuments with braggart inscriptions. Then theydescended. The landscape relaxed its frown. A fewvines greened narrow terraces here and there in therocks. Soon afterwards they reached a white house inthe midst of orange trees. Two soldiers came outwith muskets.

Antonio was once more in Portugal.

VI

On the morrow of young Crowberry's reunion withhis impatient father at Oporto, Antonio made hasteto give an account of his stewardship. About tenpounds in gold remained in his purse and he held, stilluncashed, a letter of credit for thirty pounds more.Mr. Crowberry burst out laughing.

"If Teddy hadn't told me ten times over that he'sfared like a fighting-co*ck," he said, "I should believeyou've been living on fresh air and ship's biscuit."

"I did my best to make him enjoy his travels,"responded Antonio, "but, at the same time, I wasreasonably careful."

"You've made a man of him, anyway," said theproud parent. "He used to be the biggest muff inEngland. Believe me or not: but I've never had toknock him down until this morning."

"This morning you knocked him down?" echoedAntonio, aghast. As a Portuguese he had beenaccustomed to see parents obey their children.

"Thank God, yes," said Mr. Crowberry heartily."He was too damnably impudent about claret. Butpick up this money. I don't want it, and I won't haveit."

The Englishman's determination was unshakable,so Antonio picked up the coins and the draft. But hedid so with reluctance: for it made doubly hard histask of announcing that he sought release from thefirm of Castro.

Mr. Crowberry was first incredulous, then contemptuous,and finally furious. He tried every device,from ridicule to blasphemy, in order to dissuadeAntonio from his purpose. But the monk respectfullyand gratefully stood firm. His heart, he said, was inthe South. He hoped to buy a derelict farm whichadjoined the vineyards of the suppressed abbey wherehe had made wine before coming to Oporto. More:he had even thought of approaching the Governmentfor a lease of the monks' vineyards, with an optionof outright purchase at the end of ten years. Hisintention, he added, was to make a Portuguese claretof supreme quality, such as should please an unprejudicedEnglish palate more than the wines of Bordeaux,the growths of the grandest châteaux hardlyexcepted. He ended by very modestly beggingMr. Crowberry to act as his London agent on liberal terms.

Senhor Castro, on whom Mr. Crowberry ultimatelydevolved the task of shaking their assistant'sresolution, was less unwilling to see Antonio go. He wasa timid man: and although the operation with theWaterloo port had brought him an unexpected fivehundred pounds at a very awkward moment of pressurein his private finance, he was fearful lest the nextbold campaign should lead all concerned into disaster.Accordingly he presented his faithful servant withtwenty pounds, to go with Mr. Crowberry's hundredguineas, and assured him of his friendly interest in allthat Antonio might attempt in the South.

Mounted upon a stout little white horse which heknew he could sell at a profit after finishing hisjourney, Antonio set his face southward one mistyOctober morning. In his belt he carried two hundred andseventy-three pounds of English bank-notes and gold,as well as a few thousand reis in Portuguese silverfor his expenses on the road. But although thisbeltful was so much larger than he had dared to hope for,he returned at once to the severe frugality of the daysbefore he set sail for England. He hardly ever layor ate in an inn. Tethering the docile little horse toa tree, he would take his night's rest in someout-of-the-way thicket. His meals were once more of blackbread, snowy cheese, and ruby wine. These he wouldvary by occasional purchases of fruit. The last of thefresh figs and the first of the dried were in the markets,and the monk's halfpenny bought two heaped handsfulof either.

With forebodings of change in his heart, Antoniomade the short detour which would bring him to theparish of the old cura. His fear was not belied. Thespruceness of the gardens and the crystal clearness ofthe presbytery windows were infallible signs that anew reign had begun.

"When did the old padre die?" asked Antonio of afisherman who was lounging against the church wall.

"Last year, Senhor."

"Had he a long illness?"

"Not long. My son was with him when he died.The reverend Bishop was there too. On his last dayour padre told them all that he was glad to be done withhis pains and troubles; but he said he would cheerfullybear them longer, if it was God's will, so that he mightchange his life and begin to do a little good."

"But surely he had done good already!" exclaimedAntonio.

"Senhor," said the fisherman, almost resentfully,"we didn't know it till he was gone, because his wayswere rough: but he was a saint walking the earth.Good? Had he done good? I dare say he had donemore good than your Worship."

As Antonio continued his ride south he fell to thinking.In England he had once sat at dinner next to awhiskered curate, who was hot with anger against aproposal by one of the new-fangled High Churchmento call a chapel-of-ease Saint Alban's. As far asAntonio could ascertain the Church of England recognizedno saints after the apostolic age, and certainlynone after the fourth century. Yet Antonio himselfcould name at least three Christians who had diedsaints' deaths, and at least one who had lived a saint'slife.

Strangely enough it was on the same day, only afew hours after his pious reverie about sainthood, thatAntonio succumbed for a season to the wiles of thedevil. At midday the autumn sun was strong and heentered a roadside shanty for a pull of wine. Two orthree peasants who were drinking made way for himrespectfully; and Antonio's patriotic pride was stirredby the contrast between their quiet dignity and thevulgar shouting so common in the estaminets ofFrance. The wine was bright and sharp, the floorwas clean, and the little wooden hut was pleasantlydim and cool. But suddenly Antonio caught sight ofhimself in a cheap mirror, in a tawdry gilt frame,which hung behind the counter. The glass was sobad that it distorted the handsomest faces intolopsided masks.

In an instant Antonio was transported back toEngland and to the great dining-room of the earl withits lordly sideboard and beveled mirror. He did notremember his unworldly ecstasy of that night: he sawonly the beeswax candles, the snowy linen, the bubble-thinglasses, the crimson roses, the creaming wine, thescarlet footmen, and the white-armed young beautyin her proud diamonds and soft pearls. That—allthat—was the flattering, delicious life on which hehad turned his back in order that he might live anddie in a wilderness, toiling early and late on stock-fishand chick-peas and dark bread and peasant's wine.

Tired out as he was by hard days and nights thissudden temptation overthrew Antonio. The cabinwhich had lured him aside from the garish dusty roadby its dimness and coolness suddenly seemed foul andmean, the soft-eyed, soft-voiced countrymen seemedlouts, the refreshing wine seemed sugar and vinegar.Forgetting everybody's presence he broke into a loud,bitter laugh, flung down the price of ten glasses ofwine, scrambled upon his horse and dashed away.

"That man is mad," said one of the peasants, gazingafter the bobbing black core of the dwindling cloud ofdust.

"He has committed a crime," said another more gravely.

"He is a Spaniard," said a third: and all felt thathe had uttered the crowning word of horror.

For the first time in his life Antonio was cruel to adumb beast. He struck at his horse's flanks savagely,lashing him on through dust and heat. His wholesoul was storming with rebellion. But a whinnyingsound of pain and fear recalled him to his better self.He reined in his horse. The poor brute, accustomedto a gentle Portuguese master and filled with frightand bewilderment at these strange doings, whinniedagain.

Leaping down, Antonio patted the quivering neckand looked round in the hope that there might bewater. The scene which met his eyes shamed him.He was within a stone's-throw of the pine-clad hillwhere he had passed his first night out of doors, justafter he fled from his brethren at Navares. With arush of penitence he obeyed the sign. He thought ofthat good horse Babieca, the battle-charger of theCid—that good horse who knelt down of his own accordoutside the hidden shrine at the capture of Toledo.Still stroking and patting his animal's neck, Antonioled the way up into the grove. There he found thecurved bark of a cork tree, and, turning up the twoends, he poured into this rude horse-trough every dropof wine from the skins in his saddle-bags and held it tothe parched muzzle as a peace-offering.

The little white horse, having an excellent judgment,speedily licked the cork dry: but Antonio made nohaste to remount. Unless some ill befell, he wouldknow before nightfall whether he had come on afool's errand or not. This was the last day of hisjourney: and it was fitting that he should recover aclear mind and a quiet spirit.

What sights were in store for him? Would he findthe brook-side farm as trim as the old cura's presbytery,with a new master tending the orangery and thevineyard? And what of the monastery? Perhapschildren were playing in and out of the cells, whilebeasts chewed maize-leaves in the cloisters. For morethan two years Antonio had lacked news of theabbey's fate. Indeed, only twice since his northwardflight had he heard a word about it. The man fromLisbon, to whom he owed his start in the house ofCastro, had told Antonio that the Lisbon authoritieswere not forcing the sale of this particular propertybecause they did not wish to revive the scandal ofPonte Quebrada and the stolen treasures. But thiswas two summers ago: and much might havehappened since then.

Recumbent under the pines Antonio began torevolve plans of action in case either the farm or theabbey should have passed into other hands. But hesoon desisted from his thinking. After all, had notthe same problem pressed upon him many a time inOporto, and had he not always solved it in the sameway? To keep the holy place inviolate until themonk's toil and self-denial should enable him toreturn—this surely was God's part of the work. Antoniorose to his feet, confident that he was not too late.

The clock was striking five when he canteredthrough Navares. As he passed the tavern where hehad been insulted, and the white barns of thecorn-merchant, he seemed to be revisiting hardlyrecognizable scenes; for the failing light of the Novemberafternoon was not like the June evening of the monks'exodus. Most of the vines beside the roads had beenstripped of their leaves, and such foliage as remainedwas discolored and tattered. And there was somethingmelancholy in the autumn fields, where giantgourds of many colors lay on the bare earth amongthe drooping maize-plants. He pressed on. Verysoon he reached the spot where the Prior had met thecourier from Lisbon: but he was hardly sure of it inthe gloom. The darkness deepened, and his littlewhite horse trotted through it, glimmering like a ghost.At last the pleasant voice of hurrying waters hailedhim through the dusk.

He had reached the farm.

No light, no sound, met Antonio's straining eyesand ears as he climbed the knoll. Leaving his horseto graze, he advanced eagerly into the midst of thesilent buildings. They were still deserted. He pushedthrough rank growths into the orangery, and as hetouched one of the pale orbs above his head he knewthat the farm had lain all the time uncared-for anduntilled. With a full heart he gave thanks to God.

The dull booming of the sulky Atlantic was almostdrowned by the cheerful clatter of the headlong brook.Antonio drew near to the vociferous waters as if tocompel an answer to his question. Hardly an hourbefore those waters had leaped down the mountainabove the guest-house, they had danced through themonks' vineyard, they had plunged along the darktunnel which led them under the refectory, they hadresounded strangely in the vast kitchen, they hademerged into the Abbot's garden, and at last they hadtumbled headlong down the slopes to seethe and shoutat Antonio's feet. He would fain have demanded ofthem, "Is all well?"

But it was needful to possess his soul in patienceuntil the rising of the moon: so Antonio returned tohis saddle-bags and drew forth a supper of bread anddried figs. From time to time he would mount theknoll and would peer vainly through the darkness inthe direction of the monastery. Once or twice, to killtime, he wandered back along the road: but he soonreturned, for the moaning of the Atlantic made itselfdrearily insistent whenever he got out of hearing of themerry torrent.

As the hour of moonrise drew nearer the monk'sheart beat faster. Deep down in his soul there wasstill a calm confidence that all was well: but the surfaceof his mind was tumultuous with myriad hopes andfears. He tried to groom his horse and left the workhalf done: he began to say his rosary and broke offhalf-way through the second Mystery: he sat down,rose up, and sat down again twenty times. Perhapsthe monastery had escaped desecration: but who couldassure him that winter gales and summer heats andspring floods had not torn off roofs or shrunk uptimbers or whirled away walls? For all he knew themoon would rise upon a ruin.

At length a smear of watery light along the horizonshowed that the moon's orb was urging up into a bankof mist. Antonio turned and ran to the top of theknoll in time to see a vague luminosity blanching theleaden waters of the ocean. Near objects becamevisible. He could make out the white oblong of thefarmstead and the white flanks of his horse. But thefurther landscape and the tops of the hills seemedwithdrawn into denser shadow than before.

The suspense was hard to bear: but Antonio knewit could not be prolonged. Above the bank of cloudstars were shining in a clear heaven. He waited.Now and again he uttered fragments of prayers.

The cloud-bank went on sinking slowly into the seaall the time the moon was mounting out of it, until therim of the round shield gleamed like a piece of oldsilver-gilt through the last smoky veil. Then the rimof the shield pushed up clear, shining against the blueas cold and sharp and bright as a scythe. Antonioyearned towards it, trembling all over: but he did notturn round till the entire white orb was floating freebefore his eyes.

He gazed down the knoll and saw, as clear as noon-day,the old camp of the monks and the troopers. Hesaw the extent of the farm, its house and buildings, itsfields and vineyards and orchards. He saw theAtlantic, firm and shining, like a field of ice. He sawhis horse, tethered to a tree and grazing softly. Hesaw the swirling brook, like liquid jet, bearing curdsand suds and bergs of snow. He saw the straightpines, the jeweled orange-grove, the white road, theviolet heavens. Then, with the Name upon his lips,he turned round.

High on her holy hill, with a rich curtain ofpine-woods drawn out behind her throne, the abbey chapellooked down upon Antonio all white and fair andinviolate. The rains which had burst around her andthe suns which had burned upon her had onlyenhanced her whiteness, till she shone like her Lord,transfigured upon Mount Hermon. A cry burst fromAntonio's lips. His heart sang Tola pulchra es amicamea: "Thou art altogether fair, my love." Thechapel seemed a glorious ark, newly borne to rest uponher Ararat by the floods of silver moonlight. LikeSaint John on Patmos Antonio could have cried: "Isee the holy city, the new Jerusalem, descending fromheaven, from God, arrayed like a Bride adorned forher Bridegroom." In Antonio's ears, as in John's, anangel seemed to say: "Come, and I will show thee theBride, the spouse of the Lamb."

Antonio had planned to wait until daybreak beforehe sought entrance to his old home. But the Spirit ofGod bade him re-enter the sacred place in the firstecstasy of his vision. "Spiritus et sponsa dic*nt, Veni:The Spirit and the Bride say, Come,'" Antoniomurmured; and he began to climb the hill.

VII

Antonio knew a spot where the brook, swollen withwinter rains, had smashed down the arch throughwhich it used to flow: and there he scrambled up intothe abbey domain. The ever-mounting moonilluminated the familiar scenes with fairy radiance.

Emitte lucem tuam, said Antonio in fervent prayerand thanksgiving, as he breasted the weed-grown slope."Send forth thy light and thy truth: they shall leadme to thy holy hill, and to thy tabernacles, and I willgo unto the altar of God." And when an opening inthe trees once more showed him the glistening chapelhis mind swung from the Psalter to the Apocalypse,and he thought once more of Saint John's vision of theBride habentem claritatem Dei: "having the clear-shiningof God, and her light like a precious stone's,like a jasper's, like crystal."

Grass was growing between the paving-stones infront of the chapel and lichens flourished on the northwall. The gardens were unkempt, and one had tobreak a way through alleys and avenues. On banksand terraces the fleshy-leaved ice-plant had secured firmholding. But, so far as outward appearances went,the abbey had suffered no irreparable harm.

Massive padlocks guarded all the entrances, whileseals, affixed to stout bands of linen, spoke eloquentlyof the zeal which the Government had shown after theaffair of their precious Visconde de Ponte Quebrada.But Antonio was not to be dismayed by locks, bolts,and bars. For years he had cherished a plan of obtainingentrance to the monastery, and he did not delay itsexecution.

Antonio knew that, hidden in the wood, there wasa sluice by which the torrent's waters could be divertedfrom the abbey kitchen into their original channel.This sluice had been used only four times a year, whenthe bed of the stream was cleaned out: but it was keptin good working order. As he plunged under the treesthe monk understood the difference between the brightestmoonlight and the weakest daylight: but he hadlittle difficulty in finding what he sought.

The gear of the sluice was stiff: but Antonio wasstrong, and his task was soon accomplished. For thefirst time in three years the water began gurglingamong the dust and dead leaves of its ancient bed, andnothing but a slender runnel was left for the stonechannel which ran through the kitchen.

Antonio threw off his boots and socks and outergarments and swung himself down into the ankle-deepstream. Before him yawned the black tunnel by whichthe waters passed over the whole width of the refectory,a distance of about eight yards. He went downon his hands and knees and crawled along towards theghostly light which gleamed at the further end. Hisprogress was painful. The small boulders which hadaccumulated in the passage during three years ofneglect cut his hands and bruised his knees and tore hisfeet. But he did not turn back; and soon he wasstanding in the moon-lit kitchen.

The blue-and-white tiles, the blue Pas on its whiteground, the stoves, the great jars and pots, theburnished copper chimney—all were there as of old.Antonio opened the door of the refectory. Six orseven of the bottles emptied by the Visconde and thecaptain had been stacked in a corner, probably bysome person who went through the monastery beforethe padlocking and sealing: but in all other respectsthe noble room was in perfect order.

The monk made his way to the cells. They had notbeen disturbed since the monks quitted them. The bigcandelabrum had not been removed from the cell ofthe Abbot. Antonio entered his own cell with athumping pulse. The few books and oddments which,despite the strict letter of Saint Benedict's rule, had beenconsidered his own, were all in their due places. Aspare habit was hanging on the wall. Portugal'swonderful climate had kept it so dry and sweet that he putit on as if it were the coat he had left lying on the grassoutside.

The garb had not grown strange to Antonio: forsince his expulsion from the abbey rarely had a daypassed without his saying some part of the DivineOffice, garbed in the rusty habit which he had worn atNavares. But, as he donned the Benedictine uniformin his own cell of a Benedictine abbey, the monk'semotion overpowered him. The cell was too straight anddark for the immense and sublime expansion of hisspirit. He hastened out, along the dim corridor, andup the winding steps which led to the flat roof of thecloister.

Antonio sat down on the cork bench where he hadmused on the night of his ordination, just before heheard the chink of steel. The November moonlightwas not less gracious than the May dusk. The cross inthe monks' graveyard uprose as white and slender asa taper on an altar, and all the earth seemed consecratedground. And there the young priest sat for along time, without moving, while he recalled, beginningwith the march to Navares, the motley eventswhich had filled the one-and-forty months of his exile.Finally he lived over again his last night in the abbey.Other men, other scenes, other words, other deedsseemed faint and far away: but the face of the dyingAbbot was clear in his memory, and the old man'swords might still have been sounding in the youngmonk's ears. Above all else the Abbot's prophecyrang out like bells: "I see our chapel, swept andgarnished. I see Antonio, in his old place, doing thework of God."

The hour was come. He rose and descended thespiral stairway. At the entrance of the chapel hepaused, and, falling upon his knees, implored pardonfor his brief apostasy in the roadside wine-shop. Thenwith bowed head and reverent steps he crossed thesacred threshold.

The few windows were placed so high and were sodeeply set in the thick walls that very little moonlightcould enter the chapel. Nearly all the nave was filledwith darkness. But the choir, raised on a marble floor,could be dimly seen, while the altar, higher still,received the full glory of the light. The doors of theempty tabernacle were wide open, as on Good Friday,the six tall candles still stood in their places, and no onehad removed the vases with their silver-gilt symbols ofthe Holy Eucharist—wheat-ears and vine-leaves andgrapes. Behind the crucifix rose a statue of our Ladytreading down a serpent and holding forth towardsAntonio the divine Child. Upon his head was a crownset with brilliants of old paste which burned bluishwhite in the cold moonlight.

Antonio groped his way to his old stall. There,humbly kneeling upon his knees, he offered up hisprayers and praise. He prayed for his brethren ofthree years before, picturing each one of them in hisparticular stall; and his most fervent petitions were forthe good estate of Father Sebastian, alive or dead.

It was the time of Matins. He thought of his monasticbrethren throughout the world rising from theirbeds to praise God, some of them under the soaringvaults of proud and rich abbeys, some of them in thepoor lodgings of weary exiles. His prodigious memoryenabled him, without the aid of a book, to recite nearlythe whole of Matins, including parts of the Proper; andthis he did, rising up and kneeling down as if the wholecommunity were reciting the Office with him.

As he rose from his knees the moon's light had allbut faded from the chapel. Only upon the brightpoints of the Holy Child's diadem did some stray beammysteriously linger. And Antonio, abiding in hisplace, his soul filled full with peace, said softly: "Civitasnon eget sole: 'The city hath no need of the sun, norof the moon to beam in her; for God's clear-shininghath enlightened her and her lamp is the Lamb.'"

Thus did Antonio, in his old place, begin once moreto do the Work of God.

VIII

The village nearest to the abandoned farm nestled onthe other side of the hill, about four miles away.Thither Antonio tramped at sunrise. Had he riddenhis horse the natives might have formed swollen notionsas to his wealth and manner of life: so he footedit modestly, in his oldest clothes.

The tiny, parchment-faced old dame at whose wine-shophe ate and drank a threepenny breakfast was ableand willing to tell him nearly all he wanted to know.The farm, she said, belonged to a bed-ridden widow inNavares, whose husband and two sons had been killedby the same Constitutionalist volley during the firstMiguelista attack on Oporto. This poor widow, sheadded, was living unhappily with her only daughter,the wife of a Navares tanner.

It was safe for Antonio to show himself openly inthe village and to ask his questions: for the monks hadkept inclosure with such strictness that the villagerscould have no recollection of the younger fathers. Buthe deemed it prudent to hold his tongue about thedeserted monastery; and, having put down his threevintens, he struck out a path over the hills to Navares.

Fortunately the tanner was at home. He was anovergrown man whose bad humor evidently proceededfrom dyspepsia: and the monk did not envy the haplesswoman who had to subsist on his charity. EyingAntonio's boots and clothes with suspicion, the tanneranswered every question so curtly and sulkily thatAntonio at last showed spirit, and said:

"Perhaps it will be better for me to employ anotary?"

"Notary? No, certainly not," gasped the tanner,suddenly alarmed. He was slothful in business; andevery lawyer within twenty miles knew him well as achronic defendant in the civil courts.

"I will give your Worship's mother-in-law one hundredand fifty pounds for the whole property," saidAntonio, "provided the offer is accepted to-day."

"One hundred and fifty pounds?" snorted the tanner,secretly overjoyed; "the Senhor is joking. He meansthree hundred; and even then I should be as good asmaking him a present of the place."

Antonio, who had learned in Oporto and in Londonto read the faces of men cleverer than the tanner, sawthat, even if he cut his offer down to a hundred andtwenty-five, he could still be sure of the farm. But heknew that a hundred and fifty was the fair price: and,although he had denied himself a penn'orth of cheeseat breakfast, he was not going to make twenty-fivepounds out of a widow's extremity.

"Your Worship's presents are not wanted," he retortedstiffly, taking up his hat. "I said a hundredand fifty. I meant it. I don't haggle. Good day."

The tanner spluttered out a long speech, and finallydragged Antonio upstairs into a stuffy little roomwhere his wife's mother was lying in bed with a blackrosary in her thin white hand. He appealed toAntonio, in the name of the commonest decency andhumanity, to avoid future prickings of conscience bygiving the ridiculous price of two hundred pounds forthe best farm in all Portugal, thus defrauding a dyingwidow of a round hundred only.

"You may take it or leave it," said Antonio. "Onehundred and fifty pounds, not a vintem more, not avintem less. Stay. The winter is coming, and theSenhora's blood needs warming. I come from awine-lodge in Oporto. I have taken wines to England forthe King himself. See. Over and above the price, Iwill send the Senhora ten pounds' worth of oldport-wine, and God grant it may do her good."

The aged sufferer looked up at the monk in thankfulastonishment. She had been a personage in her time:but deference and kindness had lately become sounfamiliar that she had expected to die without encounteringthem again. Clutching her beads, she mumbledat Antonio some words of gratitude and benediction.

The tanner was first greatly chagrined and afterwardsa little ashamed: and, at the foot of the stairs, heagreed to his visitor's terms. It was arranged thatAntonio should return at noon with a notary tocomplete the purchase. The cura of Navares, to whom themonk had recourse, named a trustworthy man of law:and by four o'clock the money had passed fromAntonio's belt to the tanner's cash-box, the necessarydocuments had been signed, sealed, and delivered, andthe new owner was tramping back to the farm with thekeys in his pocket.

As in the cells and corridors of the great abbey, soin the low rooms of the little farm-house the Portuguesesun had counteracted the Portuguese rains, andthe place was clean and dry. Some bulky chests, twoheavy tables, a dresser, and two wooden bedsteads hadbeen left behind, for the simple reason that the originalcabinet-maker had constructed them inside the house,and there was no door or window wide enough fortheir egress. Antonio noted with satisfaction that twoor three pounds would buy all he required in the way oflinen, chairs, crockery, and household utensils.

Through want of irrigation the oranges on the treeswere small, sour, and hard. Antonio, however, wasmuch more interested in the vines. To an untrainedeye they would have seemed a hopeless intertanglementof decaying leaves, with sparse bunches of witheredcurrants hiding here and there: but Antonio quicklysaw that skill and hard labor would reclaim them.Better still, he found a three-acre patch of light arableland which almost realized his ideal site for an entirelynew vineyard of bush-vines. The wine-press, in oneof the outbuildings, had seen better days: but this didnot worry Antonio, as he was determined, in any case,to import a new wine-making plant from Bordeaux.

Next morning the young farmer was early in thesaddle on his way to Villa Branca, ten leagues to theeast. He had learned at Navares that Villa Brancawas the seat of a puissant official representing theFazenda, or Portuguese Exchequer, and that thesuppressed abbeys and monasteries of the district wereadministered by this exalted personage. He canteredinto Villa Branca with a clear proposal to make.Would the Fazenda accept an annual rent of fiftypounds for the abbey lands, at the same time givingAntonio the option of buying the whole property, at theend of ten years, for two thousand pounds? If so he,Antonio, would engage to cultivate the lands and tokeep the buildings in repair.

Although his ride was ten leagues long, the monkreached the local offices of the Fazenda nearly an hourearlier than the official, who lived a hundred yardsaway. The waiting-room was more than half filledwith high stacks of books, most of them in old calfbindings. A glance showed that these were the spoilsof monastic libraries, dumped down anyhow in theFazenda building until somebody from Lisbon shouldarrive to divide them between the national andmunicipal libraries. Antonio picked up a volume atrandom. It was a sequence of Lenten meditations inFrench; and the hand of some long dead Augustinianhad filled the fly-leaves with pious annotations.Antonio was poring over this crabbed and faded scriptwhen the Personage entered the room.

Had it been his first encounter with a highly-placedcivil servant, the monk would have concluded that thePersonage knew his secret; that his design, as anardent Benedictine religious, of restoring the abbey tohis Order was perfectly understood; and that thehaughtiness and suspiciousness of the Personage'smanner were accordingly explained. But Antonio'syears in the world had made him familiar with themasterfulness of the State's so-called servants and withtheir rudeness to the hard-working people from whomtheir excessive salaries were extracted. So he kept histemper, and even tried to commend his proposal bystating it in studiously respectful language.

The Personage, leaving Antonio standing against apile of stolen books, listened with increasing impatienceand scorn: and, before the monk had finished, heinterrupted him to say that such a transaction was outof the question; that the Minister would not listen toit for a moment; that he, the Personage, had receivedno instructions from Lisbon to press forward the saleof this particular abbey; and that, when it came intothe market, the reserve price would be not less thanthree thousand pounds, paid in cash, once for all,forthwith.

Antonio tried in vain to argue. He exhibited thefifty pounds, which he had brought with him as a firstinstallment, to cold eyes; for the Personage saw noway of sticking to the money himself. The deeds ofthe little farm, which Antonio was for showing asproofs that he was a man of substance, were wavedaside; and when he began to speak of giving referencesto solid and reputable citizens of Oporto and London,the Personage had ceased to listen. A bell rang, aclerk appeared, some remarks were exchanged, andAntonio, without being able to say that he had receivedinsults or even inattention, somehow found himself inthe glaring street.

He rode home with a troubled face. Righteous anger,bitter disappointment, gnawing fear possessed himin turn. But, as he entered his little home and beganto unpack the few things he had bought for itsfurnishing, his spirits rose. The knife and fork with whichhe ate his plain supper had wooden handles; his gobletwas of almost opaque glass an eighth of an inch thick;the coarse tablecloth was more brown than white, andhis lamp was a candle stuck in a bottle. Neverthelesshe supped happily, even gaily; and it was withsustained fervor that he recited what remained of hisOffice.

Strenuous days followed. From the late Novembersunrise to the early November sunset Antonio laboredharder than a navvy. The making of the new vineyardwas his principal care: and by the end of the yearthe toughest part of the job had been soundly done.Only on a Sunday did the toiler rest from his labors.On the morning of that day he would hear Mass in theover-gilded village church; and, in the evening, whendarkness fell, he would crawl along the torrent's bedinto the abbey kitchen, and thence steal softly to his oldstall in the chapel. There he would recite Complinefrom memory: and afterwards, prostrate before theempty tabernacle, he would beseech his Lord to fulfilthose last and grandest words of the Abbot's prophecy:"I see Antonio standing before the high altar. I seehim holding up our great chalice. I see him offeringthe Holy Sacrifice for us all."

BOOK III

MARGARIDA

I

Towards nightfall on the feast of the Three Kingsthe heavens were opened. From every inch of thesomber sky descended cold, straight rain until theroads were rivers and the hill-sides began to sing.

When the storm burst Antonio was in the abbeychapel, saying Vespers in his old stall. He had dulyobserved the great festival of the Epiphany, abstainingfrom servile work and hearing Mass at the village:and, as on Sundays, he was rounding off the holy dayby saying his Office in the choir. But the vehemenceof the storm alarmed him. He rose hastily, and madehis way through the darkling cloisters and corridors.

As he neared the kitchen a roaring sound filledAntonio's startled ears. It was the torrent. Althoughhe had rammed the sluice-gate well home only half anhour before, the stream was racing through the kitchenin a foaming flood.

"The sluice-gate has broken," said Antonio tohimself. "The timbers must have rotted all of a sudden.But there's just time to get out."

Only the faintest light gleamed through the tunnelunder the refectory. By lying on his chest upon thestones Antonio could just see the leaden sky. Hecould see, too, that the water was rising higher andhigher, and that the space between the level of thewater and the center of the tunnel vaulting was lessthan two feet.

The monk flung off his habit and jumped down intothe torrent. It almost touched his arm-pits. Thewaters were icy cold; but this troubled him less thantheir headlong violence which threatened to sweep himaway.

He entered the tunnel. As it was barely five feetfrom floor to keystone, the broad-shouldered giant hadto hump his back and to work himself along in a frog-likeposture. More than once stones, bowled along bythe force of the flood, struck cruelly at his feet andankles, and it was only by clutching with bleedingfingers at the sides of the vault that he could make thesmallest headway. Even while he was escaping fromit the water went on rising: and it was with drippinglocks, and with eyes and ears full of muddy water,that he finally broke out into the free air.

The rain was pouring down so torrentially as heclimbed up to the bank that he would have been asdry in the middle of the stream. As for his clothes,which he had rolled up as usual and laid behind abush, he knew they must be wetter than his skin.Still, there was nothing for it but to scramble intothem and dash for home. Antonio stooped to pickup the bundle.

It was gone.

In a flash he knew that Man as well as Nature hadcome to fight him. The instinct of danger made himspring back from the water and clench both fists tostrike. And he had hardly a second to wait Like abeast from its lair, a black body sprang at him out ofthe pouring trees.

The staggering suddenness of its onslaught nearlyflung Antonio to the ground. Before he knew whatwas happening, his assailant had dragged him to withina yard of the stream's edge and was making ready toshove him into the swirling water. But the monk gothis grip just in time; and the stranger, fearful ofmeeting the end he had planned for Antonio, lurchedback over the sodden grass.

Locked together, both men paused for breath. Inone point Antonio had the advantage. He was atease in thin cotton undergarments, while his adversarywas encumbered by soaked garments of peasant stuffand cut. On the other hand, the stranger was freshfor the fray, whereas Antonio's battling against theflood in the tunnel had broken his wind. Meanwhile,to cool them for the second round, the stinging rainthrashed down impatiently upon them both.

With a tremendous rally of strength Antonio hurledthe other away from him and then rushed in like lightningto get a better grip. He succeeded; and little bylittle he began to crush his foe down upon the sloppyground. He had no relish for manslaughter even inself-defense; and, instead of thrusting him into thestream, he sought only to pin the stranger down withhands and knees and to make him give satisfaction forhis murderous onrush. But the monk's strengthbegan to fail him. His half-frozen feet werebleeding, his heart was thumping against his ribs, theveins on his forehead stood out like thick string, andhis breath came and went in quick, thick gasps.

The stranger felt his opportunity; and, inch by inch,Antonio was dragged, pushed, shouldered, butted,elbowed, kneed back to the torrent's brim. But theground was slippery: and both the wrestlers slitheredand crashed down heavily.

They were up again in a twinkling, facing eachother with intent eyes. The stranger's shoulders werebent and his hands touched his knees as he crouchedfor a second spring. At the sight of him a white flashof memory blazed across Antonio's mind. Thosetigerish eyes, those hunched shoulders, those great,terrible hands outspread upon those clumsy knees—hehad seen them all before. By this time his eyes wereused to the dusk and mist, and he knew he was notdeceived: for he could discern a wound on thepeasant's cheek. Before the other had time to make hispounce, the monk cried out in imperious tones:

"Hold. I know you. We are friends!"

"Friends?" hissed the stranger. "Pretty friends!I don't make friends with thieves and atheists."

All the same, his taut muscles relaxed. Antonio'stone had awed him a little, and Antonio's words hadpuzzled him a great deal. His shoulders unbent andhe did not spring.

"I am not an atheist and I am not a thief," saidAntonio sternly. "But even thieves and atheists are notso bad as murderers. Why have you tried to drownme in this torrent?"

"Because you're a spy and a blasphemer and arobber."

"Tell me your name," the monk demanded. Andwhen the other only responded by a threateninggesture he added: "Never mind. I know it already.You are called José. You live at Pedrinha dasAreias."

The peasant's clenched hands dropped open at hissides, and he gave a low cry of astonishment andfright.

"You fought with Dom Pedro at the siege ofOporto," continued the monk. "It was there you losttwo fingers from your left hand. Wait. I haven'tfinished. Nearly four years ago you were one of thetroop which came to drive the monks out of thisabbey. You were sent back home for quarreling withanother soldier about religion. You rode back toOliveira on your own horse. Now, I ask you again, whyhave you tried to murder me?"

"It's a lie that I came here to drive out monks,"cried the peasant, nearly choking with anger. "Ididn't know we'd been sent on such dirty work."

"Why have you tried to murder me?"

"Because ... because you're in the pay ofthat accursed Viscount. Murder you? Yes, Godhelping me, I'll do it this minute!"

"God is not helping you, and you won't do it thisminute," said Antonio calmly. "Now that I've gotback my wind you haven't a ghost of a chance. Youlost two fingers fighting, like a brave man, at Oporto.Understand. If there's no other way, I shall have totwist either your right wrist or your left ankle tokeep you quiet. So—"

His mouth was stopped by José's lightningonslaught. Once more they rocked to and fro in aterrible embrace. But Antonio had spoken the truth.His wind had come back, and there was no chance forJosé. Within forty seconds the monk had his manfairly down. He pinned him, face upwards, on thegrass, kneeling upon his thighs and gripping hisshoulders with hands like steel. And all the time thestreaming rain came pouring, pouring, pouring down.

"José," began Antonio, in a voice of infinite pityand kindness, "my poor friend—"

A horrible imprecation broke from the writhingpeasant. It was the more frightful to hear because itso evidently came from lips which rarely cursed orswore.

"José," the monk commanded, altering his tone, "inthe name of Jesus Christ I charge you to listen. I amyour friend. I am not in the pay of the Viscount ofPonte Quebrada. I was in the abbey to-night simplyto pray and to worship God."

But José was staring at him with wide eyes. Thehatred had died out of his face, and he struggledhard to seize some elusive memory. Suddenly hecried:

"Tell me. That night. There were young monks,two monks, at the gate. One coughed and was likedeath. The other ..."

He paused and looked at Antonio with eyes thatyearned. The monk started. If he answered, hissecret would be out. Yet how could he be silent? Aninward voice bade him answer freely.

"I was the other monk," he said. "In the monasterythey called me Father Antonio."

As he spoke he released his captive and stood up.José stumbled to his feet like a man dazed, and facedAntonio in the rain with bent head and fidgetinghands.

"Give me my clothes," ordered the monk.

The peasant drew forth an almost dry bundle ofclothes from a hollow tree and would have helpedAntonio to put them on. But the monk waved him asideand was soon inside the garments.

"Follow me," he said.

In spite of his bleeding feet he set a breakneck pacedown the hill. At the boundary wall of the abbey,where the torrent foamed through the broken arch, hehalted; and if the pair had not been able to leap fromboulder to boulder like mountain-goats they could nothave regained the open heath. The night grewblacker; and twice or thrice, where there were patchesof clay, they slipped and fell. But no bones werebroken; and in less than three quarters of an hourfrom the beginning of their fight the two men were atAntonio's door.

II

The heap of pine-cones burning on Antonio's narrowhearth crackled pleasantly and gave out fragrantvapors. But, as the monk crouched over it chafing hisnerveless hands, he could not help thinking of theblaze he had seen in the vast fireplace of a famous oldEnglish banqueting-hall at the close of a chilly, rainyday. The recollection increased his resentmentagainst the shaggy José, who was waiting for his newmaster's word as meekly as a drenched sheep-dog ona moor. Antonio's pity was submerged for the momentunder his disgust at having had to fight for life,half-naked, in a tropical downpour.

"Here are some dry clothes," he said sharply, openinga chest and throwing out the suit in which he hadridden to Villa Branca. And, while José was changing,he stamped upstairs to do the same.

Antonio boasted three suits in all. The oldest wasthe dripping raiment he was actually wearing—theclothes which José had bundled into the hollow tree.The second was the suit he had lent to his guest. Thethird was the masterpiece in broadcloth which aLondon tailor had made at the expense of Messrs. Crowberryand Castro for Antonio's memorable journey.Over and above these the monk possessed his habit.

It was a choice between the patched, rusty-blackhabit or the fine gentleman's broadcloth. Antoniohesitated. At last he put on the habit and returnedto the kitchen.

José, awkward in his town-made clothes, stoodwaiting. From the extreme of bloodthirstiness he hadpassed to the extreme of sheepishness: and, as Antonioentered in his monkish garb, he retreated a step andwent down clumsily on his knees as if he saw a prieston his way to the altar.

"Get up," said Antonio. "I am wearing my monk'shabit simply because my clothes are wet. Get up.Nearer the fire. Sit down. Tell me why you were atthe abbey to-night."

José got up and approached the hearth, where heseated himself on the keg which was Antonio's second-beststool. But he remained tongue-tied. The monkrepeated his question.

"Your Reverence—" began José. Then his tonguewas tied once more.

"Never mind 'Your Reverence' just now," saidAntonio, more kindly. "Tell me a plain tale. Whatwere you doing at the abbey? Why did you try todrown me before you gave me a chance to explain?It is a serious matter. If I'd been a weaker man, atthis moment you would be a murderer."

"I did wrong, Father," said José humbly. "ButGod knows I thought I was doing right. I thoughtyour Reverence had found out about the things andthat he'd come to steal them."

"What things?"

"The things the Viscount of Pont' Quebrad' buriedin the ground."

Antonio started violently. He paced the room.Then he hurried back to the fireside and said:

"Wait. We must understand one another. Whenwe monks were driven out, all those things were stillin the sacristy. All I know about the Viscount buryingthem in the ground is this. One night in Oportoa gentleman from Lisbon told me that the Viscountand the captain had pretended to bury them. He saidthe Viscount was a wonderful play-actor. But he toldme that all Lisbon believed he had never buried themat all. He had smuggled them out of the country."

"That's what everybody thinks, Father," saidJosé, so eagerly that his tongue was fairly loosened."And the Viscount had to leave Portugal. But hedidn't steal the things at all. Only he tried to: so hedeserved to be punished all the same. Didn't he,Father?"

"He did. But I don't understand."

"It was this way, Father. The captain—may Godbless him, he was a fine man till he met the Viscount—thecaptain, he ordered me to go home. That nightI rode as far as Oliveira, five leagues from Pedrinha.There I found that my mother was dead. May Godrest her soul! I felt I couldn't go home; so I sold myhorse in Oliveira for sixty-seven milreis. I only gottwo milreis for the saddle because it belonged to theGovernment. Still, they owed me my pay, didn'tthey, Father?"

"Get on, get on," snapped Antonio. "What has allthis to do with the Viscount and the things?"

"When I'd sold the horse I came back to the abbey.I wanted to see what became of the monks and whetherthe Viscount would beat the Abbot. It took me allday, tracking over the mountains. In the middle ofthe afternoon I saw the monks down at the bottom ofthe hill marching to Navares, with some of our men onhorses. But I didn't turn back. I had a score tosettle with Sergeant Carvalho, if he hadn't gone toNavares. It was all on account of Ferreira, the fatcorporal. Only myself knows how—"

"You came back to the abbey over the mountains.Go on."

"I didn't dare walk in at the gates, so I waited tillit was dark and climbed the wall in the wood behindwhat they call the guest-house. It was nearlymidnight. As I got near the guest-house, I heard voicesamong the trees. There were two men, with a darklantern."

"The Viscount and the captain?"

"Yes, Father. They were digging, in their shirtsleeves,only the captain was doing all the work. Ithought it was strange, Father; so I crawled alongsoftly and hid myself where I could see what theywere doing. When the hole was dug they went intothe trees. The Viscount trod on the brim of my hat,but he didn't see it. They came back with some flatboxes and put them in the hole. The captain went towork very hard to fill the hole up again; but theViscount swore at him and said: 'The more dirt you chuckin now the more we shall have to shovel out to-morrownight.' So they filled it in loose and covered it up withdead leaves. Then they hid the spades in the bushesand went away."

"And you didn't?"

"I stayed, Father. I knew they had been buryingwhat was not theirs. So I found one of the spadesand unburied the boxes and carried them on my headto a sand-pit that I'd tumbled into when I climbed overthe wall. I buried them there, in loose sand, whereone place looked just like another."

"That was clever," said Antonio. "Go on."

"All the next day I lay hiding, with only one pieceof bread to eat and water to drink. But I was glad Ihadn't gone away. At night they came again, withropes and canvas. They began talking about somemules, and the Viscount kept mentioning a name thatI can't remember; only I know it wasn't Portuguese.Then they raked off the dead leaves and starteddigging. But, oh, Father! I wonder they didn't find meand skin me alive, because when they saw the hole wasempty, I nearly burst myself to keep from laughing.They would have heard me, sure enough, if theyhadn't fallen to quarreling. In the end the Viscountsaid the captain had stolen a march on him, and hecalled him a—"

"Never mind what he called him."

"At that the captain struck the Viscount in the face.I was frightened then. I thought there was going tobe murder. But all of a sudden they made up thequarrel and the captain said: 'What are we going todo?' The Viscount said: 'Those thieves of monkshave hidden it, and we'll find it, or some of them shallswing for it.' But the captain said: 'What if wecan't find it? What about the Government?' TheViscount said: 'That's easy. When the van and themen come from Lisbon we'll bring them to this hole.We can take our Bible oath, both of us, that we buriedit here ourselves, for fear of treachery among the men:and we can swear that we haven't the ghost of an ideawho has taken it away. But we'll find it to-night ifwe search till morning; and next week it shall be inEngland, safe and sound.' Then they took thelantern to begin hunting: so I picked myself up andslipped off to the sand-pit."

"And they didn't follow?"

"Not at once, Father. They did not come there tillday-break. But the sun the day before had dried allthe sand the same color. They stuck in sticks bothsides of the right place: but they didn't find it."

José ceased.

"And what happened next?"

"I don't know, Father. Some say the Marquisalmost made people believe he was dumbfounded whenthe new soldiers from Lisbon dug in the hole. Butthat can't be right; because he left the hole open. Ionly know that people said he had never put thethings in the hole at all, and he had to leave Portugal,and the captain was turned out of the army. That'sall."

Antonio took two more turns up and down the roombefore he demanded:

"Where are the things now?"

José's face clouded; and his eyes, which had burnedbrightly with excitement during his recital, weresuddenly dulled by trouble. A few moments later hebecame visibly ashamed of his suspiciousness, and hewould have begun stammering a speech if Antonio,who could read the whole of his simple mind, had notsaid:

"Wait. I understand. You believe our Lord sentyou to snatch back His own from wicked men. Fornearly four years you have guarded the treasure like afaithful watch-dog, and now you hesitate to trust me.It is natural."

José stared in wonder at this mysterious monk,who knew his thoughts even better than he knewthem himself.

"But listen," Antonio went on. "For nearly fouryears I too have guarded a secret. The night whenyou dug up the boxes, José, that same night was thelast night the world saw me as a monk. Like you, Ilay all that night under the trees. Since then theworld has known me as a clerk, a wine-grower, acommercial traveler, a farmer. But to-night, as soon asyou asked me for my secret, I gave it. You are theonly man in the world who knows that the owner ofthis little farm is the monk Antonio. Still, althoughI've told you my secret, that does not force you to tellme yours."

José stirred uneasily.

"This is what I propose," concluded Antonio. "Iwill swear to you, here and now, a solemn oath that ifyou tell me your secret I will never reveal it until themonks return. And you, on your part, shall swearthat you will not breathe a hint of my own secret to aliving soul."

"The things are buried in the cloister," José blurtedout. "There are graves there, under the stones, butthey haven't all got monks inside. I lifted up agravestone with no printing on it and I put the boxes in.It's on the north side, to the left, just opposite thelittle Moses in the bulrushes."

"I thank you, José, and I admire you," said Antonio,pressing the huge hand. "All the same, we willswear our oaths. It will make both of us easier in ourminds."

A small book of the Gospels, printed in the vernacular,lay on the table. Antonio placed his hand uponit, and swore in clear words and solemn tones that hewould keep the secret of the buried boxes. The oathhe dictated to José was longer and more picturesque.Before framing it he elicited the names of the saintswhom José's family had most delighted to honor.Eventually the young peasant swore himself to secrecyby the holy Gospels; by the true faith of a Christian;by Nossa Senhora dos Remedios de Lamego; by SanTorquato of Guimarães; by San Braz; by San Pedrod' Alcantará; by the Pope's three crowns; by hismother's memory; and by his own hopes of eternalsalvation. Antonio felt a qualm or two in enouncingsuch a formula: but did not the success of his life'swork demand that José should be held back from hisown impulsiveness by every chain his faith couldforge?

When the oaths had been sworn, Antonio went tothe door. The rain had ceased and a few stars wereglinting weakly in the watery sky.

"Hadn't you better go, while it is fair?" he said toJosé. "Never mind about the clothes. Bring themback when your own are dry, and we will finish ourtalk."

But José did not hasten forth. "If you please,Father," he said awkwardly, "I'd ... I'drather stay here."

"Stay here?"

"Yes. I'd like to be your servant, Father. AndI'd like to learn to be a monk."

Antonio stopped on the brink of half-derisive,half-angry laughter. He remembered the apostle'sinjunction: "Strengthen the feeble-minded." Thisdull-witted hind had acted, after all, like a Christian hero;and Antonio suddenly said to himself: "He has themind of a little child; but of such are the Kingdom ofHeaven."

"A monk, José?" he echoed, kindly. "Not yet, Ifear. Why, only to-night you tried to murder me.Even Saint Dominic, who founded his Order to fightagainst the enemies of our religion, would not haveapproved of you up there in the rain. But you sayyou would be my servant. How? What about yourown farm?"

"They cheated me out of it, Father—the lawyers.I got only two hundred milreis. I work at a cooper'sin Navares: but it is all indoors, and trade is so slackhe only keeps me on out of charity. He would beglad if I didn't darken the door again. I would liketo be your servant."

Antonio walked once more to the door and lookedout. The sky was clearing. High in the East,encircled by creamy cloud-banks, he could see one stretchof blue, as blue as a tarn set deep in mountain snows;and in the midst of it shone a great soft star. Thenhe remembered that this was the feast of the ThreeKings. He recalled the antiphon he had recited inthe day's Office, Stella ista sicut flamma coruscat:"Like as a flame doth that Star sparkle and showethGod, the King of Kings. The Wise Men beheld it,and to the great King they offered their gifts." Oughthe, Antonio, to offer as gifts to the King hisdearly-prized solitude, his monastic silence, hisstudious privacy, in order that he might reward this simplesoul and shield it from the world? He first bowed hishead; then raised it to the star, craving heavenly light.

"Can I stay, Father?" persisted José, doggedly.

"You can stay," said Antonio, with his eyes stillfixed on the star in the East.

III

José stayed. Before February came in, he was achanged man. The unshared secret of the buriedboxes had been too big and too heavy for his rusticwits, and had forced him into an unnatural attitude oftaciturnity and suspiciousness. But no sooner had heshifted the burden of responsibility to Antonio's broadshoulders than his innate gaiety returned. The war,his wounds, his mother's death, and the loss of hisfarm had conspired to congeal José's heart and to sealhis lips; and for years he had not sung a song rightthrough. But one sunny morning, as he was workingamong the orange-trees, a knot in his brain seemed toslip free, and he began to pipe like a bird.

Antonio did not regret his sacrifice. José was anall-round farmer, with an eagerness for work whichmade him worth his weight in silver. In his nativeparish of Pedrinha das Areias he had learned the artof treating vines after the fashion of the growers inCollares, the famous vine-land near Cintra. In orderto profit by his skill, Antonio bought, for thirtypounds, a straggling parcel of land alongside theAtlantic. There José and he planted chosen vines. Theleafless canes, protruding from the sand, wore ahopeless look in winter: but they were well-rooted in thesubsoil, and, when the summer suns began to burn, acovering of sand six feet thick kept the roots so moistand cool that the leaves were green and fresh long afterthe other vines looked parched and dry.

Antonio, however, was grateful for José not only asa farm-servant, a fellow-vintner, and a cooper. Morethan once, while the peasant's cheerful voice wascaroling out old songs of love and war, Antonio foundhimself saying, "Non est bonum esse hominem solunt:'It is not good for man to be alone.' After all, I am amonk and not a hermit."

José's quarters were in the outbuildings, where heenjoyed a bedroom much larger and more cheerfulthan his master's. He ate his morning meal alone:but, when the day's work was over, the two men dinedtogether in the principal room of the farm-house.Dinner was always served ceremoniously. Even onfast-days, when it was merely an eight-ounce supperof wine and dark bread, both master and servant puton black coats and soft white collars. After dinnerAntonio generally sat down to read. He subscribedto two English periodicals—a weekly paper and aquarterly review—so that, in the event of his visitingEngland again, he might not be out of touch with hishosts' thought and life. Meanwhile José would sitnear the lamp or the window, carving one of the newbits of furniture with which he was gradually beautifyingthe little house. Later in the evening, a blackboardwas produced and Antonio proceeded withJosé's education.

As a schoolmaster Antonio was unconventional.José could neither read nor write his native language:but the monk began by teaching him Latin. Hetaught José to form large capital letters, which camemuch easier than a cursive script to his rough hands.At the very first lesson the pupil learned how to write,spell, and pronounce pater and mater, and how totranslate these words in the light of the Portuguesepadre and madre. Within a week, having masteredthe present indicative of amo and also the first andsecond declensions of nouns, he could print on theboard Pater amat filium, with the Portuguese equivalentO padre ama o filho in the line below. Antonioomitted mention of exceptional genders or inflexions,and discreetly concealed the existence of the subjunctivemood. He did not attempt to impart the Latinof Cicero but only a rough-and-ready lingua rusticawhich he hoped to polish at his leisure into thelanguage of the Missal and the Breviary.

Pride in his classical scholarship led José, one day ofLent, into an indiscretion. Upon a barn-door hecarved deeply with his knife "Pater Antonius" in bigletters and "Josephus" in smaller charactersunderneath. Antonio made him place a new panel in thedoor, after cutting out and burning the old one; and,at the same time, he reminded him sternly how he hadsworn never to let fall the remotest hint that hismaster was a monk.

To guard against any fatal slip of José's tongue,Antonio forbade his servant from that hour to callhim Father in any circ*mstances whatsoever. José'sface fell, and he said dolefully:

"I'd been hoping, Father—I mean, Senhor—tomake my Easter confession to your Reverence—Imean, to your Worship. Yes, and I'd been hopingthat your Rever—that your Worship might be sayinghis Easter Mass in the abbey chapel and that I mightserve it."

Antonio knew that he would only bewilder thehonest fellow's mind if he attempted to explainconfessors' faculties; and that it would be still worse toadmit that he, though a choir-monk, had not yet saidhis first Mass. So he simply shook his head, andreplied:

"No, José, we must fulfil our Easter duties, both ofus, in the parish church. These are bad times formonks in Portugal. And remember, above all, thatyou must give up calling me 'Your Reverence' and'Father.'"

Nevertheless the priest allowed the layman to sharemuch of his religious life. Before they parted for thenight they told their beads antiphonally. At dinner,when Antonio had said his Order's two-word gracebefore meat, Benedictus benedicat, he would edify Joséby relating some miracle or heroic act of the saint forthe day. On the mornings of Sundays and days ofobligation they tramped to the parish Mass together;and in the evenings they stole into the dim abbey andperformed their pious exercises in choir.

In the autumn of that year the two men pressedseventeen pipes of rough wine. After putting asidetwo pipes for their own consumption they sold off theremainder for fourteen pounds. As a result of graftingupon old roots Antonio also pressed about a dozengallons of good wine for his great experiment. Thispressing he jealously cellared in a little cask, of José'smaking, which had been for months under daily treatmentso that the wood should help rather than hurt thewine. Of course, the new vineyard on the sea-shorewas too young to yield a harvest: but the plants waxedand throve exceedingly.

While Antonio was thus busied, another vintage wasgoing forward almost under his eyes. One morning,about the middle of September, José rushed into thekitchen exclaiming that two women and three menwere openly and calmly picking the grapes in theneglected vineyards of the abbey, and that they hadsomehow opened the outbuildings where thewine-presses and vats were stored.

Antonio paced up and down the kitchen twentytimes before he could come to a decision. As thesecret guardian of the abbey, he could not ignore thesetrespassers, who, if they were unchallenged, mighteasily grow bolder until they committed some act ofdesecration. On the other hand, there were dangersattending his interference with people who might turnout to be acting in a legal manner. He decided,however, to go up to the abbey and use his own eyes.Before setting out he slipped into his pocket a goodHavana cigar, one of a boxful which had been pressedupon him in England.

The foreman of the vintagers was sitting in theshade of the monastery buildings, smoking a pipe ofBrazilian tobacco.

"Good days, Senhor," said Antonio in a friendlytone. "Your Worship is luckier than I am. I madethe Fazenda an offer for this vineyard, and theydidn't even ask me to sit down."

"The Ministerio da Fazenda in Lisbon?" asked theforeman.

"No, in Villa Branca."

The foreman laughed a meaning laugh, Antoniochanged his ground.

"We're pressing about twenty pipes down there inthe valley," he said pointing out the farm. "But it'spoor stuff. The vines have been neglected for years."

"So have these," the foreman grumbled. "Yetwe're expected to take home wine fit for the Queen."

Antonio described his experiment in the vineyard onthe sea-shore, and asked for the foreman's opinion andadvice so deferentially that the man was pleased andflattered. When the monk rose to go the foremansuddenly said:

"The Senhor mustn't say I told him. But Idon't wonder the chief of the Fazenda at Villa Brancabowed him out. The chief takes every grape in thisvineyard every year, by his own authority, withoutpaying a vintem to anybody. That's how Portugalis robbed. We might as well have Dom Miguel backagain."

A burden rolled from Antonio's heart. So long asthe Villa Branca official had an interest in snubbing offpossible leasers or buyers the monastery would be safe.He readily promised never to reveal the source fromwhich he had learned so spicy a secret; and, afterdeeply impressing the foreman by giving him a cigarwhich had truly seen both Cuba and England, hereturned home.

The day Antonio received payment for the sale ofhis rough wine he tendered José his wages. In ruralPortugal a servant's annual wages ranged from fourand a half to five and a half pounds a year, with theaddition of a coarse cloak every second year. Antoniooffered José the price of a cloak and five pounds.

"This money," said José, holding it in his hand, "istaken from your Worship's savings—the money that'sto buy back the abbey?"

"It is your own, fairly earned," the monk responded."Mind you don't lose it. Have you a safe placeto keep it?"

"Yes," said José promptly. "I shall bury it."

Antonio laughed. "You're like a fox," he said."How many cemeteries have you?"

With some pride, José admitted, in mysterioustones, that he had three distinct and untraceablehiding-places, not counting the grave in the abbey-cloisterswhere he had buried the boxes. Becoming more atease, he finally asked leave to ease his mind of anoppressive secret. Deep in a drift of sand near the newvineyard he had laid away one hundred pounds—theround remainder of moneys he had received for hishorse and his farm and from a small legacy. Blushingat his own presumption, he begged Antonio to lethim add this sum to the English pounds which hismaster was hording up for the abbey's redemption.Antonio, deeply touched, agreed to accept the money:but only on condition that José should be allowed aclear year in which to alter his mind.

Had Antonio been giving one hundred pounds insteadof receiving it, José could not have been moregrateful. But he had still something to ask.

"Since I saw those men and women up there in thevineyard, I'm not easy at nights," he said. "I'mthinking the boxes ought to be buried in our owngarden. And, if I can have the cart and the bullock,I'll dig up everything that I've got and bring it here."

During the next dark night the two men opened thegrave in the cloisters and brought away the boxes,which they reburied in a dry place within sight ofJosé's window. The morning after, José set out in thebullock-cart, with a spade, a dark lantern, somesacking, and two empty barrels hidden under a heap ofstraw.

He was away two days. When he returned it waswith so abashed an air that Antonio thought the hidingplaces had been found empty. But the lifting of thestraw told a different tale. Although José had lost hisfarm, he had saved the household gods and heirlooms.There were two carved coffers filled with fine linen; abox of old Portuguese faience in which the Persianinfluence was still strong; five musty books of fustypiety; a fowling-piece, much more dangerous to thesportsman than to the game; and some great, round,solid, honest vessels of copper and pewter which shone,after José had polished them, like suns and moons.

IV

Three years' hard labor turned Antonio's tangledvineyards and languishing orangeries into an earthlyparadise. The red roses nearly covering the whitewalls of his golden-thatched farm-house, the roundplot of well-kept turf in front, the bright flower-bedsand the trim gate, gave quite an English appearance tothe little farmstead. All the potsherds and rubbishhad been removed from the bed of the stream, whilethe cascades and pools had been made fewer andgrander. Trellises, pergolas, and arches everywhereshowed that José had been no less industrious than hismaster.

Up in the village the gossips had plenty of news tokeep them busy. The successive arrivals of Antonio'swine-press from France, of his vine-slips fromvineyards all over Europe, and of his books and papersfrom England were so many nine-days' wonders.Fifty wild stories were set going as to his parentage,his past, and his prospects: but it never enteredanybody's head that he had dwelt for years, almost in theirmidst, as a monk of Saint Benedict.

Antonio was regular in church-attendance: but hetook care to conceal nearly all his piety. For example,he denied himself the consolation of occasionallyserving the cura's Mass, lest his good Latin and hisintelligent grasp of every point in the ritual should betrayhim. He communicated more frequently than wasusual in the parish: but no one ever thought ofnumbering him among those few devotees in the villagewho were profanely called os beatos e as beatas—theSaints and Blessed Ones.

What interested the parish much more than Antonio'sreligion was Antonio's prosperity. It becameknown that every hectare of his long-neglectedvineyard was earning a hundred per cent more than anyother hectare within ten leagues. It was also knownthat he was distilling a new kind of orange brandy formedicinal use, which he exported to Rio de Janeiro ata high price. Rumor said that, when his sea-sandvineyard should begin to bear fruit, Collares wouldsink to the second place. Most wonderful of all, itwas known that the cellars at Antonio's farm containedsome curious wooden racks in which two or threehundred bottles of blended white wine were standing ontheir heads. This blended white wine, according to avillager who did occasional work at the farm underJosé, was intended to rival French champagne, afamous but mysterious beverage which no native of theparish had ever drunk or seen.

Upon the undeniable fact of Antonio's prosperitythe gossips naturally proceeded to erect fantasticprophecies about his matrimonial intentions. Notongues wagged concerning José. Had the gossipsknown of his hundred pounds, his copper and pewterand fine linen, the case would have been different; but,if they thought of him at all, they regarded him as awild-eyed, eccentric boor who might go mad at anymoment, and was certainly better without a wife tobeat or murder. Antonio, however, was worth thegossips' while. During his first year in the parish theymentally married him off to Joanna Quintella, a widowwho had lost her husband in the civil wars. Joannawas hardly thirty, had not outlived all her good looks,and was possessed of nearly sixty pounds.

This was just after the monk had sold off his firstpressing of wine for fourteen pounds. But, with thegrowth of his prosperity, his prospective bridesadvanced in importance. The gossips jilted poorJoanna and betrothed Antonio successively to CatharinaRodrigues de Barros Lopes, the farrier's seconddaughter; to Maria da Conceiçao d'Araujo, the cura'syounger sister; and to Beatriz Amelia Martins, whohad lived six months in Lisbon with her sister, the wifeof a customs-house officer. But when it leaked outthat Antonio went nearly every month to the bank inVilla Branca with drafts from Oporto, Rio de Janeiro,and even London, the match with Donna Beatriz wasbroken off.

Within the wide boundaries of the parish only onebride remained: but, for a time, not one of the gossipswas presumptuous enough to link her name withAntonio's. Ever since she began coiling up her hair, ithad been taken for granted that her father would haveto go to Villa Branca or, at the very least, to Navaresin order to find a sufficiently important husband forMargarida Clara Maria dos Santos Rebolla. When,however, the apothecary received an invoice fromLisbon charging him half a pound for a single bottle ofchampagne the maiden's fate was sealed. Theinquisitive crowd who paid the apothecary three vintensa head for a spoonful of the champagne were disgustedwith their bargain: but when the apothecary'sarithmetic was applied to Antonio's case they recoveredtheir spirits and unanimously made over MargaridaClara Maria to the young Croesus of the valley whowas about to gild the parish with glory.

Margarida's parents were not surprised on learningwhat the parish expected of them; for had they notalready brooded long and earnestly over the same plan?Not to mention the Babylonian wickedness of VillaBranca and Navares, town husbands were not acceptableto the worthy couple, because town fortunes, townincomes, town reputations, lay too much at the mercyof the politicians. Indeed, Senhor Jorge Maria dosSantos Rebolla held politics in so much horror that hewould not seriously entertain the idea of Antonio as ason-in-law until he had satisfied himself that the youngvintner was unpoisoned by factious doctrines.

Senhor Jorge made his inquiries in person. On anOctober afternoon, just after the heavier labors of thevintage were ended, he called upon Antonio and askedhim to sign a petition for the replacement of a bridgewhich had been swept away on the terrible night ofAntonio's fight with José. The monk received hisvisitor with honor and without suspicion. He knew himas an estimable lavrador, or large farmer: but he hadnever heard of Margarida. Outside his church-going,Antonio had no dealings with the village.

When the monk had subscribed his name of daRocha to the petition, the lavrador thanked him androlled it up.

"Not that it will do any good," he added. "In thisparish we've never learned to crawl up the sleeves ofpoliticians. Ah! When the last politician is dead,Portugal will come to life again."

Antonio said nothing. But Senhor Jorge did notdesist. To catechise a stranger about his politicalopinions was always a breach of good manners, and inPortugal it was still dangerous. Nevertheless thelavrador continued:

"Senhor, everybody says you are a clever man.You have been in England and France and Spain and,some say, in Brazil. You have seen many things. Iam not a Miguelista; but I want to know if we areany better off under the Liberals."

Antonio took time to think. When he had decidedthat there was nothing to lose by frankness he said:

"Your Worship is older than I, and far wiser. Buthere is my answer. I, too, am no Miguelista. IfLiberalism truly meant equal freedom and justice forall, I should be a Liberal. But Liberalism in Portugalis only a name. Your Worship speaks of Englandand France. I have traveled in those countries. Onefrosty morning, two hundred years ago, the Englishcut off their King's head with a sharp axe in the nameof Liberty: but the Englishmen who did that deedequaled the king before long in oppression andintolerance. Fifty years ago, in the name of Liberty, someFrenchmen guillotined the King of France: but I haveseen a French river where, a few months afterwards,the men who did that deed drowned barge-load afterbarge-load of those who held other opinions. Yes,your Worship. In a single town, in four months,nearly ten thousand were shot or drowned—more thanthe tyrant Miguel put to death in all Portugal, in allhis unhappy career."

"Then the Senhor does not believe in Republics?"asked the lavrador.

"If all our citizens were good and wise and inpossession of the whole truth," answered Antonio, "aRepublic would be the best form of government. Butthe Portuguese are no more fit than the French forsuch an experiment. Nay, I will go further. ThePortuguese are not ripe even for the English kind ofParliament. Our deputies are not the true choice ofthe people. They fill their pockets with the people'smoney; and their empty quarrels poison the nation'sblood. But I have said too much. After all, what do Iknow of politics? I leave politics alone, and..."

He weighed his words. When he uttered them,they came softly and slowly.

"As for me," he said, "I hope to serve Portugal insome better way."

The lavrador had not understood every word Antoniosaid, but he felt sure he was on the right side.He rose up with an approving nod and very modestlyasked if he might have a sight of his host's famousvineyards and cellars.

Antonio, who was always willing to exhibit andexplain everything to any serious inquirer, rich or poor,gladly consented. He made it plain, as they walkedround the property, that he had introduced no noveltiesfor novelty's sake, and he was able to give a goodreason for every departure from local practice.

On the whole the lavrador was appreciative; butthe champagne worried him. He would have preferredto see Margarida Clara Maria in the care of ahusband whose wine-bottles stood on their heels andnot on their heads. Still, inverted wine-bottles wereless detestable than topsy-turvy morals or politics.Antonio seemed to be respectably but not excessivelyreligious; he was healthy; he was industrious; he wasunencumbered by relatives; and, best of all, he wassuccessful. What more could be reasonably hoped forin a son-in-law? As Senhor Jorge said good-bye, hewrung Antonio's hand with a bargain-sealing gripwhich surprised the monk exceedingly.

The very next Sunday enabled Senhor Jorge andDonna Perpetua, his consort, to open their campaign.During the cura's sermon bursts of rain began lashingat the south windows of the church, and it was rainingsmartly when Mass came to an end. José borroweda grass-waterproof: but, although the servant couldwear this peasant's garment, the master's dignity as alanded proprietor forbade him to do likewise. SenhorJorge seized his opportunity, and insisted that Antonioshould take shelter in his house, which stood less thanhalf a mile from the church.

Gossip nudged gossip and busybody winked at busybodyas the two men hastened off together. But Antoniosaw neither the nudges nor the winks; and heentered the lavrador's domain talking freely offarming and of weather.

The buildings which met the monk's eyes were notlike a farm-house in England. As in England, theyformed three sides of a quadrangle: but there theresemblance ended. The square yard was coverednearly three feet deep with gorse-litter. The buildingsto the right and left housed cattle, horses,wine-presses, tools and stores of all kinds. The principalfaçade boasted two stories, the lower serving as a byre.The upper story made some architectural pretension.A broad flight of stone steps climbed up to it; and thefront door was set back in a three-arched loggia.

As Antonio mounted the steps he saw that blue andwhite tiles lined the inside of the loggia and that thestone floor had been newly whitened. His host pushedopen the nail-studded door, and they entered a largeroom lit by three windows in the further wall. Manydoors and door-posts crowded the two side-walls; andAntonio knew that these were the entrances tobedrooms not much bigger than his own old cell at theabbey. There were a few pieces of strong oldfurniture and some pots and crocks even more imposingthan José's: but there was no cheerful fire to dispel therawness and gloom of the stormy autumn day, and,altogether, the place lacked comfort.

Donna Perpetua received Antonio with an attentivecordiality greatly exceeding the utmost a mereweather-bound churchgoer had a right to expect; butthe monk ascribed her warmth to old-fashioned habitsof hospitality. One after another her three sons, Luiz,Gaspar, and Affonso, strode into the room. Afterexchanging greetings with the visitor they sat down, sideby side, and did not utter a word. Antonio turned tothem more than once with remarks or inquiries: but hecould get nothing in return save gasps, grins, andflushes. As Donna Perpetua and her husband werenot much more at their ease, the conversation soonlanguished; and, when Antonio perceived that he wasdoing all the talking, it ceased altogether.

Strangely enough, the whole family appeared to regardthe ensuing silence as a thing altogether naturaland seemly, like a silence in church. When it hadlasted long enough, Donna Perpetua arose from herchair in a curiously formal manner, and, going to oneof the side doors, called out, "Margarida!" But themonk, although he was vaguely conscious that the otherswere preoccupied and constrained, still suspectednothing.

The door opened, and Margarida Clara Maria dosSantos Rebolla came forward into the meager light.Antonia recognized her at once as a damsel he hadoften seen kneeling on the church floor in the frontrow of women. So far as his thoughts had ever engagedthemselves with her, she had interested him byher dark eyes and by the country bloom on her oliveskin. He remembered how, that very morning, shehad pleasantly filled in the picture of rustic piety.

Antonio rose as she entered. He saw that her headwas rather less attractive without the black lacemantilla she always wore in church. Her face was a littletoo broad and her abundant hair was braided tootightly. But, to make up for the mantilla, Margaridahad adorned her person with unfamiliar splendors.Of her fine lawn camisole only the snowy sleevescould be seen. The rest was hidden by an over-bodicerichly embroidered in many-colored wools. Herample apron was even more magnificent than thebodice. Its bold stripes, triangles, circles, stars andcrosses stood out nearly a quarter of an inch from thevelvet ground in wools of blue, orange, vermilion andgreen. The full skirt, rather short, revealed a pair ofserviceable ankles. Margarida's ribbed stockings werewhite, and there was more embroidery on her velvetslippers. But the maiden's chief glory was herjewelry. Heart-shaped filigree ear-rings, of gold purerthan an English sovereign, hung from her ears.These hearts were fully two inches long. Her threegolden necklaces sustained two more filigree hearts,each as long as her longest finger, and a solid goldcross set with colored stones. The greater part of herbelt was also built up from traceried squares andcircles of pure gold.

The monk feared that he had gazed too long andcuriously either at these gorgeous trappings or at theirwearer: for Margarida suddenly blushed crimson fromher topmost necklace to the roots of her black hair.Donna Perpetua pronounced a formula of introduction;but, overwhelmed by maidenly confusion, Margaridasaid nothing in answer to Antonio's few words.She fled to her mother's chair and huddled on a stoolbeside her.

There was another silence. But Antonio wasunperturbed. Not only long years before, as a youthin Portugal, but also during his journey with youngCrowberry, he had assisted at bourgeois and rich-peasantfunctions equally tiresome. Near Blaye, onthe Gironde, and again at a tertulia in Valladolid, hehad seen the men herding stupidly at one side of theroom while the women clung together at the other. Alook through the window told him that the rain hadceased; so he resolved to stay ten minutes more, fordecency's sake, and then to go home.

"Down in the valley we are less gay than this," hesaid to Donna Perpetua, without intending to beironical. "My man José and I are the only human beingswithin two miles."

Donna Perpetua threw a glance at her husband, asif to remind him of some pre-arrangement.

"If the Senhor is lonely," said the lavrador, "hemust come to our serões. On Thursdays, at the fullmoon. That means next Thursday, about seveno'clock. He will do us a great honor."

"He will indeed," added Donna Perpetua. "And ifhe plays the mandolin let him bring it with him."

Antonio knew that at the serões, or soirees, ofPortuguese farm-folk there was much lore to be learnedwhich one might search for vainly in libraries.Besides, it would hardly be neighborly to refuse aninvitation so heartily given and so kindly meant.

"All the honor," he said, "is on the other side. Iwill very gladly come."

Only at that moment did he discern the position.Donna Perpetua's glance at Margarida lasted not muchlonger than a flash of lightning; but, like a flash oflightning, it revealed the truth to Antonio. Thefurtive looks of Margarida's brothers, both at their sisterand at one another, confirmed the revelation; and theevident relief and satisfaction of Senhor Jorgeestablished it beyond a doubt.

Not without traces of hauteur in his manner andcurtness in his speech Antonio thanked his hosts fortheir hospitality and took his leave.

V

The monk strode homewards with wrath in his heart.At both their encounters Jorge dos Santos Rebolla haddeceived him by false pretenses. Antonio now understoodthat the petition for the new bridge was merelyan excuse for a spying visit to his little territory; andthe lavrador's solicitude for the dryness of Antonio'sskin was equally undisinterested. He had beentrapped into a compromising position before all theeyes in the parish, and he could hardly get out of itwithout giving pain to the unoffending Margarida,annoyance to himself, and an opportunity to thegossip-mongers of the village.

Besides, the affair was a blow to Antonio's pride.He had often recalled, with some complacency, hisskillful treatment of the young English beauty whogave him the hot-house flower, as well as his tacttowards other great ladies who had failed to dissembletheir regard. Yet here he was, enmeshed in thefirst net which a pair of rustic match-makers hadtroubled to spread. Again, if a Francisco ManoelOliveira da Rocha were free to wed, it would not bewith a daughter of Senhor Jorge.

He swung down the muddy track slashingmurderously with his thin English walking-stick at the wetbrambles. But Father Antonio had not ceased to be amonk. Every night he examined his conscience, andnearly all day long, in his endeavor toward perfection,he maintained a keen-eyed watch against theapproaches of sin. So he reined in his bitter thoughtswith sudden strength, and set himself to analyze theircauses. Experience had taught him how easilyun-Christian pride can be confused with righteous anger.

Before his trim white house rose into sight Antoniore-entered the state of grace, and was once more inlove and charity with all his neighbors. The results ofSenhor Jorge's proceedings were bound to be gravelyembarrassing; but his motives, after all, could not becalled disgraceful. It was a father's duty to secure hisdaughter's happiness; and Antonio could not deny thatSenhor Jorge's choice implied a certain compliment tohimself. Again, the lavrador could not be blamed forthe devices he was using to press the business forward.No one, save José, knew that a Benedictine monk wasliving on the borders of the parish; and probablySenhor Jorge thought he was doing a shy young bachelora service by taking charge of the courtship.

These charitable thoughts towards the people whohad drawn Antonio into a mess did not, however, helphim to get out of it. The slight coldness and stiffnessof his farewells could hardly have been noticed byDonna Perpetua and the family. And on Thursdaythey would expect him at their serão. What was heto do?

According to the cowardly and selfish rules ofworldly prudence, his only safe course was to shamsome illness or to invent some bogus call of businesswhich would enable him to evade the serão. But suchways were not Antonio's. He had given his promiseand he meant to keep it. Indeed, reflection convincedhim that the serão would give him his best opportunityof putting an end to the affair. Outside the churchSenhor Jorge had publicly compromised Antonio; atthe serão Antonio would publicly put himself rightagain. The parish should see that he was not awoman-hater and a hermit: but the parish should see, also,that he was not a marrying man.

About eight that night, as master and man werereturning from their usual Sunday evening exercisesin the abbey chapel, Antonio told José that he hadsheltered under Senhor Jorge's roof and that he hadpromised to assist at one of his serões. José trampedalong without replying: but it was plain he had acomment to make.

"Is there something you want to say, José?" askedAntonio. "If so, why don't you say it?"

After stumping on another twenty paces in silenceJosé grunted:

"Senhor Jorge has a daughter."

"I know. The Senhorita Margarida."

Although they were a third of a mile from homeJosé shut his mouth and did not open it again untilthey were in the house, with the door shut. Then hespoke.

"I ask pardon of your Reverence," he began,using the forbidden title with unconcealeddeliberation. "Your Reverence is a holy monk. Heunderstands Latin and French and English. Heunderstands oranges and grapes, and winepresses and stills,better than anybody else in Portugal. But he doesn'tunderstand all the ways of the world—especiallyyoung women."

"While you, José," retorted Antonio, "understandall the ways of the world—especially youngwomen—perfectly."

"I don't, Father," protested José in alarm, "andnobody else, either—may God help us all! But Iunderstand a thing here and a thing there. The truth is,Father—"

"Don't call me Father. The truth is what?"

"The truth is," replied José, in a mysterious whisper,"they want to find a husband for the SenhoritaMargarida."

"Go on."

"Senhor Jorge wants to find some one rich—likeyour Worship. And Donna Perpetua wants to find aborn gentleman—like your Worship."

"Not to beat about the bush," Antonio interrupted,"you mean that Senhor Jorge and Donna Perpetuawant ... me?"

José admitted it and began apologizing for hispresumptuous interference; but Antonio cut him short bysaying:

"You have done quite right to talk with me like this.Thanks. Never ask pardon for speaking plainly.Now we will eat our bread."

It was the custom of the two men to dine on Sundaysbefore going up to the abbey, and to eat a smallbroa, dipped in wine, on their return. They sat downto this simple supper, without any more words aboutMargarida, and confined themselves to arranging thefarm-work for the morrow. At half-past eight Josélit his lantern and went off to bed.

The monk made no haste to follow his example.The room was chilly after the rain: so he kindled afire of cork-cuttings and walnut-shells. It blazed uplustily, and José's copper and pewter reflected thecheerful light. Antonio blew out the useless candle,drew a chair up to the warmth, and sat down.

Outside, the stillness was profound. José, no doubt,had already fallen asleep. No dog barked, no bird ofnight cried. Even the Atlantic lay hushed.

From the heart of this silent loneliness the spirit ofAntonio fared forth, craving the company of livingmen. He thought first of his old companions, thefathers and brethren of his Order; of the Abbot, of theCellarer, of Sebastian, of Cypriano. But it was littlemore than an hour since he had walked past the doorsof their abandoned cells and had sat in the midst oftheir empty stalls; and, try as he might, he could onlythink of them as impalpable ghosts hovering over thedim and deserted abbey. Then he tried to think ofCrowberry, of the young Queen Victoria's nonchalantComptroller, of the clean-shaven, wiry, iron-willedDuke. But England seemed ever so far away, on theother side of a thousand miles of rain and darkness;and only one memory stood up warm and clear. Itwas the memory of that summer evening, when thevane on the gray church tower burned like a flame andwhen the blue smoke from the cottage hearths and thechildren's merry cries had suddenly turned the exilesick with yearning for love and home.

Yes. Although all other English memories werefaint, that one scene rebuilt itself before his mind'seyes, solid, richly colored, vocal. He saw once morethe cattle knee-deep in clear, purling waters beside thesteep old bridge, and he heard the rooks cawing. Itwas so like a happening of yesterday that he rememberedeven the chaff of Mr. Crowberry about his Portuguesesweetheart, Teresa or Dolores or Luiza, orCarmen or Maria.

Maria. Margarida was named Maria. MargaridaClara Maria. The syllables resounded in his brainlike tinkling cymbals. They revived that morning'sexperiences in the lavrador's house with so full anactuality that Antonio's mind-painting of the goldenEnglish village faded into gray and brown. Margarida.When Donna Perpetua called out her name shehad stepped forth; and now, once more, as Antoniobreathed it, she seemed to be advancing through thelonesome byways of his heart.

Perhaps the Rebollas were discussing him at thatvery moment. He tried to imagine Senhor Jorgeholding forth to his trio of inarticulate sons. But hefailed. The picture which his imagination persistedin painting was a picture of Donna Perpetua talkingto Margarida.

Donna Perpetua, like Senhor Jorge and the threedumb dogs of sons, was doubtless a worthy creature.But the picture looked better without her. Again, thecomfortless living-room of the lavrador made anunamiable background. Antonio's fire of cork-bark andnut-shells had sunk from a blaze to a glow, and thebright eyes of the polished copper vessels no longerwinked and peeped down upon his privacy. But theunwonted warmth, after the long walk in the fresh airand his draught of generous wine, made him drowsy.His will was no longer supreme. And so it came topass that a soft dream-shape stole in upon him and satdown on the other side of the hearth. Margarida.

Her presence seemed good to Antonio. Her voice,her cheeks, her arms, her movements were soft andgentle. She had great, mild, stupid, kind eyes, likethe eyes of the contented English kine beside the steepstone bridge. Margarida was brainless: but herbrainlessness rested his own brains, weary with plans andfears. Sitting beside her, without speaking, broughthealing to his fretted spirit. Margarida did notchallenge the soul to high romantic passion. She sat therenot like a proud maiden to be wooed and won throughstress and storm but more like a comely, cosy, docile,loving young matron. Antonio, ever drowsier anddrowsier, surrendered himself more and morecompletely to unheroic peace. He had battled for longyears in the teeth of bitter winds and icy currents: butat last he yielded himself up to the deliciousness ofdrifting down a summer stream, warmed by the sunand hardly ruffled by scented zephyrs.

Margarida seemed to have come nearer. She was atthe further end of the hearth no longer, but was sittingon one of José's carved coffers at his side. All theroom felt soft and silken. As Antonio's drowsy eyesclosed, his right arm sought Margarida's waist thathe might gently draw her to his breast....

He awoke in an instant and started up with a cry.For two or three moments his wits went on sleeping,and he could not say if he breathed in heaven or onearth or in hell. The fire had almost died out, and hewould have been standing in complete darkness if twodull, red eyes had not stared at him from the hearth.Antonio pressed agonizing hands against his throbbingtemples and moaned a broken prayer.

As he came to himself the door was flung open andJosé rushed in with a lantern. He had heard the cry.

"It is nothing," said Antonio. "I fell asleep in mychair, and I had ... I had a kind of nightmare."

"It's these new-fangled French wines of yourWorship's," José grumbled. "Give me honest green wine,old-fashioned Portuguese. It drowns your nightmaresbefore they are born."

VI

Antonio kept his promise and took part in theThursday serão at the farm of Senhor Jorge.

The monk's robust common-sense would not sufferhim to be tormented by false scruples. On thepreceding Monday, when he accomplished his daily dutyof self-examination, he had not failed to recall hisSunday night's surrender to the dream-maiden: but awell-instructed conscience acquitted him of blame.Antonio knew how to distinguish between the deliberatethoughts or imaginations of his waking momentsand the unbidden guests of his dreams. Under thesaintly Abbot he had studied perfection in a manlyschool where morbid super-sensitiveness could notexist an hour: and he was too keenly alive to his realfaults to accuse himself of fanciful sins. His drowsy,involuntary pleasure in the shadowy Margarida'spresence was not sin; it was only homesickness. All thesame he did not wish the vision to return: andtherefore he began to lay a new emphasis on the linesProcul recedant somnia, Et noctium phantasmata, when herecited the Compline hymn.

Having first ascertained that local usage permittedhim to do so, Antonio took José with him to the serão.The servant wore his Sunday clothes; the master hissecond-best. Both of them were glad that they hadspent some pains and time on their appearance; forthey were joined, half-way, by a fellow-guest in all theglory of feast-day raiment. In the bright moonlightthey recognized this sumptuous personage as oneEmilio Domingos Carneiro, the eldest son of a smallfarmer. Although he was on foot, he was appareledfor proud feats of horsemanship. Bright spurs stoodout from his tall jack-boots, and he wore a horseman'sjacket of black cloth, felted. His fine white shirtwas fastened by silver buttons, and a light red sashtopped his tight breeches. To make up for the steedwhich he did not possess, Emilio carried a business-likewhip.

At a cross-road the party picked up Emilio's twocousins, Joaquina and Candida Carneiro. Thesestrapping damsels wore green cloth skirts, large greensilk kerchiefs with the ends drawn cross-wise overtheir camisoles, and aprons of many colors. Theirhats were enormous. If the brims had not beencaught up to the pork-pie crowns by means of blue andyellow cords, they would have measured three feet indiameter.

As Antonio neared the threshing-floor where theserão was to be held, he noticed with satisfaction thatnot many of the guests had arrayed themselves afterthe fashion of the resplendent Carneiros. Most ofthose present had come to work as well as to play, andthey were dressed accordingly.

Donna Perpetua and her husband welcomed Antoniowith proprietary airs. Towards José they weresufficiently gracious, and Donna Perpetua expressed herpleasure at the sight of the speechless fellow'smandolin. Luiz and his brothers were already hard at playon the threshing-floor; but of Margarida nothing wasto be seen. Perhaps, thought Antonio, she was sittingamong the group of young men and women who werehusking maize on the sheltered side of the threshing-floor.

The night was warm and balmy. From the south-westa few clouds had begun to rise: but the roundmoon was riding free, high among the sparkling stars.A tinkling of guitars and the chattering and lightlaughter of youths and maidens rippled the surface ofthe enormous silence. The scene was almost as brightas day. Here a girl's gold ear-ring, there a man'sbuckles or buttons of old silver, caught and flung backthe faerie light. Some of the older women werespinning. Eight-pointed wooden wheels whirred round,buzzing like bees. A youth as handsome as a godlolled on a log, carving an ox-yoke. Where themaidens sat all together, the colors were like peaco*cks'tails and rainbows; and it was there that the moonlightlingered wantonly on plump arms and little ivoryhands.

A clapping of palms proclaimed the end of the game,and Luiz made haste to begin another. He andAffonso climbed up two poplars, one on the north sideof the threshing-floor, the other on the south; and tothese trees they tied the two ends of a thin rope, soas to stretch it at a height of eight or nine feet fromthe ground. Before making his end fast, Luiz passedit through the handle of a coarse brown jug. Descendingto the ground, he picked up a six-foot clothes-prop,made from the dried stalk of a giant cabbage,and with this he shoved the jug along the rope untilit dangled absurdly over the center of the floor. Thenhe produced a clean white handkerchief and sang outfor the first player.

The youth who had been carving the ox-yokedropped his work and leaped into the ring like a Greekathlete into the arena. Everybody clapped handsagain. The handkerchief was bound over his eyesand the light pole was placed in his hand. Luiz turnedhim three-quarters round; clutched his arm and walkedhim half-a-dozen paces this way and that; and then,retreating to the edge of the floor, began to count ahundred, loudly and quickly.

The handsome youth, with self-confidence apparentin every limb and muscle, stepped back, swung thepole around his head, and smashed mightily at thepoint where he thought the jug was hanging. Emptyair received the blow, and a burst of laughter mockedhim. Luiz went on counting, and many of the olderpeople counted with him, aloud. At forty the youthstruck again; but he was all at sea, and he was marchingfurther away from the line. At seventy, eighty-five,ninety he slashed thrice more; and at a hundredhe dragged off his bandage to find that he had walkednearly off the threshing-floor on the further side.Amidst applause, he came back, smiling pleasantly,and resumed his carving of the yoke.

Emilio was the next to try. This was his greatgame, and the four blows he struck were all within ayard of the jug. Once he missed it by less than ahand's breadth. But Emilio was not in luck, and heuncovered his eyes a little sulkily, only recovering hisgood spirits when six or seven players in successionfailed more signally than himself.

At last José put himself forward. Never havingseen the sport before, he had been loud in ridicule ofEmilio and the other pole-wielders. His career wasshort and inglorious. He cut fiercely at nothingbefore Luiz could count five. Then, losing his head, headvanced rapidly towards the bevy of young women,brandishing his weapon and laying about him rightand left. The girls sprang up screaming and took toflight. At thirty-seven José's feet struck a heap ofmaize-leaves and he came down tremendously, fulllength among the cobs. This was the kind of climaxto delight the rural mind; and the night was rent byshouts and shrieks of laughter.

Unhappily José was not a good loser. He struggledto his feet with that wild tigerish rage in hiseyes which Antonio had seen before; and if his masterhad not sprung to the rescue and murmured wordsin his ear there would have been trouble.

"It's nothing," said Antonio. "It's only a game.Stay here, where you are. And give me thehandkerchief. I'll try myself. Watch me while I make abigger fool of myself than all the rest of you put together."

The girls came flocking back as Antonio, advancingto a spot exactly under the jug, submitted to thebandaging of his eyes. He became conscious, at once, ofa different mood in the spectators. Nearly all thegabbling ceased. Everybody was gazing curiously at themysterious Senhor Francisco Manoel Oliveira daRocha, the man who had trod the golden streets ofLondon, the man who caused bottles of wine to beworth three milreis each by standing them upon theirheads, and, above all, the man who was going to marryMargarida dos Santos Rebolla.

The counting began. To the blindfolded man it hadan uncanny sound; for nine-tenths of the onlookerswere chanting the numbers with Luiz in a subdued,expectant sing-song. But he kept his senses abouthim. During the few moments while Luiz wasturning him round and pushing him about, Antonio hadbent his whole mind to the business of smashing thejug. Not that he expected or even wished to smash it.On the contrary, he had come forward determined tofail. But it was part of his nature to do with all hiswits and might whatever he took in hand.

Luiz bawled out twenty before Antonio made hisfirst stroke. He did not touch the jug; but neitherdid he thwack the vacant air, for he distinctly felt therebound of the pole's tip from the rope. He moved apace to the right and struck again; but the poleencountered nothing. Meanwhile he knew that he hadcome near to victory, because the sing-song of thespectators had suddenly grown sharper and moreexcited. He went back half a step and swept the spaceabove him with a curving stroke as Luiz reached sixty-three.

So uproarious a shout arose that Antonio did nothear the jug break, and he thought for a half a secondthat, in fulfilment of his prophecy to poor José, he hadmade himself the supreme fool of the evening. But,a twinkling later, the broken pieces crashed loudly athis feet, and, in the same moment, he knew that theintolerable counting had ceased. Somebody rushedforward to loosen the bandage; and, as it fell fromhis eyes, he saw Margarida standing with a beamingface among the young women.

Before he could greet her, a general stampedewhirled Margarida out of sight. The younger guestswere rushing to take up positions for a new sport inwhich all could join. Emilio explained to Antoniothat it was to be a game of rounders, played with aclay pot instead of a ball. This little pot, such ascould be bought any fair-day for a vintem, had nohandle. It was of red clay, baked thin and brittle.The players stood round in an extended circle.

Donna Perpetua, as the hostess, led off by throwingthe pot to Emilio; but, as soon as he had caught it,she resumed her place among the matrons. Emilio,after taking aim fixedly at Joaquina Carneiro, who wasclose at hand on his right, turned suddenly on his heeland tossed the clay to Rosalina Saldanha, a gracefulblonde who was far away on his left. These ruses andpretenses were the salt of the game. The bowl flewspinning through the air in less than two seconds: butRosalina was on the alert, and she caught it with hertwo slender hands amidst applause.

Clouds from the south-west were mounting higher,but the moon still shone brilliantly. Under the treesa lazy guitarist went on strumming his thin, moonlightmusic, as crisp as hoar-frost and tinkling likeicicles. Whenever the pot was flung high, fifty brighteyes saw, up above it, the planets and the stars; but theplayers were too young and too happy to moralize. Intheir unstudied attitudes they made up a picture fullof rhythmic grace.

Four times the pot hurtled its way to José; and fourtimes he caught it before it touched the ground. Atthe fourth catch, he turned it like lightning to Emilio;and Emilio spun it slowly and gracefully into the handsof Margarida.

Margarida paused, clasping the red clay in fingerswhich were less slender than Rosalina Saldanha's, butwhiter. Every eye was fixed upon her. She knewthat she ought to toss the bowl to one of her brothers,or to a young woman, or to one of the older men.But an irresistible impulse moved her another way;and, with glowing cheeks and radiant eyes, she sentit curving across the space which separated her fromAntonio.

Had it dashed like a stone from the catapult-handof José or flashed like a meteor from the palm ofEmilio the monk could have caught the pot. ButMargarida's action took him unawares. What washe to do? When the pot was in his hand, how was heto treat her public act of favor? If he should—

His thinking was over in a flash; but it was too late.He plunged at the pot clumsily and missed his catch.The pot struck the hard floor and broke into a hundredpieces.

As a rule the smashing of the pot was the signal fora burst of mocking merriment. But instead of alight-hearted uproar there was an awe-struck silence.Everybody seemed to recoil from a sinister omen.Two more pots stood on a log, in readiness for thesecond and third rounds of the game; but no onestirred a step to fetch them. Antonio's gazeinvoluntarily followed the general movement and rested onthe face of Margarida. The glow was gone from hercheeks, the light from her eyes. Very pale, she turnedaway.

A weak gust of wind rattled two or three deadleaves across the threshing-floor and a few cold dropsfell from the darkening sky.

"The lamps are lighted in the barn," cried the voiceof Senhor Jorge. "Come in, all of you, before therain."

VII

Senhor Jorge's lamps were not as bright as fullmoons. Their smoky flames lit up the vast barn sofeebly that candles had to be set at the elbows of theknitters and stitchers and spinners. The spatteringof the rain against the dusty windows made adreariful sound.

There were games that could be played in a barnevery bit as gay as the games of the open air. Butthe merry-makers had lost their good spirits, andnobody gave a lead towards recovering them. One byone the maids and youths sat down on full sacks orempty barrels, or squatted on the ground. When allwere seated Donna Perpetua very politely begged Joséto tune his mandolin and to sing a fado, or love-song.

For the sake of the young people, Antonio felt glad.More than once he had heard José singing folk-songswhich would have brought smiles to the faces of themost austere; and he took it for granted that Joséwould break out with one of these rollicking lays.José, however, succumbed to the surroundingdepression. Having tuned his mandolin, which wasunusually large and sonorous, he began playing a dolefulprelude.

Had his mind been free to enjoy it, Antonio wouldhave found the music brimful of charm. Thedescending minor scale was occasionally, but notalways, used in ascending passages, and the monkcould not doubt that José had received some traditionof tonality which urban ears would have rejected withignorant scorn. As José played on, it seemed that hechanged the scale more often than the key. At lasthe subsided into a more familiar gamut and began tosing in slow and mournful tones:

"O! fountain weeping softly,
Thou canst not weep for ever:
But the full fountains of my tears
Shall be congealed never.

"O! weep, my eyes, and weep, my heart,
Bereaved and forsaken;
Weep as the holy Virgin wept
The night her Son was taken.

"Alas! the sadness of my life.
Alas! my life of sadness;
Would I had wings to fly with thee,
O Swallow, Bird of Gladness!

"O Eagle! flying up so high,
Upon thy strong wings fleet me;
O Eagle! lift me to that sky
Where she prepares to greet me."

José ceased singing, but went on playing. Althougha printed page of music meant no more than so manyblack lines and dots and rings to his untutored mind,he was a musician to his finger-tips, and he couldexpound to others in tones many an emotion which hecould not express even to himself in words. Unlikemost Portuguese performers, whose melodic phraseswere short-winded and very conventionally joinedtogether, he was capable of trailing out long-drawnmelodies and of welding them into forms of his own.José's huge fingers stroked the strings so subtly thatthe monk could almost see the eagle urging up, up, up,above the purple serras, above the moon and stars,until it swept on unwearied wings through the gatesinto the City.

But Antonio could not give himself up to watchingthe great bird's flight. He was painfully consciousthat he and his man were killing the serão. Inbreaking the bowl he had almost broken poor Margarida'sheart; and here was José driving everybody down intothe depths of the blues. He glanced apologeticallytowards Donna Perpetua: but the candle on the trestle-tablebeside her lit up the unshed tears in her gray eyesso weirdly that he hastened to gaze upon the ground.

José's threnody ended at last, and he stumped backto his place without the slightest acknowledgment ofthe listeners' chastened applause. From a corner oneof the guitarists struck up a lively dance-tune; buthis notes sounded so thin after José's that he broke offof his own accord. To save the situation, Antonioplunged in desperately and asked if Donna Perpetuaknew any riddles.

Yes. Donna Perpetua knew several.

"Who is it," she asked, "that knows the hour butnot the month; that wears spurs but never rides a-horse;that has a saw but isn't a carpenter; that carriesa pick-axe but isn't a quarryman; that delves in theground but gains no wages?"

Antonio could not guess: but his ignorance wascovered up by a general shout of "The co*ck!"

"Good," cooed Donna Perpetua. "Now explainthis: 'Before the father is born the son is climbingup to the roof.'"

"Smoke!" roared everybody.

"What is born on the mountain," she continued,"and comes to sing in the house?"

The shrill voices of the old women were loudest inthe chorus of "A spindle!"

"And who is it who is born on a dunghill, yet comesto eat with the king at his table?"

"A fly!" was the immediate unanimous answer.

Donna Perpetua beamed benevolently upon the company.It had pleased her to be made prominent. Theguests were equally pleased: for had they not shownthe brightness of their wits, or, at the very least, oftheir memories? Antonio was entertained in a differentway. These cut-and-dried riddles and answersreminded him of a village school which he had visited inEngland and of the joyous heartiness with which therosy-cheeked boys and girls, in answer to the teacher'squestion, "What is hell?" roared out, "It is a bottomlessand horrible pit, full of fire."

By way of returning the compliment, Donna Perpetuainvited Antonio to propound one or two of theriddles he had heard in England. Unguardedly hegave consent: and only when he began racking hismemory did he perceive his mistake. He had heard afeeble riddle in a country house about a door beinga jar; but the pun could not be made in Portuguese.Again, he knew by heart a rhymed enigma, said to beByron's, on the letter H; but this was worse still.Apart from the Portuguese having no aspirate, howcould he render the line "'Twas whispered in heaven,'twas muttered in hell" into a language which spelledheaven with a "c" and hell with an "i"? At last hecut short a very uncomfortable silence by saying thatthe only English conundrums he knew could not betranslated. At this remark the girls hung their headsmodestly and the matrons gave silent thanks that theyhad not been born in an apostate country where thevery riddles brimmed with blasphemies and lewdnesses.

"England is no good," grunted Emilio, who hadbeen playing a tune on his jack-boots with the handleof his whip. "The English have plenty of money;but they live dogs' lives. In England there are nofruits, no flowers. They have no wine save what wesend them from Portugal. When the rain stops, thereis a fog. No Englishman ever sees the sun."

"Things are hardly so bad as that," said Antonio,smiling. "In July and August I have known the sunin England shine as fiercely as any sun in Portugal.It is true there are no grapes or oranges, except thosethat grow in glass hot-houses; but the English haveapples and pears, cherries and strawberries, plums anddamsons, as fine as ours. Their flowers are wonderful;and I wish everybody in Portugal could see anEnglish village."

Emilio, whose father had suffered wrongs underMarshal Beresford during the Regency, thwacked hisboot again with the whip-stock and mumbled.Antonio was concerned. He and José had already gonefar towards wrecking the serão, and he saw thenecessity of avoiding a quarrel. So he added what heconscientiously believed, saying, in a conciliatory tone:

"The English are not the equals of the Portuguese.But they are a fine people and a great nation."

"I have heard," put in Senhor Jorge, "that theEnglish are not happy."

"They were merry once," Antonio answered, "andthey will be merry once more when they regain theFaith."

"Yes," said Donna Perpetua devoutly. "Onlythose who are going to be happy in the next life can betruly happy in this."

"Yet the English ought to be happy," objectedSenhor Jorge, growing restive at all this piety. "Theyhave the best government in the world."

"Even the best government in the world is verybad," Antonio retorted. "Still, with all its faults, theEnglish government is indeed the best in Europe.There is much more intrigue and corruption in theirpublic life than they care to recognize; but one can getjustice in their courts, and, except for Catholics, thereis almost complete liberty. If we Portuguese had agovernment one half so good—"

A thin, short, bald, bent old man with a long whitebeard and madly bright eyes leaped out of the shadowand startled Antonio by shouting:

"Till he comes back there'll be no good governmentin Portugal. They'll go on being thieves andcowards. Yes, thieves. The French were thievesand bullies. The English were thieves and bullies too.Dom Miguel was the worst thief and coward of themall. As for the Queen—"

Antonio staunched the flow of eloquence beforetreason could burst forth.

"Whom do you speak of?" he demanded quickly."You say 'Till he comes back.' Who?"

While the old man stood glaring at the monk withtrembling lips, Senhor Jorge bent over and whisperedin Antonio's ear:

"Have patience with him, your Worship. He is aSebastianista—the only Sebastianista for leaguesaround. On all other points he is saner than I am.He is a good man. I beg your Worship to indulgehim."

Antonio did more than indulge the hoary monomaniac.He strained forward, all ears. That thereshould be a Sebastianista left alive in Portugal amazedhim. From the lips of a very old Jesuit he had onceheard of some Sebastianistas in the forests of Brazil,and the Abbot had mentioned a Sebastianista whomhe had seen, as a child, in the Açores. But aSebastianista was the last curiosity Antonio had expected tomeet at Senhor Jorge's serão.

"Tell us all about it," he asked.

"Ah, your Excellency," moaned the old man, "I ama poor blacksmith and no scholar, and I cannot usefine words."

"Don't some people believe," asked Antonio, egginghim on, "that King Sebastião was killed by the Moorsat the battle of al-Kasr al-Kebir? Don't they say hisbody rests in the church of the Jeronymos at Belem?"

"Lies, all lies!" cried the Sebastianista. "Whywere we beaten at Alcacer-Kibir by those hounds ofinfidels? Because they were braver or stronger?No. It was because we had sinned and the just Godpunished us. But I tell your Excellency that not onehair of the King's head fell to the ground. Hedeparted unhurt from the battle. The tomb in theJeronymos is emptier than this barrel."

Unfortunately the barrel which the Sebastianistakicked with the iron tip of his wooden shoe gave backa blunt sound which proved that it was full. Thegirls began to titter; but the old man raved on,unabashed.

"Yes," he cried, "King Sebastião, the brave, thegood, the Desired, escaped without a scratch on hisbody, although he had fought a hundred Moorshand-to-hand. He slew eighty with his own sword. He iswaiting in the enchanted isle. Waiting, waiting,waiting. God knows things are bad enough inPortugal. But they will be worse. And when they areworst of all, he will come back. The Hidden Princewill come back, riding on a white horse. He willdrive out the thieves and cowards. He will deal outjustice to rich and poor alike. He will set up the FifthEmpire."

"The Fifth Empire?" echoed Antonio, astonishedat hearing such a phrase from such lips. "What isthe Fifth Empire?"

"It is the Empire which King Sebastião will setup," said the old man.

"But, come now, Senhor Joaquim," objected Emiliopertly. "Isn't it rather a long time since KingSebastião went away? Tell us. How long ago?"

"It was before my grandfather was born," snappedthe old man, wheeling defiantly towards Emilio.

"Then when he comes back he'll be thrice as oldas you are. He'll have no hair, no teeth, and he'll beas blind as a bat. So how much good will he be?"

"How much good will the King be?" bellowed theSebastianista. "How much good? Senhor EmilioDomingos Carneiro, I'll tell you. If he's an old man,thank God for that! Portugal has suffered enoughfrom the young ones. And hark to this: He'll be atrue old Portuguese. He'll be a man, not a dandy.He won't crack whips and wear spurs unless he canmount a horse without falling off on the other side."

At this home-thrust most of the young menchuckled or laughed outright, while the girls giggled.Donna Perpetua, however, was flurried and Emilio'scousins tried to protest. With ready tact SenhorJorge preserved the peace.

"Come, Joaquim," he said. "Talking has made youthirsty. Come with me and I'll find you a mug ofgood wine to drink King Sebastião's health in."

The old man, proud at having had the best of it,departed nimbly in his host's wake and was no moreheard or seen.

"Does the Senhor believe that Dom Sebastião willever return?" asked the handsome yoke-carver,turning to Antonio.

"I've just been reckoning," the monk answered,"that it is more than two hundred and sixty yearssince the day of the battle."

Two hundred and sixty meant little to the handsomeyouth, who had never had occasion to engage hisbrains with any such number. He knew that hepossessed ten fingers and ten toes, and that there wereseven days in the week and that his father owned eightbullocks; but who had ever heard of such a number astwo hundred and sixty? He stared at Antonioblankly.

"It seems to me," put in José, "that when we seeDom Sebastião on a white horse, it will be his ghost."

He uttered the word "ghost" in a tone which madethe pretty Rosalina Saldanha clasp her pretty handsand emit a pretty squeak. The other damselssqueaked after her, in chorus. They reveled inghost-tales, although they dreaded them.

Antonio laughed.

"Your Worship may laugh," railed Emilio, whoseemed determined to shine in one way or another."But he wouldn't laugh if he saw what some peoplehave seen."

The girls cuddled together in delicious fright.

"Perhaps your Worship has not heard," continuedthe dandy, feeling important, "about the lobis-homemof Rio Briga, between Santarem and Thomar?"

Antonio had not heard of this particular case. Buthe was familiar with the lobis-homem or were-wolfsuperstition in general, and he detested it as apoisonous survival from dark and cruel days. He knewthat, in remote mountain hamlets, this lingering paganlie sometimes brought life-long anguish to the veryunfortunates who most needed help and love.Involuntarily the monk's eyes sought Donna Perpetua's.He saw that she wished as little as he did to hear ofwere-wolves.

"Are not all tales of lobis-homens alike?" saidAntonio to Emilio. "Will not your Worship tell usanother tale instead? I have heard that a Moorishmaiden was once turned to stone up in these hills."

"It's a tale for little girls," snorted Emilio.Horror suited his narrative style better than romance.But he tried to recite the legend of a young peasantwho heard one of the stones of the fountain cry outpiteously. He went on to tell how the peasantreleased the Moor-maiden from the spell and marriedher; how she wrought him grief; and how herevil-spirit was cast out by a hermit. But Emilio's touchwas heavy; and, as every one present knew the storyby heart already, he bored his audience badly.

"Your Excellency lives almost by himself," said apleasant, middle-aged woman, pausing in her spinningand looking towards Antonio, "so it is importanthe should be on his guard against the co*ck's egg."

Antonio looked bewildered.

"Once every seven years," she explained, "the co*cklays a tiny egg, as round as a marble and as black asink. It is smaller than a pigeon's. As a rule the ratsget it and no harm is done. But, if your Excellencyhas no rats, take care. If the egg is not destroyed amonster will come out of it. Perhaps you won't seehim; but, wherever he is hatched, he causes the deathof the master of the house within the year."

She resumed her spinning. Antonio thanked herpolitely and promised that he would show no mercyto any egg as black as ink and as round as a marblewhich he might find about his farm.

"You can't be always sure you've found the egg,"said the woman, pausing again. "So it's a goodthing always to leave a pair of scissors open on a shelf,especially at night."

Antonio perceived that the open scissors made thesign of the Cross; and it thrilled him to find, in thispeasant-woman's chatter about eggs and scissors, aminiature picture of the millennial struggle betweenheathenism and Christianity. For he had common-senseenough to understand that, while she held theChristian Faith with all her heart and mind, she wasonly half-serious about her grandsires' goblins and demons.

"Are open scissors good against anything elsebesides monsters out of black eggs?" asked José.

"Yes," answered the spinner. "They're goodagainst witches."

"I was hoping they might be good against ghosts,"grumbled José.

Antonio was surprised. José was still onlyhalf-educated; but he had never before found himsuperstitious. As for the more serious guests, they werescandalized. The farrier's wife, Donna Catharina deBarros Lopes, who was a "Blessed One," said aloud:

"Thanks be to God there are no witches left! Asfor ghosts, there never were any."

"Then the Senhora has never been up to the oldabbey chapel on a dark night?" asked José doggedly.

Antonio could not believe his ears. As for theother guests, they sat up and bent forward, all suddenexcitement. There were no more affected littlesqueaks from the maidens. All, even the men, werestruck dumb at the news that a ghost walked within aleague of Senhor Jorge's barn. Emilio Carneiro,whose farm was only a mile and a half from one ofthe abbey gates, turned white with terror.

"No," answered the Blessed One curtly. "I do notgo, Senhor, up to the old abbey chapel on dark nights.And what is more, I don't intend to."

"I am glad to hear it," said José, with maddeningslowness. "The Senhora is better at home. And therest of your Worships too."

When the general excitement could no longer besuppressed, Senhor Jorge, who had just re-entered theroom, demanded sternly:

"What is all this? Why are we better at home?"

"Because," said José in awe-struck tones, "it's veryeasy for us to talk and be brave here, in the light andin good company. But I don't think we should stayup there very long if we saw—"

"If we saw—?" urged six or seven voices.

"If we saw a monk, all in black, sitting in his stall,with a face as white as a curd cheese."

Rosalina Saldanha screamed and collapsed into thestout arms of Joanna Quintella. Twenty peoplebegan talking at once, and bombarding José withquestions.

"No," cried Antonio loudly. "No more. We'vehad more than enough of witchcraft and ghosts andsuperstition. Donna Perpetua—Senhor Jorge—I askpardon for interfering."

"Your Worship is quite right," answered SenhorJorge, with warmth. "In my own house such talk isforbidden. We don't want the maids in hysterics.Luiz—Affonso—every one is dying of thirst andhunger. Where are the broas?"

The two young men, whose limbs were brisker thantheir tongues, jumped up and began filling roughlyglazed and gaily painted jugs and mugs with greenwine from a newly broached cask. Senhor Jorge wasfamous for his hospitality, and even José's ghost wasforgotten for a moment in the good-temperedrough-and-tumble.

Margarida, who had remained invisible since thebreaking of the bowl, now reappeared. She and herbrother Gaspar each carried a basket of broas. Thesewere not the plain work-a-day broas; they lookedpaler, because of an admixture of fine flour, and theywere sweetened with honey and flavored with spice.Gaspar began distributing his dainties at the far endsof the barn, while Margarida served the notables roundthe candles.

Antonio could not unlearn in a single moment hisold habits; and therefore, when he took his broa fromMargarida's hand, he thanked her with the softlystrong tones and the momentary boldness of the eyeswhich, without his knowing or intending it, hadcaptivated more than one high lady in England. IfDonna Perpetua or the farrier's wife or the spinnerhad offered the broa, he would have expressed histhanks in the same way. But poor Margarida foundin his voice and glance a lover-like reverence, meantfor herself alone. She forgot the evil omen of thebroken bowl, and hurried away with rosy fires burningon her cheeks and love-lights dancing in her eyes.

VIII

When the serão was beginning to break up, SenhorJorge asked Antonio into the house in order that hemight judge some old wine. After it had been tastedand praised, the lavrador gazed at the monk wistfullyand said:

"I hope the Senhor is not superstitious?"

"Superstitious? I hope not," Antonio replied."And I promise, Senhor Jorge, that I will speak veryplainly to my man José about that ridiculous ghost-story."

"I wasn't thinking of your man José," said thelavrador. And, after an awkward pause, he added:"That clay pot. Your Worship failed to catch it.And just after the pot broke the sky was darkened.It ... it upset my Margarida very much."

Antonio's heart sank. Had Senhor Jorge beenmerely a selfish match-maker, bent on marrying offMargarida for his own profit, it would have been easyto rebuff him by silent contempt. But the monk knewthat he was face to face with an honest Portuguese ofthe old school who was sacrificing pride to duty.

To gain time Antonio poured another spoonful ofwine into the thin English glass. Having warmed itwith his hand, he swirled it round, sniffed it, and heldit up to the lamp. But he did not drink it. Replacingit on the table, he said:

"Have two or three minutes' patience with me, SenhorJorge, while I perform one of the hardest tasks ofa life which has not been easy. For three years Ihave lived like a hermit. To-night is my first socialrecreation since I settled down in this parish."

"Go on," urged Senhor Jorge. His face was palerand his mouth twitched.

"My farm was a tangled wilderness. Our workclaimed all our time. Now and again business tookme to Navares or Villa Branca; but I hardly knewthe names of half-a-dozen people in this village. YourWorship, I will come to the point. When you calledat my farm I did not know you had a daughter. Ihad seen the Senhorita Margarida in church; but untilher mother called her into our presence last SundayI did not know she was yours."

"You know now," muttered the lavrador angrily."And I'd like to hear what's wrong with her. If anyone has breathed a whisper against her I'll kill himwith my own hands. Yes!" he cried, raising hisvoice, "I'll do it as easily as I'd cut a pig's throat."

"Not so fast," said Antonio. "I have not heardone word against Margarida. And I can use myeyes. I know she's as good as gold."

"Then what's wrong? Out with it! Isn't shepretty enough for your Worship? Most people callher a beauty. Or are you afraid she won't haveenough money?"

"Her beauty is so great that it would be wasted inan out-of-the-way corner like my farm," said themonk, keeping his temper. "As for money, it's thelast thing in the world I should think of. But thetruth is, I do not mean to marry."

After he had stared at Antonio a full minute, thelavrador's stern face suddenly relaxed and he burstinto unaffected laughter.

"If that's all, friend Francisco," he chuckled,clapping Antonio on the back, "it's less than nothing.Why, I myself didn't mean to marry: and look at meto-day! De Barros Lopes, the farrier, swore he'dnever marry; and he has eight children. Old Martinssaid he would hang himself before he would marry;and this is his third wife."

"Then old Martins has taken my share," saidAntonio curtly. "I repeat I shall not marry."

"The reason?"

"My ... my work."

"Work? Is your Worship the only man in Portugalwho works? There's a bit of work, now andagain, on my own farm. Is it the worse done becausethere's a mistress, and three stout sons and the bestdaughter a man ever had? Work! My wife and Isquabble sometimes; but the best day's work I everdid was to get married."

The monk held his peace. Senhor Jorge, genuinelydesirous of promoting Antonio's happiness as well asMargarida's, chaffed him with rough heartiness.

"Come, come," said he. "Your head's full of cobwebs.You've been hiding yourself too long in holesand corners. Don't be a fool. It's all very wellwhile you're young and healthy; but, when days andnights of sickness come, who will nurse you then, andput up with your foibles? And who will carry on thewine-making when you're dead and gone? Come,you don't want to let the grand old family of DaRocha die out? Besides ... a man without awoman is only half a man."

Senhor Jorge uttered his concluding sentence with ameaning change of tone. But, even if his own daughterMargarida had not been involved, the lavrador hadtoo much delicacy to expand this clinching argument.Antonio, however, scented the meaning.

What was he to say? All these arguments againstcelibacy, and a host of others more refined, hadhurled themselves in his teeth a dozen years before,when he first contemplated the vow of chastity. Butthe answers which satisfied him were not available inthe presence of Senhor Jorge. He could not replythat he had deliberately renounced his high-soundingnames until events forced him to resume them; that hewelcomed roughness and solitary vigils of pain inthankful honor of the Man of Sorrows; and that thesuccession of Saint Benedict's spiritual family wassecure until the end of the world. With bent head andknitted brows he remained mute.

"Then I will persuade you no more," said SenhorJorge. "If my wife knew I had said half so much,she would never forgive me. By Saint Braz! Tothink I should be begging and praying anybody to be sokind as to marry Marge! Before I asked forPerpetua, I had to go down almost on my bended knees.Pssh! Sometimes, before she braided up her hair,I've watched Margaridinha playing about the houseand I've thought how I would hum and haw andhesitate when a suitor should come along. I thank yourWorship. For to-night I've done with him. If hewants to speak to me after Mass next Sunday he may;but next Sunday will be his last chance."

Antonio flung himself against the door before hisruffled host could open it.

"One moment," he pleaded in low, insistent tones."Here and now let me say, once for all, that neithernext Sunday nor any other day can I do myself thisgreat honor. Senhor Jorge, I shall never forget theextreme compliment you have paid me. Senhor, Itrust you to keep my secret. I cannot ask forMargarida because ... already ... I am..."

"You are married already," hissed the lavrador,blazing into terrible indignation.

"No. No, no, a thousand times. But ... Iam plighted to another Bride."

He turned away abruptly and walked to the tinywindow. The scudding moon had escaped from theblack rain-clouds, and Antonio thought he coulddiscern the white belfry of the abbey chapel rising abovethe distant pine-woods.

"Another bride?" echoed Senhor Jorge, morewrathful than ever. "Who? Where? When?It's that chalk-faced chit of a Rosalina Saldanha!"

"No," Antonio answered, wheeling round."Neither Rosalina Saldanha nor any other mortalwoman you've ever seen or heard of."

"Then where is she? Why does she leave you yearafter year alone? Tut! A fine bride. Let hertake you or leave you. You're a fool to stand it."

"We will not quarrel," said the monk. "If youknew all, you would not malign Her. It may be years,many years more, that I must live alone. But myfaith is plighted, and there's an end."

This time it was the older man who walked to thewindow. After a long time he asked, without lookinground:

"Why did not your Worship think of this before?Why did he come here to-night, leading on my poorMarge, and setting all the tongues a-wagging?"

There was an obvious and fair retort; but Antoniodid not make it. Instead, he answered:

"For that blunder I ask pardon. I had promised tocome to the serão: and I had some foolish idea thatit would give me a chance of putting matters right.In England I prided myself on having tact in thesethings. But pride goes before a fall. Forgive me fornot staying away. I have blundered worse than avillage booby. Yet I hope, in spite of all, that we maypart friends."

They parted friends.

Out in the open, Antonio said to José:

"Hear me for one minute on a matter we need nevermention again. I have made it plain to Senhor Jorgethat I am not free to marry the Senhorita Margarida."

"But Senhor Jorge was not satisfied with that?"

"I told him," replied Antonio awkwardly, "that Iam already plighted to another Bride. You knowwhat Bride I mean, José?"

"Yes. But Senhor Jorge doesn't."

Half a mile further on Antonio demanded:

"About this ghost—this black monk in the chapel.I was thunderstruck. I thought you were mad."

"For once in my life," said the peasant, "I had allmy wits about me. I overheard that co*ckatoo of anEmilio saying that he often took a stroll in the abbeygardens, after his day's work. He was lying; but Ididn't want the other young fellows to begin prowlingabout up there."

"They'll prowl all the more now."

"They never will, your Worship," affirmed Joséflatly. "They're the poorest lot I ever saw. Thereisn't a man among them. Why, at Pedrinha dasAreias, if we had heard of a ghost, a dozen of uswould have turned out to see how ghosts looked afterthey have been soused with buckets of cold water.Here they're fops and cowards. No, your Worship.From to-night the abbey is safe."

Antonio marveled at José's shrewdness. It was of apiece with his shrewdness in choosing the sun-bakedsand-pit for burying the boxes of the Viscount. Allthe same he felt it his duty, as José's spiritual director,to rebuke him mildly, saying:

"But there's no ghost there at all."

Hardly were the words out of his mouth before heregretted them. Fresh from his well-meaningprevarication with Senhor Jorge, who was he to censureothers? He hoped José would not notice theinconsistency; but he hoped in vain.

"I never said there was any ghost," chuckled José."I said there was a monk, all in black, in his stall.You know what monk I mean, your Worship."

"But Emilio Carneiro doesn't," said Antonio.

They laughed loudly together and strode on,talking with unwonted gaiety under the bright moon.Had not the master rid himself of match-makers, andhad not the man made the abbey safer than ever?

"Sing," begged the monk.

The peasant struck up a rousing song in praise ofwine. But in the middle of the third verse hestopped. They were crossing the road which led fromNavares to the main gate of the abbey. José sank onone knee and pored over something he had seen.

Two wheels had cut two deep grooves in the wetsand. José measured the distance between them withhis two palms. Then he examined the marks of thehorse's shoes.

"These wheels," he said, "were not Portuguese.And, unless they've shod him in Lisbon or Oporto,these shoes didn't belong to a Portuguese horse."

Antonio hardly heard him. High on the hill, frominside the principal window of the abbey guest-house,the flame of a candle looked out like a living thing.

BOOK IV

THE AZULEJOS

I

Until one o'clock in the morning Antonio and Josésat in council. But their session was barren.

Who was up at the guest-house? Could it be theViscount de Ponte Quebrada, resuming his search forthe buried pictures and chalices? They thought not.The Viscount had become a considerable personage,and could not afford to run such risks. Or was it theViscount's old accomplice, the Captain? Perhaps.The Captain had little to lose. But no: it could not behe. A thief would never have proclaimed his presenceby setting lights in front windows.

For a minute or two Antonio indulged a hope thatthe visitor was merely his old adversary, the official ofthe Fazenda at Villa Branca. But José shook hishead, and said that such a guess was too good to betrue. He went on to avow a presentiment that theabbey had been sold. Antonio could not contradicthim, and the two men sat silent for a long time.

"Come and speak to me at dawn," said the monk,going at last to the hearthside and lighting José'slantern. "Perhaps it will be best for one of us to marchup boldly to the guest-house. As the nearest neighborswe can easily make some excuse."

José shook his head again and departed without aword.

Soon after daybreak they met in the garden, andthe master confessed that his man was right. Godonly knew what high strategy and petty tactics theymight have to employ in their defense of His house;and it would be the worst policy to thrust themselvesinto notice.

The autumn sun was rising behind the abbey hill.Pearly mists hid everything. But, as the glorious orbascended, the tides of vapor began to ebb. Here andthere the tops of the higher pines showed themselvesabove the drifting mists, like masts and shrouds ofships wrecked in milky shallows. A minute later thechapel and the monastery buildings appeared, hugeand vague as an enchanter's palace suddenly exhaledfrom twilight seas of foam.

As the outlines sharpened, Antonio recalled hisvigil on the moonlit night of his return. Heremembered the fear which preceded it—the sickening fearthat he might be too late. But he remembered alsohow he had finally trusted in God to guard His own.

"Come, José," he said. "You have done your shareand I have tried to do mine. Our Lord will do His.It is time for prayers."

He led the way to the narrow room which servedthem as oratory, and drew back a curtain from apicture of Our Lady of Perpetual Succor. José'seducation had advanced so far that he was able to reciteTerce in Latin. They sat down facing one another,on benches which José had carved like stalls, andbegan the Hour. At the psalm Levavi oculos, peaceand strength entered their souls.

"I have lifted up my eyes unto the hills, fromwhence my help shall come," said Antonio.

"My help is from the Lord, who made heaven andearth," responded José slowly and attentively.

Their faith waxed stronger as the psalm proceeded."Behold, He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumbernor sleep," said José; and Antonio answered: "TheLord is thy keeper: the Lord is thy defense upon thyright hand." José said: "The sun shall not burn theeby day, nor the moon by night." Antonio said: "TheLord keepeth thee from all evil." José said: "Maythe Lord keep thy coming in and thy going out, fromthis time forth and for ever." And by way of Amen,Antonio put his whole soul into the appointed GloriaPatri, and into the first words of the following psalmLaetatus sum, "I was glad."

They parted at the oratory door, and consumedseparately their first breakfast, which consisted of ryebread and of a so-called coffee made from roastedgrain and the roots of dandelion. Before six Joséwas at work removing gorgeously discolored leavesfrom a pergola, while Antonio planted some vineswhich had come to him from Sexard in Hungary. Asthey moved about they could plainly see the buildingsand out-buildings of the abbey; for the mists haddrifted away. But no smoke rose from the guest-housechimney, and the place gave no sign of life.

At half-past ten, when José was in the kitchenpreparing almoco, or second breakfast, Antonio heard adull muttering of hoofs on the sandy road. He droppedhis tools and began running like a hare up theravine, so as to get a view of the horseman frombehind a boulder. Ducking his head and shoulders hekept himself out of sight.

The noise of the horse's feet stopped. Antonio wasstartled. He raised his head and saw a mounted manstooping from the saddle, and fumbling with the latchof the farm gate. While he remained in this positionit was impossible to make out his age, or class, ornationality. The monk, however, did not wait. Heturned and raced back to warn José. But, before hecould reach the kitchen door, the horseman camecantering down the slope.

He sat his bay horse rather stiffly and in anun-Portuguese style. His clothes looked English. As hedrew near, Antonio saw that he was young and blonde.The monk had a feeling that he and this stranger hadmet before.

It was young Crowberry.

When he recognized Antonio a flash of joy lit up theyouth's pale blue eyes. But, instead of greeting hisold cicerone simply and straightforwardly, he jumpeddown from his horse and began to declaim someprepared rigmarole.

"Zounds! By'r Lady!" he cried, "whom have wehere? Marry, by my halidom, I trow it is the goodlyknight Oliveira da Rocha himself."

"Why not speak English?" asked Antonio, wringingthe young man's hand.

"English?" he retorted. "If you're disrespectful,Senhor da Rocha, I'll begin speaking Portuguese."

"Pode," said the monk. Which meant "he may."

Young Crowberry fumbled in his pockets and fishedup a manuscript phrase-book which had been compiledfor him, he pretended, by some pitiful friend inOporto. After turning the pages this way and that,he asked:

"Está prompto o almoço?" Young Crowberrymeant "Is breakfast ready?"

"Not quite," said Antonio.

"O que tem Fossa Mercê: What has yourWorship got?"

"Brown bread, green figs, white cheese, purplegrapes, red wine, and black coffee."

"De-me alguma bebida: Give me something to drink."

"I don't understand," said Antonio, shaking his head.

José, hearing voices, thrust his shaggy face throughthe window and glared at young Crowberry, with hismouth almost as wide open as his eyes.

"This," said Antonio, "is José Ribeiro, the régisseurof the Château da Rocha. He knows more aboutsea-sand wine than any other man north of Collares." And,turning to José, he explained in Portuguese:"You have heard me speak of the English SenhorCrowberry. This is his son. Go and kill achicken—the fat brown one."

When José had departed on his murderous errand,Antonio brought their guest a large glass of greenwine. Young Crowberry drank it with a wry face;but he admitted that it acted like a charm in quenchinghis thirst. They walked out into the vineyards.

"And now, Senhor Eduardo, explain yourself,"demanded the monk.

"I came on ahead—last night," said Senhor Eduardo.

"Ahead of whom?"

"Of the others."

By this time Antonio was getting irritated by youngCrowberry's tiresome smartness; and he was on thepoint of asking him, rather sharply, not to be a youngass. But he restrained himself and waited. At lastyoung Crowberry said:

"They are in Coimbra. Dirty hole. They'refollowing next week. I came on ahead to chase out therats and beetles."

"We saw a light last night in the guest-housewindow," said Antonio. "Do you mean to tell me youopened the place in the dark, and slept there byyourself?"

"Certainly. What of it?"

"Simply this. My dear Eduardo, you are not halfsuch a muff as you try to look, and not one tenth sucha ne'er-do-well. But about these 'others.' Who arethey? Why are they coming here? How long willthey stay?"

"Firstly," replied Edward Crowberry, "there's theguv'nor. Secondly and thirdly, there's Sir Percy andhis daughter. Fourthly, there's Mrs. Baxter. Fifthlyand sixthly and all-the-restly, there's the servants."

"Who are Sir Percy and his daughter? And whois Mrs. Baxter?"

"Sir Percy is Sir Percival Lannion Kaye-Templeman.His daughter is named Isabel. Lady Kaye-Templemandied before I was born. That's whythere's a Mrs. Baxter. She's called Isabel'sgoverness; but it's Isabel who does the governing."

"Why are they coming here?"

"The devil only knows. I'm sure they don't."

Antonio stopped dead.

"Master Edward," he said, "if you're wanting tobe a wit or a rattle you shall practice on me atbreakfast. But not now; not here. Why are these Englishpeople coming here with your father?"

"What's the use of asking me?" demanded youngCrowberry, somewhat injured. "It's a complicatedbusiness, and I haven't brains enough to puzzle itout."

"Then use such brains as you've got. Have theybought the abbey, or taken it on lease, or what?"

"Something of that sort," pouted the young man."The guv'nor will explain. I tell you I don'tunderstand it."

A jangling bell announced that breakfast was ready.Young Crowberry threw up his hat and shouted forjoy.

José's fat brown chicken did not remind the guestof a Surrey capon. But as his teeth were good and hisappetite still better, he devoured two-thirds of it withrelish, and had still enough hunger left for the fruitand bread and cheese. During the meal he consumeda whole bottle of wine and, to finish off, he drank alarge cup of corn-and-dandelion coffee, as well as twolittle glasses of Antonio's orange brandy. Then helit one of his own cigars. Antonio excused himselffrom smoking.

Soothed and warmed by these good things, youngCrowberry gradually became a reasonable humanbeing. He began to talk naturally, and the monk wasrejoiced to see that he was vastly improved. It turnedout that he had gone back home after only eightmonths in Oporto, and that he had thrown up thewine-trade in favor of civil engineering. He told Antonioabout the railway mania in England, and nearly all histalk was of cuttings, viaducts, and tunnels. Onlywith difficulty was he led back to the abbey.

"All I know is this," he said at last. "You wrote tothe pater about raising a thousand or two and buyingthe place yourself, didn't you? Well, the old man'dhave done it like a shot, only he was putting his lastshilling into the Sheffield and Birmingham Railway.I expect he'll lose it all in the long run. But hewanted to find you the money. So he's made somekind of a bargain with Sir Percy. They've beenjabbering and scribbling over it for a year. SirPercy's supposed to have bought the abbey from thePortuguese Government. Don't ask me how he'smanaged it. I always thought he was so hard up hecouldn't buy a penny bun."

The monk's heart beat fast.

"But if this Sir Percy has bought it," he asked,trying to conceal his intense anxiety, "what good is itto me?"

"Any amount," said young Crowberry. "Youdon't want a lot of tumbling-down cells and chapelsand cloisters; you only want vineyards. As for SirPercy, he does not want to be bothered with vineyards;he only wants a nice place. So you're to be offereda perpetual lease of the vines. No, not perpetual.Only nine hundred and ninety-nine years. So don'twaste any time."

The room, with its odors of food and wine andtobacco, suddenly seemed to stifle Antonio. He feltfaint and sick. Under the coarse tablecloth his twohands were so tightly clenched that the nails cut hisflesh.

At first he blamed his own stark folly in writing toMr. Crowberry. But he quickly remembered howlong had been his deliberation and how many hisprayers before writing the letter. Indeed, he had notposted it until, as he believed, the voice of the HolyGhost said "Yea." For a few moments Satan enteredinto the monk's heart. So this was God's way ofkeeping faith with His champions! Seven years,seven hungry, lonely, loveless years of unceasing toil... and for what? For this: that the holy houseof God and the venerated home of Antonio and hisbrethren should become "a nice place" for thespendthrift heretic.

Into the ears of the monk's soul the arch-tempterbreathed his poison. "If you had known last night,under the moon, what you know this morning," hewhispered, "you would not have let Margaridinha'sbowl smash into atoms. Poor Margaridinha! Firstyou broke the bowl, and now you are breaking herheart. She has sobbed all night, for your sake. But itis not too late. Go back to Senhor Jorge. Say tohim—"

Antonio sprang up and strode to the open door.

"The devil," said young Crowberry.

"Yes. The devil!" cried Antonio, turning uponhim with a terrible look.

But the promise of Terce was suddenly fulfilled:Dominus custodit te ab omni malo. Without thesmallest anti-devilish volition on Antonio's part,without one Retro me, Satana, without one syllable ofprayer, without one crossing of his breast, the temptervanished back like a spent flash of lightning into thedark. Nor did he flee leaving behind him a void. Itseemed that in his unholy footprints stood a strongangel of consolation. Antonio's faith returned withthree-fold force. Once more he knew that God woulddo His part, and that these new happenings were partsof His design. Perhaps He was about to drawAntonio and José along mysterious ways. Perhaps itwas His will that they must press with torn raimentand bleeding feet through many a thorn-brake andover leagues of sharp-edged, burning stones. But itwas to victory and triumph, not to defeat and shamethat the path ran.

When the monk, with inarticulate apologies, resumedhis place at the table, the terrible look in hiseyes had given place to radiant happiness.

"That's right," said young Crowberry. "I was gettingfrightened. I was beginning to remember a storyI read years and years and years ago, when I wasonly a young fellow, like yourself. It was somethingabout a man falling down dead, because somebody hadbroken good news to him too suddenly."

II

Before young Crowberry set out on his return toCoimbra, he deigned to say a little more about hismovements and his party. It appeared that he couldspeak Portuguese fairly well, and that he had traveledall the way from Oporto to the abbey in an English-builtdogcart drawn by an English-bred horse. Afterdepositing his heavier luggage in a bedroom at theguest-house and spending one night there, he had leftthe dogcart in the stables, and was returning onhorseback, with nothing but saddle-bags, a heavy-handledwhip, and a pistol.

The monk asked twice for some account of SirPercy Kaye-Templeman. His first application drewforth the answer that there were many better fellows;his second that there were many worse. ConcerningSir Percy's daughter, young Crowberry was voluble:but very little information could be extracted from hisdiscourse, which was almost entirely to the effect thatyoung Crowberry would give his hat (or, at successiverepetitions, his ears, or his horse, or tuppence, or thewhole world, or his boots, or his soul, or his dinner,or a million pounds) to know what Senhor da Rochathought of her.

It was of Mrs. Baxter that the young man spokewith most clearness. He persisted in never namingher without the prefix "That Excellent Creature."

"That Excellent Creature, Mrs. Baxter," he said,"gave me solemn instructions to see that large fireswere kept blazing in all the bedrooms for a whole day.Now, except in the kitchen, there isn't a single fireplaceor chimney. So I smoked all over the place instead."

Antonio did not suffer his visitor to depart withouta message to Mr. Crowberry, senior. He sent wordthat he sought the honor of providing a simple dinnerfor Mr. Crowberry and his friends on the day of theirarrival. With regret he added a request that each oneof the party would bring his own napkin, knife, fork,and spoon. He concluded by offering his friendly andneighborly services in general.

José agreed to walk a couple of leagues at the bayhorse's side, so as to show young Crowberry abridle-path which would save him three hours in the saddle.They left at one o'clock.

As soon as horse and men were out of sight,Antonio hurried up the hill and made his way into theabbey. It was his hope and prayer that Sir Percivalwould be restrained by lack of cash from interferingwith the monastery and that he would live quietly andcheaply in the more modern and airy little guest-house.But the monk knew that the sacred pile was menacedby a thousand perils; and therefore he spent nearly anhour in wandering from kitchen to refectory, fromlibrary to calefactory, from cell to cell, from cloisterto chapel. Perhaps he was near the last time. Withburning earnestness he recited Vespers in his oldstall.

Rising from his knees, Antonio paid a visit to auseless-looking door in the outer wall of the cloisters.Like all the other doors of the building, it was so wellplastered over with official seals on the outer side thatJosé and Antonio had never dared to use it. YetAntonio knew its secret well. A massy bolt appearedto secure it, like the gate of a castle; but there was atiny green-painted stud of iron hidden in the masonryoutside which controlled the whole. By pressing thestud, the staple on the door-jamb moved slightly,leaving the bolt free. This clever and simplemechanism was due to an English Benedictine, who had fledto Portugal just after the martyrdom of the Abbot ofReading, under Henry the Eighth. Antonioexamined it, and found it in good order.

He and José reached home almost at the samemoment. The man would have returned to his workwithout a word had not the master stopped him.

"These English people, who are arriving nextweek," said Antonio, "may become, in the long run,our worst enemies. But they think they are ourfriends. They mean well. We will do our wholeduty to them as neighbors."

José said nothing.

"It is my prayer," added Antonio, "that they willlock up the monastery and be satisfied with theguest-house. For some things, I wish ... I hope... I should like them to hear ... I mean,José, I should like some one in the village to tell youngMr. Crowberry your ghost-tale about the monk."

"He knows it already, your Worship," said Joséstolidly.

"Knows it already? Who told him?"

"I did, your Worship."

Antonio could have wrung José's hand. But theshaggy fellow had a little more to tell.

"They come on Tuesday," he said slowly. "Theyoung Senhor Crôbri says he is going to sit up in thechapel on Wednesday night. But he won't seeanything; because I know that next Wednesday the monkwon't be there. The young Senhor is going back toEngland, starting on Thursday. After that, the monkcan do as he likes. The senhoras will be so frightenedat the young Senhor's tale that they won't go near theabbey. As it's nearly winter, perhaps they'll soon beafraid of the guest-house too. Ghosts might beginappearing up there, as well, before long. You neverknow."

"Come," said Antonio, after he had done marveling."We are both tired. We had a late night andan early morning, and we've walked a long way.The young Senhor ate both wings of the brownchicken and all the breast. But there are the twolegs left. And, for once, we will open a bottle of ourgood wine."

On the Sunday afternoon, at an earlier hour thanusual, José and Antonio went up to the abbey. Theyoiled the secret levers which controlled the bolt in thecloisters, and replaced on the shelves of the librarya few pious books which they had borrowed. Afterwards,sitting in opposite stalls of the choir, they sangVespers and Compline. It was safe to sing, for once;because the feast of Saint Iria had drawn the wholeable-bodied population of the parish to the village ofSanta Iria do Rio, nearly three leagues away. Inhushed voices they sang all the psalms to the propertones; also the two hymns and the Magnificat. Thesun shone warmly through the western window whilethey were singing: but the chapel was growing dimwhen they arose at the end of their silent prayers.

On the Monday little was done outside elaboratepreparations for the morrow's dinner. Nearly allJosé's heirlooms rose again from their carvensarcophagi. His six solid silver spoons, his solid silverladle, and his china bowl with dark green leaves on alight green ground cried aloud for a worthy soup; andaccordingly much time had to be spent in preparinga cream of cauliflowers. Meanwhile, a fowl, twopartridges, and the prime parts of a kidling weregently cooking in a giant casserole, along with four orfive handsful of vegetables and herbs.

On the Tuesday, between eleven and twelve, whenAntonio was upstairs shaking out his fine suit ofEnglish clothes, an ill-blown coach-horn blared out awanton greeting. The monk leaped to his tinywindow. An imposing procession was jolting along thenarrow road. Antonio's keen eyes could make outalmost everything, although the road was over afurlong away.

At the head of the file rode young Crowberry on hisbay. With one hand he was holding a short horn tohis mouth, while with the other he bunched up thereins and strove to caracole his deeply scandalizedsteed. Next rolled an open chariot, containing twoquietly dressed ladies and Mr. Crowberry, père. Thiswas followed by a hired carriage, of Portuguese build,wherein sat a tall, straight, military-lookingEnglishman and the official of the Fazenda, from VillaBranca. A smaller hired carriage held one of theFazenda clerks and a Villa Branca notary. Twoclosed coaches, looking like superannuated diligences,brought up the rear. Antonio guessed that thesecrazy and stuffy vehicles were carrying theEnglishman's servants and personal luggage.

The procession crawled up a slope, and disappearedin the dip of the hills. But five minutes later, whilehe was cutting an armful of flowers for the dinner-table,the monk saw it mount again on its way to theabbey. About noon he distinctly heard, through thestill air, the big gate screaming on its rusty hinges.It reminded him of the exceeding bitter cry with whichthat same gate had cried out when Saint Benedict'ssons went forth from their ancient seat.

Antonio could picture the successive scenes. Hecould almost see Mrs. Baxter, young Crowberry'sExcellent Creature, throwing up horrified hands at thecomfortlessness of the guest-house, although FatherSebastian had been wont to grieve over its almostsinful luxury. He could imagine the Fazenda dignitarypompously breaking the seals, and calling upon all towitness the close of his impeccable stewardship. Hecould almost hear young Crowberry quipping andquirking about everything. But this last thought wastoo much for Antonio. It suddenly sharpened, almostto a poignant certainty, his fear lest irreverent feetshould profane the holy place, and lest sacrilegioushands should be laid upon the Ark of the Lord.

Mr. Crowberry and the others were to arrive athalf-past three and to dine at four, so that they couldregain the guest-house before dusk. It was thereforewith dismay, that Antonio heard horses and wheelson the road just as José's clock was striking three.He sprang up the stairs two at a time, and changed hisclothes with both haste and speed. When, however,he descended to the ground-floor, it was notMr. Crowberry's voice which met his ears.

The monk's visitors were the Villa Branca notaryand the official of the Fazenda. They had left theircarriage and the clerk waiting on the road. Thenotary said little: but the great man from theFazenda was fulsomely wordy. Up at the abbeyMr. Crowberry had more than confirmed in his hearingnearly all the local rumors concerning Antonio'scleverness and prosperity, and he deemed it prudent to payso considerable a personage his respects.

There was coldness in the monk's tone as he prayedhis old scorner to be seated; for he could not forgetthat, after his ten-league journey to Villa Branca, hehimself had been kept standing. But, as policyrequired that he should stand well with the henchman ofthe Government, he concealed most of his disgust.To think of this pilfering bully sitting familiarly athis table went against Antonio's grain; but, when hefound that both the notary and the official had heardof the impending dinner, he went so far as to suggestthat they should remain. Happily, however, theshortness of the days made it necessary that the pairshould at once resume their long journey. Theydrained two cups of wine, flourished a few partingcompliments, and hurried away.

Hardly could the monk give a rapid glance at thetable and a final order to José before youngCrowberry was upon him, plunging from one room toanother and back again, like a dog just off the leash.He poked his nose into everything, and kept onrattling out a thousand criticisms and witticisms.

"Mind you count these, later on," he chattered, ashe weighed two silver spoons in his two hands. "Ifyou find one missing, go through the pockets of thatExcellent Creature, Mrs. Baxter. What's this?That beastly green wine? Pour it down the sink.And, look here, I say, mind you, da Rocha: don'tforget to remember what I said about Isabel Kaye-Templeman.Where did you get this cloth? By the way,Sir Percy isn't such a bad old sort, after all. Haveyou got any more of that orange brandy? I'll havemine in this."

He rang his knuckles against José's great greenbowl. Then his quick eye noticed that the best chairin the house was at the right of the table-head.

"H'llo!" he said, "Isabel on your right? Ofcourse. Couldn't be anywhere else. Now mind:you've got to tell me what you think of her—just whatyou really and truly and honestly think. Where areyou putting the Excellent Creature?"

"At the foot," said Antonio. "Between your excellentself and your excellent father. On your leftyou'll have the excellent Isabel. On my left I shallhave the excellent Sir Percival."

"Then Heaven help you," said young Crowberry."Still, you'll have Isabel on your right. And be sureto remember—"

III

Antonio hurried to the door. His guests, with theexception of Mrs. Baxter, who was following in thechariot with a hamper of silver and linen, had reachedthe little white gate of the garden. Mr. Crowberryrushed in first.

"Good, good, good," he cried, wringing the monk'shand up and down. Antonio noticed with pleasurethat his old employer now treated him as a socialequal; but it pleased him more and touched himdeeply to find that Mr. Crowberry was overflowingwith honest delight at his reunion with a friend.

Before he could reply he was being presented to SirPercival. Sir Percival submitted to the ceremonyinattentively. Nine-tenths of his wits were evidentlyengaged with something or somebody else. He wasa tall, thin, straight, soldierly man, whose scanty grayhair and disproportionately luxuriant mustache madehis head look too small and bird-like. His cheekswere a trifle red, his gray eyes bright and restless.As soon as one quick glance had assured him thatAntonio did not mean to do him any harm, he seemedto lose interest in his host and in his surroundings.

With Sir Percival's daughter the case was different.Antonio instantly became conscious that, after fouryears of isolation, he was standing once more face toface with a being of his own kind. He felt, vaguely,that this being was tall, graceful, feminine, proud, fine;but it did not occur to him to take stock of herfeatures, or dress, or complexion. Until later in theafternoon, he could not have told young Crowberrythe color of her eyes, or whether she was dark or fair.

This had always been Antonio's way in the presenceof a woman. When she happened to be handsome,he felt unerringly and immediately her grace andbeauty; yet his first, involuntary, eager search was forher spirit, for the inner self which might perchance bepeeping out from the depths of her eyes. His owneyes, dark and soft as brown velvet, could be in thesame moment both masterful and tender. While hewas still a boy, a wise old woman had said of him:"May God put it into his head to turn monk, for hehas eyes to break hearts." Not that Antonio wasever aware of looking at a woman otherwise than ata man. The habit was unconscious; but, for all thepurity and austerity of his heart and life, it was there.It was not a fault. One might as well have blamedhim for his black hair or for his tallness.

Fifty times in the past Antonio's glance had flashedforth to probe fifty pairs of eyes. Black eyes, blueeyes, hazel eyes, gray eyes, brown eyes—he hadglanced into them all. Very often this swift glancehad encountered maiden shyness and confusion; veryseldom it had struck against brazen immodesty, likea sword against a shield. Once it had met a devil,a devil from hell, all the uglier because of the possessedwoman's sweet pink cheeks and gold-crowned whitebrow. Twice or thrice it had peered into bottomlesslakes of pity; and twenty times it had surprised acraving for human kindness, a hunger and thirst forAntonio's or some other love. But, when Mr. Crowberrybegan reciting his formula of introduction, themonk's keen glance met something it had never metbefore.

What his glance met was a glance more searchingthan his own; a still swifter glance which encounteredhis, like one mailed knight encountering another; astronger, more impetuous glance which overmasteredhis and hurled it back. This glance came frombeautiful eyes which were neither hard nor cold; butAntonio was too much taken aback to notice theirheavenly blue. Unlike his, the lady's glance did notseem to be habitual. It seemed, on the contrary, tobe something against the grain of her pride; somethingpeculiar to an abnormal moment of her life. Of thisthe monk was speedily assured by the slight flushwhich warmed her cheeks as she turned the blue eyesaway.

Mr. Crowberry put an end to the embarrassment.As tumultuously as a cart discharging a thousand ofbricks, he expressed, in a single outburst, his joy atseeing Antonio, his detestation of Portugal, hisravenous hunger and raging thirst, and also some suddenanimosity against his headlong heir. He wound upby demanding an immediate view of the champagne.

Antonio promised to give Mr. Crowberry satisfactionat a later stage. He explained that the dark andchilly cellar was no place for a lady at any time, andthat even Mr. Crowberry could not go in and out ofit with impunity during the heat of the afternoon.But the vineyards, he said, could be seen; also the chaisor over-ground cellars, the patent wine-plant fromBordeaux, the Irish pot-still for the orange brandy,and some of the casks of Portuguese claret whichEngland might expect to receive in twelve months'time.

At that minute young Crowberry joined them. Hewas alternately sucking and rubbing one of his fingerswhich he had just burned while interfering with Joséin the kitchen. As the others moved off towards thenearer vines the young man detained Antonio and dugmysteriously into the monk's ribs with his unburnthand.

"What d'ye think of Isabel Kaye-Templeman?" hemuttered.

"How do I know? What do you think of yourself?"Antonio retorted. And he hurried after hisguests, without waiting for an answer.

Sir Percival allowed his body to be marched roundabout Antonio's domain and in and out of the chais:but his mind and soul persisted in sticking fastsomewhere else. While Antonio was explaining theBordeaux wine-press, the baronet abruptly whipped outa pocket-book and began scribbling some figures whichdid not appear to have much connection with wine.Mr. Crowberry was equally trying. He asked Antonioat least forty questions, most of them extremelytechnical; but he did not listen to more than half adozen of the monk's answers. As for Isabel, althoughshe accompanied the others in a dutiful manner andlistened to all Antonio said, she hardly spoke.Antonio divined what it was that vexed her. At themoment of the introduction she had counted on seeingbefore she was seen.

The dinner-bell jangled punctually at four o'clock.Mrs. Baxter had arrived, along with a Portugueseservant who was already on good terms with José inthe kitchen. The Excellent Creature had broughtthree knives, three forks, two spoons, and a napkinfor each person, as well as eighteen finely-cutwine-glasses. She was a stoutish little person, looking likean old maid of the middle class, but with unmistakableaspirations to the dignity of what she called "adecayed gentlewoman." Young Crowberry presentedAntonio to her in a set speech.

"Madam," he said, making a low bow and sweepingthe floor with the brim of his hat, "I trust I have yourleave to introduce the worthy Senhor Oliveira daRocha, whose lowly roof you are honoring by yourpresence. His rugged frame conceals an honestheart; and, while he sets before us our frugal fare, Imake bold to hope that the evident sincerity of hiswelcome will assist you to condone the inevitabledefects of his hospitality. Senhor da Rocha, I have thegood fortune to make you acquainted with a graciouslady, and one of the chief ornaments of her sex, thanwhom the world contains no more Excellent Creature,Mrs. Baxter."

Antonio heard the first sentences of this haranguewith horror. Such merciless teasing of a woman, apoor woman, a helpless widow, a dependent who couldhardly retaliate, stung his ears. But he soondiscovered that Mrs. Baxter had not yet found youngCrowberry out. She heard him with approval, andreceived Antonio's greetings in a condescending manner.

When they entered the dining-room the soup was onthe table. José's old spoons made so evident animpression on Mrs. Baxter that young Crowberry turnedto her and said:

"Madam, it is hoped that we shall see our way toleave at least two of them behind."

Whenever Mrs. Baxter could not understand youngCrowberry's remarks she bestowed upon him abeaming smile. Antonio, whose blood had run cold,breathed again as the smile appeared; but he felt someapology was needed for such perilous jesting at histable. In a low voice he said to Isabel, who was onhis right:

"As that young man's old tutor, I fear he hardlydoes me credit."

"As Mrs. Baxter's old pupil," Isabel answered,"I'm sure she doesn't mind."

This time their eyes met more guardedly; but therewas still much in the lady's glance which the monkcould not fathom. It was as though their acquaintanceshipalready had a past, and was to have a future;as though they had often sat side by side before,eating and drinking or talking together; as though theywere bearing themselves formally before fellow-guestswho could not be allowed to suspect their goodcomradeship; as though they had a thousand confidenceswhereof to disburden themselves so soon asthey should be alone. Not that Antonio made anysuch complete analysis as this while he was ladlingout the soup from the green bowl. He was consciousof little more than a fine pleasure in the presence ofthis beautiful English girl who was entering sowillingly and naturally into his rough life.

Everybody praised the cream of cauliflowers. Indefault of soup-plates, it was ladled into small round,gaily-painted dishes, about four inches deep. A dozenof them had cost Antonio the equivalent of an Englishshilling at the fair of Santa Iria a year before.All the dishes differed in pattern and color. YoungCrowberry was the first to eat his last spoonful ofsoup; and, having done so, he discovered at thebottom of his dish a violet leopard, with green spots,climbing a pink tree. He shoved it towards Mrs. Baxter.

"Alas, madam," he said. "The pity of it. Howsad that the industrious artist whose work I amcontemplating should have lacked those blessings ofeducation which you, ma'am, are so signally qualified toimpart! I protest that neither this cæruleanquadruped nor the blushing vegetable to whose apex heaspires are to be found figured on any of the numerouspages which the late spendthrift Goldsmith devoted tothe description of Animated Nature. I protest—"

So did Crowberry père, who had been listening tosome eager talk of Sir Percy's. He gave Crowberryfils a kick under the narrow table, and once more lentSir Percy his right ear.

"Mine," said Isabel to Antonio, "is a blue bird, withan orange-colored tail. I should love to eat soupevery night out of this nest of his."

"It is your own," said Antonio. "I will send it upto-morrow."

Not knowing the Portuguese etiquette which prescribedthat Antonio should make the offer and thatshe should decline it, Isabel simply spoke what was inher heart.

"Mine?" she said gratefully. "How good you are!But no. It's old and valuable. I could never thinkof it."

"Very old," smiled Antonio. "The potter made itlast year for the village fair. And very valuable.My man, José, bought twelve of them for a pennyeach. It is not worth naming."

At the news that she could possess the blue andorange bird without leaving her host more than onepenny the worse Isabel was as pleased as a child.Meanwhile, Sir Percy continued his conversation withMr. Crowberry and ignored his daughter. A Portuguesepapa would have kept sharp ears and eyes uponhis offspring; but the monk knew too much ofEnglish ways to be surprised.

José stamped in with the trout. When he had setthem down and there was no further risk of his droppingboth fishes and dishes on the stone floor, Antoniodisclosed his name, his offices, and his virtues tothe company, in English and in Portuguese. Joséblushed, saluted, and fled.

Within a ten-mile radius of the abbey less than ahundredweight of butter was churned in the wholeyear. Not an ounce was made by José. As for theolive oil, Antonio distrusted its fineness. Accordinglythe trout had been simply steamed. They wereserved with a sauce made from the yolks of eggs,cream, and the juice of lemons. The host saw withpride that this dish was a success; but Sir Percycleared his plate without seeming to know whether hewas eating a mountain trout or a red herring. Atlast, when José was taking away the plates, he swunground towards Antonio like a weatherco*ck on a rustypivot, and said abruptly:

"Senhor Rocha, I hear you know all about alujezos."

"Azulejos," interrupted Mr. Crowberry, correctinghim.

"Ajulezos," snapped Sir Percy, without turning hishead.

"It's a hard word to pronounce," said Antonio;"and a strange word altogether. As azulejos are littleblue-and-white tiles, one would naturally think that itis derived from azul, our Portuguese word for 'blue,'and ej, one of our diminutives—a bluelet, a blueling,a little thing of blue. But that's a pure coincidence.The word comes straight from the Arabic."

Sir Percy stared. Antonio thought he was incredulous.

"I mean the word, not the thing," he explained."The azulejos up at the abbey are not Moorish, ofcourse. They are of the seventeenth century,produced under Dutch influence, but far finer, I think,than any Delft. All the same, we have genuineMoorish azulejos in Portugal; for example, in thePalace at Cintra."

Sir Percy stared harder than ever.

"We'll talk about it later on. Not now. Afterdinner," said Mr. Crowberry hastily. "Sir Percy,you've not tasted your wine."

The wine-merchant himself had already tasted threeglasses. The wine was a white wine, somewhatresembling a very dry sherry, but as refreshing as youngMoselle. The two Crowberrys praised its clearness,Isabel admired its color, Mrs. Baxter said it was alittle sour, and Sir Percy, having drained his glass ata single gulp, kindly said he would have some more.

The lifting of the great casserole's lid filled theroom with fragrant vapors. With this dish Joséserved a salad of bitter oranges and three bottles ofthe farm's best red wine. Mrs. Baxter said that thiswine would be improved by the addition of a little hotwater, nutmeg, and honey. Unhappily the Crowberrys,whose hearts were with the ports and fruity Burgundies,also failed to note its subtler beauties.Nevertheless, the older Crowberry drank a whole bottleby himself, and then loudly insisted on trying thenew champagne.

"We demand it, dead or alive," said young Crowberry.

The champagne was brought at last. José walkedin with it slowly, holding it neck downwards. Antoniorose, took the bottle to the doorway and releasedthe cork. With a cunning movement he reverted thebottle the instant the explosion had disgorged thesediment. When he poured out the liquid, the bubblesdanced like diamonds upon amber. It was not verygood wine; but the excitements attending it puteverybody into a good temper, Sir Percy not excepted.

The remaining delicacies were set on the table allat once. For the ladies Antonio had taken care toprovide two dishes of sweets. The first was filledwith heart-shaped marmeladas, or quince jellies, firmenough to cut with a knife and not in the least sticky.The second was a custard of goat's milk and eggs,flavored with spices and white wine. There were alsosix tiny snow-white cheeses, some fine broas, and apyramid of grandly colored fruits. The coffee, foronce, was not grain-and-dandelion, but real Brazilian.

Knowing Mr. Crowberry's weakness, the monksigned to José that he should serve the brandy in smallglasses, and that he should not leave the flasks on thetable. When the cigar-box went round, Mr. Crowberrydid not recognize it as one which Antonio hadreceived in his presence four years before, a thousandmiles away. His mind was busy with anotherthought. Filling up his largest glass with white wine,he rose to his feet, cleared his throat, and saidpompously:

"To the Queens of England and Portugal. Maytheir Majesties and their subjects be happy. Godsave the Queens."

Everybody stood up and drank. José, knowingthat some good work was a-doing, saluted. Butwhen the others sat down again, Mr. Crowberryremained standing.

"I haven't done yet," he said. "There's anothertoast. Ladies and gentlemen, I take leave to proposethe health of Senhor Francisco Manoel Oliveira daRocha. May God forgive him for having such aname. Ladies and gentlemen, he's a jolly good fellow.Personally, I don't like his claret; but, to becandid, I don't like anybody's. I've tasted worsestuff from Bordeaux at half a guinea a bottle."

Young Crowberry applauded noisily. Mrs. Baxter,who had dined well, blinked at the speaker like asleepy puss*-cat. Sir Percival listened with almostexcessive politeness. He had emerged from hisabstraction, and was ashamed of his earlierbrusqueness. Isabel's gaze was riveted on her paintedplate.

"When I reflect," continued Mr. Crowberry, "thatSenhor da Rocha has accomplished all this on a fewguineas of capital and almost single-handed, I ammore than ever proud to be his friend. The weeks Ipassed with him in England were the pleasantest ofmy life. Sir Percy ... Ladies ... I congratulateyou on your neighbor. He has given us adinner fit for kings. I say once more, he's a jollygood fellow, and I empty my glass to his lifelonghealth and happiness."

Young Crowberry, using both hands, rattled theblades of two knives against the rims of two plates, atthe same time stamping on the stone floor and yappingout, "Hear, hear!" in a voice like a terrier's bark.The toast was drunk.

Antonio rose to respond. But it was nearly half aminute before he opened his mouth. Mr. Crowberry'sunexpected compliment gave him an opportunity forwhich he was unprepared, and English was not hisnative tongue. At last he said:

"Mr. Crowberry, ladies and gentlemen. I cannotaccept your compliments, for I do not deserve them;but I thank you most heartily for your kind wishes.I thank you, also, for the honor you have done me incoming to this little house. You, sir, have kindlyspoken of our picnic as a dinner; but I am under nodelusions, and I thank you, most of all, for yourleniency towards our roughness and shortcomings."

Mrs. Baxter graciously inclined her head, as if tobestow a plenary indulgence where it was urgentlyneeded; but the others cried, "No! Not at all!"

"And now," Antonio went on, "I have a toast onmy own account, though I'm the only one to drink it.I propose the health of my guests. Mr. Crowberry'swas the only face I knew when I landed in yourbeautiful England, and his was the last face I saw whenI sailed away. Without his generosity I might notbe on this farm to-day. It does me good to see himagain. He is—I hope I'm pronouncing the wordright—he's a jolligoodfellow."

"And so say I," sang out young Crowberry."He's a block of the young chip."

"As for Sir Percival Kaye-Templeman and ...and Her Ladyship," added the monk, suddenly becominghazy as to the status of a baronet's daughter, "Iam indeed happy to have such neighbors. We placeour services, such as they are, entirely at theirExcellencies' disposal; and at Madame Baxter's also.Mr. Crowberry, you are aware, sir, that I used to work inthe abbey vineyards, over seven years ago. I knewall the monks. I knew the old Abbot. He was asaint. He died a day or two after they turned himout, at Navares, the little town you passed throughthis morning. So it is natural I should have a greatdeal of reverence for the old place. And I am thankful,more thankful than words can express, that it haspassed to owners who will not hold so sacred a spot indisrespect. Often and often I have feared for itsfate."

An awkward silence followed Antonio's speech.Mr. Crowberry fidgeted in his chair. Isabel coloredwarmly, and Sir Percy straightened his back morestiffly than ever. Suddenly young Crowberry cameto the rescue with a comical wail.

"What about Me?" he asked. "I'm a guest, andyou haven't praised Me? Why ain't I ajolligoodfellow, too?"

"You are already jolly and, some day, I hope youwill be good," said Antonio, smiling good-humoredlyat his pupil. "Ladies and gentlemen, with my wholeheart, I drink to you all."

Everybody turned to Sir Percy. He seemed desirousof responding, but something held him down.Young Crowberry sprang into the breach once more.

"Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking," hesaid, rising, "I will nevertheless, however, try toattempt to endeavor to thank you on behalf of us all.Now for my own toast. The Ladies—God bless'em. Senhor, I believe you have on your right a LadyAbbess who will give you every satisfaction. If,however, Her Ladyship should fail in anything, you haveonly to report the matter to Madame Baxter. I drainmy glass to the Ladies."

The four men drank. Isabel darted a gratefulglance at young Crowberry, as if to thank him fordelivering her from a painful situation; but he did notsee it. Mrs. Baxter sat up, gasped, blushed, andmanaged to say:

"I am sure, Mr. Edward, we are very much obliged."

"Last not least, here's to José, the cook," criedyoung Crowberry, and, raising his voice, he calledthrough the door in Portuguese: "Hola, José, how thedevil are we to drink your health when there isn't anymore wine?"

After José had been toasted and had saluted inresponse, Antonio suggested that he had detained hisvisitors too long, and that they were doubtlesswishing to see more of their new home before dark. SirPercy seemed grateful. Pulling himself together, heacknowledged the monk's hospitality with almostexcessive earnestness, and pressed him to come often tothe abbey. They walked together to the road.

"And I am truly to have the blue-and-orange bird?"said Isabel. "You're sure you won't miss him verymuch?"

"Not a bit," said Antonio. "I know he will have agood home."

He stood watching the chariot as it rolled away.At the bend of the road she turned and waved herhand.

IV

The wine-merchant and his son did not drive homewith Sir Percy and the ladies. They preferred towalk.

"Now then," demanded Crowberry fils, pouncingupon Antonio as he returned from the gate. "Outwith it. What do you think of Isabel?"

But Crowberry père, following hard on his heels,swiftly sent the youth about his business. He wantedten minutes' talk, he said, with Antonio alone.

"Da Rocha," he began, as they paced the shadylength of the chief pergola; "believe me, it was one ofthe greatest disappointments of my life when I couldnot lend you the two thousand pounds you wrote for.If I'd only had sense enough to stick to wine, youcould have had the money twice over in a jiffy. ButI'm up to the ears in these damned railways; andHeaven only knows what will be the end."

"A big profit, I hope," said the monk.

"More likely a big smash. But leave all that. It'stoo late to alter it. Now, about these abbey vineyards.It struck me that I might get somebody to buy thebuildings and to lease you the vineyards on easyterms. The only man I could think of was Sir Percy.I knew he was finding England a bit uncomfortable.You see, he's gone through nearly all his money."

"How? Gambling? Drinking? Or what?"

"Worse. Inventions. He worshiped his youngwife. She died suddenly, and I think it turned him abit mad. Anyhow, he's gone through two fortunes.All spent on experiments and patents. He hasinvented dozens of things people don't want. Tenthousand pounds went over a balloon with wings anda rudder. He has perfected a substitute for indigo;but it costs twice as much as the genuine article. Ibelieve his new way of boring cannons has been takenup by the Government; but an artillery colonel stolethe idea and collared all the profits. I don't doubtSir Percy has invented a thing or two this very day,at your table."

"You say he has spent all his money," objectedAntonio. "If so, how could he buy the abbey?"

"Wait," said Mr. Crowberry. "Men like Sir Percycan't get down to their last penny as easily as you orI. Sir Percy's is an old family—older than any ofour dukes, save one. Families like those are all spreadout, through intermarriage. There's always someaunt or cousin, when it comes to the worst, who willsend you five hundred pounds and a nasty letter. Inthis case, Sir Percy got the five hundred near home.It was his daughter Isabel's. She has a separate estatethat can't be pawned. This five hundred came out ofincome."

"But the price of the abbey was three thousandpounds."

"Don't interrupt. It was three thousand guineas.That is, three thousand pounds for the LisbonGovernment and three hundred for the Fazenda official.Two thousand eight hundred remain to be paid."

Antonio's heart brimmed with wrath and shame andbitterness.

"I couldn't have managed it but for an amazingstroke of luck," Mr. Crowberry continued. "Overthese damned railways, I got mixed up with a sort ofbroker who knew all about Portugal. I don't likehim; but he's a mighty clever fellow. Perhaps youknow him. He got a peerage from your Governmentfor lending them money at forty per cent. He's theViscount de Ponte Quebrada."

Antonio succeeded in remaining silent.

"Strangely enough, he knew this very abbey. Itwas the week after I had your letter. I told himthat a friend of mine wanted to buy the vineyards;and he recognized the name of the place at once. Itried to get him to lend you two thousand on it; buthe wouldn't do it to a stranger. Then I asked him tolend it to Sir Percy; and he seemed quite struck withthe idea.

"That very night he went and saw Sir Percy on hisown account, and they made some sort of three-corneredbargain. The Viscount has squared theFazenda, and he's given Sir Percy introductions forgetting a railway concession—Lisbon to Oporto—worthmillions! I suspect the Viscount will get themillions, and Sir Percy will be the figure-head. Asfor the two thousand eight hundred, they've to paythree hundred on New Year's Day, and the balancein five half-yearly instalments."

"Who will pay? The Viscount? Or the daughter Isabel?"

"Keep quiet. It seems the Viscount told SirPercy, on the quiet, that there are several jobs aboutthis abbey which they can work together. Hementioned one. These al—I mean, azulejos. Sir Percyhas invented a way of getting them down."

Antonio's heart almost stood still.

"They can't, they daren't," he cried at last. "Tillthe abbey is wholly paid for, how dare they?"

"Who's to object? Hasn't the Fazenda man gotthree hundred, all for himself? Isn't he going to doanything to earn the money? Da Rocha, I alwayssaid you were not a man of the world. They dare,they can, and they will rip down those damned oldtiles. And when they've got them down here they'regoing to get them down in other places—other oldconvents. The Viscount can get six hundred poundsa set. They're wanted for museums and galleries."

"He can get at least a thousand," cried Antonio.

"So much the better for Sir Percy and the Viscount.That's how the twenty-eight hundred is to be paid.It'll be all right. Now, about your lease of thevineyards."

"Mr. Crowberry," said Antonio, halting and lookingwith a white face at his friend. "Don't think meungrateful. But this hurts me to the quick. What ifthe monks should return to buy back their own? Nay,less. What if one of them should merely revisit it?Those azulejos were their chief pride. What willthey say when they know that this, in a sense, is mydoing; that it wouldn't have happened if I had neverwritten to you for money?"

"Who's going to tell 'em?" demanded the other,vexed. "If you don't, nobody else will."

"Whether they ever know it or not," said Antonio,"I tell you I'd rather you should pluck out one of myeyes than tear down those azulejos."

"Then you deserve to have been born one-eyed,"retorted Mr. Crowberry, thoroughly aroused. "Inever heard such tomfoolery in my life. This is whatI get for trying to do you a good turn. Gad! As ifyou didn't put enough of a wet blanket on us all whenyou proposed our healths! I'll tell you what it is.There's too much damnable gush in this hole of aPortugal, and that's why you're all beggars."

Antonio was about to reply hotly; but thewine-merchant stopped him.

"No," he said, "I take that back. We won'tquarrel. But you've upset me badly. I go away onThursday or Friday. We've only one clear day tofix this lease. Don't be a fool."

"If the azulejos cannot be spared," replied Antonio,terribly agitated, "I cannot become Sir Percy's tenant."

"But, my ridiculous friend, look here. Sir Percydoesn't want a tenant—neither you nor anybody else.He's leasing you the vineyards to oblige me. D'yeexpect me to go and make conditions when he's doingyou a favor?"

Antonio began pacing up and down, with bent headand hands clasped behind his back. He strode, sixsteps this way and six steps back, over and over again,with a feverish tread, like an animal in a cage. Aftera full minute he threw up his head, and said:

"Do me one more kindness. Give me till to-morrow.In the afternoon I will come to the guest-house,to bring a little bowl for Miss Kaye-Templeman. Tillthen, I beg that you will not say a word of this toanyone?"

Waving down Mr. Crowberry's wrath with an imperioushand, he plunged under the orange trees. TheEnglishman took a couple of steps after him; thenhe shrugged his shoulders and strolled back to thehouse.

"What do you really and truly think of Isabel?"asked young Crowberry, who had headed Antonio offamong the trees. This time he meant to have hisanswer.

The monk looked at him sadly, and passed a handover his burning eyes.

"The Senhorita and I talked very little," he replied."So far as I know, I like her."

"Is she pretty?"

"Yes."

"And clever?"

"I think so."

"She's as clever as a don. That's the trouble.All head, no heart. And as proud as Lucifer."

Young Crowberry saw that Antonio could hardlyendure his chatter.

"Something's wrong," he said, with genuine concernin his boyish voice. "What are you down in thedoleful dumps for?"

At first Antonio shook his head. But the youth'sfrank distress touched him. The trouble was toogreat to be confined within one breast; so he detailedSir Percy's plan. When he had finished he added:

"But why should I worry you with all this? Youare young, you are buoyant. You have been broughtup amidst different religious ideas. This is a matteryou cannot understand."

Young Crowberry gripped the monk's fore-armwith a quick, fierce grip. As he let it drop, he retortedintensely:

"Senhor da Rocha, as you say, I am young. Buteven I have learned one thing that you haven't.There is not always a merry heart under a cap andbells. My jabber is flippant, no doubt. But... but God knows how much I care for the things yousay I can't understand."

Antonio was startled clean out of his trouble.

"You don't mean to tell me, Edward," he said,"that you have begun to care about religion—to caredeeply with all your heart?"

The youth bowed his head.

"Tell me how much you mean," Antonio demandedeagerly.

But Mr. Crowberry appeared in the doorway of thehouse and stepped out to join them. His son saw him,and said hurriedly in Antonio's ear:

"We leave on Thursday. I want a talk—a longone, a quiet one. Your man José told me a tale abouta ghost in the chapel. I said I would watch thereto-morrow night. I can get the key. Say that youwill join me. But not a word to anybody."

After a second's consideration, Antonio promised.And when a quarter of an hour later he said hisfarewells at the farm-gate he added softly, in youngCrowberry's ear:

"Till to-morrow night ... among the azulejos."

V

"The gentlemen are all down at the other buildings,"said the English maid-servant who opened the guest-housedoor to Antonio. "I think they said they wouldbe in the chapel. Miss Kaye-Templeman is in, andMrs. Baxter."

The monk hesitated. After a single meeting, wouldit be correct to ask for Sir Percy's daughter instead offinding Sir Percy himself? He was not sure. Yet hisdread and loathing of what the Englishman might bedoing in the chapel held him back from following.Antonio knew his limitations. After all, he was stillflesh and blood, and he could not be sure of masteringhis wrath in the presence of a sacrilegious despoiler.

"You may tell Miss Kaye-Templeman that Mr. Oliveirada Rocha is here," he said.

After he had repeated his name twice, the maid ledhim into the tiny ante-chamber. Antonio saw that theengraved portrait of Saint Benedict had been takendown. It was leaning in a corner, face to the wall;and, in its stead, hung a small oil-painting of twohorses and a stable-boy, in the manner of Morland.The large crucifix had been removed from the place ofhonor; but its shape could still be seen, like the shadowof a dim cross on the white wall.

"Mr. Oliver Kosher," mumbled the maid tosomebody in the principal room.

As Antonio passed through the inner door he sawthat Isabel was alone. She rose and came forwardwith such complete control of her blue eyes that themonk had a momentary fear of not being wanted.But there was warmth in her voice and a welcome inher smile. When she caught sight of the gaudy bowlin her visitor's hand she gave a little cry of unaffectedjoy.

"You've brought the blue bird," she said. "I feltquite sure you would forget all about him. How canI thank you properly?"

"By saying no more about such a trifle," answeredAntonio, placing the bowl in her hand.

Hardly listening, she turned her treasure this wayand that, as if it had been a piece of Sèvres. For thefirst time Antonio was able to look at her critically.She was only a head shorter than himself; whichmeant that she was taller than six women out of seven.She stood up as straight as her father; but, while SirPercy looked as though he had swallowed a steelramrod, Isabel Kaye-Templeman was as graceful andsupple as a perfectly-grown young tree. She wasslender, yet so exquisitely developed in proportion to herheight that Antonio felt he was never likely to see amore perfect figure. Her abundant hair wasbrown-golden—perhaps more golden than brown—and asfine as threads of silk.

Finding the Portuguese October warmer than anEnglish July, Isabel had put on a high-waisted,full-skirted dress of pink-sprigged muslin. Over theshoulders, which were cut rather low, she wore agauzy scarf, unprimly fastened at the throat by anunjeweled brooch of old gold. As she fondled thepenny bowl Antonio observed the fine whiteness andslenderness of her wrists and fingers and the high-bredgrace of every little movement.

"You will excuse Mrs. Baxter?" Isabel asked,suddenly coming back to formality. "She lies down inthe afternoon. My father and the others are at theabbey. Shall we go down and join them? Theyexpect you. I think they want you to help them."

"Let us join them," said the monk.

While Isabel was upstairs putting on her gloves andhat Antonio paced up and down the familiar room. Acarpet, some easy chairs, two small tables, and verymany pictures and ornaments had already beenunpacked. Most of these importations were pleasing inthemselves; but they were incongruous with a Portugueseinterior, especially when it was the interior of asemi-monastic building. Antonio, however, hardlygave all this bric-à-brac a glance. He was revolvingin his mind, for the twentieth time, a bold plan.

With a promptitude which contradicted one of themonk's delusions about ladies, Isabel reappeared in alarge straw hat and announced that she was ready.They started at once. But, instead of taking thedirect road, the monk chose a roundabout path to theabbey.

"This is not the way," said Isabel, halting after theyhad walked forty or fifty yards.

"It is not the shortest way, but it is the best,"Antonio answered. "It takes only five minutes longerand it passes the most beautiful spot in the wholedomain."

She seemed a shade vexed, and did not speak againuntil they reached the spot of which Antonio hadspoken. It was part of a ravine. Rustic steps leddown to the margin of the water, which broadened inthis place to a rippling pool. From a face of brownrock, to the right, the bright torrent came tumblingin a thunderous cascade. To the left, at the lower endof the pool, it raced seawards almost hidden in a leafy,ferny, stony channel, whence its voice ascended likethe throbbing, booming sound of an organ. Generationafter generation of monkish gardeners had chosenthis sheltered spot for the rearing of their mostprecious trees. Araucarias, deodars, date-palms, andcedars of Lebanon were mingled with cork-oaks,eucalyptus, willows, sea-pines, plum-trees, planes, andchestnuts. Ten or twelve tree-ferns overtopped bya giant palm suggested a tropical forest. Stepping-stoneshad been fixed in the pool at its narrowest part,and on the other bank was a grotto-chapel hewn in theface of a boulder as big as a house.

The stepping-stones were slippery with spray fromthe loud cascade; but Isabel tripped from one toanother confidently and easily, scarcely touchingAntonio's proffered hand. On the further bank shepaused, to take breath, and stood gazing westward.Below her lay a hundred acres of wood, softly musicalwith the twittering and singing of birds and with thehum of the hidden torrent. Further down rose themonastery. Beyond, in the plain, could be seenAntonio's farm; and, still further to the west, theAtlantic.

"This is the spot I meant," said Antonio.

"It is very beautiful," was all her answer. Shespoke it in so cheerless a tone that Antonio wasconcerned.

"England is beautiful too," he said. "At first itis only natural you should be homesick."

"Homesick?" she echoed, suddenly facing him withdefiant eyes. "I'm not homesick. I don't knowwhat it means. I don't know what Home means,either."

Antonio was startled. Three or four speeches cameto his tongue's tip, some of them inquisitive, all ofthem sympathetic. Finally he said:

"Home is not built in a day. I myself was not bredand born in this part of Portugal. At first every facewas strange. But it is home now. This torrent is thestream that runs through the kitchen of the abbeywhere I used to work. It is the brook that refreshesmy little farm. Once it was no more to me than somany gallons of water. Now it talks and sings to melike a friend. Little by little you will learn to lovethis place."

"I loved it as soon as I saw it," she retorted."But I don't love it now. I loved it for about threehours."

"Three hours? Why three hours?"

"We arrived here about noon. We left about three.I loved it till we came to your house for dinner.Then..."

Antonio waited anxiously.

"Then," she continued, with a visible effort, "I... longed with all my soul to be back inEngland. You said ... you remember what yousaid about our respecting this sacred place?"

"I remember," said Antonio, his heart swellingwith thankfulness. He had cudgelled his wits in vainfor a way of introducing his plan; but here was theopportunity ready to his hand.

"Well," she said, "we haven't come from Englandto respect this sacred place in the least. We havecome to ruin and defile it. Those blue-and-whitetile-pictures in the chapel are the most wonderful thingsI've ever seen; but we have come to tear them down.We have come to use the big rooms and long corridorsfor all sorts of experiments. We shall make themgrimy with smoke and foul with fumes; and some fineday we shall have an accident and blow the wholeplace into the Atlantic, and ourselves with it."

Her bitter and vehement fluency struck the monkdumb.

"That isn't all," she added more bitterly than ever."When they've fished us up out of the Atlantic anddressed our wounds we shall start making plans for arailway. We shall lose all our own money and makeall the honest people in the district lose theirs too.But what will it matter? We shall get something forour gold and silver. We shall be honored with thecompany of the men who're going to make fortunesout of us and out of your country—men who don'tknow their own grandfathers. One of them will bekind enough to buy this domain from us for an oldsong and to build a fine square house out of the ruins.Senhor da Rocha, that is the way we are going torespect your sacred place."

Antonio succeeded in meeting her defiant gaze witha show of calmness; but there was a tremor in hisvoice as he said:

"If I did not know that the Senhorita is witty Ishould say that the Senhorita is doing herself a littleinjustice."

She knitted her brows while she framed an answer.

"Yes," she said. "The Senhor is right. TheSenhorita is doing herself a little injustice. She oughtto add, in her own defense, that she wouldn't haveagreed so easily to come here had she known thatanybody cared about the place. She thought nobodywould be one atom the worse, save the bats andspiders. Yesterday she learned the truth. But shelearned it too late."

In his eagerness the monk strode close to her side.

"Too late?" he echoed. "No, it is not too late.You have great influence with your father. There arefifty places in Portugal cheaper and more accessibleand all together more convenient than this for yourexperiments and your railways."

"Don't call them mine," she commanded. "I hateand loathe them all. But, I repeat, it is too late.Neither I nor anyone else in this world has a grain ofinfluence with my father. Opposition drives him mad."

Her tone was even more decisive than her words.But Antonio could not face the fact that he was beaten.Had not Mr. Crowberry distinctly stated that SirPercy had gained possession of the abbey solely by thehelp of Isabel's private fortune? She was not aschoolgirl. She was of full age; and if she waspaying the piper surely she had something to do withcalling the tune.

Yet how was he to remind her of her rights? Wasnot his intervention sure to be resented as the extremeof impertinence? Mr. Crowberry had not said thathis revelations concerning the Kaye-Templemanfinances were made in confidence; but probably thiswas an oversight of which it would be mean to takeadvantage.

The painful silence lengthened. Antonio ended itby starting on a new line.

"Those tiles," he said, "are not mere curiosities, tobe carted about from one museum to another. I feelas if they are alive—as if your illustrious father willbe flaying a living thing when he tears them from thewall. They were not ordered from a shop, andunpacked, and stuck all over the chapel like so muchwallpaper from Paris. They represent the life andmiracles and martyrdom of a saint of this Order—asaint of the Portuguese Benedictine congregation whospent ten years in this monastery. He died in yourEngland, for the Faith."

She moved uneasily. Thinking he was gaining hispoint Antonio continued:

"Those tiles were not the work of one hirelingartist. In a sense the whole community drew andpainted them. Until they were turned out the monkscherished the archives of their abbey; and theseshowed how, under three successive Abbots, thecartoons gradually grew to perfection. Look. Fromhere you can see the cemetery where the bones of thosedead monks lie. Their souls will bless you fromheaven if you will spare the chapel they made soglorious."

"Senhor da Rocha," said Isabel, dryly and rathercoldly, "we are at cross purposes. You will beshocked; but I can't help it. I don't believe in monksand monasteries, nuns and nunneries. The monks'heaven is my hell. Their God is my Devil. Forgiveme if I hurt you; but it seems to me that there can beonly two kinds of monks. Those who are not fanaticsare hypocrites; and those who are not hypocrites arefanatics. How can any really sane and honest manworship the Creator by despising His creation?"

Antonio was about to reply, when she added hastily:

"No. Forgive me. I have spoken too plainly.Let me return to the point. I mean this: on behalf ofany ordinary man or woman who loves this place forold sakes' sake I would work my hardest to spare it.But not for dead monks."

"Then work your hardest for me," pleaded Antonioeagerly. "Don't you regard me as an ordinary man,who loves the place for old sakes' sake?"

"No, I don't," she said, recovering her ease. "Youare not an ordinary man. You will grieve over theazulejos for a few days; then, amidst your manyinterests, you will forget them. Or, better still, youwill come to be glad that they have been taken awayfrom a dark, shut-up hill-side sepulcher and placedwhere millions of people can see them and admirethem."

"You mean," he said scornfully, "that if I were apoor man; if I had a beautiful wife; if she and I hadgrown up together almost from the cradle; if her lifewere altogether bound up with mine—you mean thatif someone should take her away by force and show herevery night from the stage of a theater, to a thousandpeople ... you mean, I ought to be grateful andglad!"

His own illustration startled him. It had leapedinto his mind and out from his lips without his consent.It startled Isabel still more; for the tones in which itwas uttered were sharper than knives. Once more shelost the mastery over her eyes.

"We must be going," she said curtly, as soon as shecould frame a sentence.

They descended through the wood without furtherspeech until the monastery gleamed between the trees.Then Isabel halted and said:

"You ought to believe that I am a better judge thanyou of my father's character. I repeat that I shall domore harm than good by asking him to spare thesetiles. To ask him such a thing will be a more difficultand unpleasant task than you imagine. But, if nothingelse will satisfy you, I will try."

"I thank you with all my soul," answered the monk."But I will exact no promises. As you say, you arethe best judge."

"Let me speak one more word—for your comfort,"she added. "This morning my father returned fromthe chapel dejected. He is no longer confident that hecan strip the azulejos from the wall. Remember, nota single tile must be broken or the buyer will not havethem. My father may fail."

"God grant he may," said Antonio fervently.

"You must indulge me," she answered, "if I findit a trifle hard to say Amen."

VI

They found young Crowberry smoking a cigaroutside the principal door of the monastery.

"Are the others inside?" Isabel asked.

Young Crowberry meditated a few moments.Then, with his hands clasped behind him, like adame-school child repeating a lesson, he answered in anabsurd monotone:

"I am Abbot of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute;
From the center right down to the say
I am free to behave like a brute."

"He is trying to make a parody on some lines byCowper, one of our English poets who died thirty orforty years ago," Isabel explained to the bewilderedAntonio. "I suppose he means the others have goneback home."

"Our respective sires have verily got them gone,"said young Crowberry. And, dropping his affectation,he added, "I don't know how you managed tomiss 'em, coming down from the house."

"Why have they gone away?"

"To mix a new mixture. Sir Percy has an idea."

Isabel led the way into the monastery. She enteredit with a proprietary air which made the monk suspectthat Sir Percy had deceived her and that she believedthe place to be wholly paid for. Suspicion becamecertainty. He felt convinced that this was not awoman who would knowingly lend herself to SirPercy's bargain with the Visconde.

"Show me one of the monks' cells," she commanded.

Antonio hesitated. The spectacle of a graceful girltripping along the stern and dark corridors had alreadygiven him a slight shock. But the cells! Into whosecell could he take her? Decidedly he had no right toshow her any save his own.

To his own they went. The monk could neverenter the narrow room without emotion, and he wasforced to go to the window to hide his anguish. Whatif this should prove to be his last entrance? What ifSir Percy should indeed defile and destroy the wholeabbey?

"It's actually clean," said Isabel, amazed.

"What did you expect?" asked Antonio, turninground and speaking coldly.

"I've no idea. But I know I didn't expectcleanliness," she said. "Who is this bishop? They seemto have stuck his portrait up all over the place."

"He is not a bishop," put in young Crowberry."He is Saint Benedict, the great Abbot, father of allthe monks of the West."

Antonio started. The young man's tone wasrespectful, and it was evident that he was speakingsympathetically of matters about which he had beenreading and thinking. Isabel, however, took littlenotice of the answer. As usual, she hardly recognizedyoung Crowberry's continued existence. One afteranother she pulled out Antonio's empty drawers andopened his empty cupboards. Had she realized thatthe monks had been expelled only seven years beforeand that many of them must be still living, nothing inthe world would have induced her to pry into theirsancta; but it was evident that she pictured the monksof Portugal pretty much as she pictured the monks ofold England. To her they were forgotten men,vanished into dust ages ago; and there could be no moreindelicacy in ransacking their old haunts than inexamining the sculptures of a long-empty sarcophagus.

From the cell they went to the cloister. ThereIsabel quickly espied the spiral staircase; and, havingascended it, she sat down on Antonio's favorite seatof cork. The quiet beauty of the scene subdued her;and not a syllable was spoken until they had retracedtheir steps and reached the monks' entrance to thechapel.

Before setting foot in the monastery young Crowberryhad thrown away his cigar; and on the chapelthreshold, with unostentatious reverence, he uncoveredhis head. They went in, young Crowberry leading.

No irreparable injury had been done. Only in thenorth-west corner of the nave was there any trace ofSir Percy's operations. He had taken down part of acreamy marble cornice which ran along the top edgeof the azulejos, level with the sills of the high-placedwindows. A circular saw occupied the marble's oldplace. On the floor were two carboys of acid, a shortladder, and half a dozen chisels, large and small.

By tacit consent none of the three mentioned thisdisplay of apparatus. Indeed, they affected not tosee it. Young Crowberry still took the initiative.Standing opposite the western wall, he besoughtAntonio to explain the azulejos.

The ten blue-and-white pictures were worked outin tiles which encrusted the walls to a height of aboutfifteen feet. There was one on each side of the grandwestern door, and there were four on each of the northand south walls of the nave. Each picture measuredabout twelve feet across and was framed in decorativetile-work wherein green and yellow were added to theblue. Antonio began on the right-hand side of thewestern door.

"First," he said, "we have the Saint's birth. Likeour divine Lord, he was born an outcast. His motherand father were on pilgrimage. Notice the Latinscroll, Non erat eis locus in diversorio: 'There was noroom for them in the inn.' Through the trees yousee the village of Carcavoa as it was before theearthquake, with a Gothic church and two spires."

The next picture was the one from which Sir Percyhad removed the cornice; but Antonio did not changehis tone.

"Second," he continued. "The Saint's boyhood.The book he is reading, in the shadow of the waysideshrine, is the 'Little Hours of the Blessed Virgin.' Thescroll reads, Zelus domus tuae comedit me: Thezeal of thy house hath eaten me up.' The games theother boys are playing are played in Portuguesevillages to-day. The bullock-carts are unchanged also.Notice the two cats—lanky cats with long clever heads;they are Portuguese cats all over."

The third picture was pierced by the doorwaywhich gave access to the cloisters; and the designers ofthe azulejos had made bold use of what might havebeen a disfigurement. The picture showed a smallmonastery. The gables, the dormer windows, theround arches, and the stumpy belfry of this littlemonastery were depicted in blue, on the tiles; but wherethere ought to have been a blue-painted doorway onesaw the solid jamb and lintel of the doorway throughwhich young Crowberry and the others had enteredthe chapel. The figure of the Saint was nowhere tobe seen; but all the men and women in the picture werecrowding hurriedly towards the doorway as if theywould see the last of somebody who had passed intothe cloister. Above the solid lintel chubby blue boyswere painted lying on their chests and trying to lookdown into the building.

"The Saint," Antonio explained, "has entered areligious house. And as that religious house was thisvery abbey, you see the point of the doorway. Onthe scroll, Magister adest et vocat te: 'The Master ishere and calleth thee.'"

Antonio successively pointed out the pictures of theSaint's first Mass, with blue angels helping to upholdthe Chalice, and of the Saint's first miracle, withOporto in the distance. This ended the series on thenorth wall. At the marble balustrade of the gildedsanctuary, he explained the stalls, the retablo, and theboldly-ribbed Gothic vaulting, at least a century olderthan the nave. Then he worked back along the southwall, making short comments on the Saint's shipwreckand second miracle, his preaching to prisoners, hislanding in England, and his visit to the Abbey ofWestminster, once Benedictine.

"Your Westminster Abbey looks strange," saidAntonio. "It is before the alterations of Wren; but Iadmit the faults of the picture. The next one isbetter. It is the Saint's death at—I think you pronounceit Tyburn. The horses and most of the faces are quiteEnglish. The hurdle on which he has been drawn isbroken. Notice the one-eyed man with the butcher'sknife. On the scroll are the Saint's last words,the same as Saint Stephen's, Domine ne statuasillis hoc peccatum: 'Lord, lay not this sin to theircharge.'"

This tenth, and last of the tile-pictures was on theleft of the western door; but not until Antonio ceasedspeaking did he notice a small leather-covered boxresting on the ground at the foot of the green andyellow border of azulejos. It was gilt-letteredP. L. K.-T. The lid was off, showing the stoppers of fourchemists' bottles and some fine steel tools.

In the same instant, both Antonio and young Crowberryhad the same thought. "Lord, lay not this sinto their charge." The words were grimly appropriateto Sir Percy's act of sacrilege; yet young Crowberryfelt sure that Antonio had only recognized theirappropriateness when it was too late. As for the monk,although his eyes met Isabel's for no more than amoment, he saw that she was wounded.

"When was the Saint hanged?" asked young Crowberry,in order to end the awkward pause. "In whatreign?"

"In the reign of Isabel," Antonio answered.

Young Crowberry opened his eyes wide. Themonk, however, had already realized his second mishap.

"I mean Elizabeth, Queen Elizabeth, of course," heburst out. "The Portuguese for Elizabeth is Isabel.It's the same name."

But Miss Kaye-Templeman was already movingtowards the cloister doorway. Antonio, suddenlylosing his English, turned desperately to youngCrowberry.

"You've done it this time," said the youth dolefully.

"Wait here," commanded Antonio, in Portuguese."Don't follow."

He sprang after the lady and overtook her in thecloister, although she quickened her footsteps at thenoise of Antonio's. When she saw that explanationswere inevitable, she got in the first word.

"Senhor da Rocha," she said, haughtily, "I amwilling—perhaps over willing—to be talked to. But Idecline to be talked at. This is your gratitude for myoffer of help. As for 'the reign of Isabel,' I am toodull to see the joke; but I can see the insult."

She walked on.

"Hear me one moment, I entreat," cried Antonio."Have we not, both you and I, enough troubles, solidtroubles? I have told you some of mine; and,although I do not know what they are, I can see thatyou have great sorrows too. For Heaven's sake letus not add to them by needless misunderstandings."

He kept level with her as she walked; but she heardhim with averted eyes.

"I swear," he added, "that I was not talking atyou. I swear I didn't catch sight of your father'shateful tools till I had finished speaking. As for 'thereign of Isabel,' I am a Portuguese. In PortugueseKing Charles is Carlos, King Edward is Duarte, KingJames is Thiago, Queen Elizabeth is Isabel. Thosebottles and tools upset me; and I forgot to translatethe name."

When he saw that she neither vouchsafed him ananswer nor paused in her walk his pride was roused.

"One minute more, and I will not trouble theSenhorita again," he said, with as much hauteur as herown. "I have offered an explanation and I havesworn that it is true. As for insults, I never givethem, though I receive many. You are neitherreasonable nor just. I have done."

He was turning away. But her pride broke down.She stopped and faced him, and her blue eyes suddenlyshone with a rush of tears.

"Yes," she cried. "Scold me, abuse me, make mewretched. It doesn't seem natural for anybody to bekind very long. Hate the sight of me, like everybodyelse. Call me unreasonable. So I am. Call meunjust. So I am. If there's anything more, I'mready."

Antonio stared at her in amazement as she clenchedher fine hands and stamped one of her small feet."All head and no heart," young Crowberry had said ofthis poor Isabel; and, for twenty-four hours, the monkhad taken it for granted that young Crowberry wasright. Yet, as she stood wet-eyed before him, sheseemed to be all one big, bursting, breaking heart.

Her tears helped him like lenses to read her throughand through. He discerned the tragedy of her girlhood,passed between a selfish woman and a father whowas half a madman. He pictured her, dragged fromplace to place, from failure to failure, fromhumiliation to humiliation. He understood why she hadbuilded icy barriers of pride to repel the insolent pityof those who found entertainment in her father'sfiascos. And he saw, what she did not see herself, thatunder all her defenses and pretenses was the heartof a little child. He was filled with a yearning tocomfort her; but he could only stand and gaze at herwith infinite compassion.

"Yesterday," she went on, "I was happy. But to-day..."

He waited for her to say "I am miserable." Butshe had seen the pity in his brown velvet eyes and itstung her.

"To-day," she said, "I hate you!"

VII

As the main path from the monastery to theguest-house was broad and open, Miss Kaye-Templemandeclined Antonio's protection. The glance and tone,however, which softened her words of refusalsuggested to the monk that he was forgiven.

"You can't endure my escort," he said, with a ghostof a smile, "because you still hate me."

"I don't hate you," she retorted. "I never did hateyou—not you in particular. For the moment I simplyhated every thing and every place and every body.It's over now. Pray believe I don't make such anexhibition of myself often. And please forget, if youcan, that I was so weak and silly. Good-bye. I willtell my father you are still at the abbey."

Antonio returned to the chapel. Young Crowberrywas kneeling on the lowest step of the altar, facing theempty tabernacle. He rose in confusion and came tomeet the monk.

"I thought you had taken her up to the guest-house,"he said, as they walked out into the cloisters. "I heardyou both go outside. I suppose you wasted yourbreath. Isabel Kaye-Templeman will never forgiveyou."

"The Senhorita has forgiven me already," saidAntonio. "Or, to be exact, my explanation is accepted."

"Then you've some magic power over her," declaredyoung Crowberry. "I thought so yesterday, atdinner. Now, I am sure of it. With everybody elseshe's as hard as nails."

"I imagine that bitter experiences have made hersuspicious and reserved," said Antonio. "For that Idon't blame her. But one thing pains me, beyondwords. I can understand Miss Kaye-Templeman havingprejudices against the Catholic Church; but sheseems equally contemptuous of all religion."

"At Sir Percy's house," explained young Crowberry,"or more strictly speaking, at Sir Percy'sinnumerable houses and lodgings, you can depend onmeeting, any Sunday night, half a dozen second-rate menof science. They're all anti-Christians and most ofthem are blank atheists. I've heard them talk two orthree times. Their position seems to be that we knowmore than our grandfathers did about the way theworld is made; and, therefore, the world made itself.They can't argue; or, if they can, they don't. Theycoolly take it for granted that everybody who stillclings to Christianity is an antiquated fool."

"You think clearly, Edward, and you talk sensibly.In a minute I'm going to ask you about yourself,"said Antonio. "But tell me. How far has this poorMiss Isabel been perverted by what she has heard?"

"When she consented to come and live here," Edwardreplied, "I heard somebody ask her how shewould get on without an English church. Isabelsimply answered: 'If I've given up church-going, inEngland, why should I begin it again in Portugal?'"

They emerged from the building and looked up thepaths; but Sir Percy was not in sight. Antonio ledhis companion back to the spiral stairway; and whenthey were seated on the roof of the cloister he drewforth the truth concerning young Crowberry's state ofmind and soul.

From his English journals and reviews the monkhad gathered some imperfect notions of the newecclesiastical movement which a scholar of Cambridge hadset going at Oxford. He knew the names of Puseyand of Newman, and was conversant with the mainargument of the notorious "Tract Ninety," althoughit had issued from the press only a few months before.But it was from the lips of Edward Crowberry that hereceived his first connected account of the matter.The young man, as Antonio had said, thought clearlyand talked sensibly. Unlike the leaders of themovement he was unembarrassed by the need to reconcilehis new findings with his old utterances; and thereforehe saw further than much wiser men into the movement'sfuture. Perhaps some of his more strikingsentences had adhered to his mind after the perusal ofbooks and articles; but he understood what he hadread, and he had made it his own.

"Our English skeptics," he said, "have thought totake away from us our Christianity. Our Christianityremains; and we are also regaining the Church. InEngland the very idea of the Church had almostpassed away. Our bishops had almost ceased to ruleand to teach. Our sacraments had become merecommemorations—like birthdays and anniversaries. Butthe Church is emerging from the mists. I believe thatin a hundred years from now hardly any Christianitywill be professed save in communion with the Church.On the one side we shall have the ancient Church,boldly affirming supernatural religion, proclaiming thedeposit of faith, cherishing her holy mysteries; and,on the other, we shall have a great band of thinkersand teachers for whom this world is all. Thenondescript waverers, betwixt and between, will disappear.There will be only Isabel Kaye-Templemans and..."

"And Edward Crowberrys," said Antonio, comingto the relief of his modesty. "You prophesy boldly.But please make one point still plainer. What willthis Church be? I have read something about a ViaMedia. Many of your writers seem to think therewill be three Churches, the Eastern, the Western, andthe English—Constantinople, Rome, and Canterbury.They seem to believe that the Church of England canpurge herself of heresy while persisting in schism.Am I right?"

"You are right," said young Crowberry. "That istheir hope. But do not judge them harshly. Thereis much in our national Church for us Englishmen tobe proud of. And there is much in our history, muchin our temperament, which will make our return to theRoman obedience a bitter pill to swallow. I knowlittle of the Eastern Church. There are hardly anyEnglish books about it. But what has the East to dowith England? On the point which divided West andEast, England believes with the West. No. Theonly Church to which we can return is the Churchfrom which we broke away."

"You are young and sanguine," returned Antonio."You will want more than a hundred years before theEnglish schism is ended. But I believe that, beforeyou are middle-aged, you will see thousands ofindividuals returning home one by one. You have toldme that these earnest men in Oxford claim to befighting the battle of the Apostolical Succession. Thosem*n will soon learn that they are already welladvanced on the road to re-union with the ApostolicSee. The Church in England was destroyed bymonarchs' commands and by lawyers' pens; but it cannotbe restored, bodily, by similar means. It will berebuilt out of individual converts, like the Churchesfounded by the apostles. It will not be a wholesale,sudden, man-made event like the conversion of theFranks after the baptism of Clovis."

They sat silent, looking across the sea towardsEngland, the hidden and beloved isle. At lengthAntonio asked:

"Does your father know which way your thoughtsare running?"

"My father drinks and swears," young Crowberryanswered. "But according to his lights he is aChristian. It is his teachers' fault, not his own, that hebelieves the Pope to be Anti-Christ, or the Man ofSin, or the Scarlet Woman. He ceased to read andthink so long ago that his ideas cannot be changed.What would you have me do? I say nothing. I gomy own way. The same with my friends. Theythink I'm a mere rattle like a few dry peas in a box.Let them. I prefer it."

"But, sooner or later, you must take the great stepand you must declare it. What will your father saythen?"

"He will say what he always says when I crosshim—that I shan't have a penny of his money. If hewere still rich I could stand up and simply say, 'Sir,keep the money; only pray let me call my soul myown.' But I know, and he knows, and each of usknows the other knows, that there won't be a pennyto leave. In his old age I must support my father,and I shall be proud to do it. But, meanwhile, I canonly hold my tongue."

After another long pause the monk said:

"One more question. This young lady Isabel.You were so eager to know my opinion of her. Why?Is there anything between you?"

Young Crowberry laughed aloud; and only whenhis laughter had subsided through many guffaws andchucklings could he speak.

"Is there anything between me and Isabel?" heechoed. "Yes. There is. By Jove, there's a gooddeal. There's an iron door. There's a brick wall.No, a stone wall—stone-cold, like a wall of ice.Anything between us? There's the whole world; also thesun, moon, planets, and fixed stars, not to mention afew comets and the Milky Way." And he chuckledagain.

"Yet you're greatly interested in her," objected Antonio.

"No doubt," admitted young Crowberry. "I'minquisitive. I'm mightily curious to know what thereis behind the iron door, what there is over the brickwall. Not that it is reciprocal. Isabel thinks of meas a mere infant. Or, rather, Isabel doesn't think ofme at all. She can't remember my existence; and Ican't forget hers. She rubs up my quills the wrongway; but I can't even prick her fingers."

"You know her ten times better than I do," saidAntonio. "Yet, after our two meetings, I suspect thatyou misjudge her. Any hardness—and I haven'tfound her so hard, after all—may be her misfortune,rather than her fault, like her irreligion. To tellthe truth, Edward, I thought you wanted to marry her."

"Marry Isabel?" whistled the young man. "Imight as well propose to marry Helen or Cleopatra.By the way, I don't believe that either Helen orCleopatra was half so good-looking as Isabel. She'syounger than either of 'em; but the point is that she'sthree years older than poor little Edward. No.Fortunately I don't want Isabel. If I did, it would be asad case of unrequited affection."

He fixed his eyes once more on the far-spreadwaters. When he spoke again, it was with a solemnityin strange contrast with his interlude of jesting.

"Senhor da Rocha," he said. "I shall never marry.For months this has been growing clearer and clearerto my mind. For the present I shall stick to myengineering. I shall make more in ten years out oftunnels and embankments than my father has madein thirty out of barrels and bottles. And afterwards?I don't know. But something is in store for me whichforbids me to marry."

His words moved Antonio deeply. Sixteen yearsbefore, his own vocation had proclaimed itself to hissoul in this very way. He turned reverent eyes uponhis companion; for had not God chosen this strangeyouth to be a priest and perhaps a monk? In reposeEdward Crowberry's face was not without nobility.For the first time Antonio thoroughly understood him.He perceived that Edward's quickness to seize thehumors of life connoted a deep sense of its pathos.Under the glittering spray of his jests and sarcasms wasan unending undertone of world-woe. Young Crowberrysaw, better than others, the sharp outlines ofTime's successive moments because their infinitelyvarying curves and angles cut brilliant patterns in thenear background of Eternity.

An inward voice spoke to Antonio. It was as clearas any of the commands which had guided him in thegreat crises of his history; and he obeyed it withoutparleying.

"Let us go down," he said.

They went down. Sir Percy had not arrived. Themonk walked out and scanned the path. Nobody wasin sight.

"You believe," he said to young Crowberry, as here-entered the chapel, "that some work, some sacredwork, is reserved for you in the future? Are youwilling to do a good work this very night?"

"You mean," said the youth, "am I willing to sit upwith you and to disprove that monstrous tale about amonk's ghost? I am willing. I told you so yesterday."

"No and Yes," Antonio answered. "We willdisprove the midnight ghost. But I mean somethingelse. Will you work with me against Sir Percy tosave these azulejos?"

Young Crowberry started.

"It smacks of disloyalty to your friends, of disobedienceto your father, of deceit all round," Antoniowent on. "But think. We cannot serve your friendsand your father better than by frustrating a sacrilegeof which they will be ashamed when the gains arespent. Remember, these azulejos are not Sir Percy's.He has paid to the Government, which stole this place,hardly more than a tenth of the price, and he has noright to carry a handful of dust or a chip of stoneoutside the gates. Don't answer me in a hurry.Refuse if your conscience so bids you, and I shall notcomplain."

He walked away and sat down in his old stall.Young Crowberry moved slowly to the white marbledoorpost set in the blue midst of the azulejos andleaned against it, with his head bowed. At the end offive minutes he strode boldly up to the sanctuary railsand said:

"I will help."

Footsteps resounded in the cloister, and, a fewseconds later, Mr. Crowberry and Sir Percy appeared,talking loudly. They kept their hats on their headsand their cigars in their mouths. The baronet, whocarried a glazed jar, was so intent on his operationsthat he forgot to greet the monk.

"Well?" asked Mr. Crowberry, sidling close toAntonio. "You've turned up? And you've come toyour senses?"

"From your point of view, my answer is No," saidthe monk. "I have not come to my senses. Has SirPercy come to his? Does he still persist in removingwhat isn't his own?"

"He persists," said Mr. Crowberry. "And I can'tblame him. If he doesn't steal the stuff, somebodyelse will. Now take my advice. Don't be an ass.Ten minutes ago, up at the house, Sir Percy nearlyblew his daughter's head off for suggesting that theazulejos should be left alone. They've got to comedown. Give him a lift and you can make your ownterms about the lease of the vineyards. Cross him,and you will lose the vineyards—and the azulejos'llcome down all the same."

"Hallo, you've come!" bawled out Sir Percy toAntonio. "We've been waiting for you all day.Hurry up and look at my saw."

The monk stepped forward.

The frame of the circular saw was ingeniouslysecured to the face of the azulejos by means of leathersuckers, such as boys play with among cobble-stones.This simple and portable device served its purposewithout doing the tiles the smallest harm. The sawitself had a gear which caused it to descend in theframe as the teeth cut their way downward. Mountingthe short ladder at Sir Percy's bidding, Antoniosaw that a groove had been chiseled in the cement andthat it was filled with an evil-smelling mixture of acids.

"First, we took off that white stone," explained SirPercy, pointing to the marble cornice. "D'ye see?Then we cut out this channel. D'ye see? Mark theprinciple. The great thing is, not to try and get theazulejos off the cement, but to get the cement,azulejos, and all, off the wall. D'ye see? It doesn'tmatter how rough we are with the front of the wall andthe back of the cement, so long as we don't crack thetile. That's the principle. D'ye see? Now, pourin a pint or so of this."

"You'll do it better yourself," said Antonio,descending the ladder. Sir Percy promptly climbed upand poured out another acid from his stone jar.

"The acids rot the cement," he went on. "That'sthe principle. They disintegrate it. You see? Thenthe saw sets to work. It goes through the cement asif it's Bath brick. We shall get down two lots ofazulejos in two places. That'll give us elbow-roomfor cutting through the cement backs of the lotbetween with a mason's saw. You understand—a longsaw with two handles? D'ye see? The acid and theround saw here and there; and the long saw inbetween. That's the principle."

The baronet stared at Antonio, waiting for hisopinion.

"Well?" he demanded impatiently.

"I am quite unable," said the monk coolly, "tosuggest the smallest improvement in your Excellency'sinvention. But the daylight is failing. If yourExcellency works by candle-light or lamp-light, someazulejos will probably be broken. Let the acids workall night; and let us all meet here at eight o'clockto-morrow morning."

"Nonsense," cried Sir Percy. "We've time to getdown the first lot."

"And what about dinner?" asked Crowberry père, ingreat alarm.

"Yes. Dinner?" echoed Crowberry fils.

"Dinner be hanged!" cried Sir Percy angrily.

"Your Excellency must give the acids all night towork," said Antonio.

"Yes, your Excellency really must," added youngCrowberry. "Perhaps your Excellency has forgottenthat the great Carthaginian Hannibal likewiseemployed an acid—namely vinegar—to make rocksfriable, during his famous crossing of the Alps, as isnarrated by the historian Livy in his twenty-first book.I know the passage well, having had to copy it outtwenty times at school for putting pepper in the usher'spipe."

"Shut up!" snapped his indignant father. But theyouth was not abashed.

"If Hannibal left his puddles of vinegar out allnight," he said, "I, for one, cannot be a party to yourExcellency's doing differently. I'm off."

He moved away. Antonio followed. Mr. Crowberrysenior, glad of any excuse to get back punctuallyfor dinner, hurried in their train. Sir Percy gapedafter them in deep disgust. Then he flung down hischisel upon the pavement and strode out after theothers.

"At eleven o'clock to-night," whispered youngCrowberry in Antonio's ear.

"At eight o'clock to-morrow morning," saidAntonio in a loud voice.

He went his way and they went theirs.

VIII

Had the black monk's ghost attended his vigil in theabbey chapel young Crowberry could hardly have seenit. His labors among the azulejos preoccupied him forover four hours, and it was within an hour of dawnwhen he stole back on tip-toe to his room in the guest-house.

As for Antonio, he did not go to bed at all. Afterparting from young Crowberry at the chapel-door,he hastened straight to wake up José; and as soon ashe had made sure that José understood the part he hadto play, it was time for the monk's morning splash inthe deepest pool of the brook. After Antonio hadshaved and dressed himself with unusual care, bothmaster and man sat down to a first breakfast muchampler than usual; for who could tell what might befall?

The monk took care to arrive a few minutes late atthe chapel. Sir Percy was there already, high on hisladder.

"Hallo," he cried, without wasting breath or time insaying a Good morning. "The stuff works. D'yehear? It works. We shall cut through the cementlike cheese."

"Don't say cheese," pleaded young Crowberry,appearing in the doorway. "It makes me hungry. Sayputty, or chalk, or soft soap."

He was swept into the chapel by Mrs. Baxter, whosuddenly filled the doorway like a wave burstingthrough an arch on a limestone coast. BehindMrs. Baxter could be heard the loud voice ofMr. Crowberry. Antonio advanced to greet the lady and toexpress his hope that she was well.

"No, Signor Da Rocha, I am not well," respondedMrs. Baxter tartly. "Since you asked me, I am veryill indeed. But who cares? I have long ceased tolook for gratitude; but it seems that I must no longerexpect common humanity."

"By common humanity, ma'am," said young Crowberry,"I assume you mean ham and eggs, or possiblykidneys and bacon. I too, alas, have looked for themin vain."

"I allude," said Mrs. Baxter severely, "to the factthat I have been dragged from bed, despite my sick andsuffering condition, without a morsel of breakfast, tocatch my death of cold at an unearthly hour in thisliving tomb. I do not allude, Mr. Edward, to kidneysand bacon."

"What's this about kidneys and bacon?" demandedMr. Crowberry, hurrying up with an eagerness whichmade him almost sprightly. "Where? When?How on earth have you managed it?"

Antonio abandoned the two voluptuaries to thetender mercies of young Crowberry; for Isabel wasstanding in the doorway. Her walk through themorning air had painted her cheeks a delicaterose-pink; but, as she stood among them with whiteungloved hands showing against her blue dress of finestuff, and with a large white feather curled round herblue hat, she seemed like the azulejos, all blue andwhite.

"So you have come to see the end?" she said.

"Who knows?" he retorted, smiling sadly. "Willthe saw survive the acid? We shall see. But I craveleave to thank you. You have interceded with yourillustrious father."

"I have," she said, "and my illustrious father simplyordered me off to bed, like a small child. You don'tunderstand him. He has never noticed that I amgrown up into quite an old young woman. He stillcalls Mrs. Baxter my governess. I believe he thinksshe still gives me lessons in arithmetic and spelling.I did my best; but it was worse than nothing."

"If you had succeeded triumphantly," he answered,with one of his unconscious glances into the depths ofher eyes, "I could not be more grateful than I am."

Young Crowberry came forward and presented hismorning compliments. He added that Sir Percy hadfound a defect in the vertical traveler of his circularsaw and that he wished to be unbothered by onlookerswhile he put it right. The young man went on tosuggest that it might divert that Excellent CreatureMrs. Baxter from the contemplation of her wrongs if theyshowed her round the monastery.

Grumbling gruffly at his fate, Mr. Crowberry theelder joined the party. Mrs. Baxter composed herfeatures to an iron immobility. She was evidentlydetermined to approve of nothing.

"I confess, ma'am," said young Crowberry, "that thehumble entertainment we have to offer is poorer inexcitement than some others; for example, than thepublic hangings which are provided for the nobilityand gentry of our own country at this same hour ofeight o'clock."

Nobody laughed.

"You are standing," the youth rattled on, "in amonastery, or monasterium. The word is derived,ma'am, as you are aware, from monachus, a monk,and sterium, a sterium. This passage is called acorridor, from curro, meaning 'I run,' and dor, a door.You observe the doors on both sides. With yourpermission, ma'am, we will proceed to the kitchen."

The white kitchen was filled with bright sunshine.The sun's beams came flashing back from the greathood of burnished copper, and the singing torrent wasquick with glancing lights. Young Crowberry showedMrs. Baxter the long turnspit, turned by a wheel at theend, and gravely assured her that it was capable ofroasting a pigeon, whole.

"What is that word Paz, between the windows?"asked Isabel.

"It is Portuguese for 'Peace,' the watchword of theBenedictine order," Antonio answered. "The monkshere were Benedictines."

"What were they here for?" Mr. Crowberry demanded.

Antonio hesitated. Then he quietly gave the answer:

"To pray, and to praise God."

"Praise God, indeed!" cried Mr. Crowberry. "Afine way of praising God to stuff and guzzle from oneyear's end to another! I'll tell you what it is, daRocha. You've got your tongue in your cheek.You're a man with fifty times too much sense tobelieve that the Almighty is pleased with the praises ofa greasy pack of gormandizers and soakers. Thankgoodness your country has turned 'em out."

He strode out of the kitchen with all the dignity ofa churchwarden carrying the collection-plate into thevestry. The others followed.

"What is behind these doors?" demanded Mr. Crowberry.

"Cells," said Antonio, curtly.

"Cells?"

"Why not, sir?" asked young Crowberry, inhoneyed tones. "Why not cells here as in otherpenitential establishments? All the best prisons havethem. I thought it was a matter of common knowledgethat the principal occupation of a monk whenhe gets into a monastery is to prevent the other monksgetting out."

"Shut up!" snapped his father, striding on.

Mrs. Baxter spoke at last. She adventured thepoint of her shoe and the tip of her nose intoAntonio's cell, which had been left open.

"Is this the condemned cell, Mr. Edward?" sheasked with a shudder.

"They're all condemned cells, ma'am," Edwardanswered. "Every monk was condemned to penal servitudefor life. At the end of his term he was takenout to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. A few daysafter, he was buried alive, or walled up. If thisdidn't cure him of his errors the Abbot began to thinkit was really time for something to be done; and hewas sentenced to take a bath."

Antonio turned away, grievously wounded. Aftertheir solemn conversations on the highest and holiestthings, these jests scorched him like hot irons. But,upon reflection, he could condone much of youngCrowberry's offense. Doubtless the youth had a goodmotive in plying the edged tool of ridicule against theprejudices of his companions. But his main excuselay in his inability to take monks seriously. Theyouth did not know that Antonio was himself a monk,and that this had been Antonio's cell and thatAntonio had spoken to his Lord within it. He had neverconsciously met a monk in his life. Monks to himwere like mailed knights to a reader of historicalnovels; they were merely the picturesque literaryfictions of Mrs. Radcliffe, of Sir Walter Scott, of"Monk" Lewis. Or, rather, monks to youngCrowberry were pretty much what exorcists had been toAntonio. Although the Church still ordainedexorcists, and exorcists were prayed for every GoodFriday, Antonio had turned more than one lightpleasantry about them.

Nevertheless the monk could have wished thatyoung Crowberry had spoken otherwise. When everyallowance had been made, his irony remained moremischievous than useful; and Antonio determined tocounteract it. Turning to Mrs. Baxter he gave her arapid sketch of a monk's day. At the very outset,when he told her how every monk answered the loudknock at his cell door before daybreak with "Thanksbe to God!" the Excellent Creature shivered; but, inspite of herself, she grew interested. Even Mr. Crowberrycondescended to return and to give the orator hisgrudging attention. But at Isabel Antonio threw onlytwo furtive glances; for she seemed to be hearinghim with distaste.

"Thank you," snorted Crowberry père, as themonk's voice ceased. "You merely confirm what I'vealways said. For my part I believe that the Almightyintended us to enjoy the good things of life. If not,why did He provide 'em? Pssh! Humbug! D'yemean to tell me, sir, that the Almighty's pleased withall this nonsensical fasting—with madmen clemming'emselves till they're like a gang of scarecrows, withtheir bones sticking out through their skins? No, daRocha, you don't. I tell you again that you've gotyour tongue in your cheek."

"Apparently Mr. da Rocha has his tongue in bothhis cheeks at once," put in Crowberry fils. "I gather,sir, that these regrettable monks were, at one and thesame time, a gang of bony scarecrows starvingthemselves to death and also a pack of fat and greasygormandizers and guzzlers. Such Jesuitical duplicitymakes me shudder."

"Come to think of it," blurted out his father, "Ishouldn't be surprised if da Rocha here is a Jesuitmonk in disguise. Where's his whiskers? Where'shis wife? I don't call it natural."

"A Jesuit monk?" moaned Mrs. Baxter, recoiling inhorror. "How dreadful!" And she grabbed at Isabel'sarm as if to snatch a helpless victim out of danger.

"There's no such a thing as a Jesuit monk, madam,"smiled Antonio. "The Jesuits are a Society, not amonastic order."

"There are Jesuit nuns, anyhow," muttered Mrs. Baxter,scowling darkly. "England is full of them."

"Pardon me," exclaimed Antonio, keeping all hisgood temper. "That can hardly be. There arewomen-Benedictines, women-Dominicans, women-Carmelites,and so on; but there's no such thing as awoman-Jesuit."

"Pardon me, too," retorted Mrs. Baxter warmly."I am English and I ought to know. I repeat thatEngland is full of female Jesuits. So how can youstand there, Signor, and say that Jesuits are neverwomen?"

"They are women, of course," interruptedMr. Crowberry; "old women. Silly old women. Why,they walk about in petticoats, and nothing pleases 'emso much as putting on finery and dressing up images,like little girls dressing up dolls. Tut! But come,da Rocha, out with the truth. I'll lay you a dozen ofold Madeira against a half a dozen of your newchampagne that you can't swear your Bible oath that youaren't a Jesuit in disguise."

"I won't have the Madeira; but lend me yourpocket Bible," demanded Antonio.

"Lay your hand on your heart, instead," Mr. Crowberryanswered.

It was plainly necessary to take up the gauntletwhich had been thrown down; so Antonio placed hishand on his heart, and said:

"I swear I am not a Jesuit, either in disguise or outof it. I never was a Jesuit; am not now; and nevershall be."

"Amen," said Mr. Crowberry, not without tracesof thankfulness and earnestness in his tones; "I'mglad you're letting me off the old Madeira. Hallo!Time's up. Here's Sir Percy."

"D'ye hear? Am I to wait all day while you standthere chattering?" Sir Percy bawled out. And hestrode back into the chapel.

Everybody made haste to follow. But before theycould see whence it proceeded a horrible noise set theirteeth on edge. It was as though somebody wascreaking a basket-lid near a hive of buzzing bees.Antonio knew that the saw had begun to revolve. Hepressed forward and found Sir Percy's gray-headedstolid man-servant Jackson working a treadle at thefoot of the azulejos. High above Jackson's head thesaw was grinding round in the acidulated cement.

"It works!" cried Sir Percy. "D'ye hear, all ofyou? D'ye see? It works!"

As the saw's teeth bit and chewed the acrid cud afine gritty dust flew up into a sunbeam and glitteredlike the spray of a waterfall. The noise increased,until it resembled the drawing of a great slate pencilbackwards along a vast slate. Isabel and Mrs. Baxterput their fingers in their ears.

"It works, it works, it works!" repeated Sir Percy.His eyes shone. Antonio glanced at him and shuddered.One moment he looked like a boy of twenty;the next, he looked a hundred years old.

The saw went on gnawing, gnawing, biting, biting,screaming, screaming, like an obscene fiend, until theback of one azulejo seemed to be wholly cut through.This first azulejo—a tile about eight incheslong—formed part of the multi-colored border which framedthe picture of the Saint's pious boyhood. Antoniowatched it with a white face and a thumping heart.Suddenly he shouted:

"Look out! Stand clear!"

Almost in the same instant the tile leaped forwardand crashed down upon the pavement, smashing upinto four or five pieces. Mrs. Baxter wailed aloud.Isabel sprang like a flash to examine the damage, andthe others were soon at her elbows. They found thatthe saw had cut down cleanly to a certain distance;but the tile had fallen outward before the scission wascomplete, and the cement on its lower part had brokenjaggedly from the wall.

Sir Percy closed and opened his eyes like a mandazed. Isabel moved to his side. But he recoveredhimself swiftly and brushed her away.

"What does it matter?" he demanded, in greatwrath and scorn. "What are you all standing therelike stuck pigs for? It's the border. We can mendit. What does it matter? D'ye hear?"

He cast a glance at the saw. It was correctly placedfor cutting down the azulejo which stood below itsfallen neighbor. Waving Jackson aside he placed hisown foot on the treadle and worked away with feverishenergy. Hummings, creakings, and screamingsonce more filled the holy place.

After the onlookers had fallen back a few yards, themonk found himself close to Isabel. He did not lookat her, nor she at him; but he felt instinctively thatshe was not on his side. Standing with tense limbsand straining eyes she seemed to be putting her wholemind and will towards her father's triumph andAntonio's defeat.

"Take care of your skulls!" sang out young Crowberry.His light tenor voice rose almost to a scream.

Jackson jumped clear; but Sir Percy held his grounduntil the second azulejo lay shattered at his feet. Thenhe ceased working the treadle and moved with slow,short steps into the middle of the nave. As he did sothe saw, framework and all, plunged after the azulejowith a tremendous crash.

In contrast with the hideous noises which hadpreceded it, the silence in the chapel was uncanny.Mr. Crowberry sat down abruptly on an old black bench.Mrs. Baxter wiped away real or simulated tears.Antonio and Isabel, once more side by side, stared at theruins of the saw and its gear. Young Crowberryleaned glumly against the doorpost. Jacksonmaintained his deaf-mute stolidity.

Sir Percy began to walk up and down the nave.His military rigidity was gone; and instead of standingas straight as a poplar he bent and crouched like athunder-blasted, storm-beaten oak. Antonio, in hismoment of victory, suddenly caught sight of SirPercy's eyes. They were like the eyes of a long-hunted,worn-out tiger brought suddenly to bay; and,at the sight of them, the monk's heart nearly brokewith love and pity. Involuntarily he took a step ortwo towards the stricken man.

"Get out of my way!" thundered Sir Percy, blazinginto terrible anger. "Clear out!"

A chisel was lying in his path. With the toe of hisfinely-made boot he dealt it so forcible a kick that theiron went ringing across the pavement and chipped apetal from a rose in the lower border of the Saint'sShipwreck. As he strode towards Jackson he limpeda little.

"So your dead monks have fought for you andwon," said Isabel bitterly, turning round uponAntonio.

"Sir Percy will try again," he answered.

"My father never tries again," said she, once moreturning away her face.

Just then they heard a sickening cry of pain; andthe monk saw Sir Percy drop heavily from the top ofthe short ladder. Jackson caught him as he fell. Theluckless baronet had been trying to discover the causeof his failure and had thrust his hand into a pool ofburning acid. He sank against Jackson's rock-likeshoulder and swooned away.

Antonio instantly took command. His strong voicerang through the chapel like a brazen trumpet.

"Mr. Crowberry," he said, "run to the kitchen.There are bowls on a dresser. Bring us water fromthe stream at once. Edward, rush up to the house.Bring oil and lint—oil and silk or linen or whateveryou can. Mrs. Baxter, you will kindly go andprepare his bed at once."

He did not name Isabel; for she was already bendingover her father with such anguish in her blue eyesthat Antonio could hardly bear the sight. For amoment he was forced to turn aside.

"Take heart," he said softly in her ear, as soon as hewas able to speak. "We shall bring him round. Foran hour or two, I fear he will have great pain; butthere is an ointment at my farm which will give himease. Be brave. Cheer up. He must not open hiseyes on weeping faces."

While Jackson unfastened the prostrate man's collarand Mr. Crowberry bathed his forehead with coldwater from the torrent, Antonio hurried through thedoorway and sped up the spiral stairs which led to theroof of the cloister. But, about six feet from the top,he pushed open a somber door and entered a longattic which ran over the ceilings of the monk's cells,parallel with the north wall of the chapel.

In the faint light he made out José faithfully crouchingin the place which had been appointed him. Byhis side lay an old ramrod and a mallet. In themortar between the granite blocks of the wall were theholes which Antonio and young Crowberry had boredin the night. Their measurements were so exact thatJosé's ramrod had easily struck out the azulejos themoment he heard the preconcerted signals of "Lookout!" and "Take care of your skulls!"

"Did I do right, your Worship, in knocking overthat skriking saw as well?" asked José.

"You did right," said Antonio quickly. "We havewon; and now we must care for the enemy's wounded.Sir Percy has burned his hand with acid. Run to thefarm. Open the green box. Bring back the yellowointment as fast as your legs can carry you."

José raced off, hiding ramrod and mallet under hiscoat. Hardly had he vanished before it flashed acrossAntonio's mind that some virtue might remain in thedrugs which the Cellarer had left behind four yearsbefore. He found the cupboard, smashed it open, andran back to the chapel with oil, lint, ointment, and acordial.

When José reappeared he was just in time to takea hand with Antonio and Jackson in carrying Sir Percyback to the guest-house. Young Crowberry had riddenoff for the Navares doctor. In the baronet'scomfortless room the monk lavished all his leech-craft; andsoon, under the sway of a strong draught, the suffererfell asleep.

Isabel accompanied Antonio to the door. He cutshort her thanks, and was hurrying away homewardafter José, when he heard her light step behind him.She had something to say; but her courage failed herand she did not say it.

"There is something else that I can do?" asked themonk.

"Yes," she answered, with a great effort. "Youcan ... you can promise..."

"I can promise ... what?"

Isabel blushed furiously.

"Nothing," she said. "Good-bye."

She fled back to the steps. But he caught her andseized the white hand which was about to turn thebrass knob.

"You shall tell me," he insisted, mastering her withhis velvet eyes. "I can promise ... what?"

"You can promise," she said, looking on the ground,"that I may see you again."

BOOK V

ISABEL

I

A chariot was at the guest-house door when Antoniocalled to enquire about Sir Percy's progress. At thehorses' heads stood Jackson waiting. Rugs,portmanteaux, and a brass-clamped trunk had alreadybeen strapped in their places.

"H'llo!" sang out young Crowberry's light voicefrom the top of the steps. "You're the very man wewere coming to see. We were coming to say good-bye."

"You and your father?"

"I and my father and Sir Percy. We're off toLisbon. The doctor from Navares was here allyesterday afternoon. Seemed rather clever. He likedthe way you'd dressed the hand; but he doesn't likeSir Percy's general health, especially his heart. Sothe guv'nor and I are taking him to the chief Lisbondoctor. We shall go to Oporto by sea next week—theguv'nor and I—and from there to London."

He descended the bottom step; and, after marchingoff Antonio by the arm to a spot out of Jackson'shearing, he added:

"Don't get the idea that I repent of helping to savethe azulejos. We did the right thing. All the same,I'm not happy about it. In a sense we're to blamefor Sir Percy's burnt hand. Hang it, he's a brick,after all! I couldn't stand pain like that. He doesn'tgive a single moan. But it isn't Sir Percy who upsetsme most. It's Isabel. I said she was all head andno heart. By Jove, think of it! No heart! Yetshe's hardly left his bedside these twenty-four hours.She waits on him hand and foot; and sometimesthe look in her eyes is just about as much as I canstand."

"This Isabel certainly has a heart," said Antonio."If she's unlike other people, it's because she hasmore heart, not less. I hope the Senhorita will not befatigued by her journey to Lisbon."

"She isn't going."

"Not going? You don't intend to leave these ladiesalone?"

"No. We're leaving them in charge of a friend.Besides, there'll be Jackson."

"The friend is a man?"

"Quite. He's a man from top to toe. His nameis Francisco Manoel Oliveira da Rocha."

Before the monk could reply, they were joined byMr. Crowberry, to whom Jackson had announcedAntonio's arrival.

"You're welcome, da Rocha," he said heartily."This will save us an hour. We were meaning to calland see you on our way to Lisbon. Teddy has toldyou the news. We want you to be as neighborly asyou can to the ladies. It will only be for eight or ninedays."

"I shall be happy to serve the Senhoras," answeredAntonio.

"Happy? So you ought to be. But you don't lookit. Come, damn it all, what did you tell me yourself?The worst of the year's work is over; and you said youwere going to study. My advice is ... Don't.Give yourself a rest. Run up here of an evening fora bit of music or a game of cribbage."

"Or for a quiet pipe and glass with that ExcellentCreature Mrs. Baxter," put in young Edward.

"Do the Senhoras approve of this?" asked Antonio.

"We didn't ask 'em," Mr. Crowberry answered."But never fear. They'll jump at it."

"And Sir Percy?"

"He approves of you entirely. Y' see, da Rocha,I've been giving you glowing testimonials. I've saidthat if I were the Grand Turk himself I would trustyou with the latch-key of the harem. I don't doubtthough," added Mr. Crowberry, chuckling and diggingat Antonio's ribs, "that you've been a bit of a dog inyour time. Eh? And none the worse for it either.Still, the point is you're as steady as an old horse,now. Besides, supposing you wanted to make love toIsabel, it would be all the same. You'd simply get afrost-bite."

"I am entirely at the service of all yourExcellencies," said Antonio, rather stiffly.

"Thanks," Mr. Crowberry answered. "But don't betoo much at the service of Mrs. Baxter. Betweenourselves, she's a selfish, lazy, avaricious old humbug.She looks the picture of good temper; but don't betaken in. Mrs. Baxter boasts that she has stuck to theKaye-Templemans through thick and thin; but she'sbuttered her own bread thick all the time. She is arich woman—all out of Sir Percy. When the shipbegins to sink, Mrs. Baxter'll be the first to rat."

"Then how must I treat her?" Antonio asked.

"Simply leave her alone. She'll spend her days inbed, like a dormouse—only, dormice don't wake upevery four hours to ask if it isn't feeding-time. Evenwhile Sir Percy has been in all this pain, Mrs. Baxterhas had the servants running about after her the sameas usual."

"What about Jackson?"

"Oh, he'll sleep all day too. He'll find a snugcorner and smoke and dose till dinner-time. But hedoesn't soak. And, if there's work to do, he'll do it.Jackson's all right. But come inside."

On the threshold of the large room Isabel met them.Want of sleep had paled her cheeks and dulled hereyes; but an unwonted softness of expression made hermore beautiful in the monk's view than ever before.He could not help feeling glad that she was remainingbehind, and proud that she was to be in his charge.Isabel led Antonio straight to Sir Percy, who wassitting in a rocking-chair with his arm in a sling.

The baronet was more changed than his daughter.He looked weak and old; but he was no longerdistraught. After he had answered Antonio's inquiriesgratefully, he said:

"Senhor da Rocha, it is possible I have behavedtowards you with curtness or even with downrightuncouthness. If so, I ask your pardon most sincerely,and I beg you to set it all down to my preoccupationwith a scheme which has failed. My daughter and Iwill never forget your kindness. Indeed, we are aboutto presume still further upon it. You know that I shallbe absent a few days in Lisbon, and we are hoping thatyou will be so very good as to come now and then tothis house."

It seemed strange to Antonio. But he reflected thatthe English were strange people, and that Sir Percywas far stranger than most of his compatriots. Againhe reflected that neither Sir Percy nor Mr. Crowberry,in spite of their friendliness, regarded him as otherthan a simple farmer who would never cease to beconscious of their differences of station. Accordingly hereplied:

"Far from asking me a service, your Excellency, onthe contrary, is doing me a great honor. I value it somuch that he may take his journey with an easy mind."

Jackson brought in two bottles of tawny port,bearing the familiar label of Castro and de Mattos.Healths were drunk all round; and although Sir Percy,Isabel and Antonio did not drink more than two fullglasses between them, the bottles were quickly emptied.Farewells were said. Then Sir Percy was placed inthe carriage, with Crowberry père at his side.Crowberry fils climbed upon the box, accompanied by thePortuguese groom, who had come with the party fromOporto. At Sir Percy's suggestion, Antonio took thevacant seat opposite Mr. Crowberry, so that he shouldsave his legs a mile of the journey home. Beforeentering the carriage, however, the monk turned toIsabel and enquired:

"At what hours will my visits be least unacceptableto the Senhoras?"

"Come up this afternoon," cried Mr. Crowberry,emphatically. "It'll be to-day they'll feel loneliest, whenall we noisy nuisances are gone. To-day andto-morrow."

"But you need sleep?" said Antonio to Isabel. Heintended to express no more than his genuine solicitude;but his soft eyes met hers with another glance ofunconscious tenderness. She colored so noticeablythat he made haste to add: "So I will not come untilfour o'clock."

Standing on tiptoe beside the chariot Isabel gave herfather a single kiss. It was plain that such outwardmarks of affection were not often exchanged betweenthem, and that the public giving and taking of this onekiss meant more than a thousand kisses between lessreserved beings. Even young Crowberry seemed tonotice it, as though he had eyes in his back; for hecracked a whip, and the chariot lurched on its way.

At four o'clock Antonio found Mrs. Baxter waitingin state to receive him. Although the light blue silkdress into which she had packed herself for theoccasion made the Excellent Creature look almost as broadas long, she was not a wholly unpleasing body. Herhair, primly parted in the middle, and drawn tightlyover her temples, was still glossy and black. Herinsistent smile showed white and regular teeth, and thecolor in her cheeks gave her a buxom and wholesomelook in odd contrast with her hypochondriac complaints.She wore a very large oval brooch containinga lock of hair which, presumably, had pertained to thelamented Baxter; also gold ear-rings and a fine goldchain.

It soon became evident that Mr. Crowberry had beendescanting upon Antonio's importance; for Mrs. Baxterwas determined to convince the visitor of her ownpast greatness. She monopolized the conversation.Beginning with an account of a happy girlhood spentamidst every luxury in a part of England unnamed, shewent on to speak of her rashly romantic marriage withthe dashing ne'er-do-well Baxter; or her universally-enviedbeauty as a bride; of her tearing her veil inchurch, and of her coming out in a gust of rain to finda black cat sitting on the vicar's first wife'sgravestone—three infallible portents of evil. Next, of thehandsome, but unpractical, Baxter's prompt andinconsiderate demise; of the un-Christian obduracy of herflint-hearted father, who would neither forgive norfinance his headstrong offspring; and of the entirelydiabolical behavior of the surviving Baxters.

Up to this point Isabel had sat bending over someembroidery, with an air of finding all such workdistasteful; but when the Excellent Creature beganputting the finishing touches to her character-sketch of thelate Miss Caroline Sophia Baxter, she got up unostentatiouslyand went softly to the window. Mrs. Baxterdid not mind, but proceeded to praise the admirableProvidence which had suddenly thrown her into thepath of dear Lady Kaye-Templeman. A hundreddetails followed, and Antonio's eye began to rove.Nor did it rove vainly; for when Mrs. Baxterexplained how she and dear Lady Kaye-Templeman hadgrown to be practically two sisters, the monk saw theslender girl in the window tap the floor impatientlywith her small foot.

"Of course, I was with her at the end," saidMrs. Baxter, mopping away tears. "How could I have beenanywhere else? Her last thoughts were of her darlingchild. 'Clara,' she said to me, 'promise me thatyou will never desert my Isabel.'"

The small foot tapped more sharply.

"And I never have deserted her," concluded theExcellent Creature, "although families of the highestquality and the first respectability have sought toinduce me, by the most tempting offers, to enter theirestablishments. No, Signor, I've never deserted poorIsabel, and, until she is dead or married, I never will."

"There are clouds coming up from the Atlantic,"said Isabel, turning round abruptly. "Mrs. Baxter, wemust either lose the pleasure of Mr. da Rocha'scompany, or else let him be soaked through."

Filled with a deep dread of the dreary half-hourwhen, having recited her own history, she must listento another's, Mrs. Baxter was relieved to see Antoniogo. The Iberian flourishes which adorned his partingcompliments completed her satisfaction. Why had noone ever spoken so nicely to her in England? Sheshook hands with Antonio, and very graciously pressedhim to come and drink tea as soon as he should be able.

Isabel accompanied him to the top of the stone steps.

"I'm so sorry," she said.

"Sorry?"

"About Mrs. Baxter. No! Don't say anything insincere.I know as well as you do that you hated it asmuch as I did. I could put up with the tale when itwas half truth and half white lies. But it has changedwith every telling until it's nearly all jet-black fibs.My mother liked her poor friends more than her richones; but Mrs. Baxter was not her friend. Nor isMrs. Baxter's name Clara. It is plain Jane."

Antonio smiled. "Anyhow, I've got it over," hesaid. "It had to come, some time or other. Butwhere are your clouds that are going to drench meto the skin?"

"Over there," answered Isabel, pointing to one tinymilk-white cirrus adrift in the clear blue lake ofheaven. "It's as large as a man's hand. You thinkI'm irreligious; but I've read the Bible, and Iremember something about a cloud no bigger than a man'shand which worked some miracle."

"That little cloud delivered Israel from droughtand from famine," said Antonio.

"And this little cloud has delivered you fromMrs. Baxter and from ... me," she retorted.

"It is banishing me from you," said Antonio, withprompt gallantry.

"If you wish to see me again—though I can't thinkwhy you should," she said, in as colorless a tone as shecould command, "don't always come in the afternoon,or to the house. Mrs. Baxter will drive you mad.Come in the morning, to the ravine—that pretty poolwith the cascade and the stepping-stones. I shall bethere reading on fine days. It's a shame to pen youup in a stuffy house. Besides, you said it was yourfavorite spot. Mrs. Baxter is calling. Good-bye."

II

When Isabel reached the pool with the stepping-stonesAntonio was already there. He could have wishedthat Miss Kaye-Templeman had not suggested whatmight look like surreptitious meetings; but, being aPortuguese gentleman as well as a monk, he could dono other than attend her at the place she had appointed.

It was a perfect morning. The sun shone morehotly and brightly than on many a day of July, makingone thankful for the shade of the trees, and for thecold spray of the waterfall. Hundreds of birds weresinging, and a great Japanese medlar scented the air.Yet, after half an hour or so of uneasy talk oncommonplace topics, the monk turned home again with asmarting breast.

Somehow the lady gave him a feeling that he hadintruded; that he had committed an indelicacy in soswiftly taking her at her word; and that he wasbeginning to bore her. The afternoon, before, on thetop of the steps, she had seemed sorry to see him go;but, at the stepping-stones, she seemed rather to regrethis having come. While her politeness was unexceptionable,their good-comradeship appeared to be at an end.

His failure to retain her favor piqued Antonio.Like many another monk before him, he had oftenfound pleasure in the belief that, if need arose, hecould hold his own as a man of the world. Nor didthe pleasantness of such a belief spring altogether fromsinful pride. He had sought to hallow God's nameand to hasten the coming of the Kingdom by sacrificinghis share of life's delights and excitements; and henaturally preferred to think that the world he hadrenounced was a world in which he would havetriumphed, and not a world in which he would haveblundered and failed. The first eventful days whichfollowed the arrival of all these English people at theabbey had ministered so subtly to his complacencythat the awakening was all the ruder. Beneath thesurface of his monkish humility the natural man beganto stir proudly and imperiously towards the regainingof his dominance.

The next day was Sunday. So as to save the facesof poor Magarida and her family, Antonio avoided theten o'clock crowd and fulfilled his obligation at theseven o'clock low Mass. This was the Mass mostfavored of the local Saints and Blessed Ones; butalthough the cura and the worshipers were full ofquiet devotion the monk found it hard to keep histhoughts from wandering. Nearly all the way homeIsabel tripped daintily hither and thither before hismind's eyes. He soon decided that he must not presenthimself again either at pool or at guest-house for a dayor two; but this resolution only enhanced the drearinessof his mood.

Reaching the farm about nine o'clock he was aboutto prepare his lonely breakfast when José appearedwith a letter. It had been brought, he said, by SirPercy's Portuguese servant, whom José proceeded todenounce as an inquisitive minx and a saucychatterbox. Antonio broke the seal and read:

Mrs. Baxter presents her compliments to Signor daRocha and requests the pleasure of his companyto-morrow (Sunday) afternoon, for tea. Mrs. B. truststhat Signor R. reached home yesterday before theshower.

Saturday Evening.

Underneath Mrs. Baxter's expansive script the monksaw a few infinitesimal characters, so minute that inspite of his keen eyes he was forced to hold them up tothe light. At first they looked like a wavy and brokenline, about half an inch long; but he deciphered themat last. They ran:

Do come. I. K-T.

"For instance," said José indignantly. "She askedme point-blank, plump out, whether your Worship isengaged to be married."

Antonio wheeled round so sharply that he almostlet the paper fall. It took him some moments torealize that José was not quoting Isabel, but only Isabel'sservant.

"I up and asked her, straight off, if she was engagedto be married herself," continued José. "And whenshe said No, I said, 'With a tongue like that I don'twonder at it.' Then she went home."

Antonio forced a laugh and turned back to light acouple of pine-cones on the hearth. But when José hadset out for church he picked up the note again and readIsabel's message thrice over. Only nine letters; yetthey harped and sang around him as if they had beenthe Nine Muses, and all his heaviness and drearinessfled away from their silver voices.

Later on, while he was conning his breviary underthe orange-trees, the monk suddenly faced a question.It came to him as he recited the None psalm Quomododilexi legem, at the words tota die meditatio mea est.Could he truthfully say that his "meditation all daylong" was still upon God? He examined hisconscience.

The result was not unsatisfactory. After years ofloneliness his mind surely needed the tonic ofintercourse with minds of its own order. Mr. Crowberryand his son had certainly wrecked his plan of autumnmeditation and study; but after all, these two wereassociated with the most crowded and stirring monthsof Antonio's career, and he could hardly be cool attheir irruption into the quiet life of the farm. Again,the affair of the azulejos had distracted him greatly;but surely God had been the substratum of his longthinkings, and the firmament overarching them all. Asfor Isabel, he was spending time with her at Sir Percy'sexpress request. That he should find delight in hersociety was proper and right. As a da Rocha, whoseancestors had fought against the Moors to establishthe Portuguese kingdom and against the Spaniards torestore it, he naturally felt invigorated by hisencounters with a gently bred and high-born damsel.

Although he was perfectly honest in all this inwardsearching, the monk, nevertheless, failed to push theprobe right home. Isabel had been confided to hisneighborly good-will, Isabel was intellectual, Isabelspoke his beloved English, Isabel was an aristocrat, likehimself; therefore Isabel's temporary prominence inhis thoughts was explained. It did not occur to himthat Isabel was also the prettiest and daintiest girlhe had ever seen, and that this fact might have somelittle to do with his interest in her. But he was notwholly to blame for the omission. Barely ten days hadpassed since his escape from Margarida, and Antoniowas taking it for fully granted that he was eternallyproof against girls as girls and women as women.

When José came in from church the monk translatedMrs. Baxter's note aloud, and stated that he wouldaccept the invitation. He added that he would takecare to pass the chapel, and, if possible, to collectthe pieces of the two broken azulejos. The two mensat awhile in the garden smoking their Sunday cigarsand saying little. José's peace of mind was evidentlynot being disturbed by Sir Percy's daughter as it hadbeen disturbed by Senhor Jorge's. After his masterhad refused a plump, bouncing, rosy-cheeked, black-eyedheiress, all covered with gold, like Margarida,José did not fear his accepting a slender, icy, shell-pink,simply-garbed, unbejeweled stranger like MissKaye-Templeman. He would almost as soon have believedthat Antonio was in danger of Mrs. Baxter.

The monk set out at three o'clock. Instead of takinghis usual short cut up the bed of the torrent he followedthe road through the great gates and the avenue ofcamellias to the monastery. He tried the door of thechapel; but it was locked. Deeply disappointed, hewas turning away when Isabel came in sight,descending the steep path from the pool. She greetedhim with more openness and friendliness than everbefore.

"I've come to meet you," she added, "to save myown life. Whatever happens, don't let Mrs. Baxterknow I wrote that little bit on her letter. She gave itto me to seal."

"It was wrong of you," said Antonio, with mockcensoriousness.

"I know. Very wrong," she retorted. "ButMrs. Baxter began it. After her Mrs. B. and Signor R.,surely there had to be a postscript. But tell me.Didn't I see you rattling the door of the chapel?"

"I hoped it might be unlocked," he said, a littleawkwardly, "and I thought I might take the libertyof picking up those broken tiles. Perhaps they couldbe patched together and cemented back into theirplaces."

The thought of the azulejos clouded her gaiety, andshe did not dissemble an impatient pout. Antoniodrew out his old-fashioned silver watch.

"Twenty-five minutes past three," he said. "We aretoo early for Mrs. Baxter."

"For Mrs. B., you mean," she answered, dismissingher impatience. "Very well, Signor R.; let us go andgather up the fragments."

From her embroidered bag she drew out a tiny handkerchief,a set of ivory tablets, and, last of all, a longthin key. The monk recognized it at once. It was ofold Spanish work, damascened; and Antonio could notdoubt that if the Fazenda official had been a lessignorant man he would have ordered a cheap duplicate, soas to keep the original for himself. Isabel drove itinto the keyhole; and, a moment later, the well-hungdoor rolled back on its hinges and the afternoon sunfilled the chapel with warm light.

They entered. Nothing had been touched since themoment of Sir Percy's accident. Without a word themonk stepped forward and began putting together thebroken framework of the saw. After some hesitationIsabel joined him. Kneeling near his side she sortedout the shattered azulejos and succeeded fairly well inpiecing them together.

"What shall we do with them?" she asked. "Wehave no cement. Besides, I am not sure that my fatherwon't prefer to put them back himself. By the way,don't tell Mrs. Baxter what we've been doing."

"Give them to me," Antonio answered. And,having transferred them to a short plank, he carriedthe pieces off to his own cell and placed them in thecupboard. The damage to the two tiles was irreparable;but he resolved to puzzle out the secret of theirmanufacture and to make new ones in their stead.

"We can go now, can't we?" begged Isabel, when hereturned to the chapel. There was a dutiful, almostdaughterly, submissiveness in her manner which cooedto his pride more softly and winsomely than heknew.

"We can go," he said. "There will be time to takethe path over the stepping-stones."

They relocked the chapel and mounted through thewood. Here and there its brown carpet of pine-needleswas tawny with flecks and dapplings of mellowsunshine. In a patch of old garden, round an image ofSaint Scholastica, they found autumn snowdrops,saffron, and sweet-smelling ranunculus. Overhead a bluegum-tree was in full flower, and all the while the woodhummed and thrilled with the diapason of the hiddentorrent.

After they had crossed the stepping-stones Isabelhalted, as if to absorb the loveliness of the ripplingpool. Antonio remained silent, awaiting her goodpleasure. Suddenly she said, without turning her eyestowards his:

"This is the place where I was so disagreeableyesterday morning."

He was too much surprised to reply.

"Isn't it?" she demanded.

"No," said Antonio. "It is the place, where,yesterday morning, we ... where we didn't get ontogether as well as before."

"It was all my fault," she persisted. "I had a sillyfit of prudishness, like a young miss just home fromschool. All the time we were trying to talk I waswondering what you thought of me for asking you to meetme alone in a wood."

"English ways are different from Portuguese,"suggested Antonio.

"Not so very different, after all," she said. "AskMrs. Baxter. Or, rather, take care that you don't sayhalf a word to Mrs. Baxter about it. If you do shewill swoon away with horror at the news of my brazenforwardness."

"If you will lend me your little ivory tablets," repliedAntonio, "I shall be able to begin making notes of allthe things I am not to mention before Mrs. Baxter."

"Be serious for a minute," she urged with a heighteningof color. "Unless I can make you understand,we must not meet this way any more. If we mustn't,if we can't, I don't expect it will matter very much toyou; but ... it will to me."

Her eyes met Antonio's. This time it was he whocolored up and fell into confusion. The only reply hecould think of was a stilted compliment.

"The Senhorita does me a great and an undeservedhonor," he stammered.

"Don't," she commanded, with an impatient gesture."When you talk like that I hate you. Be sincere.Besides, I'm not a Senhorita. If I were a Senhorita Ishould have jet-black hair and big sentimental eyes, andI should never walk more than a mile in my life, and Ishould no more dream of meeting you like this than ofdancing on a boa-constrictor. Are you going to talklike that any more? If so, we'll go home this minuteand you can do it on the way."

Antonio had met his match. If Isabel had been aman he could have met imperiousness with imperiousness,sarcasm with sarcasm, demand with demand, untilhe had established his will. But Isabel mastered him.He could only stand before her, like a refined andhandsome José, awaiting orders.

"What you must understand is this," she said."You have promised to come and talk to me now andthen, while my father is in Lisbon. You've promised,and I want you to do it. I must talk to somebodysometimes, mustn't I? But I'd rather not have youat all than have any more times like Friday afternoonwith Mrs. Baxter. You may think that, because shefinished the story of her life on Friday, you've gotthe worst of it over; but you haven't. You've stillto hear about the dear Marchioness of Witheringfield.Mrs. Baxter didn't know the dear Marchioness fromEve; but the tale will take an hour, all the same. Also,you've to hear how Mrs. Baxter lost the Baxter jewels,which she never possessed; and how she underminedher health nursing me through a month's fever, thoughit was really only a two-days' cold in the head; and howshe rescued the little Viscount Datton from a burninghouse, which she never saw in her life. Don't thinkme spiteful. I simply can't stand it. Of course, youmust put up with Mrs. Baxter once in a while; but,speaking generally, if you're coming any more to talkto me, I want you to talk to me here, at this pool, inthe mornings."

"If I come here, to this pool, in the mornings," askedAntonio, who had recovered himself, "how do youknow that I shan't inflict on you a string of historiesas long as Mrs. Baxter's?"

Although he did not mean to fish for a compliment,his ears expected some pleasing reply; and he was alittle crestfallen when she replied brusquely:

"Perhaps you will. Only don't you see, they will behistories I haven't heard fifty times already. Cometo-morrow morning. Now we ought to be going. Itmust be close on four o'clock."

III

The next morning Isabel and Antonio conversed, tothe accompaniment of the cascade's deep music, fornearly an hour. The morning following, their talklasted eighty minutes. On the Wednesday Antonioagain drank tea with Mrs. Baxter, who regaled himwith the full story of the little Viscount Datton'sescape from the blaze at Datton Towers; of hislordship's ingratitude and eventual marriage; and of theyoung Viscountess Datton's scandalous callousnesswhen her consort broke his collar-bone in asteeple-chase. On the Friday morning the monk met Isabelagain at the pool. Business took him to Villa Brancaon the Saturday; but Sunday afternoon saw himstriding over the stepping-stones once more.

Although these sunny hours were seasons of delightand refreshment to Antonio's human spirit, they didnot parch the springs of his Christly life. Every nighthe continued the pious practice of self-examination;and he was able, in all honesty and reverence, to justifyhimself by the example of his Lord. Diligebat JesusMartham et sororem ejus Mariam, "Jesus lovedMartha and her sister Mary;" and, on the eve of Hispassion he fortified His weary spirit for the lastconflict by abiding quietly in Martha's and Mary's house.And, in this sense—diligebat not amabat—Antonioloved Isabel. He was drawn to her by silken cordsof pity for a loneliness and lovelessness far worse thanhis own. He loved, with a fine spiritual sympathyunwarped by earthly passion, the brave, truthfulardent soul underneath the ice of her pride. No doubthe found a sensuous pleasure in the softness of hervoice, in her ever-varying beauty, and in hernever-failing grace; but these charms delighted him byreason of an exquisite fitness, like the fitness of richlyembroidered vestments and pure golden chalices ormonstrances in great acts of spiritual worship. Heloved her with a sacred and not with a profane love.

Nevertheless, the monk knew that he was only aweak mortal, and that he had drifted into a situationrife with perils. He remembered that betterChristians than he had made shipwreck of their faiththrough yielding themselves too confidently to femininecompanionship. He recalled the solemn warning ofSaint Paul: "Let him that thinketh he standeth takeheed lest he fall." But, so far as his own safety wasconcerned, a single consideration sufficed to reassurehim. In a few days Sir Percy would return, and itwas almost certain that he would bid his women-folkpack their chattels and depart before the secondinstalment of purchase-money fell due. Within amonth, perhaps within a week, Isabel would pass outof Antonio's life. Once more he would have tosettle down with José to their dull and lonesome grind,and probably years would drag away before he couldhear an English voice again.

Antonio, however, was not selfish enough to thinkonly of his own salvation and perfection. The situationhad its perils for Isabel as well as for himself;and therefore he followed up his monk's self-examinationby meditating, as a man of the world, on Isabel'sinterests. Although he would miss her sorely,Antonio was prepared to surrender her, when the timecame, without a murmur, as he had learned tosurrender many lesser delights before; but was Isabelequally able and willing to surrender Antonio? Shewas young, she was lonely, she was deeply affectionateas only a reserved woman can be; so was he doingright in occupying her thoughts more and more?After striving to act like the very soul of honortowards the slow-witted and shallow Margarida, washe not in danger of behaving dishonorably towardsthis finely-tempered, deep-hearted lady?

These questions suddenly pressed themselves uponhis conscience with so much ardor as he was crossingthe stepping-stones on the second Sunday afternoonthat he halted in the midst of the spray from thecascade and almost resolved to turn back. But hedecided that there was no cause for alarm. In Isabel'sview the difference in their stations must surely repressany rash outgoings of her maiden fancy. The daRochas could boast a longer and a less dubitablepedigree than the Kaye-Templemans; but Antonio hadperceived among the English a disrespect for allaristocracies save their own. Besides, Isabel knewnot a leaf or a twig of his family tree. To her he wasa self-made man, a yeoman working with his ownhands. Educated, traveled, interesting, ambitious,refined he might be; but, in the social scale, he wasstill a yeoman before the eyes of Isabel.

No. Surely there was no peril, no need to turnback. At not one of their meetings by the pool-sidehad there been the slightest approach to sentimentalinterchanges. They had talked of a hundred matters.Portuguese, English, and universal, and Isabel hadgone so far as to tell a score or two of intimateexperiences from which Antonio could rebuild the grayhistory of her unpeaceful life. But there had beenno more personal explanations, no more half-quarrels,no more uncontrolled glances or blushes, no more ofanything outside the frank good-fellowship of fastfriends in the first flush of friendship. So Antoniodid not turn back.

Isabel appeared at last, holding out some papers.A post had arrived from Lisbon, bringing the newsthat Sir Percy was much better. As the burnt handwas still useless, Mr. Crowberry had written out thebulletin; and, enclosed with his letter to Isabel weretwo for Antonio. The first, from Crowberry père,contained little more than compliments and thanks;but the second, in the loose handwriting of Crowberryfils, was more interesting. It ran:

Dear Joligoodfellow.

IhopethiswillfindyouwellasitleavesmeatpresentthankGodforit.

Now that the alujezos (or ajuzelos, or azelujos) aresafe, isn't it time you took a holiday? Why not comeback to England with Sir Percy and Isabel? I don'texpect they'll stay in Portugal.

I will bet a guinea that you've either quarreled withIsabel or that you haven't. When you write, don'tforget to say what you really think of her.

Give my love to that Excellent Creature Mrs. Baxter.Also to the Baxter jewels. Also to thosemonsters of ingratitude, inhumanity, and impiety MissSophia Baxter and the Viscount and ViscountessDatton. Also, if you dare, to Isabel. And accept thesame yourself from

Your most respectful and obedient
TEDDY CROWBERRY.

It occurred to Antonio that in neither of the letterswas a date given for Sir Percy's return to theguest-house. He was on the point of asking Isabel whetherit was mentioned in Mr. Crowberry's bulletin; but hesaw that the question could be interpreted in anuncouth sense, and therefore he did not put it. Theanswer, however, was writ plain in Isabel's face. Heswiftly analyzed her cheerfulness into two principalcomponents—her thankfulness for Sir Percy's improvedhealth and her relief at the prolongation of herliberty. Isabel's laugh was more free and gay. Sheseemed to be more of a girl and less of a woman.Indeed, for a few minutes, she became almost a child.For a while she stood hurling stones into the heart ofthe waterfall, as into the white down and iridescentfeathers of a great bird's breast; and as soon as shewearied of this exercise she began to sail boats ofcork-bark down the hurrying waters of the pool, scoldingor encouraging her favorite as if it had been alive.

When Isabel at last sat down she demanded, with herusual abruptness:

"Why have you never told me about the Portugueseladies—about the senhoritas? I'm tired of DomMiguel and Dom Pedro, and Affonso Henriques andthe Cardinal-King. As for growing grapes, by thistime I know as much about it as you do. Talk to meabout the senhoritas."

"What can I say about them," objected Antonio,"except that they are exceedingly beautiful,exceedingly virtuous, and exceedingly charming."

"And exceedingly dull," she said. "But be serious.Answer me. Is it true that Portuguese men are onlyhalf Christians? Is it true that, where women areconcerned, you are out-and-out Moors? Don't youall look on women either as toys or as slaves?"

"If young Mr. Crowberry were here," retortedAntonio, "he would tell you how we tie up the ladiesof our harems in sacks and drop them into the Tagus."

"I'm glad young Mr. Crowberry is hundreds ofmiles away," she declared. "When I've the patienceto listen to him, I admit some of his satire is clever.But he bores me. I mean, he annoys me. I supposeit's because we've both got yellow hair."

"You have not got yellow hair," said Antonio.

"Never mind what sort of hair I've got. Tell meabout the senhoritas. How do they spend their time?"

"Perhaps they could answer themselves—though Idoubt it," he said. "People say they eat and drinkand sleep; they dress and go to church; and, the restof the time, they look out of the window."

"Is it still true," she asked, "that their ... theirsuitors come and stand under the windows atnight, for hours at a time, with guitars?"

"Not always with guitars," explained Antonio,"but the rest is still true. If you want a senhoritayou must stand under her window, night after night,for months, wet or fine. When her window is on thethird floor you get a crick in the neck."

"But what do they talk about?"

"Nothing. They make eyes."

Her questions ceased, and the monk hoped that theywere finished with a risky topic. Suddenly, however,she turned upon him and blurted out:

"Do you have to crick your neck for Margarida?"

Antonio jumped. The question struck him entirelydumb. Margarida! At first he could only stare atthe questioner blankly. Then his stung pride madeitself felt. The blank stare gave place to a flash ofindignation. Her eyes quailed before the angry firesin his.

"No," he said, slowly and coldly. "I do not haveto crick my neck for Margarida."

Isabel's face showed that she was troubled andalmost frightened at what she had done. But he madeno haste to condone her offense. He was capable offorgiving the injury almost as soon as it wascommitted; but he could not so easily surmount hisdisappointment at hearing anything like indelicacy from herlips. Graver still was this sudden revelation thatIsabel did, after all, think thoughts of him as a loverand a marrying man. And it gradually dawned uponhim that there had been something nervous in hergaiety from the moment of her bringing theCrowberry's letters. He understood at last that she hadcome determined to probe him with her suddenquestion.

He got up and moved away a few yards to a pointfrom which he could see the Atlantic; and there hestood, taking scrupulous counsel with himself. Wasit or was it not his duty to make a fresh draft uponthe candor with which he had ended the match-makingof Senhor Jorge? No. It was not. Yet somethinghad to be done. What hint ought he to drop,or what counter-stroke ought he to deliver? For onefoolish half-moment he almost entertained a meanplan of letting Isabel believe that there was indeedsomething between himself and Margarida.

"I am so sorry," murmured a soft and penitentvoice almost in his ear.

After long indecision he asked, in dry tones andwithout turning to look at her:

"What made you say it?"

Her pause was longer than his. At length she answered:

"It wasn't idle curiosity."

"Then what was it?"

"I hardly know. Only it ... It seemed sodreadful."

"Dreadful?"

"I mean," she explained hastily, "it would be dreadfulif you made a marriage like that. To say so isunpardonable impertinence on my part, no doubt. But,to be perfectly frank, I ... well, I suppose I'veidealized you a little. You're not like other peopleI've met. And it shocked me to think of you settlingdown and, so to speak, giving up the fight."

"What fight?" asked the monk, not willing to helpher out.

"Fight is the wrong word. Never mind. Youknow what I mean. Of course, this Margarida isgood and domesticated and she'll make some farmeror tradesman an excellent wife. But can she read orwrite? Has she more than three ideas in her head?Could she talk with you, or understand you, or evensympathize with you, in anything that matters?"

"I suppose she could," said Antonio. "The simplethings of life are the things that matter."

"To simple people, certainly. But you are notsimple. You are complicated. Your teeth are easilyset on edge. You are sentimental, romantic."

"I am sentimental? I am romantic?" he echoed,with an unfree incredulous laugh. "You are the firstto find it out."

"It's true, all the same. What about that shut-updismal monastery down there? Haven't you wovenmore romance around it than any ladye ever wovearound her dead knight? What about the azulejos?Aren't you you as sentimental over them as anylove-sick youth over a withered rose or a lock of hair?Why, you were ready to quarrel with us all, your oldfriends included, for the sake of a sentimentalmemory."

"Tell me," the monk demanded, turning to read hereyes, "what do you know about Margarida? Whathave you heard? Who has been talking to you?"

She was silent.

"From whom have you heard Margarida's name?"he insisted.

"You will think very badly of me," she confessed."I heard it from Fisher, my maid. Oh, yes! lookscandalized by all means. I don't care. The poorgirl is in exile. Joanninha, our Portuguese cook,doesn't know much English, and she's old enough tobe Fisher's mother. Mrs. Baxter never speaks toFisher except to scold her or order her about. If Ididn't let her chatter now and again to me, she'd gomad. Not that I listen to half she says; but I shouldbe telling you a downright lie if I pretended that Ididn't prick up my ears when she began about youand Margarida."

"What did she say?"

"Very little. Only that Joanninha had been gossipingin the village shop, and that somebody had saidsomething about the Senhor Oliveira da Rochamarrying this Margarida."

Antonio relapsed into moody silence. The newsthat his name was still being linked with Margarida'sfilled him with chagrin, if only for the sake of SenhorJorge and his family. When, however, his thoughtscame back to Isabel he softened. He saw no reasonfor doubting that she was disinterested in dreadingthe disaster of his union with an unlettered andunintelligent country lass, and he was unconsciouslyflattered by her generous recognition of his finertemperament. Isabel, waiting at his elbow like arepentant child, felt the softening; and, plucking up freshcourage, she said:

"You haven't told me yet if it is true. You'veonly told me that you don't crick your neck."

"Which do you think?" asked the monk rathersharply. "Do you believe this gossip or not?"

"I don't," she replied, without hesitation. "But... there's just one thing that might make mecredit it."

"What is it?"

"Well. This Margarida is certainly very pretty.She has an adorable color and wonderful eyes, and shewears her mantilla beautifully. Besides—"

"But you've never seen her," interrupted Antonio inalarm.

"Yes, I have. This morning. In church. AtMass. Why weren't you there? I thought you wereobliged to go. I went with Joanninha. Don't askme to say that I liked it. The gilded wood and thecrude colors hurt my eyes, and the music was fearful.I couldn't understand a word of the sermon and Ididn't know what they were doing at the altar, so Ihad to pass the time looking at Margarida. If I werea man, I could fall in love with her."

"You went to church?" repeated Antonio,bewildered. Throughout their many talks during theweek he had avoided the subject of religion. He hadseen that it ruffled her, and he preferred not to discussit until they knew one another's first principles andprejudices in less weighty matters. But he had notonce failed, night or morning, to commend the workof Isabel's conversion to Our Lady of PerpetualSuccor, or to pray that he might become theinstrument of the Holy Ghost therein.

"Why did you go?" he asked. "To look at Margarida?'

"Most decidedly not," she retorted with spirit. "Ididn't know who the pretty girl in the mantilla wastill I came home. Fisher only told me this gossip twohours ago."

"Then you went to church to see what it was like?"he persisted, hoping, nevertheless, that there was somebetter reason.

"I went because I wanted to," she answered. "Butcome back to the point. Is it true about Margarida?"

He had gradually become aware of a new sympathybetween them. All the resentment and distrust fadedout of his heart. His gaze sought hers; and not untilhe could look down into her eyes did he answer:

"It is not true. It never was. It never will be."

The last syllable had hardly sped clear of his lipswhen the monk was struck dumb by the truth. Itflashed from Isabel's radiant eyes like a flaming swordinto his heart. A moment later she had turned awayher face; but she could not hide the magic roses, thegreat crimson roses, which sprang to full bloom uponher cheeks. He knew her secret; and she knew that itwas known.

To cover her trouble and confusion, she moved tofind her little gloves and the embroidered bag.Antonio stooped down before her and was the first to pickthem up; but she snatched them almost roughly outof his hand.

"We've stayed too long," she said. "I must go."

In a twinkling she had crossed the stepping-stonesand was in full flight for home. No wood-nymphpursued by a god of old ever flew with more gazelle-likegrace; and the ravine seemed shorn of nearly allits beauty when the trees hid her from Antonio'seyes.

IV

On Monday morning, although he had business inNavares, Antonio was early at the pool. Throughouta sleepless night his moods had wavered frombitter self-reproach to laborious self-justification.But, amidst all the waverings, one decision stood firm.He must see Isabel at once. He must not run away.He must not tolerate, either on his part or on hers,any spurious delicacy, any eluding of a thoroughunderstanding.

Try as he would Antonio could not wholly close hiseyes to the grim humor of the situation. Within thenarrow space of three weeks two young and handsomeheiresses had thrown themselves at his, a monk ofSaint Benedict's, head. But, while this oddity broughta bitter smile to his lips, he was not able to takepleasure or pride in events which were bringing painand humiliation to others. The feeling uppermost inhis heart was one of shame and sorrow for his indiscretionand weakness in meeting Isabel so secretly andso often.

About half-past ten she came, looking pale andrather frail. But she had nerved herself for theordeal before her, and she was calm and self-controlled.

"I knew you would come," she said quietly. "YetI feared you wouldn't. Early this morning I nearlysent Jackson down to the farm with a note; but Ididn't want people to talk."

"I came nearly an hour ago," the monk replied.His tones were so grave and his manner so solemnthat a flush of resentment rose to her cheek.

"Don't make things worse than they are," she criedangrily. "Aren't they difficult enough already?You won't help matters by looking and speaking asif you've come to a funeral."

Antonio could not retort that he was indeed standingby a graveside and that he had come to drop a farewelltear upon their dead happiness. He waited forher next words.

"We're obliged to talk out our talk whether we likeit or not," she continued, turning her back upon himand tearing at the fronds of a young mimosa. "I'mnot an actress. I can't pretend that I don't know whatwe both know perfectly well. You can; but I can't.If I left it all to you, I suppose you'd tell me somemore about the Emperor Pedro, or about sea-sandgrapes. You'd be perfectly polite and, as youimagine, perfectly considerate; and you'd go back tothe farm at twelve o'clock."

"I came here," answered Antonio, "expressly totalk and to listen without a moment's false delicacy ora shade of pretense."

"Thank you," she said, with a tinge of irony.

Her slender white fingers were still wantonly busywith the mimosa. The monk racked his witsdesperately for an opening sentence. He would havepreferred the easier task of facing Senhor Jorge andDonna Perpetua and Sir Percy and Mrs. Baxter andthe Visconde de Ponte Quebrada and Queen Victoria'sComptroller and the Fazenda official all combined.Words refused to come. But it fell out that hisdumbness was all for the best.

"Listen," said Isabel, without turning around."You don't expect me to find this interview verydelightful, do you? You'll admit that it's easier forme to talk about usurpers and bunches of grapes thanabout ... than about all this. I'll tell youwhat I've done. Perhaps I've done wrong, as usual;but I can't help it. I'm going to give you a letter—Imean a paper, a scribble. Some things are so mucheasier to write than to say. After I've given it toyou I'm going away for a walk. I shall come back inhalf an hour. You may open my little bag. It is inthere."

Antonio loosened the cords of the silken pouch withrespectful hands. It contained the damascened keyof the chapel, a tiny lump of shining felspar picked upfrom the path, a pair of fine gloves, two or three smallcoins, and a folded paper. As he drew the paperforth, a snapping of twigs made him look up. Isabelwas breaking her way through the trees.

His hand trembled as he unfolded the document.It was a quarto sheet filled from top to bottom withIsabel's fine writing. The monk glanced down the hillto make sure that she had come to no harm; and assoon as he caught sight of her walking quickly alongone of the woodland paths, he sat down on a warmboulder and began to read these lines:

Four years ago you and Mr. Austin Crowberryvisited the Earl of Oakland. You dined at CastleOakland, and stayed all the next day.

The Countess of Oakland is my aunt. I hardlyever see her, because my father quarreled with the Earlnearly twenty years ago. But the Earl has a niece,Lady Julia Blighe, whom I met in London a few daysafter you went away. Perhaps you remember her.She is a little over-magnificent, and wears too muchjewelry at once; but people go mad over her, and somesay she is the most beautiful woman in England.

You made a most extraordinary impression on LadyJulia. She admitted giving you a flower. I grewtired of hearing about you—nearly bored to death.At first she caused me to picture you as a beautifulByronic hero, with a Great Grief or a Dark Secret; andI detest all that sort of trash and gush. But one day,while she was chattering, a miracle happened. I can'tdescribe it. Perhaps it was like someone throwingwide a door that had always been shut, or setting freea bird or animal that had always been caged. All inone moment you became the most important fact in theworld. Why? How? I don't know. I thought Iknew you through and through. Often I could havesaid to Lady Julia: "No. That's all wrong. Youknow nothing about him."

I can't explain it. I am simply telling you the fact.From that time you haunted me. I became absolutelycertain that our lives, some day, would meet; morecertain than I am of the sun's existence and the moon's.When Mr. Crowberry told me of the plan for buyingthis place, and my becoming your neighbor out in thesewilds, I ought to have been overwhelmed by theastonishing coincidence; but it seemed as natural andinevitable as the sunrise.

At the first moment—no, not the first—I mean, thesecond moment of our meeting at your farm, I wasmortified because you tried to look at me before I couldlook at you. Why did you do it? It was unkind.I had been thinking of you for four years; but you, ifyou thought of me at all, couldn't have thought of memore than four days. Yet, although you were in sucha hurry to beat off my eyes, I saw in an instant thatyou were exactly as I had imagined you. Oporto andthe Douro were not in the least like the engravingsthey showed me in England: but you were my dreamcome true. And all the time I sat on your right handat dinner, I felt as if I had known you for years andyears. You are not as clever as I expected; but youare gentle, and I am not one bit afraid of you.

We nearly quarreled about monks and about theazulejos, did we not? Still, it was only on thesurface. You think I make too little of religion; I thinkyou make too much: but we have agreed quite amicablyto differ. Deep down in our hearts we are at one.

Since the day my father went to Lisbon I have beenhappy, for the first time in my life. You left me tomake all the approaches; but I was very, very happyuntil Fisher mentioned Margarida. Last night Iached and burned with shame, because I had let fallthe veil from my heart. But this morning I am gladand thankful.

You are not like other men. And I think I am notwholly like other women. As soon as you have readthis paper we are going to tear it into thousands ofpieces. So I will be bold. Mine is not the only secretthat is out. I know you love me, my friend, my onlyfriend in the world.

Antonio paused in his reading. For a moment hefelt an immense relief at learning that he was not toblame. But he reminded himself that his blamelessnessdid not help Isabel one whit. Here was a mysticalpassion, an inscrutable supernatural love. No onecould explain its beginning, no one could foretell itsend. Only by a great effort did he resume the readingof the paper. It continued:

So much for the past. Now for the present andthe future. What are we to do? Don't be hurt,dearest friend, if I write bluntly about practicalmatters.

There is a difference in our stations. I suspect thatyour blood is really nobler than mine and that yourescutcheon is less tarnished; but, from the point of viewof my friends, this will be a misalliance. Don't beangry. I mention it only to bid you disregard it. Ihave pondered it well and it weighs less than a sparrow'sfeather. I am nothing to the people in England;and they shall be nothing to me. Tell me, though;was it this that held you back from wooing me? Ibelieve it was; and that is why the advances came frommy side. But, after this, remember! You mustcourt me, woo me. If I command it, you must crickyour neck for me, as if I were a Senhorita.

And now about my father. You may fear that itwill be a blow to him. Certainly it will amaze himand disconcert him. But if you were not in the case,my friend, I should have to amaze him and disconcerthim some other way. So long as I and Mrs. Baxterand Jackson are with him, he doesn't realise the flightof time. He thinks of me as a little girl, and ofhimself as a man of forty who must needs be up and doing.He has fought his hard fight and he deserves his rest.More. He needs it. The Navares doctor says he willgo out like a candle in a gale if he does not surrender.Whatever you may think, I love my father; and, evenfor your sake, I would not leave his side if it were notwholly for his good. God knows I am honest in thisand in every word I have written. ISABEL.

Mechanically refolding the sheet, Antonio rose to hisfeet and drew a deep breath. In a few minutes Isabelwould return. She would steal as shyly as a youngdeer through the branches. She would expect him tospring towards her, to clasp her in his arms, to murmurproud words of possession, to lavish in her ears hislong-hoarded treasure of love-words, to press kisseson her hands, her cheeks, her eyes, her hair. Like aterrifying tocsin her words clanged in his brain:"My friend, my only friend in the world, you love me!"

He turned his gaze towards the Atlantic. But theday was growing sultry. Thunder was in the air andmists hid the great waters. He dared not look intothe woods lest he should espy the slender figure trippingtowards him. And somehow he could not lift up hiseyes and his heart to heaven. In this cruel issue hisinborn instincts of a courtly gentleman wore down hisacquired habits of piety, until it savored of a coarsenessor of a lapse from honor to breathe a word of thisrare ladye's secret, even into the pitiful ears of God'ssaints and angels. Thus earth and sea and sky alikefailed him. He closed his eyes.

Suddenly a rosy light and a delicious perfumedwarmth seemed to suffuse his body and soul. Ofcourse. His way was plain. God had frozen his cryfor help upon his lips because it was no longer God'swill that he should mortify his manhood in doggedfidelity to obsolete vows. He had vowed his vows inthe belief that the Order would continue, and that hewould live and die in its midst, upheld by its hourlydiscipline and devotion. He had not left the Order:the Order had left him. For seven years he hadlabored to restore it, and he had failed. He was free.

Free. Free to be as other men, free to hail the mostwonderful and beautiful of maidens, free to exult overher, free to receive her marvelous love and to give itback a thousand-fold. He opened his eyes, andinvoluntarily held out his arms.

With bent head Isabel was picking her way up theslope. Her exquisite hands held her pretty dress ofsprigged muslin clear of the thorny undergrowth.Sunbeams played with her golden ringlets. Antoniowatched her with a sense of intoxication. This lovelygirl was his, body and spirit, all his.

She drew nearer until he could see the blue of herlarge eyes, the peach-bloom of her soft cheeks. Then,with the suddenness of an earthquake, the greatestmiracle of his life befell.

Hundreds of times in the past, especially at seasonsof abounding faith and high ecstasy, he had prayedthat the Blessed Virgin would fly to his relief if everhe should weaken in this most perilous of his vows."Pray for me, O Mother of mothers, O Virgin ofvirgins!" he had cried again and again. "Pray forme whenever I cannot, or will not, pray for myself." And,as Isabel parted the branches behind the mimosa,those hundreds of old prayers were answered. Celestialfire and supernal power filled his whole being sosuddenly and mightily that he was conscious of a physicalpang, of a roaring in his ears like rushing windsand resounding waters, of a great brightness before hiseyes.

V

The heat of conflict and the flush of victory hadwrought so great a change in Antonio's expressionthat Isabel started when they came face to face. Butshe interpreted his transfiguration as an ecstasy of loveand joy; and her blue eyes suddenly shone with aradiance as wonderful as his own.

Before her proud and happy gaze Antonio's cheeksgrew pale. It was as if a pet lamb were looking up tohim for a caress, when all the time he was gripping abutcher's knife behind his back. It was as if somesmiling friend were holding out to him an exquisitevase full of lilies and roses which he must straightwaydash into pieces. Isabel seemed so frail, so soft, sowhite, so trustful, so lamb-like; and her love was surelythe most fragrant and beautiful thing in all the world.

"You are coy," she said laughing gaily. "And youhave turned as pale as a swooning heroine in anEnglish novel. I suppose you're going to say, 'Give metime: this is so sudden!'"

Although Antonio remained silent, no doubt of hislove crossed her mind. Had she not read love in hiseyes, time after time? She took it for granted that hewas merely tongue-tied because of the strangenessof the situation.

"You have read it?" she asked, drawing the foldedpaper from his unresisting hand. "Every word?"

He bowed assent. For a minute or two her slenderfingers busied themselves tearing the document firstinto ribbons, then into small squares, and finally intotiny shreds. After she had mixed the shreds welltogether she ran to the lower end of the pool and threwthem, one small handful at a time, into the swirlingrapids.

"You are tired," said Antonio when she returned."The day is sultry. Later on there will be thunder.You have walked a long way. You must sit down."

Isabel seated herself on the flat boulder. Butalthough there was room at her side the monk remainedstanding. She pouted unconsciously and darted twofurtive glances at his eyes. The first glance was onlya glance of slight disappointment and of shy reproof;but the second was a glance of sudden anguish andsickening fear. The silence lengthened until she couldbear it no longer.

"Speak to me!" she commanded indignantly. "Whydo you stand there saying nothing? I suppose youdespise me?"

"Isabel," he said, calling her by her name for thefirst time, "you know I don't despise you."

He spoke her name in a voice so strangely sweet thather ears tingled and her heart leaped. And when hisbrown velvet eyes looked into hers with sorrowfultenderness all her pride broke down.

"Then why are you so cruel?" she cried. "Whydo you make it so hard for me? Haven't Ihumiliated myself enough? You are cruel. Why do younot tell me that you love me?"

The supernal grace and might which had miraculouslyfulfilled Antonio's body and soul enabled himto triumph over temptation; but they did not deliverhim from anguish. The sword which was about torend the heart of Isabel scorched him as it circleddownward for its dreadful work. Her coming ordealwas already his; and he stood in the midst of it as ina burning fiery furnace.

Isabel sprang up and faced him. Their eyes wereless than a yard apart. Antonio's continued silencewas sufficient answer; but she fought fiercely againstthe truth. Clasping her white hands desperatelyagainst her breast, she challenged him in short,panting sentences.

"This is horrible, too horrible," she began, "I tellyou it is too horrible. You can't, you daren't lookme in the eyes and say you don't love me!" Andwhen he still delayed to speak she raised her voice andcommanded sharply: "Answer!"

He looked her in the eyes with immeasurablesadness, and answered:

"I do not love you in the way you mean."

"The way I mean? What is the way I mean?Either you love me or you don't. There are no twoways in love." She spoke hotly and with scorn.

"In the paper you've just torn up," he replied, "youcalled me your dearest friend in the world. In thatsense, I love you. In all the world, you are my dearestfriend."

"And no more? Not an atom more?"

He hesitated.

"Come," she said bitterly. "You are trying me toofar. If this is some subtlety, some finesse, let us saveit until another day. For the last time, I ask you:Can you stand up here in the sight of the God youbelieve in, and say that I am no more to you than yourdearest friend?"

It came home to Antonio that he could not, withperfect truthfulness, say that she was his friend andno more. Yet how was he to evade her question?Plainly the cruel, hateful moment had come for strikingthe fair vase to pieces, for driving the butcher'sknife into the white lamb's heart. He raised his headand resumed the mastery over her by a singlemovement of his inextinguishable will.

"My dearest friend in the world," he said gently."If I am to blame for the smallest fraction of thiswonderful and terrible thing which has come to pass,I crave your pardon here and now with all my heart,and I will ask God's pardon every day until I die.But ... for God's sake, let us forget. Letyesterday and to-day be as if they had never been. Howa woman like you could ever waste one thought of loveon a man like me neither of us can explain."

She heard him with wildly staring eyes.

"You offer me," he concluded, "a gift beyond allprice. But I must turn my back, I must close my eyes,I must stop my ears. I am pledged to another Bride."

They were the words he had used to Senhor Jorge.But, this time, he uttered them proudly; for he hadmeditated upon them often since the serão. He knewthat they were not a mean verbal quibble, and thatthey enshrined the foremost fact of his life. As theyleft his lips the spiritual world was as real and nearas the cascade, as real and near as the mossy boulder,as real and near as Isabel.

His delicacy moved the monk to turn away withouteven the briefest glance at the effect of his declarationupon Isabel. But she did not desire his consideration.Something magnetic in her anger compelled him toraise his eyes. He saw that she too had moved away.

"Another Bride?" she repeated slowly, barbingevery syllable with scorn. "Another Bride? Indeed.What an entirely enviable young woman!"

For a few moments her sarcasm sustained her.With her hands hanging easily at her side she stoodhaughtily erect, smiling a scornful smile. But it didnot last. Without warning she ran towards him andcried, with a break in her voice:

"It isn't true!"

"It is true," said the monk, very gently.

"It is not true!" she went on, stamping her foot."It isn't. It can't be. If it were true you wouldhave told me before. You'd have dropped a hint,you'd have talked about her. I tell you it isn't true.If it were true you'd have told me when you deniedthe talk about Margarida. You are a man. You arenot a cur and a brute."

"This is unjust," cried Antonio. "How could I tellyou yesterday, after Margarida? You ran awayhome like the wind. And why should I drop hints?Surely they would have been a great impertinence.How should I dream that you, an English lady, witha proud old name, would ever think so of me, awine-merchant's clerk?"

"Then why did you make love to me fifty times?"she retorted.

"Fifty times? Made love? This is madness. Onmy honor and conscience I have not breathed a wordof love to you even once."

"Who said you'd breathed words? I didn't. Butyou've made love with your eyes. Over and over andover again you have looked at me as if I was as muchto you as you were to me, and as if you and I werethe only beings in the world."

"I swear you are mistaken, utterly mistaken," criedAntonio.

Isabel had ceased to listen. She clenched her handstogether once more against her breast and stood gazingtowards the mists which hid the Atlantic. When shespoke again it was not to Antonio. She seemedrather to be thinking aloud, with quick impassionedutterance.

"So this is the end," she began. "Yet how long ithas been in coming! I have been happy for tendays—ten whole days. When was I ever happy for threedays and nights before? But it's over now. Whata memory to carry to my grave—the memory of thisend! I've made a fool of myself. I've made myselfcheaper than dirt. I've pressed myself on a man whowon't have me."

Antonio took a step forward; but, without payinghim the smallest attention, she continued:

"It's happened to other women, no doubt. But theother women weren't so hungry and thirsty for a littlehappiness as I was. They didn't have mothers whodied the day they were born. They didn't havefathers who forget their very existence for monthsand months at a time. They've had homes, they'vehad friends, they've had all the lesser love. But I... I have had nothing, from anybody, anywhere,ever."

She laughed a laugh like iron against iron. Themonk could endure it no longer. He sprang to herside. For the first time, he touched her hand. Shesnatched it free as if he had burnt it, and looked athim fiercely.

"Go away," she cried, "I hate you!"

"No," he said. "I won't go away till you are lessunhappy, and till you forgive me."

His gentle compulsion mastered her. She allowedhim to lead her back to the boulder. This time he satdown at her side. As he did so she bent her head.Tears came into her eyes. Suddenly she covered herface with her hands and wept without restraint.

Antonio, sitting so near to her that he could haveencircled her with his arm, suffered as bitterly asIsabel. The momentary temptation to trample on hisvow no longer had the slightest power over him; buthis whole heart yearned to end her grief, or, at theleast, to comfort her. She was so like a sobbing,heartbroken child that it seemed inhuman to sit besideher without drawing her head to his shoulder or evenstroking her hands. Yet he knew that it would bemore inhuman still to rise up and move away.

She overcame her sobs at last; and, turning uponhim eyes like April skies, she demanded abruptly:

"This Bride? What is she like?"

"Let us not talk of her now," said Antonio, as soonas he could command his words. "Surely it is betternot."

"Is she like Margarida?"

"No."

"Prettier?"

"For Heaven's sake," he pleaded, "do not ask thesequestions?"

"Answer me at once. Is she prettier than I am?In England they call me pretty. I suppose I'm uglyto a Portuguese. I suppose she's a hundred timesmore beautiful than I am."

"There are different kinds of beauty," said Antonio.

"Is she clever?"

Antonio considered well. Then he replied:

"In Her case I should not use the word 'clever.' But,I entreat you, ask me no more."

He rose to his feet with a look which silenced her.A moment afterwards she too sprang up. Steppingquickly to the pool, she dipped her little handkerchiefin the laughing water and tried to bathe away thetraces of her tears. When she sailed back towardshim she came proudly.

"This ought to be the end," she said. "I ought notto see you alone again. But I don't forbid you tocome just once more. Perhaps I shall be hereto-morrow morning. I don't say I shall, and I don't sayI shan't."

Her steady gaze commanded an answer: but it wasonly by a huge effort that Antonio succeeded inreplying:

"You have spoken truly. We ought not to meetalone again."

"No, we ought not. Most decidedly we ought not,"she flashed back scornfully. "But we will!"

And without another word or glance she hastenedaway.

VI

Isabel could not sleep. In order to postpone the hourof solitude she had sat up late talking to Fisher,practising Portuguese with Joanninha, and writing lettersto her few friends in England. Finally she hadastounded Mrs. Baxter by asking to be told all aboutthe early life of the callous young Viscountess Dattonand by listening without a murmur to the details whichthe Excellent Creature multitudinously invented. Butthe moment came when Mrs. Baxter's love of bedoverbore her love of hearing herself talk. She rangthe bell and Jackson came in, yawning, with thecandles.

When Isabel lay down she set the whole power ofher will to the barricading of her mind against theday's cruel memories. But it was all in vain. Everyword she had spoken to Antonio, every syllable of hisreplies, vibrated afresh in her ears, scorching themwith shame. Twice or thrice she clenched her fist asif she would strike some invisible enemy or revengeherself on the author of her loss and humiliation.Sometimes her cheeks burned crimson: sometimes shefelt all the blood ebb from them. Her spiritualanguish brought in its wake a physical pain, sickeningand hardly bearable, like the pains after the first shockof a dizzy fall or a brutal blow. She seemed to beaching all over; and more than once she moaned aloud.

Even without her shame and grief Isabel couldhardly have slept. All through the afternoon andevening the air had been growing sultrier and sultrier.Not once in England, not even during brazen August,had she known such a stifling heat. Both her windowsstood wide open; but they seemed to be admittingfiery vapors rather than life-giving airs. Even the finelinen sheet was too hot and heavy to be endured. Sheflung it aside and lay with nothing to cover her save aplain night-robe of the thinnest Indian silk. At firstshe tossed from side to side; but so much exertion soonexhausted her, and she lay still, gasping for breath.

At length the heat became unendurable. She roseand went to the window. Two or three miles away,over the woods, over the abbey, beyond Antonio'sfarm, the surly Atlantic was growling his muffledgrowl through the sultry air. Quite near at hand theshrunken torrent was rumbling down through theunderwoods. Isabel listened. The airy ocean andthe seaward-hurrying brook seemed to invite her, andto be beckoning her with cool hands. She leaned out,fain to be a little nearer.

There was no moon, and the stars could not piercethe stagnant clouds. Yet the night was not solidlydark. The outlines of the taller trees could be tracedagainst the sky, and the pavement which surroundedthe guest-house glimmered like white limestone.

Isabel was suddenly filled with an overmasteringdesire to break her prison walls and to walk free underthe open sky. Apart from its bitter associations shewould have lacked courage to visit the pool and thecascade in the dead of night; for the narrow paththither wound in and out of somber thickets. But thebroad way, broad enough for a carriage, which randown from the guest-house to the abbey, and thence,through the avenue of camellias, to the principal gatehad no terrors for a soul almost untroubled by superstitiousfears. It seemed to the half-stifled, heart-sickIsabel that if she could escape from the house unheardby Jackson and Mrs. Baxter she might find life andhealing in those ampler spaces. She did not admit toherself that the broad path and, especially, the pavedspace in front of the abbey attracted her because theywere rich in unembittered memories of hours withAntonio. Room, more room; air, more air: shethought she wanted nothing besides.

Having dressed herself swiftly in her lightestgarments she threw over her hair a black lace mantillawhich she had bought in Oporto, thrust her shoes andstockings into her little bag and crept barefoot to thedoor. It creaked a little when she closed it behind her;but the steady sequence of sounds which continuedto come from the bedroom of Mrs. Baxter proved thatthe Excellent Creature had heard nothing. Isabelturned away with a shrug of distaste, and descendedthe stairs. There was no need to listen for the snoringof Jackson, who could have gone on sleeping restfullyif she had clattered about the corridor in clogs.

The two bolts of the front door were not very hardto draw back, and the latch was easily lifted. On thetop step, where she had talked thrice with Antonio,Isabel drew on her stockings and shoes. Then sheclosed the door behind her, latched it softly, and stoleon tiptoe out of earshot down the path.

It was not much cooler in the open than in herchamber. Still, she was glad that she had exchangedher narrow cell for freedom. Besides, thefar-stretching woods and the vast heavens were more inscale with her immeasurable sorrow. She walked onquickly, eager to hasten away from her hateful prison.The path was cheerful because it led down to the openlowlands and the refreshing sea.

Midnight, to Isabel's mind, usually held no moreterrors than noonday. But when a vague shapeconfronted her under a tree she started violently.Some gossip of Joanninha's awoke in her memory—someridiculous village story about a ghostly monkwho haunted the domain on dark nights. Advancingboldly upon it she found that the vague shape wasonly a dead trunk clothed in creepers. She tried tolaugh; but the laugh would not come, and suddenlyshe knew what was meant by fear.

Her instinct was to turn and run home. But thepath behind her, backed by the enormous mass of themountain, looked like a tunnel bored through coal,while the path ahead of her led towards Antonio andJosé, towards the soft lights and faint voices of the sea.Daring neither to go back nor to stand still, she hurriedon until her foot struck a slab of stone.

She had reached the paved space in front of theabbey. The western gable of the chapel hulked uphigh into the gloom, like the poop of a man-o'-waraground. Upon the warm stone steps, with her backto the door, she sat down until she had regained all herbreath and lost nearly all her fears. Isabel saw noreason why she should not sit there until dawn. Shehid her face in her hands, and tried to sleep.

A growling in the east aroused her. It was nolouder than the Atlantic's growling in the west. Isabelknew that it was thunder; but it seemed to be so faraway that she was not alarmed. What surprised herwas its long protraction. Unlike the intermittent dinof an English thunderstorm it rumbled on unceasingly,until Isabel could almost have believed that she waslistening to the echoes of an Armageddon raging amongthe burnt, far-off hills of Spain. Suddenly, however,a blaze of lightning showed her the terrified Atlantic'sashen face. She had never dreamed of such lightningbefore. Flash trod upon flash so eagerly that therewas a continuous dance of light. The half-seconds ofdimness between seemed more positive than thelightning. They were like the convulsive twitchings of agreat eyelid over a terrible eye; and Isabel thoughtshe saw flashes of darkness rather than flashes oflight.

From the neighborhood of the stepping-stones camea shattering noise, as sharp as a pistol-shot and as loudas an exploding magazine. Immediately, afterwards,as if obeying a preconcerted signal, a fearfulcannonading and fusillading began to rage on every hand.Armageddon had swept westward.

Isabel sprang up and huddled back into the scantyshelter of the shallow doorway. So long as there wasno rain she welcomed the gigantic grandeur of thethunder, and the cold, pitiless beauty of the lightning.But the rain's herald did not delay to blow his blast.Isabel could not see them; but she felt a swirl of dustand dead leaves rush past her in obedience to hiscommand. Gritty atoms clung to her lips. At the samemoment ten thousand trees began to rock and moan inpain; and a warm drop fell upon Isabel's hand.

Down rushed the rain. At first it struck straightdown from heaven, but, after a few seconds, it smotethe wood slantwise, like millions of thin javelins hurledfrom a height. The thunder never ceased crackling,banging, booming; and the lightnings were so brightthat the tree-trunks stood like smoke-blackened menwielding brilliant scimitars amidst the flying javelins.

Isabel was greedily watching the strife when thewind veered, and a battery of rain discharged its wholebroadside full at her face. The gust lasted only amoment; but, when it had passed, her thin dinner-dresswas wet all over. She knew that there would befifty gusts all as bad as the first or worse, and that shemust either enter the chapel or be drenched to the skin.

She drew the key from her bag. The lightningsserved her for a lantern as she drove the steel into thekeyhole; but before she could turn it in the lock anotherburst of cold rain smacked rudely at her bare shoulders.At length she pushed back the door. The lightningsseemed to leap into the chapel the moment she openedit, like a pack of eager dogs rushing in before theirmaster. Swifter than greyhounds the cold white-and-blueradiance flashed over the cold white-and-blue ofthe azulejos, and then licked back into the dark.

In her retreat from the rain Isabel had forgottensupernatural terrors. But as soon as she was fairlyover the threshold Joanninha's ghost-story rushedanew into her mind, and she was thankful for thelightnings which had shown her that the place wasempty. Yet she dared not shut herself up in thechapel; so she resolved to stand just inside.

Without any warning a third gust sucked the greatdoor out of her weak hand. The oak fell to, with abang, which was nearly drowned in a sharp clap ofthunder. Isabel leaped back to reopen it, and tuggedat the handle with all her might. But the bolts andsprings of the lock had done their work. And the keywas outside.

Isabel did not lose her head. As soon as she hadrecovered from the first shock, the good blood of herold English stock thrilled in her veins. Here was anadventure. Antonio instantly flew into her thoughts,as usual. To-morrow she would meet Antonio. To-morrowshe would tell him, this contemptuous Antonio,how she had passed a night of thunder and lightningin a haunted chapel. To-morrow Antonio should bemade to realize what sort of a woman he was flouting.To-morrow Antonio would hang his head at thethought of his dull, superstitious, spiritless Portuguesebride.

Propping herself against the wall she took stock ofthe situation. The chapel was dry; and although herdress was wet it was not wet enough to give her a cold.In four or five hours it would be daylight, and shewould have courage to find the spiral staircase. Onceon the flat roof of the cloister she would be able to seeJackson and the other servants searching for her.Jackson and the servants and Antonio. They wouldbe sure to send first thing for Antonio.

The warmth with which she pictured Antonio'sarrival ebbed away when she suddenly rememberedthat she was leaning against the blue-and-whitetile-painting of the Saint's death at Tyburn. With a littleshiver she crossed over to the azulejos representing theSaint's birth. Meanwhile, the rain was still lashingthe glass, and the thunder was making a din like thetoppling of crags into cañons. What troubled hermost was the jeweled crown on the head of the imageabove the altar. The bluish-white lightning seemedto have an affinity for the bluish-white stones, andseveral times Isabel felt sure that the brilliance lingeredamong the points of the diadem after it had fled fromthe rest of the chapel.

Once she could have sworn that some one enteredthrough the cloister doorway, and that footstepssounded upon the pavement; but the thunder was loudat the time, and she decided that she had only heardits reverberations. None the less, the fright weakenedher nerve. All in a moment she felt weary, chilly,hungry, and so utterly miserable that she nearly cried.She pulled herself up in time and tried to brace up hernerves by chewing the bitter bark of irony. "This isone of my lucky days," she said to herself. "Fromthis morning onward it has been wholly delightful.What a good grateful girl I ought to be!"

An ear-splitting clap of thunder put an end to hersoliloquy. So awful was the crash that Isabel listenedshuddering for the noise of falling walls and roofs.Not one stone or slate gave way; but she heard asound a thousand times more fearful. It was a voice,a mumbling voice which seemed to prolong the worn-outrumblings of the thunder; a voice deep and rich;the voice of a man; a voice somewhere in the chapel.

Her heart nearly stopped beating. She strainedterrified eyes into the furthest darkness. And she did notstrain them in vain. In close succession four or fivewhite beams of lightning lit up the choir.

A monk, in black, was kneeling before the altar.

Isabel's piercing scream was louder than the thunderand the rain. She collapsed in a heap on thepavement. But she did not swoon. Struggling to her feetshe dashed herself desperately against the massivedoor. It stood like a rock. Moaning wildly, shedragged at the lock with both hands. It did not yielda hair's-breadth. A moment later she heard footsteps;and turning round she had one lightning vision of theblack monk hurrying towards her. She shrieked againand made a dash in the direction of the cloisterdoorway. Before she could reach it another white flashshowed her the black monk only an arm's length away.As the flash passed she struck a mad blow into thedarkness and, hitting nothing, she stumbled and fellforward. But two strong, unghostly arms caught herjust in time; and instead of striking the cold stones shefound herself upheld by something soft and warm.

Without waiting for the lightning to reveal his face,Isabel knew that she was in the arms of Antonio.Never in her life before had she yielded to any man'scaress, save the rare and shamefaced kisses of herfather. Yet Antonio's arms seemed to be her naturalplace, like its nest to a bird. For a few seconds shedid not think of identifying the black monk. Shebelieved that the black monk had been on the point ofstriking her dead, and that some grand magic of lovehad conjured up Antonio to stand between them in thenick of time. Trembling like a leaf and panting like arunner after a race, she pressed and clung to him, as aterrified child clings to its mother in the dark.

"You are Isabel?" said Antonio. He had knownfrom her first scream that it was she; but he thoughtit might comfort her to hear his voice speaking hername.

"Yes. I am Isabel," she murmured. And althougha sharp memory of the plighted Bride bade her banishherself at once from his clasp she abandoned herselfmore than before to the warmth and softness of hisgentle strength.

"You are safe, quite safe," he said; for she wasstill trembling all over. "There is no ghost. It wasonly I."

No ghost? Only he? What did it mean? Isabelroused her deliciously drowsing wits. No ghost.Only he. She opened her eyes. But the chapel wasfilled full with darkness, and she could not see his face.

A moment afterwards a prolonged blazing of hugelightnings made the place brighter than day. Theazulejos, the high windows, and the gilded carvingsshone out like blue and white and yellow fires. Isabelcould see Antonio's anxious eyes gazing down into herown. And she had time to see much more. She sawhis Benedictine habit; she saw that he and the blackmonk were one and the same man.

She leaped away from him in terror. But terror didnot endure. At the touch of his reassuring handseeking her arm in the gloom, a light as bright as thelightning's blazed within her and a thunderbolt ofoverwhelming joy swept her off her feet. With agreat cry of gladness she flung herself once moreagainst his breast.

"It's true, it's really true?" she clamored. "Speak.Answer me at once. You're not deceiving me?Your Bride is not a real woman after all?"

"You have surprised my secret, and I trust you tokeep it," he answered. "When the monks were herethey knew me as Father Antonio."

"Antonio, Antonio, Antonio—what a beautifulname!" she cried. "Come, Father Antonio, tell me.Your Bride is only Religion, or the Church, or theVirgin, or something like that?"

Her tone dismayed the monk even more than herwords shocked him; and he remained silent.

"You cannot deny it," she exulted. Another flashof lightning silenced her; but the radiant eyes andglowing cheeks on which it shone were more eloquentthan her words. And as soon as the swift darknessclosed over them her words rang in it like New Year'sbells at midnight. "You don't deny it, you can't, youdaren't," she sang. "Your Bride is all a meresentiment, like the azulejos; a romance; an ideal."

"First of all," demanded Antonio, "how did youcome here to-night?"

"God sent me. I believe there's a God, at last."

He moved a little, so as to loosen her clasp. But, inher almost hysterical rapture, she did not perceive themovement.

"You are wet through," he said. But she onlyanswered:

"What does it matter?"

"Quick!" he commanded. "There is a lull in therain. You must go home this moment."

"I won't," said she. "We will stay here."

"Isabel," he retorted sternly, "we will not stay here.You are mad. The storm has driven you out of yoursenses. Or perhaps it was the ghost you thought yousaw. You must go home this instant. What if youhave been missed? What if your servants should findus here? What will Mrs. Baxter say? And whatshall I say to your father?"

Until he spoke his last sentence Isabel heard himunmoved; but at the thought of her father the armswhich held Antonio weakened. Very slowly she lethim go. None the less, she sought to argue. Themonk, however, enforced his will. Gripping her armhe marched her almost roughly to the west door, andfumbled for the lock.

"It's no use," she said. "The key is outside. Wemust stay here."

His only answer was to take her arm again and tolead her through the smaller doorway into the cloister.At the moment of their emerging from the chapel ashaft of lightning lit up a bubbling lake of muddywater, under which lay drowned the cloister garden.Two sides of the cloister itself were also under water.

"I am frightened," she said, with genuine fear, asAntonio drew her into a gloomy corridor. He couldfeel her shrinking back and trembling; so he threw hisarm around her waist and hurried her on. As theypassed through the kitchen the uproar of the torrentreminded Antonio of the night of his fight with José.But he did not pause. He threaded passage afterpassage, room after room, until he had worked round tothe little door with the Reading monk's secret lock.His fingers searched among the hidden levers, and atlast the door stood open.

Frequent lightning still swept sea and land; but thethunder had dragged its great guns northward andwas pounding over Navares. The rain had ceased.The monk, however, did not hurry Isabel over thethreshold; for the overarching trees were pouringdown water like an aqueduct cracked by anearthquake. He considered earnestly.

"Come," he said, with an abruptness which startledher. "I must wrap you in this cloak."

With much tucking and folding he contrived to wraphis habit about her slender body and to adjust themantilla over her fragrant hair.

"Now, I suppose, I'm a nun," she laughed.

The speech would have stung him had he not rememberedher behavior in his cell, twelve days before,and her evident persuasion that monks and nuns wereonly picturesque archaisms, with no serious existenceoutside the pages of novelists and the dreams of pioussentimentalists. But he did not give her time toexpand her flippancy.

"Let us go," he said.

They went. For about twenty paces the pavedcauseway which led to the little door gave them dryfoothold. Thenceforward, however, the paths to theguest-house had become rushing streams. Even withoutthe aid of the lightning one could see gleamingwater everywhere. Isabel glanced down dolefully ather feet.

"We can't," she said.

"We must," he insisted.

"Look at my shoes," she moaned.

Antonio considered again. Then he asked:

"You will let me carry you?"

"If we can't wait," she answered, after a long pause,"and if you're sure there's no other way ... youmay carry me."

He stepped down from the causeway and bent hisback so that she could seat herself upon his shoulder.

"You must hold fast," he said.

Very shyly she slipped round his neck a soft armwhich trembled. Antonio straightened himself up andplashed forward. Once or twice he came to dips in thepath where the water was higher than his knees, butthe young giant stamped through the whirlpools likeanother Saint Christopher. On they went, guided bythe flickering lightning. At length they reached themain path. It was hardly ankle deep in water. Hequickened his pace, until the guest-house loomed insight. Then he gently set Isabel down on a boulderaway from the drip of the trees and released her fromthe clumsy habit, which he folded up and laid onanother great stone.

"You left the door unlocked?" he whispered.

"Yes."

"For Heaven's sake don't speak so loud. Better still,don't speak at all. I'm going to carry you as softly asI can to the steps. Don't breathe a word on the way.And don't open the door until I am back under thetrees. I shall wait to see that you are safe. Now!"

"No, no, not yet," she whispered.

"Yes. Now. This moment. You are mad."

"I know. But, Antonio, promise. To-morrowmorning. At the cascade."

"I promise," he said.

Once more he lifted her up: but this time, as thedistance was so short, he carried her in his arms like achild. He did not look at her; but he knew that shewas strangely light with a fairy lightness, that hershoulders were snow and her hair pure gold, and thatshe was as fine and delicate as a lily. Before he tookhis first stride towards the guest-house he paused,straining his ears for any sound within. Around him,in the woods, a hundred little streams went bubblingand tinkling. Here and there thankful birds werepiping their peace-pipes after the din of the battle.The chant of the Atlantic, freshened by the breeze,was loud and glad.

"Listen, Antonio," she murmured. "All the worldis singing."

Gripping her as if he would choke her next wordsbefore she could speak them, the monk crossed thepath. Twelve strides sufficed him for their journey.At the foot of the steps he put her down; and, beforeshe could whisper Good-night, he was speedingnoiselessly back to the great stone.

As soon as she had entered the guest-house andclosed the door he made haste to put on his habit; forthe air had grown cold. Then he shrank into thedripping trees and waited. By this time the cloudswere gone and the stars were shining.

Isabel appeared at the window and beckonedimperiously. He stole softly forward and saw her handmoving like a white butterfly among the creepersclustering round the casem*nt. She broke off ahalf-blown rose which had not been shattered by the stormand threw it to Antonio. He caught it deftly; buthis fingers closed too tightly on its thorns, and when here-entered the abbey to exchange his habit for his oldcloak he saw that the white flower was flecked andveined with blood.

VII

It was Isabel who arrived first at the pool. She foundthe stepping-stones impassable. A cypress had beenstruck by lightning, and the wind and rain had tornmillions of autumn leaves from the other trees. Butthe storm was over, the mists and stifling heats weregone, and the clear sunshine was tempered by apleasant breeze.

When Antonio joined her the roar of the swollencataract was so enormous that he had almost to shoutin her ear.

"We must go somewhere else," he said. "Here wecan't hear ourselves speak. And the ground is too wet.Come."

She followed as he led the way up the mountain.Reaching a point where the torrent was pent within aresounding gorge they leaped easily to the other side.Then they descended, slanting away from the water,until they came to a stone platform which supported asmall ruinous chapel. It was one of the oldest shrinesin the domain; but Antonio could not remember thetime when it had contained an image or an altar.

"You have hurt your hand," she said. "What hascut it?"

"The thorns of a rose," he answered quietly.

His curtness disappointed Isabel. After her painfulexperience of his perverse obstinacy the morningbefore, she could not expect him to be converted from hisfolly or cured of his religious mania all in a moment,and she had come prepared for vigorous debate. Buthis cold self-possession and, above all, his avoidance ofher eyes, dismayed her.

"Of course, you've thrown the rose away?" she asked.

"No, I have not thrown it away."

"Why?"

He spread his cloak on a carved stone bench for herto sit on, and did not answer.

"Why?" she repeated. "I want Father Antonio toexplain. Are monks allowed to treasure up deadflowers? You'll be asking next for a tress of myhair."

He maintained his grim silence. Embarrassmentand injured pride colored her cheeks a warm red; butshe was determined to make him speak.

"I mean," she added, "that you won't ask for a lockof my hair at all. You'll expect me to go down in thedust and offer it you on my knees, and to coax you andimplore you for days and days until you condescendto accept it. Your Majesty is a true Lord of Creation.He leaves me to do all the wooing."

This time Antonio looked at her fairly and squarely.She sat down and faced him with a pout on her lipsand a toss of the head. In her heart she felt sure ofvictory; and she yearned to get over the preliminaryskirmishes as soon as possible.

"Begin, your Reverence," she said. "Preach at me.Excommunicate me. Do your worst. I am ready."

"Ought I to begin," he asked, "by craving pardon fortrespassing last night in the chapel?"

"No, you ought not. It wouldn't be sincere;because you believe the chapel is more yours than mine.And, most decidedly, you oughtn't to begin as if weare mortal enemies. Why are your tones as sharp andcold as icicles? And why do you glare at me as if youhate me?"

"I hate nobody," he replied. "But I hate this talkwhich we are compelled to have."

"Then let us make haste and be done with it. Explain.I want to know why you pretend to be still amonk, when you're really a farmer?"

"I pretend nothing," said Antonio firmly. "Youwill keep my secret. You will not name it even toyour father. Above all, you will hide it from yourservants, and from the chief of the Villa BrancaFazenda. I am, and I shall be till I die, a monk of theOrder of Saint Benedict."

"Monks have been abolished in Portugal for yearsand years," she objected.

"You mean that monks have been exiled and monasteriessuppressed. Monks cannot be abolished. Mencan pull down blinds and put up shutters and sit indarkness; but they cannot abolish the sun."

"Choose some other illustration," she begged."Surely it is monks who put up shutters and drawdown blinds and shut out the light."

She proceeded to rattle off half a dozen well-wornobjections to the monastic life. Her words were herown; but underneath their freshness and livelinessAntonio recognized the stock tirade against monks andnuns which he had heard twenty times in England.He listened patiently till she had finished. Then hesaid:

"We are not thinking of the same thing. Suchmonks and nuns as you are scorning do not exist.They are figments of your controversialists. They arestuffed figures, set up like skittles to be knocked downagain. May I speak quite candidly?"

"Speak quite candidly, or do not speak at all," sheanswered.

"And personally?"

"The more personally the better."

"Then listen. You remember our first Wednesday—theday you and I and young Crowberry went allthrough the monastery?"

"You mean the day you brought me the little bluebird with the orange-colored tail?"

"You remember," continued Antonio, "how Ishowed you a monk's cell. That cell was mine. Ilived in it for seven years. You pulled open all thedrawers and looked inside the cupboard."

Isabel flushed crimson, and demanded indignantly:

"How did I know it was yours?"

"You didn't know it was mine," he answered gently."Still, it was certainly somebody's. For a moment, asyou peeped and rummaged, I was distressed anddisappointed. How could I reconcile it with yourdelicacy? But I soon found the answer. I understoodthat you thought of monks as you might thinkof your British Druids or of the Crusaders or of theIncas of Peru or of the Andalusian Moors—men thathave lived and breathed once, men that werepicturesque, men that figure well in romances, but, mostof all, men that are utterly dead and gone and donewith. Perhaps it is natural for you so to think.Your England has been without monks, save in holesand corners, for three hundred years."

She was on the point of asking what all this mightbe leading to, when he added:

"Again, last night, when I wrapped you in my habit,you laughed and said: 'Now I suppose I am a nun.' Youno more intended to make fun of holy thingsthan a bird intends sacrilege when it darts into a churchand knocks down candles and vases with its wings.But you said it, all the same."

"I don't deny saying it," she retorted; "I knowperfectly well that I am coarse and wicked enoughto say anything."

"I am not blaming you, Isabel," he said gently."You are not coarse and you are not wicked. Weare at variance on the greatest of issues; but mayGod forbid that we should quarrel."

The softness with which he spoke her name disarmedIsabel; and the fountains of lovingkindnesswhich overbrimmed his words quenched the fire ofwrath in her breast. To make sure that he was forgivenAntonio gazed at her with eyes so full of the oldsearching tenderness that a lump rose in her throat,and she looked away.

"No, I am not blaming you, Isabel," he continued.What I mean is this. You find it impossible to takeall these things seriously. You think I enjoy dressingup in a monk's cowl and reciting a monk's LatinOffice in a monk's stall, pretty much as other menenjoy putting on crowns and ermine and going tomasques as princes and kings. You don't see that themere cowl is very little more than nothing, and thata monk's faith and hope and love are nearly everything.You cried out in the chapel last night: 'Soyour Bride is only Religion, or only the Church, oronly the Virgin.' Yes 'Only.' You said 'only.' AndI am not quibbling on a mere word. You meant thata mortal bride—such a bride, for example, asMargarida—would be more real, more important, moreentitled to my lifelong loyalty."

He ceased. After pondering a little she raisedher eyes and said:

"In the main you are right. I'm afraid my vaguenotions of monks are not worth the trouble; but youhave analyzed them correctly. In England we havesome people who want to revive medieval tournamentswith mailed men and horses, and lists, andqueens of beauty, all complete. To me a modern monasteryis practically the same thing, except that it'sless interesting and more useless."

"I do not know enough of your mind," he saidslowly. "After all, monasticism is not the whole ofthe Church. The Church is wider and older than herreligious orders. Do you object only to monasticismin particular? Or are you equally impatient of theChurch in general?"

"By the Church," she answered, "no doubt youmean Roman Catholicism. If so, I'm not a fairjudge. I was educated with a bias against it, and Iam gradually finding out that I was taught a greatdeal which was unfair and much that was untrue.But I will answer you as frankly as possible. Don'tbe hurt. I love the Church as I love a ruin in alandscape; but I should not love her if somebody shouldaccomplish the impossible, and put her in a thoroughstate of repair."

Springing up she stepped to the tumbledown shrineand laid her hands on the mossy shafts of its ivy-hungportal.

"Be honest," she said. "Is not this little chapel farmore beautiful in decay than ever it was when the roofdidn't leak and these creepers were not allowed totwine about it? If I could wave a wand and bidevery beauty-spot of moss vanish from the walls andmake all the stones dead-white and all the angelssharp and true, would you love it as you do now?And it's the same, the very same, with the Church.When she was mistress of Europe, she was gauntand hard and repellent. But she is marvelouslypicturesque in her decay. I don't know what our poetsand painters and romancers would do without her."

"I still read English papers, and I know what youmean," said Antonio. "There is a fashion growingup among your poets of making free with the holiestthings. They affect the reverence and simplicity ofmedieval believers when, in reality, they are robbingaltars and looting sacristies to fill a property-box withtheatrical properties. Chalices, censers, copes,chasubles, dalmatics, miters, pyxes; bishops, abbots, nuns,monks, friars, acolytes; crypts, stained glass, pointedarches, carven canopies—I see that all these are nomore to them than stage backgrounds, stage puppets,stage dresses, stage tricks."

"It makes the poems and paintings much moregorgeous, anyhow," she interrupted.

"No doubt," said Antonio sternly. "Just as thepalaces and harems of the Turks were more gorgeousafter they had sacked the Holy Places. Let theChurch be persecuted more than ever in your country,and I do not fear for her; but I tremble at the thoughtof your cleverest men taking her name in vain andpraising her with their lips, while they are stillobstinate pagans in their hearts and lives. Out of suchblasphemy I foresee the birth of monstrous sins."

"Until this morning," retorted Isabel, grievouslydisappointed in him, "I thought you were no worsethan over-pious, and a little over-sentimental aboutyour religious memories. I could never have believedthat you would be bigoted and narrow-minded. Yourprophecy only makes me shudder. I repeat that thebeautiful decay of the Church is bringing more beautyinto art; and I believe that more beauty in art willbring more beauty into life. Yet you say it will givebirth to monstrous sins."

For a long time Antonio did not reply. When hespoke his tone was so much altered that Isabel thoughthe accepted his defeat in argument.

"Look at this," he said, pointing to a stone whichlay near his foot. It had been a gargoyle on theshrine, but must have fallen to the ground beforeAntonio was born. Even if the shallow carving hadnot been almost rubbed away by the hand of timeIsabel could hardly have made out its outlines throughthe silken mosses and tiny ivies which covered it.

"It was part of the shrine once," he said. "I admitit looks more beautiful broken off and lying here indecay. I've never noticed it before. It ought to bein the porch. It isn't heavy. Will you help me tocarry it?"

They stooped down together. The unclouded sunhad already dried both the gargoyle and its mossageand leafa*ge. Isabel took her fair share of the work,and between them they easily lifted the stone from theground. But they had not borne it twenty inchestowards the shrine before she let go and sprang clear,with a scream. The gargoyle struck upon a knob ofrock and smashed into three pieces.

Antonio's glance followed Isabel's. She was gazingwith horror at the long black grave from which theyhad wrenched the stone. It was a nest of centipedes.The creatures writhed this way and that, like the letterS, incalculably multiplied and gone mad. Some ofthem were bright scarlet, some were sickly yellow.Beyond them, half of a long worm, bald and clammy,lay across the slimy track of some hidden slug. Ascurrying ear-wig touched it, and the worm disappearedas if by magic into the earth. Meanwhile twohorny beetles were shouldering their way through thestubby grass.

The monk had hardly realized the success of his toovivid allegory when he saw that Isabel had snatchedup her skirts and fled. He grabbed his cloak andleaped after her; but although he was almost immediatelyat her side, she continued her flight withoutrecognizing his existence. After two or three minutes aswollen tributary of the torrent brought her to a halt.

"I am so sorry," he said, very humbly. "I neverthought it could be so horrible as that."

"You're sorry too late," she cried. "I know youlove me; yet you're always acting as if you despiseme. It's your chief delight to humiliate me. Religionruins you. Till we get to religion your heart istenderer than a woman's; but, when religion comes in,I believe you'd burn me at the stake and feel proudof it."

Great tears came into her eyes; but before he sawthem he had already recognized how thoughtless andunkind he had been in luring her to lift the gargoyle.The sight of the tears completed his repentance.

"With my whole heart I ask pardon," he pleaded,"although what I did was almost unpardonable. Ididn't think; but it was selfish and brutal to score apoint like that. Isabel, try to forgive me."

Whenever he spoke her name and looked into hereyes she became as clay in his hands. But Antoniodid not know it. He took her silence to mean anythingbut pardon; and therefore his tone was humbler thanever as he added:

"We cannot part like this, Isabel. These rocks aredry and warm to your feet. We shall find no betterspot."

He spread his cloak for her once more, and sat downat her side. Two or three minutes passed without aword. Then she said:

"If I am all wrong about monks, I am willing to beput right. What are monks for? Why do theyexist?"

Antonio hesitated. There were so many gaps in herknowledge and in her sympathy. How could he explainthe topmost flowering of churchly life to one whoknew so little of the root and the trunk and thebranches? At last he replied:

"You have spoken of painters and writers. Is it nottrue that both painting and writing have advancedalmost entirely through the diligence of professionalwriters and painters? How soon the amateur slipsback without the example of the professional to steadyhim! In our wars we have always found that a fewprofessional soldiers can stiffen citizen levies whowould otherwise run away. Monks, so to speak, arethe professional Christians, devoting their lives to pietyand the pursuit of perfection. I don't mean that theyare professional like your English clergy. Monks arenot professional shepherds. I might say that they areprofessional sheep, a professional flock, exemplifying,as Christians in the world can hardly do, blamelessness,simplicity, and obedience at every moment to theirdivine Shepherd's voice."

He paused; but Isabel made no comment.

"In comparing monks with professionals," he saiduneasily, "I know I am putting it on rather a low level."

"So I thought," she said. And with a leap of hisheart, he understood that she was not outside the rangeof Christian spirituality.

"Then we will put it higher," he continued eagerly."Grant for a moment that Christianity is true. Grantthat the everlasting God, Who carved these hills andpoured out yonder Atlantic, once imprisoned Himselfin space and time and became a mortal man. Grantthat before He died for us, He begged for our lifelonglove and trust, and for our daily praise and prayer, andgood deeds and obedience and self-denial. Grant thatHe told us how this present life of ours is only a shortroad leading into a boundless life to come. For themoment you will grant all this?"

She bowed her head.

"Granting it, what do we find?" he asked. "Wefind the vast majority of men and women, includingthose who profess to believe His words, living forthemselves instead of for Him. 'Seven times in aday have I sung praises unto Thee,' said the Psalmist,who died so long before our Lord was born; yetmillions of Christians do not truly praise God seventimes in their lives. They rarely think of Him savein time of trouble or in the hour of death. The monkis a man who throws all his poor weight into the otherscale, striving to redress the balance. In union withthe one Mediator he prays for those who will not pray.He offers praises in the stead of those who will notpraise. The scoffer twits him with his unnatural life;but it is not more unnatural to give God all one'sthoughts than it is unnatural to give Him none."

"Not more unnatural, perhaps," objected Isabel,"but it is unnatural enough, all the same."

"It may be so. But the monk is born into anunnatural state of things. If no man gave God too little,perhaps we should have no need of monks to give Himwhat men call too much. Perhaps so: perhaps not.I don't decide. Some monkish writers have seemed tosay that even if all men were saints it would still begood for a few to detach themselves from the whirl oflife and to offer God more perfect praises; just as therehave been theologians to teach that, even if man hadnot sinned, God would still have been made Man, so asto perfect our humanity. But let such subtleties pass."

"Whether I agree with it or not, I see what youmean," said Isabel. "But is a monk no more than this?"

"He is much more," replied Antonio, "so much morethat if we sat here all day we should hardly understandhow much. But I will mention one thing more. Notonly do the masses of Christians hold back their loveand service from God; they also outrage His goodnessand dim His glory every hour of every day."

"But monks can't mend that matter," protestedIsabel. "I'm no theologian and I'm a double heretic;but I've always been told that my right can't atone foryour wrong. One man can't redeem another."

"No," said Antonio, "but one man's prayers maydrive another in penitence to the Redeemer. 'We aremembers one of another.' You love science. Let meprophesy. Science will teach us some day how subtlymind is intertwined with mind, and how mightily athought or an aspiration can leap from one soul toanother. There is enough of sin and shame inChristendom to make the angels weep; but God alone knowshow much more there would be if faithful nuns werenot pushing that black bulk back, all night and all day,with white hands of prayer."

Isabel desisted from further debate. But no soonerwas the stress of argument eased in her brain than amillstone of fear settled heavily upon her heart. Upto that moment she had felt sure of her power as aliving and beautiful woman to triumph over Antonio'sshadowy Bride. Although his cool greeting hadannoyed her, and although she was still a trifle ruffledby the affair of the gargoyle and the centipedes, shehad found zest in his monkish coyness. Like many ahuntress before her she had deemed the quarry'selusiveness charming so long as she was confident thatin the long run he would be caught. But, all in asingle moment, her eyes were opened both to thesolemn grandeur of Antonio's religion and to thestartling energy of his whole-hearted, whole-minded beliefin it. The shadowy Bride suddenly towered like animpassable, immeasurable, resplendent Jungfrau acrossIsabel's path.

"I see what you mean," she said hastily, trying topush back her crowding fears. "It's interesting, it'swonderful, I suppose it's beautiful in a kind of way;but what has it to do with us? You're not a monkany longer. You can't be. You say it isn't the cowlthat makes the monk; and surely, it isn't mere bricksand mortar that make a monastery. The old abbeydown there is an empty shell. Your Abbot is dead.Your brethren are dead too, or in perpetual exile. TheOrder has come to an end. You may play at being amonk; but you are free."

Antonio began to explain the Solemn Vows. Butshe interrupted him scornfully.

"Circ*mstances alter cases," she said. "Besides,hadn't you better ask your conscience if you are notreally worshiping your vows, worshiping yourconsistency, instead of worshiping God? God will bepoorly worshiped by making yourself miserable—yourselfand ... and me."

Her voice so softened on the last two syllables thatthe monk's lips could not frame an argumentativeretort. Yet she must be answered. Although he didnot look at her, he could feel that the irons of herordeal were already glowing too hot for her endurance.Something had to be done. At last he said:

"Without intending it you have told me, a scrap ata time, the story of your life. May I tell you the storyof mine?"

Her sorrowful eyes lit up gratefully. "Tell meevery word," she said.

In the simplest language he could command, Antoniotold her all. He began by stating quite baldly the factof his noble lineage. Then he described briefly hischildhood in Lisbon and at Cintra, and his first sightof an Englishman in the person of a fair-haired youngcaptain who had been wounded at the battle of Bussaco.He told of his 'teens in Madeira, and of the drowningof his parents and sisters on their way thither to joinhim; of his appointment to a scandalous sinecure inthe gift of the Government, and of his retreat froma position which he could do nothing to reform; ofhis excursion into French scepticism; of his religiousvocation and of his struggles against it; and of his lifein the monastery up to the day of his ordination to thepriesthood.

To the narrating of these events Antonio devotedbarely a quarter of an hour. When, however, he beganto tell of the monks' expulsion he let himself go;and thenceforward his warmth of tone and livelinessof language made Isabel realize vividly every scene hedescribed. With kindling eyes he told her of thedying Abbot's prophecy; of his halt at the desertedfarm on the afternoon of the exodus, and of hisresolve to win back the monastery for Saint Benedict'sfamily; of his bitter hour in the granary at Navares;of his tramp northward; of his hard life in Oporto;of his never-to-be-forgotten months in England andFrance and Spain; of his return to the abbey; of hissnub at Villa Branca; of José; of Margarida; and ofyoung Crowberry's mysterious candle in theguest-house window.

"The rest you know," he said.

Throughout his recital he had gazed at the rocks,the sky, the trees, the water; but, as he ended, heglanced nervously at Isabel, hungering for hersympathy yet expecting her scorn. To his amazement sheslipped from her place at his side, sank down on herknees beside him, seized both his hands in hers, andsaid:

"Poor Antonio! You poor Antonio. My poorAntonio!"

Her voice was tenderer than a mother's crooningover a wounded child. Tears were brimming her eyesand flowing down her cheeks as she gazed up into themonk's face. Then her voice broke. She bowed herhead abruptly and tried to hide her face in her hands.But she did not let Antonio's hands go; and her tearslaved the wounds torn by the thorns of her rose.

Antonio could have endured her contempt; but thisoutburst of a pitying woman's love, the first he hadknown for five-and-twenty years, almost broke hisheart. Thrice he devised words of consolation; thricethey were stifled in his throat. He could only sit andwatch the conclusive rise and fall of her shoulders asthe sobbing shook her frame. Once she controlledherself enough to look up and moan:

"Why, oh why, must we be so unhappy?"

The monk knew that an answer was not expected;so he sat silent. But later on, when some calmnesshad returned to her, she put the question again.

"Why must we be so unhappy? If God can doeverything, why has he made a world that goes sobadly? Why has he made the easy things sins andonly the hard things virtues? Why has he made hiscreatures so inclined to anger him or forget him? Itseems mad. It seems almost diabolical. I've nevermet a wicked man or a foolish woman who could befoolish enough or wicked enough to make a world likethis if they had the power. Why is God worse thanwe are?"

"You do not mean what you say," he answered,soothing her. "You know you are not putting itfairly. You—"

"I know, I know," she interrupted. "I am shallow,I am unjust, I suppose I'm almost blasphemous.Forgive me if I've hurt you. Only, your God is soterrible. I believe in Him; but I'm frightened. He isnothing but grandeur and majesty. He will have norebellion, He insists on everybody's homage all thetime."

"He is Love, everlasting Love," said Antoniowarmly, "and if any words of mine have made youdoubt it, may He forgive me. I see the world'sunbelief, first and foremost, as Love rejected; and if Iam a monk it is in the hope that my whole life's prayersmay perchance be one poor drop of balm poured intoLove's wounds. But these matters are too weightyto be talked of like this. The origin of evil, themystery of free-will—you have raised the problems thatnone can solve."

"Let us leave them alone," she pleaded. "I hatethem. Deep down in my heart, I do not disbelieve.Before you had half finished your story, my pridewas broken. Yes, when you pictured the chapel onthe night you returned, and the moonlight lingeringon the crown of Jesus, I knelt with you in spirit beforethat altar and words came back to my lips that I hadn'tsaid since I was a child."

In exceeding thankfulness he was about to speak;but she hurried on.

"Antonio," she said, "if you send me away, perhapsyou will think of me as a temptress—a womanraised up by the devil to blandish you aside from yourholy purpose, and to lure you into trampling uponyour vows. Promise you will never think of me likethat. Kneeling here on my knees, I swear beforeGod that I am not ... that."

She paused. Then, with her head bent so that hecould not see her face, and in low tones, she addedslowly:

"I have only wanted to be near you—to be with you,to spend all the rest of my life listening to you,helping you. Heaven knows there has never been for amoment anything ... anything base in my love.I know what most people mean by love and I loatheit. Tell me you don't misunderstand. Say you believeme. Promise you'll never think of me like that."

"I promise," said Antonio, deeply moved. And, tryas he would, he could say no more.

After a long time she raised her head abruptly andchallenged his eyes. By the pallor which blanched hercheeks he divined her question, and he knew that thebitterest moment of his life was come.

"So there is no room for me?" she asked in low,vibrating tones. "No room for Isabel as well as foryour Bride? You send me away?"

He tried to be cool; but the flame of her pure heart'syearning so scorched him that he cried out:

"No, I do not send you away. It is not my will; itis God's. He knows, Isabel, He knows that all thesacrifices I have ever made and all the trials I haveever borne are as a few grains of dust compared withthis. I do not send you away. But you must go.Our spirits are willing to take high and holy vows,here and now; but we are flesh and we are weak.You must go. You must. You will."

She arose slowly and stood upright. Instantly hedid the same. He seized her hand; but before hecould speak, she said quietly:

"I will go. After this, unless miracles happen, youwill only see me with Mrs. Baxter or with my father.But, before I go, do me one little kindness. I promisethat, so long as I live, it shall be a secret between us.I know your heart. Once, only once, let me hear yousay that you love me."

Antonio knew that he loved her indeed, with a lovewhereof he had no cause to be ashamed, and that hemust speak the three little words she craved. Hebegan to frame a prudent preface which shouldprecisely qualify them and empty them of all theirassociation with profane passion. But his knightly bloodstirred in time and saved him. Besides, he knew thathe might safely speak the words and trust Isabel notto abuse them. He bent to her ear and said simply:

"I love you."

For a long moment she stood with closed eyes anddid not stir. Then she gently freed her hand andmoved away. Antonio followed her. Wherever thepaths were wide enough they walked side by side; butalthough the way was long they did not speak. Hereand there in the wood there were low boughs to be heldaside, and once the monk had to lift her bodily across alittle brook; but he did all these things as a matter ofcourse, without a word. When the guest-housegleamed through the trees, Antonio halted and wouldhave uttered the few sentences he had been arrangingin his brain; but she silenced him with a gentle gestureand walked across the broad path, up the sunny steps,and through the wide-open doorway, without a glancebehind.

VIII

Not more than two hours after Antonio's return to hisfarm a messenger arrived from the guest-house andhanded in two letters. The first ran:

Mrs. Baxter presents her compliments to Signor daRocha and begs to request that he will call to-daywithout fail, as Mrs. B. is under the unpleasantobligation of making a painful communication to Signor R.

The second letter was shorter still. It contained thesingle line:

I must see you too.

Antonio's amazement quickly gave place to indignation.He had examined his conscience concerning thewhole business too often to deceive himself, and heknew that he was not to blame for what had happened.Yet here he was, summoned to endure a lecture fromthe vulgar Mrs. Baxter. Worse still, when Sir Percycame back he would be told the tale. Antonio wouldbe regarded ever afterwards as an abuser of a sacredtrust, a heartless trifler with young affections, anoutsider, a brute, a cur fit for the horse-whip. And hewould have to suffer all this injustice in silence, becausehe could only clear himself by disgracing the lady.

As he grew cooler the monk became certain thatIsabel had not deliberately betrayed him toMrs. Baxter. Probably she had broken down after herprotracted excitements and had let slip some fataladmission in a moment of hysteria. Or perhaps a chatteringservant had seen her walking with Antonio in thewoods. Gravest possibility of all, some sharp eyes orears might have detected her absence in the middle ofthe night. At this last thought he seized his hat andset out for the guest-house at once.

When he reached the road, still soft after the rain,some hoof-marks reassured him. He recognized themas the shoe-prints of Negro, an old post-horse riddenby the casual letter-carrier of Navares. News ofsome kind had evidently arrived from Sir Percy.Perhaps he was ill, or dying. The monk's heart meltedtowards Isabel as he perceived that new troubles werehurrying to smite her, and he would gladly havesubmitted to the bitter censures of Mrs. Baxter in theirstead.

Isabel met him about fifty yards from the guest-housedoor. She looked more beautiful than ever, buther expression dismayed him. No traces lingered ofthe exaltation to which she had attained only a fewhours before. She seemed proud, hard, defiant.

"We have heard from my father," she said quickly."The unexpected—I mean the half-expected—hashappened. We are to pack and go, as we have packedand gone from twenty places before. It isn't azulejosthis time. It's a railway. But it'll be all thesame in the end. He wants us to start for Lisbon theday after to-morrow. Mrs. Baxter will tell you everything."

To Antonio's surprise she neither referred to hernote nor said a word on her personal account, but ledhim straight into the salon where Mrs. Baxter wasseated in the midst of confusion. Isabel's pictureshad already been removed from the walls, and Jacksoncould be heard in a back-room nailing down a packing-case.The noises fell on Antonio's heart like blows ona coffin-lid.

"I have learned, Madame, with concern, that youare compelled to undertake a fatiguing journey," saidAntonio in his most formal style. "Let me repeat myassurance that I remain, at all times, entirely at yourservice."

"I'm sure you do, Signor, I'm sure you do," wailedMrs. Baxter. "But tell me, Signor, what do you thinkof it all? I was saying, only this morning, howcomforting it was that we were settled for life, and howdelightful it would be to spend the rest of my days inthe salubrious air of this favored spot, enlivened bythe profitable conversation of a congenial neighbor."

Isabel listened to her governess with a scornful lip.What Mrs. Baxter had really said, only that morning,was that she had determined to write Sir Percy hermind at once; that, through the almost incredibledeficiencies of the village shops and the unscripturalerrors of Joanninha, she was being starved andpoisoned, both in body and soul; that she had neverstayed in such a hole before, and never meant to again;that, after enjoying the intimacy of some of the firstpersonages in England, she found it intolerable tohave only one neighbor, especially when he was onlya small yeoman with no table-napkins and not enoughforks to go round; and, finally, that she flatly declinedto remain after Christmas in any Portuguese placesave Lisbon or Oporto.

"The Senhora does me too much honor," said Antonio,without enthusiasm. "But this is not final?The Senhoras will return?"

"Sir Percival Kaye-Templeman never returns anywhere,"snapped Mrs. Baxter, "I declare, Signor, thathe drags me about like a slave. If it hadn't been formy death-bed promise to the sainted mother of thatdarling child sitting on the blue ottoman, I should haveleft him a thousand times."

The darling child arose from the blue ottoman andwent to an escritoire. She opened a drawer and tooksomething from it.

"Mrs. Baxter is forgetting to give you my father'sletter," she said. "He tells us he has written to thankyou for all you have done."

Antonio received the sealed letter into his hand;and, as neither of the ladies proffered him leave to readit in their presence, he placed it in his breast-pocket.

"For the present my father also begs you to takethe keys of the abbey," added Isabel. "Here they are.He says he has explained everything in his letter. Asfor this guest-house, there are only two keys. We willgive them to you when we go, on Thursday."

Antonio's heart leaped like a bird at her words aboutthe abbey keys; but it sank like a stone as she said,"we go on Thursday." So violent was his agitationthat, to cover it, he rose from his seat and advancedto the open drawer of the escritoire where the keyswere lying. He dared not look at Isabel.

"If the chapel key is not here," she said, in anoff-hand way, "you know where to find it."

She placed the bunch in his hand. There wereabout twenty keys, great and small, bright and dull,and they tinkled together pleasantly as Antoniocarried them back to his place. But they sounded in hisears more like a far-heard knell than a merry chime.

"I suppose you must go now?" she inquired.

"My pet, my darling pet," expostulated Mrs. Baxter,looking daggers. "What on earth will Signor deRocha think? He'll think you want to hunt him outof the house."

"So I do. There's a waterfall somewhere in thegrounds. I want him, if he has time, to show me theway to it. A waterfall and stepping-stones. Perhaps,Mrs. Baxter, you will come with us."

"Stepping-stones!" gasped Mrs. Baxter. "Not ifthey were made of solid gold. Not if you paid me amillion pounds. Why, you've quite forgotten, Isabel,darling, that if it hadn't been for stepping-stones, poorlittle Lady Margaret Barricott would be alive to-day!"

"Then you won't come? Senhor da Rocha, haveyou really the leisure to take me?"

"I have the leisure," answered Antonio formally."And, if I had not, leisure should be made. Mrs. Baxter,I will send up my man to-morrow to assist youin the packing of your goods, and I will certainlyattend you on Thursday. Meanwhile, I am yourobedient servant."

Isabel was already in the ante-chamber and Antoniodid not overtake her until she was descending thesteps. Dangling the keys he walked beside her withoutspeech until they reached the shelter of the trees.Then he drew from his pocket the long steel key of thechapel and halted a moment while he placed it amongthe others.

"You see that I had brought it," he said. "Thismorning I forgot to give it you."

"Pray don't explain," she commanded curtly."We've had explanations enough and to spare."

He relocked the old-fashioned key-ring and theyresumed their march, Isabel going first along the narrowpath. Antonio felt thankful for the short respite fromtalk. He knew that he was on his way to the sharpestfight of all. Although there was nothing of love inIsabel's manner towards him, he divined that she hadinvited him to the cascade in order to overthrow himby some final argument or appeal.

Could he be sure that he would once more succeedin resistance? He took stock of his weapons andforces. In sheer dialectic he knew that he was Isabel'smatch; for the very slowness of his English gave hima certain advantage. Nor was he greatly her inferiorin rhetorical resource. What he feared was Isabel'sunconscious challenging of his chivalry. He did notdread the wiles of deliberate coquetry, even if she hadbeen capable of practicing them; and, most emphatically,he did not dread the seductiveness of her physicalcharms, because the stern battle against the fleshwas a battle he had fought and won long years before.But he dreaded, with a dread nearly driving him intocowardice, the hateful task of bringing hot tears intoher cool blue eyes and of breaking her soft voice intoheart-broken sobbings.

He glanced at Isabel as she pressed onward a yardor so ahead. As always, she was the soul and body ofgrace. The poise of her golden head upon herswan-white neck, her proud shoulders, her exquisite waist,her fine hands plucking at the autumn leaves, her littlefeet which seemed hardly to touch the earth—all thesecharms were as adorable as ever. Yet there wassomething unusual in her port and gait. Perhaps shewas less willowy, more rigid. She advanced with amasterful air as if to say: "To-day there shall be nononsense. I lead: you follow. You are mine to doas I please with. Until this afternoon I have indulgedyou as I might indulge a favorite young horse. I'velet you just smell the halter and then go galloping offto the other end of the field. I've let you lead me abreathless dance through the buttercups and clover.But you have bucked and jibbed and bolted andneighed and tossed up your head and shaken out yourmane and tail long enough. This time I mean to putthe halter on. So let there be no mistake about it."

Antonio observed all this and was thankful. Solong as she chose to be peremptory, scornful, logical,he was safe. The encounter, though painful, wouldnot be perilous. But let her once soften and he waslost. He felt that, even with the remains of yesterday'smiraculous grace in his heart, he would be powerlessagainst a tear or a sob. His two sleepless nightsand the unwonted stress of romantic emotions werewearing him down, and he inwardly prayed that hemight not be tempted beyond what he would bear.

When she reached the pool, Isabel did not cross thestepping-stones. Halting some distance from thebrawling waterfall, and hardly waiting for Antonio toapproach her, she began:

"We have had many long talks at this pool.To-day's talk will be short. Surely I have crawled toyou enough on my hands and knees, and I will do itno more."

Antonio said nothing.

"There's not an hour to lose," she went on. "Ifyou and I are going to do the right thing, I must tellMrs. Baxter to stop the packing at once. You jump!You turn pale. I suppose you're shocked to hear mecall it the right thing. I can't help it. I must speakthe truth. It is the right thing. And the oppositething is not only wrong; it's wicked, it's blasphemous,it's a crime. No. Don't interrupt me. Youneedn't think we're going over all the old, oldarguments again."

"You have changed your mind rather swiftly," saidAntonio, refusing to be suppressed. "Barely fourhours ago you seemed to acquiesce in—"

"In my fate," she said, with a bitter laugh. "So Idid. You worked on my feelings. Don't think mecoarse and brutal; but I'll give you one illustration.You spread for me your cloak. Do you think I didn'tsee how old it was? When I thought of that, and ofall the hardships you'd suffered, my heart broke andI cried and cried and cried like a baby. But I'vechanged my mind. I admire you as much as ever;but I don't admire the way you are going on. A manlike you ought to have the best cloak in the world, andall the rest of the best things with it. You are a poet,you are a delicate gentleman. I see it every time youpour out a drop of wine or touch a flower. Youwould rejoice in exquisite things more than anywoman."

"Shall I offend you, Isabel?" he asked, coloring up,"if I remind you that this talk is to be short? We arenot getting on."

"Yes, we are getting on fast," she retorted. "I saythat I hate the way you are living. To save moneyand to buy back this place for the Benedictines is allvery well; but I say that your sacrifices are overdone,and that God must be grieved by your excesses. Hehas shown that you are not meant to be a monk. Hehas driven your brethren away, and instead of themhe has sent you ... me. No. I'm not conceited.I don't think I'm wonderful. But I'm yourdestiny, and that's everything. You were not calledto monasticism; you were called to me. That is, youwere called to be a monk only to save you from thewrong woman, only until the appointed day shoulddawn for you and me to meet. It has dawned. Yes,Antonio, I can quote Scripture, and I don't quote itirreverently either. The day has dawned. And 'To-dayif ye will hear His voice, harden not your heart.' Ifyou do, it will be a sin; just as I suppose it's a sinfor a man to harden his heart against the call to be amonk."

"No more of this, I pray," cried Antonio. "Ifthere is some great new fact, let us have it; but letus not hark back to what we have threshed out already."

"Very well," she said. "Here is the great new fact.My father. What did I tell you about him? I toldyou that his next experiment will kill him. Butthere's only one way of snatching him out of peril.Pardon me for telling you that this abbey is mine. Itwas bought with my money, and I am, to some extent,mistress of my father's movements in Portugal. If Iflatly decline to leave here; if I pension off Mrs. Baxter;and if ... if you do what is right by yourselfand by me; then, and only then, will my fathercome down from the clouds and look facts in the face.If I go back to Lisbon, I go back to kill him."

Deeply pained, Antonio raised a hand to stop her.She took a step forward and looked at him with steadyeyes, but with trembling lips.

"Do you think, do you truly believe, that I wouldsay a thing like this if it were not true?" she demandedin low, quivering tones. "Oh, Antonio, I have alwaysknown it. In your heart you despise me. You thinkI'm so far sunk in shamelessness that I am taking thename of God in vain and concocting lies about myfather's life, so as to scare you into marrying me."

"Before Heaven, Isabel, I think no such foulthought," he answered solemnly. "But I am puzzled.If this abbey is yours, not his; and if you are mistressof his movements; why not assert your authoritywithout dragging in me? Why not pension offMrs. Baxter and get a companion from England? Whynot despatch a post to Lisbon to-night informing yourfather that you will be no party to his new scheme,and that you insist on his recruiting quietly here?"

"And you?" she demanded.

"I? No doubt we should meet sometimes."

"No doubt, no doubt," she echoed with scorchingscorn. "We should meet sometimes, and talk aboutthe weather. You nearly make me hate you. Haveyou blood in your veins or water? Have you a heartin your breast or a cold stone? I tell you this is acrime, it is a blasphemy. You call it religion: I call ita black sin against God."

Her terrible earnestness challenged Antonio toanswer once and for all.

"Isabel," he said sternly. "Crime and blasphemyare hard words. You speak of God. I will speak ofGod too. If there is one thing I am sure of, it is thatGod has called me to live this life which I am living,and to do this work which I am doing. I am moresure of it than I am of these rocks under our feet. Asfor your father, God knows that I do not speakheartlessly; but your father's life is in God's hands, notmine. You can rid yourself of Mrs. Baxter and compelhim to rest in England without forcing me to breakmy vows."

"Your vows, your precious vows, always yourvows!" she cried, in anger and great contempt.

"Yes," he retorted instantly, "my vows, always myvows. They are precious to me indeed, and I will begyou not to speak of them lightly."

She faced him with increasing anger. But, beforeshe could speak, Antonio suddenly repented himself ofhis sharpness.

"Isabel," he said, in quieter tones. "Think. Youdespise me for keeping my vows. But suppose I hadvowed my vows to you. And suppose I should breakthem, for some other woman. What then?"

"I would kill her. And you too."

For a moment her wrathful excitement hindered herlogical perceptions; but as soon as she recognized hismeaning she cried:

"It's different, all different! I'm real; your Brideisn't. Besides, She has deserted you. She's runaway, or She's dead. You are free."

"No, Isabel," he said. "Think again. Supposeto-day I should vow my vow to you. Suppose yourfather, or someone else, should pluck you suddenlyfrom my side so that I could never find you again.Nay, more. Suppose you were untrue to me and thatyou abandoned me. Would you have me say: 'Shehas gone. I shall never see her again. To-morrow Iwill seek another bride?' No, Isabel, no. If you sayYes, I shan't believe it. I know your soul too well.Even if you broke yours, my vow would still be there,and you would despise me for not keeping it. Am Iright or wrong?"

He had unguardedly lowered his tones to a periloustenderness, and he was unconsciously gazing at herwith the gaze she could never resist. Her lips losttheir hardness and began to tremble, and her eyelidsdrooped over her eyes.

Antonio involuntarily recoiled from the danger. Heknew in an instant that his fate was quivering in thebalance. His heart had bled at every harsh word hespoke to her; and he knew that to sweep away thelast shaken ruins of his defenses, she needed only tothrow herself weeping into his arms. He knew that ifshe should once sob out, "Antonio, Antonio, don't sendme away," his doom would then and there be sealed.

All this Antonio knew. But Isabel did not know it.His sudden movement of recoil stung her back intoanger.

"Are you right or wrong?" she echoed bitterly."You're right, of course. You always are. Evenwhen you're wrong fifty times over, you can argueyourself into the right. I call it cowardly."

He exhaled a deep breath. The peril was past.Her scorn he could withstand.

"I have come to the end," she cried. "The veryend. Listen. You are blighting my life, but I won'tlet you blight your own. Mark me well. This placeis mine. These lands are mine. I have the right to goto-night and to set the whole abbey ablaze; and wherewill your work be then?"

The threat did not alarm him; but the cruelty of it,coming from such lips as hers, cut him to the marrow.He was on the point of retorting that the place was nothers at all, and that her father had deceived her on awretched point of money. But her anguish was bitterenough without this new mortification; so he held hispeace.

"I can make a bonfire of it this minute," she went onpassionately. "I hate it. How I should love to see itblaze! But I won't. And I won't sell this place.And when I've left it on Thursday, I'll never comeback till you seek me on your knees. Never!"

Still Antonio held his peace. Isabel picked up herlittle bag. But she did not turn immediately towardshome. She stood awaiting his final word. When itfailed to come her indignation rose to its climax.

"No!" she cried. "I've altered my mind. I willcome back. I foresee the end. You will never seekme. You hate me. But I will come back. You'll goon slaving, slaving, starving, starving, praying,praying, and breaking hearts in the name of God. But Iwill come back. You'll succeed. You'll regain theabbey. You'll fill it with monks. But remember. Iwill come back. On the day of your triumph, I will bethere. It isn't only you Southern people who loverevenge. I will be there. I will come back!"

Antonio had been silently praying for sudden gracein his own dire need; but he ceased to pray for himselfand prayed with all his soul for her. She turned to go.

They stood facing one another as they had stood sooften during these two bitter days of their ordeal.Try as he would the monk could not conceal his agonyof holy love; and under the spell of his gaze the devilof revengeful hate which had entered into Isabel renther poor heart and fled away. They looked at eachother a long time. Then, in a breaking voice, she saidsoftly:

"Antonio. I don't hate you. I love you. This isthe very last time. Do you send Isabel away? Is ittrue that I must go?"

With a sharp moan of anguish and with handsthrust out for mercy he gave his answer.

"For the love of Jesus Christ," he cried. "Go!And may the merciful God help us both!"

He closed his eyes in desperate prayer. But Godand the Virgin Mother and the whole company ofheaven seemed to have forsaken him. No light shown,no supernal fortitude came down. Instead of a visionof ministering angels, his mind's eyes saw only Isabel.Isabel, standing there. Isabel, weeping. Isabel,wounded to death by his cruel sword. Isabel, hopingagainst hope for his mercy. Isabel, his Isabel, rarerthan gold, lovelier than the dawn, purer than snow,waiting to dart like a bird into the nest of his love.

He could fight no longer. Stepping one staggeringstep forward he held out his arms and opened hiseyes.

She had vanished.

A moment later he caught sight of her pressing upthe path above him. She was going swiftly, lookingneither to the right hand nor to the left. Now andagain a ray of the sinking sun shone upon her hair,till she seemed a queen crowned or a saint glorified.

With all his heart Antonio yearned to leap after her,to capture her like a shy creature of the woods, and tobear her back in triumph, seated on his shoulder as shehad sat after the thunderstorm. But his limbs refusedto obey. His feet seemed to have been rooted forcenturies in the granite. He could not move an inch.

Two cypresses, which they had often halted to admire,hid her from his sight. A groan, which he couldnot stifle, broke from the monk. There was one morepoint in the path, one only, where she could reappear.Would she turn round? Would she look back? Ashe waited, red-hot pincers seemed to be working andworming within him as if they would have his heartout of his body. He felt as if he were bleeding atevery pore.

She reappeared. She did not turn round. She didnot look back. She was gone.

BOOK VI

"ITE, MISSA EST"

I

Having charged José to place himself at the disposalof Mrs. Baxter, Antonio took the road for Villa Brancaabout an hour after sunrise. Utter weariness hadbrought a few hours' sleep to his eyelids; but he feltunrested and unrefreshed. By the time he reachedSanta Iria fatigue compelled him to hire a horse.

While his mount was a-saddling the monk sat musingoutside the wine-shop. What was Isabel doing?Of what was she thinking? Had she slept? Wasshe truly hating him at last? Would she come oncemore to the cascade?

In answer to this last question he could hardlyrestrain himself from leaping on the half-ready horse andgalloping off like a whirlwind to her presence. At themoment of his leaving the farm-house, two hoursbefore, this all-day expedition to Villa Branca hadseemed the height of prudence; but he suddenly sawit as the depth of cowardice and brutality. She wouldcome to the cascade, in vain; and, later on, she wouldlearn from José's lips how he had turned tail and runaway. Antonio cringed and burned. A momentlater, however, he knew that he had done right. Shewould not be at the cascade.

"To-morrow," he said to himself, with a dull paingnawing in his cold and heavy heart, "I shall see herfor the last time. She will make no sign. She willsay good-bye as if there has been nothing between us.Blessed Mother of God, help us to the end!"

He took out Sir Percy's letter and perused it oncemore to distract his thoughts. He read:

Dear Senhor da Rocha,—

A post just to hand apprises me of your gentility tomy daughter and her governess. The fact that I fullyexpected such courteous behavior on your part doesnot diminish my gratitude in respect of it; and I begyou to believe in the sincerity of my regret that I shallbe unable to present my acknowledgments in person.

I indulge the hope that a proposal which I am aboutto make may not be unacceptable to you. From ourmutual friend Mr. Austin Crowberry I learn that youwished to purchase the abbey domain, but that youroffers were unacceptable to the Minister of Finances.

I have paid a deposit of £500 to the chief of theFazenda at Villa Branca, and am engaged to pay £300on New Year's Day and the balance (£2500) in fivehalf-yearly instalments. As I have become closelyassociated with an enterprise which will involve myresiding alternately in Lisbon and London, I should findit convenient to transfer to yourself my whole bargainas regards the abbey. That is to say, I forfeit the £500already paid and leave you to find £2800 on the datesabove referred to. I also ask your acceptance of thelarger articles of English furniture recently placed byme in the guest-house, and I have instructed Jackson,my man, to bring away personal luggage only.

As my movements are erratic, perhaps you willindulge me by completing the business with my agents,Messrs. Lemos Monteiro and Smithson, Rua doCarmo, Lisbon, who have written to Villa Brancapreparing the officials for your visit. Failing yourapproval I will make other arrangements; but,meanwhile, I beg that you will add to your unfailingkindness by taking care of the keys, and that you willbelieve me to be

Your obliged and obedient servant,
Percival Kaye-Templeman.

Once in the saddle, with the well-beloved music ofhorse-hoofs in his ears, Antonio found it easier toabstract his mind from bitter thoughts. He applied hiswhole brain to problems of finance. Two thousandfive hundred pounds in two years and a half. Atfirst it had staggered him; but he was going to takethe risk. His own and José's hard cash hoardingswould pay the New Year's Day instalment nearly twiceover. By mortgaging the farm and the sea-sand vineyards,and by pledging his personal credit he could paythe July five hundred and keep two or three hundredtowards the instalment due the following January,making up the balance from the year's wine-sales.Fifteen hundred pounds would remain payable; andthis sum he hoped to raise in due course by a boldstroke involving a mortgage on the abbey itself.

The chief of the Fazenda received his visitoreffusively. This time the monk was not required to leanagainst a pile of stolen books. He sat in the chief'sown chair and was offered wine of the chief's ownstealing. As three hundred pounds of Isabel's moneyhad stuck to the chief's fingers the great man was morethan willing to accept Antonio in Sir Percy's place; forhe had just learned that the Englishman would beunable to meet his obligations, and he was mortallyafraid of a reopening of the transaction in Lisbon.He even threw out mysterious hints as to furtherconcessions which might be arranged. Antonio listenedattentively. His conscience allowed him to plan theoutwitting of the Portuguese Government as regardsmoney which was not honestly theirs. But as soon ashe perceived that the official was bent on morepickings for himself the monk became obtuse. He was notwilling to assist any man in the work of morecompletely damning his soul; and, although Antonioclearly foresaw that he was making an enemy andpreparing sore troubles for himself in the future, hesteadfastly held out against temptation.

The autumn day was drawing to its twilight whenAntonio, having given up his horse at Santa Iria,trudged up the path to his own door. Half the wayhome Isabel had queened his whole mind. On leavingVilla Branca he had sought to preoccupy himself withthe most complicated arithmetic; but, little by little,Isabel had reclaimed her empire. As he mounted thedoorstep his heart thumped heavily. Had she written?Had she sent a message by José? Or, most terribleand beautiful possibility of all, would he find her sittingin the house, as in her rightful place?

He entered. There was no Isabel enlightening thedim and cheerless room. He hurried to the tablewhereon, José was accustomed to leave the letters.There was nothing. His heart chilled and shrank.Still, there was to-morrow. Yes. He was certain tosee her to-morrow.

José stamped in noisily and handed Antonio two keys.

"They have gone," he said.

So sharp a blade of anguish pierced his soul thatAntonio let the keys fall on the brick floor.

"Gone?" he echoed. "Who? When? Why? Where?"

"The English senhoras," answered José. "Theystarted about three o'clock, to Lisbon."

Antonio sank down upon a coffer. He had used upthe last of his strength in tramping from Santa Iria,and he had eaten nothing all day.

"I don't understand it very well," continued José."I reached the guest-house at half-past eight. Ithought they weren't to leave until to-morrow. Iworked under the Senhor Jaxo. He didn't hurryhimself at all. Joanninha brought us cold meat andwhite bread and strong wine. Joanninha is the cook.She has the longest tongue, your Worship, in Portugal.She made me angry, talking about your Worship."

"About me? How?" asked Antonio. He felt sickand faint.

"She heard me say that your Worship would attendthe senhoras to-morrow morning. She said: 'Whereis his Excellency to-day? I suppose he's gone to seeSenhor Jorge's Margarida.' I said: 'No, his Worshiphas something better to do. He has gone to VillaBranca to mind his own business, and it would be agood thing if everybody else would do the same.' Therewas an English servant in the room, called Ficha.She's maid to the Senhorita Isabel. Joanninhatranslated to her what I'd said, and they both laughed, andI was very angry."

"What has this to do with the senhoras going awayin such a hurry?" asked Antonio. But, even as hefinished putting the question, his own fears supplied theanswer.

"It's nothing to do with the senhoras hurrying awayat all," said José humbly. "I beg your Worship'spardon for repeating such nonsense. All I know is thatsome bells rang and the Senhor Jaxo went out, andwhen he came back he was in a great rage. Joanninhatold me that the Senhorita Isabel had decided to go toher illustrious father at once, and that nobody daredoppose her."

"Did you see the senhoras? Were they well?"

"I think they were well, because I heard themquarreling," José answered. "The dark senhora, theold one, has a temper that made me tremble, yourWorship. They went away, the senhoras and theservants in two old shut-up carriages, but they aregoing to hire a better carriage on the way. I saw theold senhora, when she handed me the keys. She sentyou a long message, but I don't think Joanninha couldtranslate it properly. So I asked would she write, butshe didn't. They locked all up and gave me the keys.Then they went away. They didn't say when theywill come back. I think, your Worship, that they areall mad."

"José," said his master, after a long silence, "I haveeaten nothing all day. Let me break my fast. AfterwardsI have something to tell you. Prepare me whatyou can while I change my clothes."

He climbed the steep and narrow stairs painfully.His cold tub revived him, and his old clothes gave himease. But, as he lifted his worn cloak from its hook,the wound in his heart burst open afresh. He rememberedhow often Isabel had sat, in all her daintiness,upon that same cloak's clean but rusty folds; and how,on her own confession, she had "cried and cried andcried like a baby" at the sight of its threadbareness.

By the time he descended José had grilled two smalltrout and was placing a bottle of good white wine uponthe table. Antonio's heart was wrung anew at thethought of the simple fellow's unfailing devotion.Isabel had come and had gone; but José remained,loving and serving his strange master with a dumblove passing the love of women. The monk forcedhis faithful disciple to sit down at table with him andto take his fair share of the dainty fish and theanimating wine. When they had finished eating anddrinking he said:

"José, I have been a good deal in and about theguest-house and the abbey since we saved the azulejos,and many strange things have happened. The end ofit all is this. Here are the keys of the guest-house.Upstairs, in the green box, I have all the keys of theabbey. To-day, as you know, I have been to VillaBranca. We are in legal possession of the abbeydomain, and everything in it. Within three years wemust raise three thousand pounds. With God's helpit can be done. The English people will never comeback."

He closed his eyes wearily. When he half-openedthem he saw José by the light of the one candle, bowinghis head and silently repeating thankful prayers. Themonk quailed. For himself, as well as for José, thisought to be a night of praise and rejoicing. YetAntonio found it the darkest hour of his life. Theabbey keys seemed no more than a few bits of metal.Or, if they were more than bits of metal, they werethe keys of a prison, the keys which were lockingIsabel outside his life.

He took his candle and went to bed. But, despitehis weariness, he could not sleep. Where was she?In what rough inn, amidst what discomforts andindignities, was she lying? If he jumped up at onceand tramped southward until he could find a horse,when would he overtake her? To-morrow, he calculated,about noon. He imagined himself thunderingafter her chariot, like a highwayman in a picture.He pictured her pretty alarm, her radiant joy, hergracious forgiveness, their ecstasy of reunion.

Suddenly the monk remembered with a shock thathe had not said all his Office. Busy or idle, sick orwell, glad or sad, he had never failed to recite it before.He still had None, Vespers, and Compline to say.Lighting the candle and opening his breviary he beganto repeat the holy words. But he had not uttered halfa dozen sentences before he shut the book with a snap.

Half an hour later he arose, put together all the keys,and went down stairs. The new moon had not set,and its brightness lured him forth from his narrowroom into the peace of the night. As a matter ofcourse he took the path to the abbey.

Although the ruts of wheels, her wheels, made himshiver he did not turn back. He opened the chapelwith the long key she had so often handled, and sittingdown in his old stall, he tried to say the rest of None;but a white form, her form, hindered him, and asoft, glad voice, her voice, cried: "Antonio,Antonio, Antonio—what a beautiful name!" He gropedhis way to his own cell, and he could almost see andhear her opening his cupboards. He hastened throughthe cloisters and escaped into the wood by the secretdoor.

Some dead leaves fled before him, their trippingsound was no lighter than the fall of her elfin feet.The moon suddenly peeped at him through aclearing; and he saw her moon-white shoulders. Thechirrup of a brimming brook struck upon his ear;and he seemed to be carrying her once more in hisarms, while she murmured: "Listen, Antonio, all theworld is singing."

He knew that the guest-house must tear his woundwide open, and that he ought to hurry home to thefarm; but an irresistible influence drew him on. Hereached the broad path. He stood under the casem*ntwhence she had flung the white rose. It was still ajar.

He turned the key in the lock and entered the ghostlyand silent house. There was enough moonlight in thesalon to show him the blue ottoman whereon she hadso often sat. He hurried out of the room with a heartready to burst.

At the foot of the stairs he paused. They led toher chamber. Could he bear to cross its threshold,to lean out of the window as she had leaned out afterthe thunder, and to look at the bed where she hadlain sobbing for his sake? He knew he could notbear it. But his intellect had ceased to govern himand he ascended the stairs.

A broad moonbeam lit up every corner of herchamber. Like a man dazed he lurched to the window.There were the roses and there were the thorns. Heturned to gaze at her couch. The fine linen had beentaken away; but there was the place where she hadlain, there was the pillow which her golden head hadpressed. What had her last night been? Had shehated him or did she love him still? Had she cursedGod or had she prayed?

For a moment his mind turned the question over ina numb, impersonal way. Then he came back with arush to himself and, in a single moment, his chalice ofa*gony welled up and brimmed over. He flung himselfdown on his knees and stretched out desperatehands and hungry arms across the narrow bed.

Although long minutes passed his dry-eyed, stonyanguish remained. But at last his inward, spiritualman spoke. Was he committing a grievous sin?Was he breaking, in spirit, a vow which he was onlykeeping in the letter? Had he forsaken the Creatorfor a creature?

Slowly, but very surely, his conscience framedthe answer. No, he had not sinned. In all his desireof her there was still nothing of the carnal mind. Hewas racked and scorched by anguish, not because hehad lost her love, but because he had been forced tobreak her heart by refusing her his own. She was achild, a poor lonely child with neither man nor womanto love her, nor any God to console her; and he, Antonio,had flung her back into a still blacker frost andsharper famine, to pine and wither without love andwithout faith. Yet, in all this, he had simply obeyedGod. He had obeyed the God who commandedAbram to offer up Isaac, the God who "spared not Hisown Son, but freely gave Him up for us all."

The moonbeam softly faded from the chamber.But Antonio did not move. His weary limbs andexhausted brain could resist no longer; and, still kneelingagainst her pillow with his arms outstretched acrossher bed, he fell asleep.

II

When the monk awoke day was dawning. For awhile memory failed him. But as soon as he understoodthat he was in Isabel's room he leaped up andhastened downstairs.

He knew that he ought to go straight home. Buthis feet, despite their soreness, turned towards thestepping-stones. He retraced the path by which shehad left him, hardly thirty-six hours before. Past thecypresses, through the mimosas, he went; and beforethe sun rose he was standing in the icy spray of thethunderous waterfall. He longed to plunge into thecrystal pool; but her invisible presence abashed him,and with an ever-sharpening pain he hurried away.

As he regained the farm, he found José burningsome dead leaves. Why could he not tear down theseclinging memories of Isabel from his heart, as Josécould tear down ivies from the trees, and fling thema-top of the glowing, fuming pyre? The gust of pale,acrid smoke which nipped his nostrils was bitter-sweet.

After a dip in the brook he drank some of the shamcoffee and forced down a hunk of coarse bread. Butwhen he faced his routine he found that he couldneither work nor pray. The black and red letters inhis breviary danced impishly before his eyes; and whenhe took up a pen to write out some accounts hemarked the paper with more blots than figures. Bothdoor and window were wide open to the morningbreeze; yet the room suffocated him.

At last a plan formed in Antonio's brain and he didnot delay its execution. Stuffing a piece of bread inhis pocket he sought out José and said:

"To-morrow my hard work will begin. To-day Iam going to Navares. After to-night I will not leaveyou so much alone."

He set out, striding northward with long strides.Every stride was a symbol of his renunciation; for heknew that by this time Isabel would have left her innand that every moment was taking her farthersouthward to Lisbon. On he pressed. As landmark afterlandmark came in sight a flood of old memoriesdiluted his bitter potion of new-brewed sorrow. Helived over again the afternoon of his dusty marchfrom the monastery amid a throng of monks and soldiersand the evening of his solitary return. But notfor long. An hour before the white houses ofNavares shone in the morning sun Isabel had oncemore become the sole tenant of his mind.

The doors of the Navares' corn-factor's granary,where the monks had held their council, were wideopen; but Antonio did not pause to look inside. Ason the night of his flight, he hurried through the townand only rested when he came to the knoll where hehad bivouacked twice before. Thence, aftermunching a little bread, he took the short cut through themaize-fields to the village of the old cura; for the oldcura's grave was the goal of his hasty pilgrimage.

By an irony of fate a rustic wedding had drawn thewhole population to the church and churchyard.Their mirth so mocked the pilgrim's mood that hehad a mind to go away. But he mixed with thethrongs until his resentment at their gaiety was turnedto thankfulness for the excess of human joy overhuman sorrow. At last a horn was blown from thedoor of a neighboring barn, and the crowd swept outof the churchyard like stampeding buffaloes.

The plain grave of the old cura lay in a shelteredcorner on the north side of the chancel. Pious handshad brightened it with a yellow and purple nosegaythat very morning. Antonio did not kneel down.He simply uncovered his head and strove to pray.For five minutes it was like chewing chaff. Somedevil whispered in the monk's ear that his errand wasnot only silly, but in doubtful taste. The old cura wasa saint, no doubt; but what had so rough a diamondto do with so soft and lustrous and exquisite a pearl asIsabel? Thus spake the devil, but Antonio refusedhis ear. Knowing that prayer comes with praying, heprayed on.

Not until he had replaced his hat on his head andwas about to go were his prayers answered. But whenthe answer came, it was an answer indeed. It almoststruck him down, like the great light which struckdown Saul on the way to Damascus, and he was forcedto lean against the church wall. It was an answerwhich both healed the worst of his grief and showedhim the most of his duty in a single flash. It thrustinto his hand a golden key to the whole mystery ofIsabel, past and future.

Like a man whose shoulders have suddenly beeneased of a burden he swung out homewards, holdinghis head high. Without knowing it, he talked tohimself aloud, uttering broken phrases of hope andthankfulness. Yes, he had found the key, the master-keyto all that had happened. As he strode along herecalled his association with Isabel from thebeginning, and there was no lock his key did not fit.

Even the problem which had tried his faith mostsorely was solved. In confiding to him her story ofthe mysterious influence which he had begun toexercise over her, four years before she saw his face,Isabel had declared that their lives were interfused inan irresistible destiny. She had spoken of this as afact more undeniable than the sun and moon. Sheevidently believed with her whole soul that God'shand had brought them together. Yet Antonio, allthrough her pleading, had remained more persuadedthan ever that the selfsame God had called him to thecelibate life. And the apparent impossibility ofreconciling these two equally clear, equally honestconvictions had kindled a fiery ordeal for the monk's faith.The only way out of it seemed to be that all inwardillumination was a delusion—totum corpustenebrosum, "the whole body full of darkness"—and thatperhaps there was no Divine Enlightener at all. Butthis wonderful new thought which had come to himat the old cura's grave explained everything. Hethrust it into the most complicated wards of hisspiritual doubts, and it turned as smoothly as thedamascened key was wont to turn in the lock of thechapel. The doors of Isabel's soul rolled open beforehis eyes, and a bright light shone into the furthestcranny.

As for his duty to her in the present and in thefuture, he understood it no less certainly than heunderstood her chaste love for him in the past. And, assoon as this duty was plain, he made haste to begindoing it; for it was a duty of prayer, of specific,faithful, heroic, loving, unceasing prayer. He prayed ashe walked, with increasing exultation.

So rapt was he by his holy work that Antonio hardlynoticed the difference between the dusty, lonely roadand the cobbled streets of noisy Navares. He pressedsouthward without a pause. Was he not going home?After a day and a night of banishment had not thefarm once more become the tranquil home of his body,and had not the chapel once more become the rapturoushome of his soul? He strode the last long leagueof his homeward journey as if it had been the first;and when he met José at the gate his face was shininglike an angel's.

True to his word, Antonio rose early the next morningand threw himself body and soul into hard work.Now that the abbey domain had come under his care,there were hundreds of things to be done. As thesunny and well-drained slopes were exceptionally suitablefor the culture of a profitable amber-colored wine,Antonio decided to double the area of the monk's oldvineyard immediately. In order to effect thisextension and to repair the damage done by seven years'neglect, it became necessary to engage nearly a score ofhelpers, half a dozen of whom would have to beretained in permanent employ. José, with one residentlaborer, continued to live at the farm, while the monkquietly resumed occupation of his own cell in themonastery.

On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Antoniodined at the farm with José; and on Tuesdays, Thursdays,and Saturdays, José dined with his master besidethe stream in the monastery kitchen. At these week-nightmeals, the conversation was usually a review ofthe day's operations and a debate as to the work of themorrow; but on Sundays, when dinner was eatenceremoniously in the guest-house, such topics were notmentioned, and the talk was of the great world's doings aschronicled in Antonio's English paper, of Portugal'stroubles, and, above all, of churchly and holy things.

Not only during these Sunday talks, but alsothroughout their work-a-day intercourse, José wasconscious of a change in Antonio. Hitherto, the monkhad simply accepted the shaggy fellow's dumbaffection; but, after the day of his visit to the oldcura's grave, he began to show that he requited it aswell. The last remains of his aloofness vanished, hisspeech grew gentler, and he became more watchful ofJosé's health and comfort. Nor was the monk's mannerchanged towards José alone. In all things and toall persons he was more tender and less cold.

On the long winter evenings the two men busiedthemselves with blue pigments and white glazes, untilthey succeeded in fabricating tolerable copies of thetwo broken azulejos. When this was achieved, theybegan a series of experiments, with a view to distillinga new liqueur from eucalyptus. By rashly gulpingdown a mouthful of the first pint, José almost burnedout his tongue. Nevertheless, they persevered; and, inthe long run, the monkish talent for cordial-makingenabled Antonio to mollify the harshness of the fieryelixir, and to render it palatable. In January theyshipped samples to agents in fever-cursed regions ofSpanish America, and offered to supply the liqueur inbulk at a high price.

Meanwhile, Antonio was waxing stronger in faith,and hope, and love. Every day he recited the wholeof his Office in his old stall, sometimes with José'sassistance, sometimes alone. He began also to hearMass in the village church every Wednesday andFriday, and to say the whole rosary every Sundayafternoon. In meditating on the fifteen Mysteries, hehabitually applied them to the case of Isabel; and,somehow, these thinkings never became trite or stale.In pursuance of his plan for Isabel's well-being, heredoubled his prayers, and offered half his Mass-hearingsand communions with the same intention.

The winter passed and the spring came; and still hehad not heard a word from her or about her.Sometimes a memory of her would suddenly overwhelmhim. When he dined at the farm with José thereseemed to be always three persons, not two, at thetable. He felt that she was sitting at his right hand,where she had sat when he gave her the painted bowl;and so strong was his sense of her presence that hewould often halt in the midst of a sentence, as if toask her pardon for the dryness of the talk. After themorrow of her flight, he never visited thestepping-stones, although he repeatedly gave José minuteinstructions for the conserving of the pool's beauties.As for Isabel's chamber, he locked it up, and neverre-entered it. Yet, in spite of this reverence foreverything she had touched, he never moped or repined.He confided Isabel, as he had confided the fate of theabbey, to the might and love of God.

When July came, he made a novena in honor ofSaint Isabel, the holy queen of Portugal, whose silvershrine was the glory of the Poor Clare's greatconvent opposite Coimbra, on the heights above theMondego. And in August he received a long letter fromyoung Crowberry. Seven of its eight pages wereconcerned with England's theological and ecclesiasticalaffairs: but in the midst of the page devoted to personalmatters, the young man had written:

Of course, you know that Isabel has taken her fatherto live at Weymouth. I never see them; but I hearthey are both well, and that Sir Percy has become quitereasonable and docile. Have they told you how sheput her foot down and sent away that ExcellentCreature, Mrs. Baxter? If she hadn't pulled up Sir PercyI'm told he would have died. Now, what did youreally and truly think of Isabel? Did you see much ofher, or did she sulk? Tell me when you write.

Antonio wrote a long letter in reply; but he did nottell young Crowberry what he really and truly thoughtabout Isabel, nor did he so much as mention her name.His novena was answered. It was enough for him toknow that Sir Percy lived, and that she was well.

The grape-harvest in September was a good one, andit was only by cutting an hour from his sleep-time thatthe monk could fill full his appointed measures of workand prayer. Then came October, with its vintage ofmemories. On the anniversary of Senhor Jorge'sserao Antonio could be serene; for Margarida hadjust been happily married to a handsome and honorableyoung man of Leiria, the son of a prosperousbuilder. But with the approach of the anniversary ofhis first meeting with Isabel he grew troubled; and, todivert his thoughts, he departed hurriedly for Lisbon,where he had business to transact with the shippers ofhis wines and cordials. In Lisbon he learned that ajourney to England would be to his advantage. ButEngland meant Isabel; so, on the anniversary of herflight from the guest-house, he turned his back on thecapital and hastened home.

By mortgaging his farm the monk succeeded inpaying the third instalment of the abbey's price. Hefaced the New Year with less than twenty pounds ofready money, and with the obligation to find fivehundred by the first of July. A request for a moreflexible arrangement was flung back at him by the Fazendaofficial with vindictive contempt. As the springadvanced, Antonio laid his plan for the immediateoutright purchase of the abbey on a fifteen hundredpound mortgage before four separate persons; butwithout exception they either could not or would notentertain it. In these circ*mstances he felt bound tocut down his gifts to village charities and his bountiesto the hangers-on of the countryside. As a result,José came home one day with a black eye, receivedwhile he was punishing three village loafers for callingthe Senhor da Rocha a skin-flint and a miser.

By May-day Antonio's sales of stock and the pledgingof his credit had brought him in only three hundredpounds, and there was nothing left that he couldpawn without crippling himself hopelessly in the nearfuture. But he was not cast down. He was doinghis utmost, and he calmly left the rest with God.

III

Very early one morning, at the end of May, Antonioheard light footsteps passing his cell. Although hesprang up immediately from bed he could not openhis door in time to see the intruder's face or form.He caught no more than half a moment's glimpse of aslender and darkly garbed figure disappearing roundthe angle of the corridor.

Having scrambled into his clothes, he started inpursuit. The light tap-tap of shod feet on the stonestold him that his visitor was making for the chapel.The monk, who was barefooted, followed noiselessly.

Peeping into the chapel through the little door amidthe azulejos, Antonio saw a tall spare man kneelingbefore the altar. Even if his back had not been turnedto Antonio it would have been impossible to see hisface, because he was hiding it in his hands. Thestranger wore a long black cloak, uncomfortably thickand heavy for the torrid Portuguese summer. But itwas plain that he did not find it too warm. Withlong, thin, death-pale hands, he drew its folds moreclosely round his body; and, as he did so, the familiarmovement revealed his identity to Antonio.

It was Father Sebastian.

Antonio hurried forward and knelt at his side. ButSebastian did not move, nor did he cease praying forfour or five minutes; and when at last he turnedtowards Antonio it was without the slightest sign ofsurprise. Rising painfully, he left the altar and madea gesture, inviting Antonio to follow him.

As Sebastian had stood next to Antonio in juniorityamong the choir-monks, the stalls of the two men wereside by side. Sebastian sat down in his old place andAntonio did likewise. The chapel was dim; but theyounger man could see that the elder's body hadwasted almost to a skeleton. Yet there was nothingrepellent about him. The bloom on his cheeks and thefire in his eyes had the solemn beauty of a sunset in anautumnal forest. When he began to speak his voicewas so soft and sweet that it seemed to come fromsome far-off holy height.

"To-day, Father Antonio," he said, "completes theninth year since you sat on the cloister roof and heardthe hoofs of the horsem*n who had come to thrust usfrom this house. And, this morning, it is just nineyears since you were raised to the priesthood. I askedour Lord to give me strength for the journey, so thatI might spend this anniversary with you. He hasheard me."

"Who told you that I was here?" Antonio asked.

Sebastian did not reply. But there was that in hiseyes which gave Antonio a sufficient answer. Herewas a saint who walked in the light.

"Nine years," mused Sebastian aloud. "And youhave not yet said your first Mass."

"No," replied Antonio. "But God is good. Everyyear He enables me to send a little cask of wine forthe altar to a poor church in England. Six days aweek I work amid wine; and is not wine the matter ofHis great Sacrament? It consoles me to know thatalthough I cannot say Mass, I can serve His table.Although I cannot, like Mary, his mother, bear Him inmy hands, I can be like those other Marys at thesepulcher. Emerunt aromata ut venientes ungerentJesum: 'They brought sweet spices that they mightanoint Jesus.'"

"He is not a God of the dead, but of the living,"said Sebastian, in sweet, far-off tones. "We do notoffer a dead Christ. Say rather that you are like thatfavored unknown to whom He sent two disciplessaying, Ubi est diversorium ubi pascha cum discipulismeis manducem: 'Where is the guest-chamber whereI may eat the Passover with My disciples?' But come.Our time together is short, and there is much to say.First of all, I have brought your breviary which youcharged me to keep."

He pointed to a package lying on the Prior's seat.Antonio rose and took it with joyful gratitude. Whenhe returned to his stall he said:

"Suffer my questions first. Whence do you come?Where have you lived these nine long years?"

"For a few months I was with the English fathers inLisbon," Sebastian answered. "They were kind; butwhen it became plain that the Portuguese Benedictinecongregation must come to an end, I crossed Spain andsought asylum at the Montserrat, where men used tobelieve the Holy Grail was treasured. There wasmuch work for me to do there in the School of Music;and I found strength to do it, for we lived like eagleshigh up in the pure air, three thousand feet above thesea. But Madrid followed the example of Lisbon.Greedy eyes were cast on our possessions. Theyaccused us of being Carlists, just as in Portugal theyaccused us of being Miguelistas: and only eighteenmonths after leaving this abbey, I was again an exile.Since then I have dwelt in three religious houses; andevery one of them has been suppressed."

"Can it be," asked Antonio uneasily, "that theOrders are themselves to blame, as men say? Here wedwelt in simplicity and piety, living by our own laborand feeding the poor. But was this house anexception? Had the majority of other monks indeed sunkinto gluttony and sloth?"

"In every monastery from which I have beendriven," said Sebastian, "our evictors poured regretsand compliments upon us. It was always the misdeedsof 'others,' for which we had to suffer. Butwhenever I questioned an exiled community, I foundthey had received the same compliments. Thosemysterious 'others' have still to be found. Accordingto the statesmen, all religious houses individuallyare fountains of light and blessing to their neighbors;but collectively they are a dark curse on thenations."

"Unbelieving men are determined to mulct us of allwe have," said Antonio, "and therefore they mustneeds invent crimes to suit our punishment. Theyhang us first and indict us afterwards."

"They oppress us," agreed Sebastian, "in the greatand sacred name of liberty. But the avarice of godlessmen is the mainspring of it all. I have seen fivehouses confiscated 'for the good of the People'; and innot one case have the People received a third of theplunder. But enough of this. Tell me your ownstory."

"Where is the Prior?"

"He is dead. He died in Belgium."

"The Cellarer?"

"He is dead. He died in Brazil."

"Father Isidoro?"

"He is dead. He died in Spain."

With a sinking heart, Antonio named the choir-monksone by one; and, after each name, Sebastiananswered: "He is dead." Father Sebastian believedthat Brother Cypriano was still alive; but, of theFathers, only he and Antonio were left.

"Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine," murmuredAntonio.

"Et lux perpetua luceat eis," Sebastian responded.

"To-morrow morning," added Sebastian, "will bethe anniversary of the Abbot's last Mass. If our Lordwill give me strength I shall say Mass at this altaronce more."

After a pause, Antonio began to relate his historyfrom the moment of his quitting the council atNavares. Every fact that threw light on his operationsfor regaining the abbey he stated with precision. Buthe did not mention Margarida, and he referred toIsabel only as Sir Percy's moneyed daughter. Whenhe had finished, Sebastian looked at him withsteadfast pitiful eyes and said:

"These have been great sacrifices and cruel hardshipsfor the sake of our Lord, and they will not be invain. But you have not told me all. My brother, Ifeel that you have kept silence concerning your mostcostly sacrifice, your bitterest ordeal. Why not tell meall?"

Antonio's pride rebelled. The desire to ease hisheart by pouring out its hoard of solitary grief wasstrong; but his gentleman's instincts of reticence werestronger. For some time he remained silent. But aninward voice sternly bade him speak; and he spoke.

He told the short tale of Margarida. Then he unfoldedthe whole case of Isabel, glossing over nothing.He scrupulously added an account of his actions andfeelings on the night and morrow of her flight. Whenhe had finished he sat with bowed head and waited forSebastian's judgment. But Sebastian remained silent.

"You do not speak," said Antonio. "Perhaps Ihave given you the impression that my ordeal wascarnal, and that this English maiden was a directemissary of Satan. If you think so, I have spokenblunderingly indeed."

"Satan exists and he is busy enough," returnedSebastian. "But in trying to find the cause of anystrange thing that happens I have learned to think ofSatan last. Nearly all our temptations arise fromour own self-love and carelessness. Many othertemptations are God's provings and perfectings of ourspiritual mettle. Satan is not omnipresent and his angelsare only a shrunken legion. But have patience. Letme think."

He resumed his meditation. At last he turned andsaid:

"This was not a temptation from the devil. Neitherdid it spring from corruptness in your heart or inhers. I am persuaded that our Lord's work is somehowin it all. Perhaps you will never know in thisworld what work it is; but that is not your affair."

"Sometimes," said Antonio slowly, "it troubles myconscience. As I told you just now, I didn't holdout to the very end. I gave way within my heart;but when I opened my eyes she had vanished."

"You do wrong to be troubled," said Sebastian."You held out to the bitter end of the trial God hadappointed you. When you told this Isabel finally togo, she went. That was the end. All that happenedafterwards was mere reaction."

"The next day," persisted Antonio, "I did not saymy Office. My heart bled for her as it never bled forthe Abbot, or for you, Sebastian, or for this place."

"It bled for her, not for yourself," Sebastianexplained. "In profane love, the lover who thinks heis grieving for the beloved is only grieving overhis own loss of her, over his own short bereavement,or over his own humiliation and discomfiture. Withyou, Antonio, it was not so. You did not wish totake; you wished to give."

"Do not make me out a saint when I know I am asinner," said Antonio, almost sharply. "If she hadbeen old, and tart, and ugly, would my heart have bledfor her all the same?"

"Perhaps not," Sebastian retorted. "But, if shehad been old and ugly, neither would there have beenmuch virtue in giving her up. Do not complain of herbeauty. You had heroic work to do, and her beautyhelped you to do it better. In England there arePuritans who would say that these azulejos and thesegilded carvings must hinder us from doing the Workof God."

"I do not follow you," said Antonio.

"Tell me," Sebastian asked abruptly, "how youstand with the payments you have bound yourself tomake."

Antonio drew from his breast an account over whichhe had pored and pored for a month without makingthe adverse balance a vintem less. Sebastian connedit attentively from beginning to end. Then he said:

"Follow me to my old cell and bring me paper andink."

He rose with so much difficulty that Antonio had tosupport him; but once fairly on his feet he movedquickly over the pavement. At the door of the cellAntonio left him; but before he had finished cuttinga new quill and replenishing the sand-sprinkler in hisown room, Sebastian rejoined him. Sitting downpainfully at the tiny table he swiftly wrote a very shortletter. Without reading it over he folded it, sealed itwith a small brass seal which he drew from his pocket,and addressed it to a Spanish nobleman in a smalltown of the Asturias.

"Let this be despatched at once," he said. "Thereis no time to lose."

"A post leaves Navares in three days," replied Antonio."José shall take the letter there this morning."

"It is well," said Sebastian. "And when this Joséreturns, let me see him as soon as he is rested."

The cell was brighter than the chapel, and Antonioperceived that his friend was become almost asinsubstantial as a ghost. He called to mind a passagefrom a new English poet about a man who, havingwasted to a shadow, was ready to be resumed into theGreat Shadow, the shadow and blackness of death.But Sebastian seemed rather to be a pure white flame,waiting to be drawn into the Great Light.

"You have not broken your fast," cried Antonio inshame and alarm. "You must eat. I have good wine.You must rest. You must sleep. When the heat isover we will talk again, and you shall see José."

"It has been meat and drink and rest and sleep tosee you again, Father Antonio, and to hear what youhave told me," the other answered. "But you areright. I must sleep. I will obey your orders."

At breakfast Sebastian ate and drank nothing savean ounce or two of bread and an egg beaten up in whitewine. When the meal was over he declined Antonio'spressing offer of a comfortable bed from the guest-house,and lay down on the straw mattress in his owncell. There he soon fell into so profound a sleep thathe did not hear Antonio drenching the window withbucketful after bucketful of water to counteract theblazing heat.

At night José, wearing his best coat and his mostdiffident manner, dined with the two monks in a cornerof the refectory. Sebastian, with bright eyes andglowing cheeks, did most of the talking. He praisedthe wine and the food, although he touched little ofeither; and throughout the repast he was full of aneager cheerfulness such as Antonio had never seen inhim before. After dinner he drew from José an exactaccount of his mental and spiritual state: for Antoniohad told him of the poor fellow's desire to become amonk.

"José," he demanded, at the end of his questioning,"You have learnt Latin. Can you translate,Irascimini: et nolite peccare?"

"I can, Father," answered José proudly. "It means,'Be angry and sin not.'"

"So it does. You did well to be angry with thegreedy and lazy good-for-nothings who spake evil ofFather Antonio. But you did ill to thrash them andto come home with that black eye. Go on being angrywith sin; but learn to love sinners."

"Can't I be a monk, Father? May I not have thehabit?" pleaded José, in consternation. "I am gladI thrashed them; but I'm sure I shan't need to thrashthem again."

"The habit is a comfort and a help," Sebastianreplied, "but we must not give it you to-night. Live asyou have been living, in the love of our Lord and inobedience to Father Antonio. For the present youcan wear no habit more acceptable to God than thecoat in which you do your daily duty about the farm.Do not hang your head. I foresee that an abbot willonce more rule within these walls, and that you, Joséwill die as one of his family. Have patience."

A sudden change came over Sebastian as he ceasedspeaking. The hectic bloom faded from his cheeks,and the heavy lids drooped over his preternaturallybright eyes. A moment later he sank forwardagainst the table. Antonio and José sprang at onceto his help. He had swooned. They made haste tobear him bodily to his cell. It was an easy task; forbeyond the weight of his cloak there seemed to behardly anything to carry. After they had laid him onhis bed and dashed water from the torrent in his face,he revived and said faintly:

"Thanks, thanks, thanks, I am well. Leave me.I shall say mass to-morrow at five o'clock. Leaveme."

He fell into another unnatural sleep. But Antoniodid not leave him. All through the short warm nighthe watched and prayed. At last the dull chant of theAtlantic was drowned under the glittering trills of nearblackbirds. Day dawned. The sun rose aboveSebastian's Spain; and the sleeper awoke.

He answered the traditional Benedicamus Dominowith so ringing a Deo gratias that Antonio thought amiracle had happened. Sebastian looked stronger andhealthier than ever before. Even José, who had beensleeping heavily on the corridor floor, was aroused bySebastian's two words.

They repaired to the chapel. There Father Sebastianheard the confessions of his two companions.Without delay he proceeded to the sacristy. Antoniofollowed him and began to lift from its drawer one ofthe less costly vestments which had never been takenaway. It was green and gold, as appointed in theOrdo for that day. But Sebastian, having biddenhim replace it, drew forth a black chasuble, simplyembroidered with a plain white cross. Antonio feltjustly rebuked. When the Abbot was dead, and thePrior and all the fathers save two, surely it was meetthat the survivor's Mass should be a Mass of requiem.

From his pocket-case, Sebastian took theunconsecrated wafers which he had brought from Lisbon.He finished his vesting and preparation and theyre-entered the chapel. José was kneeling devoutly onthe lowest step of the sanctuary. Outside, hundredsof birds were in full boisterous song.

Father Sebastian went to the foot of the altar andbegan to say Mass. He uttered the words quickly andclearly, and made the genuflections without difficulty.Indeed, Antonio, as he poured water over the white andfleshless fingers at the psalm Lavabo, marveled morethan ever at the miracle of his friend's sudden strength.At the commemoration of the dead, the intensity ofSebastian's recollection seemed to make the wholechapel thrill and throb, like a bed of reeds in a wind.

After he had given the most holy Body to Antonioand to José, Sebastian concluded the Mass and returnedto the sacristy with a firm tread. He laid asidethe sacred vestments and came back to his old stall inorder to make his thanksgiving. Antonio, also in hisold stall, knelt at Sebastian's side.

The ascending sun cleared the top of the hill andshone into the chapel. The diadem of the Holy Childblazed with glory. In all the trees happy birdsredoubled their songs.

Half an hour passed. José, arising noisily, madeAntonio open his eyes. But Father Sebastian kneltwithout moving against the sloping book-board. Joséclattered out. Still Father Sebastian did not move.Antonio waited, revering his friend's ecstasy ofcommunion with his Lord. He waited long. Butmeanwhile a broad sunbeam had been working westward;and at last it poured its burning gold upon the bendedhead.

Antonio was stepping softly forward to screen hisfriend from the fierce ray when a sudden instinct badehim kneel down and look into Sebastian's face. ButSebastian's wide-open, rapturous eyes did not gaze intoAntonio's; nor were they beholding any earthly thing.So beautiful was the sight that Antonio's exclamationwas more a shout of joy than a cry of fear. Into hismind there rushed the words of Isaias which had beenSebastian's favorite scripture in the old days, Regemin decore suo videbunt oculi ejus: "His eyes shall seethe King in His beauty; they shall behold the landwhich is very far off."

Antonio and José buried the body of Sebastian thatnight on the sunny side of the cloister, between thethird and fourth pillars, just under the tile-picture ofEnos, with its legend, Ambulavit cum Deo et nonapparuit, quia tulit eum Deus: "He walked with Godand was no more seen, for God took him."

IV

On the feast of Saints Peter and Paul, just thirty daysafter Sebastian's death, Antonio heard Mass in thevillage church. Forty-eight hours were left to himbefore his payment to the Villa Branca Fazendabecame due. In the strong-box at home he had onlythree hundred and twelve pounds towards his debt offive hundred. Nothing had been received fromSebastian's friend in Spain, although sufficient time hadelapsed for a reply to reach the farm. Nevertheless,Antonio rose from his knees at the end of Mass andtook his way homeward with a serene spirit.

From the point where he and José had seen the rutsof young Crowberry's wheels nearly two years before,the monk heard thumping hoofs. He gazed down theroad and saw an advancing cloud of dust. A fewmoments later he made out the milk-white Brancowhich had succeeded coal-black Negro as the Navares'post-horse. Thomé, the postman, drew rein andhanded Antonio two letters.

The first was from young Crowberry. It ran:

Dear Friend da Rocha.

You will be sorry to hear that my father died lastweek, suddenly. I know you will pray for him; andI hope you will pray for me too.

Strange to say, Sir Percy also passed away last week,two days after my father. I saw it in the papers, but Iknow no details. At Christmas my father saw him atWeymouth, and he seemed well.

As our affairs are tangled, I have much to do.Write to me soon. My thoughts turn to you veryoften nowadays. Tell me how you do, all round. Iremain, your sincere friend. Edward Crowberry.

The second letter contained a draft for two hundredpounds payable at sight in Navares. Antonio regardedit without emotion. Even the fact that it wasunaccompanied by a single line of writing from the senderdid not stir him. He had fully expected that themoney would arrive in due time from somewhere,and it was no surprise to find it in his hand. A singlethought filled every corner of his mind. Isabel wasa thousand miles away, sunk in deepest sorrow, withnone to comfort her.

Thomé slapped Branco's neck noisily so as to arouseAntonio from his reverie and to remind him that thepostage had not yet been paid. Although it was notthe first time he had seen a man tear open a bulletin ofdeath at the roadside in the full blaze of noon, Thoméwas sympathetic. But business was business. In histurn every man had to die; but meanwhile Thomé hadto live. Antonio took the hint and gave the man hismoney.

When José saw the draft, half an hour later, he sofar forgot a would-be monk's decorum as to execute arustic dance. The next minute, without beingconscious of any incongruity, he said:

"Father I knew this money would come. I knew itthis morning, at Mass. What did the Introit say?Nunc scio vere quia misit Dominus angelum suum, eteripuit me: 'Now I know verily that the Lord hathsent His angel and hath delivered me.' I knew. Deogratias."

"Deo gratias," echoed Antonio. But his eyes weredull and there was no ring of exultation in his tone.He arose and went to his cell; but she seemed to bethere, opening the cupboards and searching sadly forwhat she could not find. He ascended to the roof ofthe cloister: but restlessness dragged him down again.Wandering out into the open-air his feet turned ofthemselves towards the guest-house. He meant to gono further than the steps where she had said, "Promisethat I may see you again," and where he had carriedher like a child in his arms; but he soon opened thedoor and made his way to the salon. The sight of theblue ottoman quickly drove him out again, and hemounted the stairs until he stood outside her chamber.The little key was in his pocket, for he never allowedit to go out of his sight. He fumbled for it andtouched it. But it seemed to burn him. He hurrieddown the stairs and out of the house.

Striding along the broad path he returned to theabbey and entered the chapel. As he sat down in hisold place a sudden thought came to his help. This wasthe feast of Saints Peter and Paul, the twenty-ninth ofJune; and on the eighth of July all Portugal would becelebrating the feast of Saint Isabel, Portugal's holyQueen. There was just time, neither a day too muchnor a day too little, for the nine days of his novena.He clutched at the coincidence like a drowning man ata straw; and although in less perilous moments hemight have called it a straw, indeed, he found in it aplank to buoy up his sinking soul.

There and then he began his nine day's pleading forthe Saint's intercession. In deep humility he made useof a little ill-printed pamphlet, bought by José yearsbefore for a vintem at a village fair. Outside thispenny chap-book one saw a rough woodcut of theHoly Queen, with a crown on her brow and a scepterin her hand. Inside one found a sequence of piousexercises for the novena, set forth in the simplest andshortest words of the vernacular. Antonio couldhave extemporized more dignified prayers; but hebelieved in the communion of saints and chose tolink himself with the child-like faith of the poor andhumble.

On the last of June he tramped into Navares to cashthe Spanish draft, and on the first of July he rode intoVilla Branca to pay away his money. All the way outand home, on both the days, he prayed. Every morningof the nine he heard Mass at the village, and onthree mornings he communicated as well. Hebesought José to pray for a special intention; and,breaking through his reserve, he asked some of the villageSaints and Blessed Ones to do the same.

Meanwhile the work in vineyard and distillery hadgrown heavy. Throughout his novena he devoted sixhours of the twenty-four to sleep and meals, four toMass, Office, and prayers, and all the rest toaccount-keeping and manual labor. The resultant exhaustionof his bodily strength seemed to sharpen his spiritualsenses. On the fourth day, as he and José were sayingLauds, Antonio could hardly resist the belief thatSebastian's voice was joining in the holy Work.When Lauds were finished and he was busy among thevines, he decided that his overstrained nerves had beenwrought upon by his knowledge that Sebastian's gravewas only a few yards away, just outside the cloisterdoorway. The next morning, however, his inwardear seemed to hear afar off a vast babble of deep voices,as if all the generations of Saint Benedict's sonsthroughout thirteen hundred years were reciting Laudstogether.

On the sixth and seventh and eighth mornings thismighty murmur of deep voices reverberated persistentlyin his ears, like the echoes of distant Niagarasand Atlantics. On the ninth morning, after his Massand communion, he heard it again; but this time therewas a difference. While he was beseeching the Isabelin heaven to pray for the Isabel on earth, an ineffableharmony filled the ears of his soul. Blending with thedeep voices he heard voices that were high and sweetand clear, like woodbine and sweet honeysuckle androses intertwining among the sturdy trunks andbranches of an ancient forest. It was as if all thegenerations of Saint Benedict's daughters had addedtheir songs to the songs of all Saint Benedict's sons.

The tide of harmony ebbed slowly away. But itleft behind it a strange peace in Antonio's soul; evenas the tides of ocean bathe the burning sands and leavethem clean and cool. The peace which filled himpassed his understanding, and he did not try toexplain it. Rising up quietly, he gave the little bookback to José and went about his work.

October came again; but this time Antonio did notrun away. Until the Indian summer ended he wasquieter than usual; but he met its memories withoutbitterness. The door of Isabel's room was still keptlocked; he still avoided the stepping-stones, and everynight and morning he remembered her in his prayers;but she had receded from the foreground of his life.

November and December were crowded with moneytroubles. The sales of the farm and sea-sand winesincreased every year, and there was a constant demandfor the two liqueurs: but Antonio's customers soonperceived that he was not a hard man, and they imposedupon him by taking excessive credit. His businessneeded capital; but every development had to be paidfor out of revenue. Worst of all, a furtherinstalment of five hundred pounds fell due on New Year'sDay.

There was young Crowberry; but, after what hehad said about his father's confused affairs, the monkdid not think it fair to ask him for a loan. There wasalso Sebastian's Asturian nobleman; but loyalty to hisdead friend restrained Antonio from requesting theSpaniard's further help. In his difficulty he wrote toSenhor Castro and followed up the letter by presentinghimself in person at the old Castro cellars in Oportoearly in December.

Senhor Castro, who had grown old and liverish, didnot want to be troubled. He admitted that Antonio'sEnglish journey had firmly established the Castrofortunes; but, although he was a rich man, he gaveproofs that all his money was invested beyondimmediate recall. In the long run, Antonio crossed thebridge of boats from Gaia empty-handed.

He searched for the cobbler, his old landlord; butthe whole family had gone to Brazil. Twice or thriceduring his heart-wearing stay in the city he wascheered by the best of greetings in the worst ofPortuguese from Gallegos to whom he had been kind nineyears before. These Gallegos, however, did not helphim to raise five hundred pounds. They were theGallegos who had failed; for the Gallegos who hadsucceeded were all returned into Galicia with theirsavings.

A few days before Christmas the monk clinched abad bargain with a small firm of so-called Anglo-Portuguesebankers, who were really common money-lendersin bankers' clothing. The head of the firm hailedfrom Hamburg and his partner was a Portuguese Jew.These plausible rascals agreed to lend Antonio athousand pounds on unconscionable terms. Although thenominal interest was only seven per cent., one extraand another made it over twenty. For sending a clerkto attend the transfer at Villa Branca they requiredforty pounds, although his expenses could not exceedtwelve. The conditions as to repayment were harsh.As security, the usurers required a first mortgage onthe abbey, a second mortgage on the farm, a note ofhand from Antonio, and a hold on the receipts fromwine. The monk's heart sank as he signed the fatalparchment; but he espied the gleam in the Hamburgman's eye too late.

On New Year's Day, Antonio had a moment ofbrightness when the abbey passed finally out of thecontrol of the Fazenda official; but he soon found thathe had exchanged a whip for a scorpion. Before themoneylender's clerk returned to Oporto he confidedvexatious instructions to the most unprincipled of theVilla Branca attorneys, who rarely allowed a month topass thereafter without sending for Antonio on somefrivolous pretext. Whenever this objectionableperson and his still more objectionable wife desired aSunday jaunt they drove over to the farm or the abbey,sponging on Antonio's hospitality and pokinginquisitorial noses into everything. One day the pairbrought two char-à-bancs full of their kindred tocelebrate the senhora's birthday by a picnic at thestepping-stones; and when Antonio very courteouslybegged that the good things might be drunk and eatenin some other part of the domain, the attorneypromptly became his active enemy.

Years passed. In spite of a hundred obstacles thewines and liqueurs made steady progress, and Antonioseemed to be within reach of his goal. Having groundout to the usurers nearly two thousand pounds in legalcosts, interest, and repayment of principal, he owedthem less than two hundred. A debt on his farm stillremained; but the Navares' mortgagee was a reasonableman who was willing to wait. The monk reckonedthat one more prosperous year would release himfrom the moneylenders' clutches and that, two yearslater, both the farm and the abbey would be his.

But Portugal's honest, hardworking men andwomen were once more being brought to the brink ofruin by the politicians. The minister, Costa Cabral,having been created Count of Thomar, sought torepay Queen Maria da Gloria by measures of excessiveroyalism; and immediately all the turbulent spirits inthe country were let loose. Some rough-and-readypoet dashed down a Portuguese Marseillaise, in whichan imaginary "Mary of the Fountain" was hymned asa Joan of Arc raised up to save the fatherland. InVilla Branca and Navares, Antonio often heard thelads singing:

Maria of the Fountain
Has a sword in her hand,
To slay the false Cabrals,
The traitors to their land.

Forward! brothers, forward!
Forward! be our cry;
On! for holy Freedom
To conquer or to die.

Suddenly the Septembrists took arms. Under theViscount Sa da Bandeira there broke out the insurrectioncalled by some the Mob-war and by others the warof Maria da Fonte. Cabral fell, and the MarshalSaldanha filled his place. To end the bloodshed anddisorder foreign Powers intervened.

On the feast of Saints Peter and Paul, exactly fouryears after Antonio began his memorable novena toSaint Isabel, the Convention of Granada was signedand a general amnesty was declared. The good newsreached the farm on Saint Isabel's day, and Antoniohoped against hope that the dates were good omens.But within two years Cabral was once more in power;and, two years later, Saldanha and his soldiers oncemore turned him out.

One morning Thomé and Branco, both grown old,brought a letter to announce the bankruptcy of theLisbon shippers to whom Antonio had entrusted thecollection of his accounts. The news came barely aweek before a further payment of one hundredpounds fell due to the moneylenders. Antonioimmediately hired a fast horse and hastened to Oporto.In answer to his request, the Jew and the Germanblandly offered to renew his bonds on terms sooutrageous that the monk walked out of their office. Butonly three days remained, of which one was a holiday.He called at Senhor Castro's house to find the masterdead.

On the face of it, to raise a sum of two hundredpounds on property worth three thousand was anabsurdly easy task, and Antonio counted on being ableto wash his hands of the moneylenders within twenty-fourhours. But owing to the political unrest anacute financial crisis prevailed in Oporto. Money wasscarce and lenders were shy. Antonio's security wasscores of leagues away, and there was no time toinspect it; nor could the title be easily investigated, as thedeeds were in the money-lenders' hands.

On his last day of grace the monk presented himselfa*gain at the so-called bank and stated that hewould accept the hard terms offered. He was receivedwith a volley of abuse.

"What?" roared Senhor Neumann. "You havethe impudence to come here again? After all ourkindness the other day, what did we get? Nothingbut ingratitude and insults. Get out. We're sick ofthe whole business. I'm determined to be done withit once for all. If you've brought our money, pay itand don't argue. If not, we foreclose the mortgage,and I shall write to Villa Branca to-night."

"You are quite right, Neumann," said Senhor Mual."We were talked to like dirt. Senhor da Rochacould not have turned his back on us more offensivelyif we had been downright extortioners or commonmoney-lenders. But don't be too hard on a man in ahole."

"I shall write to Villa Branca to-night," persisted theGerman. "I like business to be pleasant. What didthe Senhor come here for at all, if he didn't mean tobe straightforward? I like business to end aspleasantly as it begins. I like dealing with gentlemen."

Antonio bit his tongue. Senhor Mual spoke again;and once more Senhor Neumann retorted. At lasttheir trite play-acting came to its usual end with theGerman loudly exclaiming:

"Very well, very well, have your way. We're abrace of soft-hearted old fools. Every scamp thatcomes along can get round us; it'll serve us right if weboth die in the Misericordia."

Antonio signed fresh papers and hurried back toJosé. He spent three days writing English andSpanish and Portuguese letters to his customers in theAmericas, unfolding new offers of discounts and aproposal for cash-payments against bills of lading.The result was the loss of half his Latin patrons,whose business could only be conducted on credit.Concurrently with these disasters the Lisbon Governmentkept on demanding larger and larger taxes; andAntonio never caught sight of the old white horseBranco without a shrinking of heart.

The monk fought on. To save a pound or two ayear he gave up his English papers. But crisisfollowed crisis, and before long he owed Neumann andMual almost as much as he had borrowed from themin the first instance. The two scoundrels played withhim like anglers playing a pike. Sometimes theygave him so much line that he seemed to be regainingthe deep broad flood of freedom. For a year at atime their letters would be friendly and the VillaBranca persecution would cease; but whenever thedebt fell below three hundred pounds they strucksharply and began winding the firmly hooked fishpitilessly back to the bank. They knew how to enmeshhim in widespread nets of petty litigation; and,although Antonio was far cleverer than the attorney,his cleverness availed him nothing. The affidavits ofhis opponents were invariably perjurious, but the monkscorned to swear falsely in reply, even on the mosttrifling point. Had he possessed money to carryappeals into the higher courts he might have obtainedjustice; but he never succeeded in going further thanthe Villa Branca court of first instance, where localcorruption smiled at the maxim that Truth is mightyand must prevail.

Throughout these trials Antonio constantly advancedin the love of God and his neighbor. Althoughhe could not give money, he gave his time and strengthand knowledge to the help of the weak and harassedaround him. A new cura came to the village, whosoon discerned the spirituality of his mysteriousparishioner and insisted on his enjoying the greatconsolation of serving at Mass. Meanwhile the monk keptup the daily recitation of the Divine Office in his oldstall. Very often he was cheered by hearing againwith his inward ear the vast, sweet chant of all SaintBenedict's sons and daughters. In spite of histroubles he was nearly always cheerful; and he wouldoften echo the words of Saint Paul and say, Inomnibus tribulationem patimus: "We suffer trouble onevery side, but we are not in anguish, we areperplexed, but not in despair, we suffer persecution, butwe are not forsaken, we are cast down, but we are notdestroyed."

One morning, when he was dressing for an iniquitouslaw-suit, Antonio noticed that his hair at thetemples had begun to turn gray. The next moment heremembered that it was the eve of his birthday, andthat on the morrow he would be fifty years old.

V

Late one December night, as he lay in his lonely cell,a furious gale aroused Antonio from sleep. Somethingwas groaning and creaking outside. He sat boltupright and listened until he became certain that thegreat iron cross which formed the finial to the chapelroof had worked loose.

The monk sprang up and ran out into the rain.Scaling the chapel wall by means of a swaying ladder,he found to his dismay that the cross was within anace of falling. There was no time to run down to thefarm for help, nor even to return to the abbey fortools. The only action that could avail was to standwith his whole weight on the last ridge-stone and tohold up the cross against the wind with his wholestrength.

Antonio took the cross in his arms. The sou'-wester,roaring like a thousand lions, thrashed himwith stinging thongs of cold rain and did its best tohurl him down, cross and all. But he held on. Timeafter time the ridge shook like a bog under his feet,and the great finial tugged at his arms like a capturedbeast striving to escape. His hands bled throughgripping the sharp edges of the iron. Once or twice,during the first half-hour, he was on the point of relaxinghis grasp; but a great thought put endurance into hisheart and strength into his arms. He thought of hisLord, cleaving to the cross on Calvary with anintensity of love which fastened Him there moresecurely than the iron nails. He thought of thedarkness which was over all the land from the sixth to theninth hour. Hitherto the monk had thought of thatdarkness as a mere absence of light; but, as he clungto the iron, with the brutal tempest howling androaring and screaming, with the roofs and the treeswhining and moaning, and with the icy darts of rainwounding him like thorns, he understood that it was adarkness reeling with all the sin of the world andenvenomed with the hot panting of all hell's devils.With blood on both his hands and pains like red-hotneedles in both his feet Antonio thanked God for thislivelier sense of his Savior's passion, and he repeatedthe words of Saint Paul, Mortificationem Jesu incorpore nostro circumferentes: "Bearing about in ourbodies the dying of Jesus."

Towards dawn, when the world seemed to be rockingunder him and he was ready to faint, Antonio recalledthat other night of storm when, in the chapelbelow, Isabel had nestled in his arms. Her presenceseemed to be with him once more. It was as thoughher white slender hands were helping his to uphold thethick black iron, and as though her soft, sweet toneswere murmuring encouragement in his ear. The galeand the rain bellowed and spat, but Isabel's voice softlydrowned their din. Erat cum bestiis, et angelusministrabat illi: "He was among wild beasts, and an angelministered unto him."

José, hurrying to the abbey before sunrise to reportserious damage among the sea-sand vines, arrived justin time to save both the cross and his master.Having driven in a wedge, he made haste to help Antoniodown and to coax him into bed. To bed the monkwent; and in bed he remained for a week, consumedby fever and tortured by nightmares. He seemed tobe holding the lockless, boltless door of the chapelagainst the two usurers and the chief of the Fazendaand the Villa Branca attorney. He, Antonio, washolding it shut by fiercely pressing knees and thighsand arms and hands, and shoulders and brow againstthe oak while his enemies charged at it like roaringwaves at a cliff.

When the monk arose from bed his magnificenthealth was gone. He suffered from headaches, andcould no longer walk to the neighboring towns or domuch manual labor. To employ his enforced leisurehe advertised himself in two or three English andFrench papers as a private tutor wishing to receive oneor two boarder-pupils for instruction in the classics,modern languages, and commercial routine; but therewas no response.

Happily this illness befell during one of Antonio'speriods of relief from the usurers' persecution. Heknew, however, that such calms always heraldedstorms; and therefore he determined to use whathealth and strength remained to him in a grand effortto break out of the usurers' power. His debt, orrather their claim, stood at about nine hundred pounds.By selling the mortgaged farm and sea-sand vineyards,and also the whole plant, stock, and good-will of thewine and liqueur business as a going concern, Antoniocould pay off the nine hundred and turn his back onNeumann and Mual forever. In the event of locallenders clamoring for the liquidation of the floatingdebts which he had incurred on the strength of hispersonal credit, he would be able to satisfy them bymortgaging the abbey timber and part of the domainwith a Navares mortgagee. Then, although his healthwas enfeebled and José was no longer young, hewould set himself to the task of clearing off the lastdebts by branding his amber-colored wine and pushingit in England.

Although so many miracles had been vouchsafed tohim, both in his spiritual and in his temporal affairs,Antonio continued to employ all his energy andprudence. He maintained his old policy of doing thebest he could and leaving the rest to God; but, until hehad done his utmost, he would have felt it irreverentto expect a miracle. He would plan his campaign anddispose his forces and post his safeguards as ifeverything depended on his own arm and his own brain;and then, but only then, he would fall down in deepesthumility and demand the divine help as if everythingdepended upon God. Accordingly he went about hisnew operations with so much circ*mspection that itwas high summer before he saw his way to actdecisively.

A payment of two hundred pounds to the usurerswas almost due. It was payable through the VillaBranca attorney. Antonio had over a hundred innotes at the abbey, and he reckoned that the foreigndrafts in the hands of his banker at Navares wouldyield at least a hundred and twenty more. Astraveling fatigued him he made up his mind to combinethe Navares and Villa Branca journeys in one. AtNavares he would cash his drafts and open his negotiationsfor the sale of the farm and the wine-business;and thence he would ride over the hills to Villa Brancaand pay away his two hundred.

There was no hitch at the Navares bank. Thedrafts realized one hundred and thirty-one pounds.With a thankful heart Antonio placed the paper moneyin his pocket-book and stowed it safely away in hisbelt of English leather. But before he was ready togo two men pushed the door open and strode hastilyto the counter.

"It has come?" demanded the elder.

"No. Nothing," said the banker. "But I expectanother post to-night."

The younger man staggered back as if he had beenstruck. As soon as he turned Antonio knew him. Hewas Margarida's brother, Luis. Senhor Jorge hadbeen dead two years, and Luis was the head of thehouse. The elder man Antonio recognized as Margarida'shusband, the builder's son from Leiria, who hadset up business on his own account in Navares. Notwishing to intrude into their trouble, the monk tried toslip out unobserved. But Luis saw his face andhurried towards him with a cry of joy.

"It is the Senhor da Rocha," he cried. "Theophilo,you are saved."

"We shall see," said Theophilo quietly.

"Let us go to the Campo," suggested Antonio."There we can talk quietly."

They walked along the shady side of the street untilthey came to the deserted public garden. Under anold lime-tree they sat down, beside a plashingfountain, and the monk waited for the others to speak.

"It is a matter of money," stinted Theophilo, "andit is not with my consent that Luis troubles yourWorship about it."

"Before my father died," Luis began, "he calledme to him and said: 'Luis, you and your brothers andsister have health and a little wealth, but I can'texpect that you won't have troubles. When troublescome, be men and fight them as I have fought mine.But, if ever they are too strong for you, go to Manoelda Rocha up at the old abbey. We have seen little ofhim, through a misunderstanding that was no fault ofhis; but I know his worth. Tell him your troubleand he will help you out.' Those were my father'svery words; and that's why I stopped your Worshipat the bank."

"Your father was one of the best men I ever met,"said Antonio. "May he rest in peace. Tell me yourtrial; and if I can help you I will."

"It is not easy to tell," faltered Luis. "If wecannot raise a conto of reis by three o'clock Theophilomust go to prison. My mother and Margarida willdie of disgrace."

"Luis has not told your Worship," broke inTheophilo proudly, "that if I go to prison I go foranother's crime. Before God, I am innocent. In anaccursed hour I became the friend of Victor Sequeira,the treasurer to the municipal council. When I beganbusiness he lent me a few milreis. Last year hepersuaded me to endorse some bills. He swore it was amatter of form. The bills have been protested, and Iam responsible. On Monday I found that Sequeiraran away last week and that the bills were fraudulent,and that I cannot clear myself of complicity in theswindle. For my wife's sake they gave me four daysto find the money. The time expires at three o'clock.We have pledged everything; but we still need a contoof reis. That is the tale. Luis has made me tell it.We have no right to expect that your Worship isinterested in such a miserable affair."

"I am interested, I am grieved most deeply," saidAntonio, in great agitation. "I know what it is tosuffer terribly through signing papers in a hurry. But... a conto of reis! Two hundred and twentyEnglish pounds!"

"It is a great sum," answered Luis simply. "Butif your Worship had it, he would lend us the money.It is only for a few hours. The bank expects a postto-night. Theophilo has written to his father, and themoney will come."

"Senhor Theophilo," said Antonio, who had becomevery pale, "at this moment I have two hundred andthirty-eight pounds in my belt. I meant to sleep hereto-night, at the hospedaria, and to go on Saturday topay the money away at Villa Branca. To settle mydebt there is more than life or death to me."

Theophilo curled his lip.

"Your Worship is scornful," added Antonio. "Ifyour Worship were not too well-bred he would saythat I am telling a tale such as men nearly always tellwhen they are asked for a loan of money. No doubtLuis here partly thinks the same. Everybody in thevillage knows that I make a great deal of money andthat I spend no more than a peasant. Everybodyknows that I'm called the abbey miser and that Igive away hardly a pound a year."

They remained silent.

"But everybody doesn't know," the monk continued,"that for more than fifteen years I have been in thegrip of Oporto money-lenders. Everybody doesn'tknow that I have paid thousands of pounds—yes,thousands—in costs and interest, and that I still owe nearlyas much as the original loan. I was going to VillaBranca to pay them nearly a conto of reis, and I hadset my whole heart on getting out of their power. IfI must renew this part of the debt it will be on ruinousterms, and I have no longer the health to go on fighting."

"I have stated already," declared the proud Theophilo,"that Luis has troubled your Worship withoutmy consent. If I must go to prison ... well, toprison I must go, as better men have gone before me."

"Not so fast," said the monk. "Humanly speaking,is it certain your father will send the funds? Haveyou recent knowledge of his financial position? Canhe disengage money from his business at such shortnotice? If I let you have the use of my conto of reistill to-morrow night, is there a risk of my losing it?"

"None!" cried Luis. But Theophilo, havingreflected, said:

"I thank the Senhor. I shall not trouble him.There is a risk. An Englishman, from one of theirgreat cities called Scotland, is contractor for works atFigueira da Foz. He has farmed out his contract tomy father, and he is treating him unfairly. YourWorship, there is a risk."

Antonio sat staring at the fountain. In spite of thegreat heat he felt cold. At three o'clock SenhorJorge's son-in-law and Margarida's husband must bethrown into a felon's prison for a crime not his own,in default of one conto of reis. And he, Antonio,had a conto of reis in his belt. By lending this proudand honest man the money he could perform a workof mercy which would pluck six men and women outof an inferno of despair and raise them to a paradiseof thankfulness.

But there was a risk, a grave risk. Judging by hisexperience of Portuguese mercantile concerns, Antoniocould indulge only a faint hope of Theophilo's receivingthe money from Leiria before it was due at VillaBranca. And in that event—

The Navares clock struck two. Theophilo sprangto his feet.

"Adeus, Senhor," he said, "and thanks."

"No!" cried Antonio, plunging after him andgripping his arm. "I have not refused. An hourremains. Give me thirty minutes. This is a terribleaffair. Stay here. In half an hour I will return."

Without awaiting an answer he hurried away.Quitting the Alameda by a side gate, he dived into asunless alley and pushed at the door of the church ofthe Santa Cruz. It swung inwards. He hastenedalong the broad nave until he came to the brazen grillewhich barred the chapel of the Santissimo. There hesank down on the plank floor and, stretching despairinghands to the Presence on the altar, he cried out inagony, Domine, quid me vis facere: "Lord, what wiltThou have me to do?"

The answer came swiftly. It was as though avoice, a strong Man's voice, yet a voice even sweeterthan Isabel's, said in his ear:

"Antonio, lend Theophilo your conto of reis."

Of all the supernal voices which had ever spoken tohim, this was the nearest and the clearest. If thebrazen grille had opened and an angel had come forthproclaiming it with the voice of a trumpet, Antoniocould not have been more sure that his Lord wasbidding him lend Theophilo the money. Yet he couldnot, all in a moment, accept the answer. Horror,kindling almost to anger, filled his soul.

So this was to be the end. For fifteen years he hadbeen slaving to fill the pockets of infamous extortioners;and now he was to take the price of freedom andpay it away to replace the plunderings of a runawayswindler. A hideous thought, more foul and hideousthan the blankest atheism, rushed into his mind. Itwas a thought about God. That God existed Antoniocould not doubt; nor could he question that Godintervened, as the Christians believe, in men's andwomen's lives. The Christians said that He wasall-powerful, all-knowing, and all-loving. But perhaps thetruth was, after all, that He was all-powerful,all-knowing, and all-mocking.

Antonio could grant that a work of mercy to menshould take precedence of a work of praise towardsGod. But if God had intended him for works ofmercy, why had He called him into a contemplativeOrder, and why had He suffered him to go on findinga dozen contos for usurers while he was refusingpence to honest men? And Isabel, his breaking of theheart of Isabel—how did that supreme deed fit intothe sorry scheme? Yes, God had mocked him. Hehad made the world, and all the men and women in it,as a puppet-show to divert His eternal boredom. Hehad sat lounging on the arch of heaven for five-and-twentyyears watching his, Antonio's, toil and strifejust as a lazy lout lolls on the grass watching antsworking hour after hour at the ant-hill which heintends to kick to pieces before he goes home.

The monk did not deliberately think these thoughts.They swept thunderously over him like a tidal wavedrowning a lowland coast. For a moment they roaredin his ears and took away his wits. But as he came tothe surface he rallied all the forces of his soul andstruck out desperately to regain his rock of faith.God was no mocker. He was Love, all Love; and thethick blackness of this new and dreadful ordeal wasonly a shadow cast by the eternal Light. Nevertheless,Antonio all but failed to resist the sucking undertowof fresh doubts and to maintain his foothold amidstthe battering surf of despair.

Close beside him, on an altar to the right of thegrille, rose a statue of the Blessed Virgin, crownedwith a golden crown and robed in the blue velvet robeof an eighteenth-century Portuguese princess. To herAntonio cried out for help. When words of his ownrefused to come he poured forth the words of SaintBernard's prayer Memorare. For a prolonged whileno help came, and he crouched on the planks, shrinkingfrom the heavy stripes which God had appointedhim. He remembered the ruined abbeys of England.Doubtless stronger and wiser men than he had laboredto restore them to the Church and to her Orders; butthree hundred years had passed, and so far as Antonioknew, not one monastic house had been rebuilt uponthe old foundations. Perhaps it was the divine willthat the Orders, renouncing the world, should never betoo long rooted in this acre or that; and perhaps it wasordained that they must renew their vows to the LadyPoverty in hovels and barns and caves. But, in thatcase, why had God bidden him waste his life inseparation from the exiled brethren of his Order? Hegazed through the grille as if he would demand theanswer. But the ears of his soul heard no word save:

"Antonio, lend Theophilo your conto of reis.Antonio, lend Theophilo your conto of reis."

Not yet could he submit. The smoldering rebellionin his heart was quickening for a burst of flame. Atlast his eyes rested on the faded gilt legend runningalong the pedestal of the Virgin's blue-robed image,Ecce ancilla Domini, fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum:"Behold the handmaid of the Lord, be it unto meaccording to thy word." To Antonio this briefscripture recalled more than the pearly moment when theVirgin of virgins, despising the evil tongues of menand looking steadfastly into the deep, dark eyes ofsorrow, surrendered herself to the will of God; for itrecalled also the fiery hour when he himself, in thesame words, had finally accepted the monastic life.With the memory of old battles and old victories thererushed upon him new graces.

"Ecce servus Domini," he cried in sudden triumph,"fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum!" And, havingprostrated himself with loving reverence before hisMaster, he rose up and sped back to the Campo, whereTheophilo was striding up and down.

"Senhor Theophilo," said the monk, "I will lend youmy conto of reis."

Theophilo stared at him in amazement. So sure hadhe felt of Antonio's refusal that he would not haveremained in the Campo had there been any other quietand open place wherein to spend his last hour offreedom. He resisted; flushed; seized the monk's handand dropped it the same moment; and at last beganto stammer incoherent protests and thanks.

"But I will lend it," continued Antonio, "only onone condition."

"On any condition you like," cried Theophilo, besidehimself with joy. "If it's a hundred per cent, Idon't mind. I'll work like a slave to pay back everyvintem and still I shall be your Excellency's debtor."

"I ask harder terms than a hundred per cent,"explained the monk quietly. "My condition is this.Pledge me your word that if your father's money doesnot come in time to settle my own debt in Villa Brancayou will never reproach yourself on my account.Promise that you will believe me when I say that,although I shall be happier to-morrow night with yourfather's conto of reis, I shall not be miserable withoutit. Promise to believe that, if your father fails us,I shall have no grievance against him or against Luisor against you."

Theophilo could only stand stock still, staring andbreathing hard. The clock struck half-past two.

"Quick!" urged Antonio. "There's no time to lose.See, here is the conto of reis. Pledge me your wordthat you will obey my condition, and the money isyours."

"Your Worship cannot mean this," broke in Luis.He had leaned against Antonio expecting to find him abroken reed, and he could hardly believe that thisoak-like sturdiness was not a delusion.

"I mean every word," Antonio answered. "Come,take the money. I trust you to remember the terms."

He drew a few notes from the pocket-book andpressed all the rest into Theophilo's hand. The youngbuilder clutched them eagerly; but a moment later hesought to thrust them back.

"No," he groaned, "I cannot, I must not. Myfather will fail me and you will curse us!"

"Come," answered Antonio gently, "I will tell youa secret. I have a Friend. While you sat by thisfountain I went and asked His advice. I have asked itmany and many a time, and He has never misled meyet. He told me to lend you this conto of reis. If thepost does not bring a conto in its place, do not grieve.It is between my Friend and me. Go."

They looked at him wonderingly; but he hastenedaway. From the far side of the garden he saw themstand a whole minute irresolute. Then Luis seizedTheophilo's arm and they walked off quickly into thetown. As for Antonio, he returned to the church ofSanta Cruz, and there, in a corner, he began to say hisOffice. He recited it without rapture, but with aquietness of mind which was better than ecstasy.

Towards four o'clock two men entered the nave andknelt before the brazen grille. They did not discoverAntonio; but, from his obscure corner, he could seetheir faces as they rose from their knees, and he knewthat they had guessed Who was his Friend.

VI

The post arrived at six o'clock; but it brought noletter from Theophilo's father. Luis, with a pale facecame to the hospedaria after dinner and broke the newsfalteringly. Glancing through the window, Antoniosaw Theophilo pacing up and down outside. Themonk put on his hat and walked into the street.

"Senhor, this is terrible," moaned Theophilo."There is nothing."

"It is terrible indeed," answered Antonio, smiling."At half-past two you make me a promise, and athalf-past six you break it. Come, remember. Cheer up."

They walked beside him with downcast eyes.

"Come," he said again. "This will never do. Tellme. Does Donna Margarida know what you havebeen passing through?"

"Thank God, she does not, and she never shall!"cried Theophilo.

"Very well. Let us go to your home and hear somemusic and be gay. I'm a country booby, and when Ivisit the town I want to see some life. It is dull inthe inn."

Theophilo became voluble in apologies for his negligence.He despatched one of the stable-boys hot-footto warn the Senhora of their approach and followedwith Antonio and Luis. In ten minutes they reacheda garish new house, faced all over with colored tiles.

Margarida received her old flame with slight chilliness.Although she had turned thirty-five her goodlooks were not greatly diminished. With her satPerpetua, Jorge, Lucia, and Juliana, her fourblack-eyed children, who were struck dumb by the advent ofthe handsome stranger. At first the proceedings weredull and frigid enough to remind Antonio of his firstvisit to Margarida's home. But Luis and Theophilo,in reaction from their days of stress and terror, soonbecame almost hysterically gay. The guitars came out;and when everyone was tired of singing and strummingfados Antonio devoted himself to the little Jorgeand his three tongue-tied sisters. He gradually wooedthem out of their shyness by telling them a tale of theburied city of Troja, at the mouth of the Sado. Bythe time he was half through a revised version of theThree Hunchbacks of Setubal the audience had begunto be more tongue-free than himself; and when hemade Perpetua hold the candle so that his clenched leftfist and his right-hand fingers and knuckles threw uponthe wall a shadow of a long-eared rabbit nibbling acabbage as big as itself, the house rang with shoutsof laughter.

The children were sent to bed at nine, wailingbitterly at their banishment. Theophilo took the guitarand played softly, so as not to keep them awake. Hehad a sympathetic touch and his music soothed Antonio.Sitting in a great chair, the monk looked roundthe room and wondered. His conto of reis had gone.In forty hours it would be too late to pay the attorney,and the usurers could be trusted so to foreclose themortgage as to swindle him out of nearly all he had.Yet, somehow, he was happier than he had been formany a day. For a short while he asked himself if itwere not callous to gaze so calmly at the wreck of hislife's work. Ought he not to be aching and smartingand bleeding as he had ached and smarted and bled forIsabel? Did he truly care as deeply for the abbey andfor the Order as he had cared for her?

All these probings left him unpricked. His contentmentobstinately refused to be ruffled. Breaking hisrule, he drank two glasses of sweet wine and ate awhole broa of Margarida's making. When he rose togo Margarida's manner was perceptibly less aloof, andshe begged him to come again. At the street doorTheophilo said:

"Your Excellency has heaped kindness upon kindness.How shall I ever repay him?"

"By permitting me to visit his house againto-morrow night," answered Antonio; "your Worshipwill have become my creditor. Adeus."

He worked his hand free from Theophilo's iron gripand returned to the hospedaria, where he fell asleep assoon as his head touched the pillow. Next morning,after Mass, he did not lose a moment in openingnegotiations for the raising of an immediate conto of reison his encumbered assets. But Luis and Theophilo, inpledging all they possessed, had almost exhausted theready-money resources of Navares. Late in the afternoon Antonio thought he was succeeding; but theexistence of the Oporto usurers' second mortgage onthe farm blocked the way. At four o'clock he gave upthe struggle and went to Santa Cruz to say his Office.At half-past five he sat down in the hospedaria to dine.

Just after the soup tureen had been placed on thetable a tremendous noise arose from the street. Everydog in Navares was outside, barking his hardest, andthe iron shoes of a spirited horse were hammering onthe cobbles. The Gallego waiter rushed downstairs towelcome the guest. Doors banged, hostlers shouted,buckets clanked, a horse neighed. The inn cat, whichAntonio had been nursing, leaped from his knee andrushed downstairs to the lobby whence the prolongedwail of a badly scratched dog immediately ascended.

The monk, alone at the table, filled his gaudy platewith vegetable soup and began to eat. The strangercame upstairs to his room amidst a babble of welcomingvoices. Through the thin wall Antonio could hearhim drop his heavy boots on the bare floor. A cheerfulsplashing followed. The Gallego waiter, hurrying inwith a dish of bacalhau, white cabbage, and hard-boiledeggs, excitedly explained to Antonio that the newcomerwas an Englishman; and, five minutes later, aplumpish, rather florid man, with a clean-shaven faceand soft yellow hair, strode into the room calling outan order for green wine.

Antonio rose and found himself face to face withyoung Crowberry. But, somehow, he could not feel inthe least degree surprised.

"Good evening, Teddy," he said quietly. "Welcometo Navares."

Young Crowberry jumped. He stared blanklyacross the soup at the gray-haired man with the gentlevoice. Then he flung himself forward against thetable so impetuously that a brown water-pot wasoverturned and an empty glass jumped down to the floorwith a crash.

"Da Rocha! By Jove! Da Rocha!" he cried,wringing the monk's hand. "Man, I've come all theway from England to find you. Why the deuce didyou drop writing? And what do you mean by growinggray hairs? How's José and all the little Josés,and the champagne and all the little champagnes, andthe orange brandy? Have you pawned the spoons?Da Rocha! By Jove!"

"Come round and sit beside me," said Antonio.

As the deluge from the overturned water-pot hadsoaked the cloth all round him the monk bade thewaiter remove his cover and young Crowberry's to thelittle table by the window.

"And ask him to bring green wine," said youngCrowberry. "Quarts, Gallons, Buckets, Hogsheads,Bottomless pits. I'm as thirsty as the devil."

When orderly conversation became possible, themonk was able to puzzle out a mystery which hadpained him. By comparing notes and sifting datesthey found that one letter from Antonio must havegone down in the wreck of the mail-boat Hortensia,and that another letter had reached England whilean unsatisfactory sub-tenant was occupying youngCrowberry's chambers. After this misunderstandinghad been righted the monk proceeded to draw out hisfriend's recent history. He found that young Crowberry,in his own phrase, had made three fortunes, ofwhich he had lost two and three-quarters in financingforeign railway companies by whom he had been employed.

"But what does it matter?" demanded young Crowberry."I've a quarter of a fortune left, and I'mhoping it'll be enough for my scheme. The man I'mtrying to get in with isn't greedy."

"Explain," asked the monk.

"I'm hoping to buy a share of a snug little businessand settle down," young Crowberry answered. "Awine business. I was born among bottles, and acellar's better than a tunnel. That's why I've come toPortugal. I've invested four thousand pounds inBritish Funds for miscellaneous purposes, and to-morrowI'm going to offer my remaining five thousand toa man named da Rocha for a partnership."

Antonio heard him without visible emotion. For along minute he gazed quietly into the street. At lasthe said:

"Edward, you asked me half an hour ago if I hadpawned the spoons. They were pawned two yearsago, to pay a Jew twenty per cent interest on a loanI'd repaid twice over. But it's a long story. Drinkyour coffee. Then we will go to your room."

In young Crowberry's room Antonio disclosed hissecret. He began with his brief experiences as a youthin Lisbon. Rapidly and vividly he described his briefskepticism, his vocation to the religious life, hisnoviciate, his full profession, his ordination, his expulsionfrom the abbey, and his vow at the farm. Omittingonly the affairs of Margarida and Isabel, he broughtthe history right down to that very day and to themoment of his failing to raise money in replacement ofTheophilo's conto of reis. He slurred lightly overevery passage in the narrative which might sound likeself-praise, and sought rather to exhibit himself as ablunderer who ought to have attained his end years andyears ago. He wound up by saying simply:

"It is our Lord who has sent you here to-day. Ifyou have it with you, I will borrow a conto of reisand we will ride over to Villa Branca together in themorning. On the way we will talk about the partnership.My maximum price for a half-share will be athousand pounds."

"My minimum offer is five thousand," said theengineer firmly. "Remember that I'm hoping to foistmyself upon you till death do us part. I have woundup all my affairs in England. Meanwhile here is aconto of reis."

Some one knocked loudly at the door. It was theGallego announcing that two senhores wished to see theSenhor da Rocha at once. The senhores, treadingon the Gallego's heels, turned out to be Theophilo andLuis. They pressed into the room, but fell back at thesight of a stranger.

"You may speak freely, Theophilo," said Antonio."This is the Senhor Crowberry. He knows myaffairs. Tell me what you want. My own trouble isover. Senhor Crowberry has brought me a conto ofreis."

"And here it is," put in Crowberry, opening hispocket-book. "I don't know how much a conto maybe; but if it's less than two thousand pounds, helpyourself."

"No," cried Theophilo. "We want nothing. Senhorda Rocha, I have wonderful news. Sequeira hascome back. He had mixed the town money up withhis own, but he is not a thief. He has just come backfrom Lisbon, and he has repaid me every vintem ofwhat Luis and I paid to the municipal chamberyesterday. See. Here are the notes. Seven contos andtwo hundred milreis."

"And a special post has arrived from Leiria," addedthe radiant Luis, "with a conto from Theophilo'sfather. Theophilo, show it to their Excellencies."

"How many contos are here?" asked Crowberry,spreading out his notes.

"At the present exchange, you have at least twelve,"said Antonio. "A conto is a million reis of our moneyand more than two hundred pounds of yours, at par."

"So we've twenty million reis altogether," Crowberrychuckled. "Let's change 'em into coppers andswim in 'em to see what it's like. Hasn't anygentleman got a conto or two more? I once knew a dukewho overlooked a whole threepenny-bit for a week.It was in the lining of his old coat."

Luis and Theophilo stared at the Englishman withopen mouths. They could not understand a word hesaid, but this made him the more marvelous. FromCrowberry they shifted their wonder to Antonio. Heseemed to have called down from the skies a familiarsprite who handed out millions as coolly as one boygiving another a few screws of newspaper for the tailof his kite.

"Put back your money, all of you," commandedAntonio. "Theophilo, give me your father's contoand we are square. And have I your leave to presentmy friend to Donna Margarida?"

The whole party made haste to the tiled house,where Jorge and his sisters hailed Antonio with shoutsof joy. They were shy of young Crowberry at first;but, having asked ten minutes' leave of absence, theEnglishman slipped out to a confeitaria and returnedladen with so exciting a load of candied oranges, Elvasplums, Coimbra marzipan, and Spanish chocolate thatAntonio's star was eclipsed for half an hour. Theguitars and the sweet wine came out once more. Lateron young Crowberry began to tease poor Margaridawith such exaggerated compliments, in bad Portuguese,that Antonio was forced to kick his heel and to explainin hurried English that Navares was neither Londonnor Paris. But Theophilo did not take offense, andthe visit was entirely a success.

On the way home Antonio asked:

"Do you hear anything of Miss Kaye-Templemanand Mrs. Baxter?"

"The widow Baxter is now the widow Lamb," answeredCrowberry. "Lamb was a master-tanner. Hesurvived the wedding six months. That's all I know.As for Isabel, I've heard nothing for years and yearsand years. After her father died she went to live withLady Julia Blighe. By the way, you never told mewhat you really and truly thought of her."

Antonio turned the subject.

"When you say," he demanded, "that you are planningto live and die with me, what do you mean? Ifyou are looking for a rural life, with the sports of acountry gentleman, England is the only place to find it.If it's wine that interests you, I'm sorry; because youdrink too much already. What do you mean?"

"I am not looking for the sports of a countrygentleman," said Crowberry. "As for wine, you aremistaken. I drink a glass or two a day of the lightest atmeals, and I never touch port or spirits. Da Rocha, Iwill tell you what I mean. Perhaps you were painedin my bedroom when I did not show great astonishmentat hearing that you are Father Antonio, a monkof Saint Benedict."

"I was not pained. But I wondered."

"Father Antonio, I guessed your secret years ago.I guessed it on the voyage home from Lisbon. Iguessed that you were working to regain the abbey.From what Sir Percy told my father, I believed yousecured it after we went away. I imagined that youhad resumed the cloistered life and that this was whyyou didn't write to your old friends in the world."

"But you came out, this time, to become my partneras a wine-grower," objected Antonio.

"Yes and No. I came out with money to buy vineyardsand to work for my living as you have done. Imeant to buy them as close to the abbey as I could.I meant to seek you out and to ask you ... totell you..."

"Go on," said Antonio, taking his arm as theywalked, "To ask me what? To tell me what?"

"To tell you that the burning desire of my soul,"broke out the other ardently, "is to become a monk,like you. To ask you for your prayers and for yourhelp. And when I saw you standing over your soup,still in a layman's dress, I didn't alter my mind."

Antonio remembered the vision of youngCrowberry's future which had unrolled itself before himwhile the youth and he sat side by side on the cloisterroof the day before Sir Percy failed to tear down theazulejos. In reverent thankfulness he listened to thisolder Crowberry without interrupting him again.But the Englishman misinterpreted his silence, andadded hastily:

"Let me be plain. I don't claim to have the highestand holiest vocation. Some would say there iscowardice in what I want to do. I am running away fromthe world. The truth is that so long as I am in theworld I cannot love and praise God. Whenever Ihave a pit and a gallery to play to, I am a rattle, agas-bag, a mountebank. In spite of myself I jest aboutthe holiest things, thus injuring others as well asmyself. I want to work hard with my hands, to riseearly, to sleep and eat roughly, and to learn to pray.Let people call me a coward if they please. I'mnearly forty. I've made my money, and I'm standingaside to let needier men make theirs. Besides, Ihate railways. They will do more harm than good."

Antonio was still mute.

"When a middle-aged man in my country has madea competency," young Crowberry continued, "heeither remains in business to make money which hedoes not need, or he retires and lives a life of selfishand expensive pleasure. A few, a very few, devotethemselves to philanthropy or politics, and I honorthem for it; but it has been breathed into my soul thatI am to help mankind by prayer. Da Rocha, you aresilent. You are shocked. You think that, insteadof rising up early to pray, I ought to rise up early to gohounding and shooting the poor beasts and birds whohave as much right to their lives as I have to mine."

"I have been silent," rejoined Antonio, "onlybecause I could not speak for thankfulness. Nearlytwenty years ago I knew that you would become apriest, and I hoped that you might become a monk."

"You consent? I may be your pupil?" cried theEnglishman.

"I consent. You may be my helper, my fellow-laborer.You have much to learn and much to unlearn.Listen. This very night your training shallbegin. Resolve that you will never again say you areas thirsty as the devil. The rest we will talk ofto-morrow."

Antonio smiled kindly as he spoke. Young Crowberrynoticed that the monk's expression was full of asolemn sweetness which had not been visible in the olddays. At the same moment he became conscious ofAntonio's broken health. The monk walked ratherslowly and leaned heavily on the layman's arm. Theydid not speak another word till they reached the inndoor.

Next morning, when Antonio awoke, he foundyoung Crowberry standing over him with a bowl ofBrazilian coffee and goat's milk, a newly-baked roll ofwhite bread, and, rarest delicacy of all, a pat of butter.Protest was useless. A quarter of an hour later thesprucest barber in Navares appeared and shavedAntonio with the skill of a German. At seven o'clockhorses began stamping outside; and, at five minutespast, Antonio and the Englishman were seated in awell-hung carriage behind a pair of bays.

"Does the Jehu understand English?" askedyoung Crowberry, cutting short Antonio'sremonstrances against all this luxury. "No. Hedoesn't." "Good. Then, most reverend and illustrious Father,listen to me. One month from this date I, the mostirreverend Senhor Teddy Crowberry, will begin to beyour most docile servant. I shall obey you in allthings. You shall be my Lord Abbot till one of usdies. But, for this month, your Reverence will obeyme. Argument is useless. If I spend five guineas aday for thirty days, remember that I hope to live onfivepence a week for the following thirty years."

"A month! It is impossible," cried Antonio. "Besides,José expects me back to-night."

"I think he doesn't. An old ruffian on a whitehorse has taken him a letter from me. I was nearlyasking him to send on your shirts to the inn at VillaBranca; but, if your Excellency will forgive mydisgusting rudeness, I couldn't feel sure that you had ashirt to send. From Villa Branca we shall go toOporto and punch the heads of those Jews. We shallwind up all your affairs there. Thence we shall go toBraga and see the Archbishop. After that, back toCoimbra, and to Lisbon to see the Patriarch and thePope's Nuncio, and perhaps to Evora. See what a lotI know! I've been thinking it all over and over andover in the night. You are the only Benedictine leftin Portugal, and we shall have to get these big pots tohelp us. Pah! How the sun does blaze. I'm asthirsty as an archbishop."

Young Crowberry had his way. After the VillaBranca attorney had been paid, Antonio was drivento the principal inn and served with such a luncheonas he had not eaten for twenty years. The next day,Sunday, after the military Mass, the monk ate a stillmore elaborate meal and whiled away the hour ofdigestion by reclining on the shaded balcony looking atthe promenaders in the Passeio and listening to theband. In the cool of the evening they set out in aluxurious chariot towards Oporto. Three days werespent on the journey.

It was a triumphal progress. One of young Crowberry'sfirst acts on arriving at an inn was to sendforward a mounted messenger, with full instructions,to the next halting-place. As these couriers bruited itin every wayside wineshop that a bountiful Englishmanwas on the road, Antonio's chariot was attendedby troops of brown-footed, brown-eyed, black-hairedchildren who threw flowers at the travelers and trottedalongside the wheels pleading for "five little reis"—thePortuguese farthing. Instead of cinco reis youngCrowberry flung out tostões, or fivepenny pieces, suchas most of the youngsters had never handled on theirown account before, and the chariot rolled on amidstpæans of joy.

In Oporto, where Antonio had supported life on afew pence a day, the travelers put up at aFrench-managed hotel and drank dry champagne from Reims.Emboldened by this lively draught, young Crowberrydealt with Neumann and Mual to such purpose thatthey thankfully accepted three hundred pounds in fulldischarge of Antonio's outstanding obligations. Withthe abbey deeds in Antonio's valise the travelers tookthe direct road for Lisbon, where the archbishops andbishops, as peers of the kingdom, had assembled forthe opening of the Cortes. Here and there along theroute young Crowberry pointed out the cuttings andembankments for the projected railway. In Coimbrathey rested two days and read up every book theycould find in the University library which bore uponthe case before them.

Young Crowberry was for a theatrical burst uponthe whole bench of bishops in Lisbon; but the prudentAntonio sought out his own diocesan and confided tohim the whole story. The prelate heard himattentively and with growing emotion. He told Antoniothat the Dominicans and Franciscans had alreadyrecovered certain houses in Portugal, and that theGovernment, having got its money, was winking at thereturn of the Orders. He bestowed upon the monka fervent blessing and bade him return the next day.

Within forty-eight hours Antonio was received bythree-fourths of the Portuguese hierarchy, and by thePapal Nuncio as well. His tale brought tears to theeyes of all, not excepting a political bishop who wassupposed to believe that Portugal would be better offwithout the religious Orders than with them. TheNuncio dispatched a special memorandum to Rome,and three of the bishops wrote long letters to Benedictineabbots abroad, including an abbot-president, askingfor their counsel.

Young Crowberry's deportment among these dignitariesleft a little to be desired. At his entrance hewould kneel and kiss the ring of a suffragan withdisconcerting ardor, and the next minute he would beginto tell the Primate of the Spains a funny story inexecrable French. On the whole, however, young Crowberrywas better liked for his worldliness than for hispiety. His dinner at the Bragança Hotel made a deepimpression upon those ecclesiastics who were not toodignified to assist at it; and when their magnificentmonth drew to a close the Englishman and Antonioleft Lisbon with the knowledge that they hadcommitted no grave blunders and that they had made ahost of powerful friends.

José received the Senhor Crôbri warmly. Withintwo days of the Englishman's arrival at the abbey themortgages on the farm and the sea-sand vineyardswere cleared off and the silver spoons came back frompawn. On Saint Isabel's Day both José and youngCrowberry were assigned to cells in the monastery;and from that morning community life was solidlyestablished and the work of God was regularlyperformed in choir. At Christmas, with Antonio'spermission, another novice arrived in the person of anEnglish clergyman who had been young Crowberry'sclosest friend.

Months passed. Twice Antonio received ecclesiasticalnotables at the abbey and twice he was bidden toLisbon. At length it was found possible to form asmall cosmopolitan community of monks from Brazil,Spain, Bavaria, and Belgium. As the sole linkbetween Portugal's old and new Benedictine life, and asthe savior of the abbey for his Order, every one lookedtowards Antonio as the new Abbot. But he set hisface like a flint against the plan.

"My Lord," he said to the Nuncio, who had beenexpressly charged to impart to him the blessing ofPio Nono, and to inquire what boon Antonio mostdesired, "ask the Holy Father to intercede with thosewho would make me Abbot against my will. Formore than twenty years I have dwelt in the world,buying and selling, and I am not fit to guide thesimplest monk in the religious life. Suffer me to obeymy Master's word. I hear Him saying, Vade,recumbe in novissimo loco."

"Father Antonio stops his ears too soon," observedthe German Abbot-President who was assisting at theinterview. "In the same verse of the Gospel he willfind also Amice, ascende snperius. But let him beconsoled. The anniversary of his ordination, and ofhis expulsion from the house he has saved, is drawingnear. On that day let him say his first Mass; andafter he has said it, let all things be set in order."

VII

On the day of his first Mass Antonio rose at dawnand climbed the spiral stairway to his bench on theroof of the cloister. A cardinal, three bishops, andtwo abbots were sleeping within the abbey walls, anda duke and his duch*ess were up at the guest-house.The monk yearned for solitude after a distractingweek, and the cell was too narrow for his expandingand aspiring soul.

Muffled in a warm new cloak which young Crowberryhad forced upon him in Lisbon, Antonio benthis whole mind and soul to the ineffably sacred andglorious Work which lay before him. At last, afterall these years of dogged battle, he had won the fight.At last the dead Abbot's prophecy was about to befulfilled, and he, Antonio, was about to break the mostholy Body and to hold up in the great chalice the mostprecious Blood.

To his dismay he found it difficult to meditatesteadfastly upon God's unspeakable Gift. Try as he would,he could not concentrate an undivided mind upon thecrowning mystery of faith. That his thoughts shouldwander a little on the morning of such an anniversarywas perhaps natural; but somehow every thought ledback to Isabel. He rebuked himself sharply, andforced his mind once more to pious thinkings. Hecalled to memory the holy Francis of Assisi who dieda deacon, and the holy Benedict who died a layman.If these two saints, who stood so high among all thesaints of the universal Church, had never presumed tooffer the Holy Sacrifice, how could he, Antonio, whohad lived less than ten years in religion and more thanforty in the world, dare to say this Mass?

Despite his efforts to dislodge it, the thought ofIsabel neither moved nor weakened. Words whichshe had spoken on the last afternoon at the cascaderang like bugles through his brain. In terrible wrathand bitterness she had cried: "I will come back! Youwill succeed. You will regain the abbey. You willfill it with monks. But remember. I will come back.On the day of your triumph I will be there. It isn'tonly you Southern people who love revenge. I willbe there. I will come back!"

He rose from the bench and gazed at the calm Atlantic,glittering under the first sunbeams. But hecould not banish the echo of her words. Isabel wascoming back! Not for revenge. Ever since the endof his second novena to Saint Isabel he had restedquietly in a firm confidence that his prayers for IsabelKaye-Templeman had been granted, and that his greathope had been fulfilled. She was coming back, not inhatred, but in peace.

No. All this was folly, and worse. How couldshe come back? How could she, after twenty years,find out what was happening in a corner of distantPortugal? The very idea was madness. NeverthelessAntonio could not drive it away. He descendedto his cell, but her invisible presence seemed to fill it;and it was only in the chapel that he firmly regraspedthe threads of his inward preparations for the comingSacrifice.

Eager whisperings in the nave drove him back tohis cell. Lay folk from far and near were beginningto arrive. All of them had risen before daybreak, andsome of them had been tramping all night. Throughoutthe country-side an exaggerated account ofAntonio's acts and sufferings had sustained so muchembellishment that he was already being venerated asa saint of heroic virtue. Had he not, simply bypraying in the Navares church, caused an English lord tospring up, so to speak, out of the earth with fiftycontos of reis, all in gold? Had he not cast a devilout of the shaggy, wild-eyed José? Had he notwithstood the rich and beautiful Margarida? Had henot wrought the indisputable miracle of changingcommon wine into champagne simply by standing a bottleon its head? Had he not driven away from theazulejos the stiff Englishman with the icy, golden-haireddaughter, all by a supernatural spell of holy anger?And, to crown all, was he not making a cardinal andthree bishops to grow where never more than onebishop had grown before?

A little later the mere sightseers were reinforced byfiles of devouter worshipers whose Christian soulshad glowed and burned at the tale of Antonio'sfaithfulness; and, by degrees, the reverential expectancy ofthese more earnest spirits hushed all unseemlyshufflings and whisperings. According to Portuguesecustom there were no seats, and everybody knelt onthe floor. As the nave became more crowded thestrange silence became deeper. It was broken at lastby the unrestrained sobbing of the widow JoannaQuintella, who was suddenly filled with bitter remorsefor having fastened upon Antonio his nickname of"the abbey miser." Her example was too much forthe weaker wills, and one after another joined her inweeping.

The cardinal and the bishops, whose visit wasunofficial, had stipulated that they should not be expectedto make a ceremonious entrance or to bear themselveswith any appearance of defiance towards theobsolescent laws against the Orders. They seatedthemselves without ostentation in stalls which wereonly distinguished from the stalls of the monks bythin cushions and kneelers stuffed with straw. There,with bowed heads, they prayed not only for Antonioand for the restored Benedictine life of Portugal, butalso for a renewal of the fervor with which each oneof them had said his first Mass long years before.

On the stroke of ten the sacred ministers emergedfrom the sacristy. As his assistant priest Antoniowas accompanied by one of the new community, ayoung Benedictine from Brazil. A Franciscan froma restored house in Entre Minho e Douro was deacon,and the sub-deacon was the village cura. The serverswere José and Brother Cypriano, last of the oldlay-brethren, who had arrived the night before fromEvora.

As Antonio appeared a murmur of awe escapedfrom the intent crowd in the nave. The monk hadrecovered his power of concentration, and his face wasnot like the face of a mortal man. But he movedforward, all unconscious that the people were not pleadingwith God for mercy upon him as a poor andpresumptuous sinner.

To make a way to the sanctuary the acolytes hadalmost to push through the people; and at one pointthe procession was brought to a momentary halt.Instantly a handsome woman, whom Antonio rememberedas one of the belles of Senhor Jorge's serão, heldup a puzzled, big-eyed child and said, in eager tonesloud enough for the monk to hear:

"Look, little one, look! It is a saint that is passingby!"

At the same moment a rough young farmer bentforward and clumsily kissed the hem of Antonio'schasuble. The monk recoiled and almost let thesacred vessels fall. The man's touch and the woman'swords had cut him like knives. A saint! He, Antoniothe hard, the proud, a saint! All the selfishnessof his life rose up before him. His long coldness toJosé; his persistent aloofness from the life of thevillage which he ought to have shared and uplifted;his whipping and driving of Isabel with whips ofrebuke and argument when he ought to have led her withsilken cords of sympathy; his repeated refusals ofcharity when a little more fasting and a little morelabor would have enabled him to feed the hungry; hisself-esteem; his want of meekness under oppositionand insult—these, all these, were the solid facts of hislife, standing up as gaunt and huge as monstrousrocks with only one poor shrunken runnel of lovetrickling down between. A saint! If the sacredvestments had not been hanging from his shoulders hewould have cried, "No, good people, no! Pray forme. I am the poorest sinner of you all."

The crucifer cleared a passage through the kneeling,murmuring, weeping people, and the procession movedon, picking a way among the broad-brimmed hats andwallets of provisions which lay on the pavement.After making five or six yards of progress it came to ahalt again. His pious preoccupation could not whollyblind Antonio's eyes to the picturesqueness of thesight. The many-colored kerchiefs of the women, therich olive skins and glossy black hair of the children,and the bright waistbands of the men were made tentimes more sumptuous by the cool, monotonousbackground of blue-and-white azulejos. Here and therea knot of shepherds, in sheepskins, knelt with theirlong staves rising up like spears above the heads of anarmy. Two or three fans moved languidly, likegaudy flowers swaying in a breeze. Straight ahead,beyond the black monks and the purple prelates, rosethe high altar, with the Virgin and her Child enthronedabove the soft flames of six tall candles, set incandle-sticks of burnished gold.

As the procession resumed its march Antonio'sglance was suddenly seized by a sight which almostmade him stumble. Close to the wall, beside thecloister doorway, knelt Isabel. Her form was envelopedin an exquisitely fine dust-cloak of silver-gray,and a black lace mantilla covered her head. Yet, evenbefore he saw her face, he knew that it was she. Thecherubs in the azulejos above the doorway seemed tobe looking down upon her curiously, as if they foundin her something different from common clay. Hergaze was fixed upon the ground.

Recovering his self-control by a supreme effort,Antonio advanced to the sanctuary and made the dueobeisances. Then he knelt down before the altar.No one wondered that his silent prayer was long; forwas he not a saint and was not this his first Mass?The silence was profound from one end of the chapelto the other.

But Antonio's prayers were not what the onlookersthought. Isabel had come back; and, according to hispractice, it was necessary to face the fact squarely inthe light of common prudence. For nearly twentyyears he had cherished one great hope concerning heruntil it had become a belief. For nearly twenty yearshe had given thanks to Saint Isabel for her miraculousintercession. But it was possible that, for nearlytwenty years, he had been hugging a delusion.

"On the day of your triumph I will be there." Soshe had spoken; and she was keeping her word. "Itisn't only you Southern people who love revenge." Soshe had stormed on; and perhaps it was for revengethat she was come. With a sickening of heartAntonio suddenly remembered reading in the VillaBranca paper a sordid story of a passionate woman inSicily who had murdered a virtuous young priest onthe steps of the altar. He remembered also youngCrowberry's account of the throwing of a bomb at thenew Emperor Napoleon in Paris. So far as he knew,such deeds were un-English; and, although Isabel wasimperious, he could not credit her with a smolderingLatin vindictiveness leaping up into a fiery blaze ofshowy crime. Yet, after all, he knew so little ofwomen, so little of the new hysteria which men toldhim was rife in the world.

What ought he to do? For himself and for hisown life he did not care. His work was done; and ifGod willed that he should add the poor offering ofhis own blood to the infinite worth of the immaculateHost, he was ready to pour it forth. But what ifthere should be scandal, or, worse still, sacrilege? Orwhat if some desperate deed should wreak pain ordeath upon the innocent people? Ought he to risefrom his knees, and to implore the prelates to granthim immediate audience in a place apart? With thewhole might of his soul he besought Saint Isabel tointercede for him and to show him God's will.

A child in the nave let fall a rosary of copper beads.At the noise of the metal on the stone Antonio roseup. An inward voice bade him say his Mass and leavethe rest with God. Making the sign of the cross, heinvoked the Triune Name and said, in a clear voice,"Introibo ad altare Dei."

At the Confiteor his earnestness was so terrible thatthe subdeacon shrank back, understanding for the firsttime the blackness and foulness and meanness of thesmallest sin against the eternal holiness and majestyand love. Even in the nave, where it was impossibleto hear Antonio's voice or to see his face, thepoignancy of the monk's Confiteor made itself felt. Likeripe corn bowing before a wind, the most hardenedand careless bent lower and yearned forward in ananguish of contrition for forgotten sins; and whenAntonio pronounced the words indulgentiam, absolutionemet remissionem the whole chapel respired onegreat sigh, as if a merciful king had just ended thesuspense of a culprit condemned to death. At theGloria all hearts soared up like birds to hymn thegood God in the heights.

After the first Gospel one of the bishops arose topreach. He recited for a text the words of Isaias,Dicam aquiloni, Da, et austro, Noli prohibere. Afferfilios meos de longinquo, et filias meas ab extremisterrae: "I will say to the north, Give, and to the south,Hold not back. Bring my sons from afar and mydaughters from the ends of the earth." Hismagniloquent exordium was worthy of the bishop'sreputation as the most eloquent preacher in the Peninsula.In stately periods he began to show how north andsouth had indeed given their sons to rebuild theBenedictine Order in Portugal. But, at such a moment,his eloquence jarred. He himself was the first tobecome convinced of its discordance; and, suddenlychanging the key, he humbly asked the prayers of allon Antonio's behalf and went back to his place.

The Creed, which young Crowberry and his clericalfriend had been brought up to regard as a penitentialchain dragging at the human intellect, was sungmore triumphantly than a battle-song or a nationalanthem, with all the eagerness of enthusiastic faith.When Antonio turned and said Orate, fratres, eventhe sightseers prayed.

At last Antonio began the Canon. At thecommemoration of the living, Isabel was the chief burdenof his prayer. Having prayed for her, he thrust herfrom his mind and pressed on to the supreme momentof the Consecration. Spreading his hands over theoblation, he raised his eyes to the ivory figure of theCrucified. As he gazed, scales fell from his eyes.He saw, as he had never seen before, the everlastingsacrifice which lay behind and around the cross ofCalvary. He saw behind the Victim who hung dyingfor three hours on the first Good Friday, the Agnusqui occisus est ab origine mundi, "The Lamb slainfrom the foundation of the world." He saw theSacerdos in tetemum, "The Priest for ever," sempervivens ad interpellandum pro nobis, "ever living to makeintercession for us." He understood that theunutterable miracle of which he, Antonio, was about tobecome the instrument was not a stroke of strangemagic, but a gracious overflow of that everlastingintercession. From books he had known these thingswith his mind; but now he knew them with his wholesoul. His priestly instrumentality, like the rod ofMoses, was about to strike the Rock; but the brightstream waiting to gush forth was the everlasting loveof the Redeemer, flowing onward in its fullnesswhether Mass was said or not. Yet the children ofIsrael had died of thirst had not Moses raised his rod;and it was through him, Antonio, a weak andunworthy priest on earth, that men were about toreceive the supreme bounty of the Pontifex qui conseditin dextera sedis magnitudinis in cœlis, "the HighPriest who sitteth on the right hand of the Majestyin heaven."

When he elevated the sacred Host, Cypriano wasready to ring the sacring bells; but awe stayed hishand. From the cardinal in his purple down to thepoorest hind in his sheepskin, all adored the God ofGod and Light of Light. Every heart cried, Verbumcaro factum est: "The Word is made flesh and isdwelling among us, and we are beholding His glory."

Antonio pronounced the words Simili modo andtook the cup. At last God was fulfilling the oldAbbot's prophecy: "I see Antonio standing before thehigh altar. I see him holding up our great chalice.I see him offering the Holy Sacrifice for us all." Heraised the great chalice, with the blood-red rubies,which José had saved from the Viscount. Onceagain Cypriano tried to ring the sacring bell; onceagain the general awe restrained him. In deepestreverence all adored the precious Blood. Then burstforth the thankful cry Benedictus: "Blessed isHe that cometh in the name of the Lord."

Very solemnly and intently Antonio made the mementoof the dead, especially of the dead Abbot andthe fathers and brethren of the old community. Hehad said the Pater Noster thousands and thousands oftimes before; but as he stood before the altar every oneof its petitions ascended from his lips without a traceof formalism or staleness. And when the time camefor him to receive the celestial Bread, his Domine, nonsum dignus: "Lord, I am not worthy that Thoushouldst enter under my roof," was not merely a devoutreading of seemly words from the printed missal; itwas an uttering forth of his inmost soul.

The sacrifice was consummated. He took the ablutionsand covered the chalice. When the deacon hadsung Ite, missa est, men and women who had nevertried to sing the response before joined the choir ofmonks in thundering out a mighty Deo gratias. Thenthe prelates knelt to receive Antonio's blessing. Thelordly cardinal was the first to kneel. He knelt as ifhe were the meanest altar-boy rather than a prince ofHoly Roman Church, and all the others made hasteto follow his example. The monk, in deepest humility,blessed the people.

Antonio's thanksgiving was less prolonged than hisbrethren expected. But when they crowded round toescort him to the place of honor in the refectory hebegged most earnestly that the meal might proceedwithout him. To the fervid protests of the cardinaland the foreign abbots he responded that from themorrow onwards he would re-enter the path ofunquestioning obedience; but, for the remainder of this oneday he humbly sought leave to go and come as mightseem him good.

As soon as he had wrung out a reluctant consentAntonio slowly crossed the cloister garden. Two orthree of the new monks sprang forward to attend him;but he waved them aside and went on, with slow stepsand bent head. A bell clanged, and they melted away.He quickened his pace until he gained the door withthe secret lock; and, before the echoes of the bell hadceased humming in the still air, he was standing on thecauseway outside the cloister.

Not since the night of the thunderstorm had hewalked along those moss-grown slabs. At the end ofthe causeway, where he had lifted Isabel upon hisshoulder, he hesitated a short moment. Then hestepped down and followed a woodland path untilthe soft thunder of the cascade boomed upon his ear.The earth under his tread was sweet and bright withthousands of May flowers, and the May birds sang asthey had sung on the May morning of Sebastian's lastMass.

Not for twenty years had Antonio set foot within afurlong of the stepping-stones. But José had obeyedhis orders to the letter. A few gaps in the trees hadbeen filled up, but otherwise nothing was changed. Ashe climbed the path the dull pounding of the tumblingwater drowned the crooning of the stream at his feet,and at last he caught the silvery flash of the cascadethrough the trees, like a great fish struggling in abasket of reeds. And the flash of the cascade was notall Antonio saw. He saw as well a fine silver-graycloak thrown down on a flat boulder; and standingbeside it, a nun of the Order of the Visitation.

VIII

"I knew that you would come," said Isabel quietly asAntonio emerged from the bushes.

"I knew I should find you here," Antonio answered,more quietly still.

It seemed no more than a few feverish months sincetheir parting. The boulder, the stepping-stones, thepool, the cascade, the rapids, the palms, the mimosas,the tree-ferns, the cypresses—all seemed unchanged.He raised his eyes and gazed steadily at Isabel. Timehad not filched away her loveliness. Indeed, the nun'shead-dress served even better than the golden ringletsof old to frame her beautiful features and to heightenboth the blueness of her eyes and the whiteness of herbrow. Like her father before her, she held herself aserect in middle-age as in youth. If some of the girlishbloom had gone, the loss was more than made good bynew charms of womanly tenderness and Christianpeacefulness.

"You see I have kept my word," she said, speakingeasily and quite naturally. "On the day we parted, didI not say that I would come back? I have come."

"Yes," echoed Antonio, like a man in a dream."You have come."

"When you saw me," she added, with a smile, "perhapsyou thought I had come to shoot you or to stabyou; or to set the chapel on fire, bishops and abbotsand all."

Not for a moment had he lowered his gaze from herface. Merely to behold her again and to hear hervoice, whatever her words might be, was happinessenough. The accord between them was so perfectthat there was no need for questions, answers, news,explanations, reminiscences, plans, greetings,farewells. But she was waiting for him to speak; and atlast, in the same dreamy tone as before, he pointed toher nun's dress and said:

"This wonderful thing came to pass, did it not, onthe eighth of July, twenty months after you wentaway? That day was the feast of Saint Isabel ofPortugal. It was also the last day of a novena I hadbeen making to this very end. On that day, as I sat inthe chapel, I heard women's voices, far-off and sweet,chanting the Divine Office; and I knew that thismiracle had come to pass."

"You were not mistaken," she said, in low tones."I awoke to my vocation on the eighth of July, theyear but one after I left this place."

Minutes passed before either of them spoke again.Not that time and distance had been able to estrangethem. They were one in heart and mind as they hadnever been before. But Isabel's mood had swiftlybecome attuned to Antonio's. It was enough to be at hisside on their old battle-field and to know how perfectwas their peace. For a long while they stood speechlesswith the great light of the Atlantic sparklingbefore their eyes and the great music of the cascaderesounding in their ears. Antonio was the first tobreak the silence.

"Happiness is not the principal thing," he said, stillgazing at the sea. "But I should like to know that youare happy."

"I am happy," she answered in a firm voice. "Entirelyhappy."

"For that," he said simply, "I thank God."

Another silence followed, longer than the other. Atlast she said:

"You are weary. You must sit down. Our timetogether is very short, so let me say what I ought tosay."

They sat down on the boulder.

"That afternoon you sent me away," she began, "Iwent home with hatred and vengeance in my heart. Ihated you and I hated God. I did not sleep; but, untildawn, neither did I shed a single tear. My hatred waslike a terrible joy. It filled me so full that it left noroom for grief. But when the sun shone upon mywhite roses and all the birds began to sing, my hatredsnapped like a dry reed, and I threw myself on the bedand wept until I thought I should die.

"Gradually hope returned. I knew that you lovedme; and I told myself that you would come to thecascade and that you would fall on your knees andimplore my pardon. I even decided what I wouldwear, and I chose out a turquoise-blue ribbon for myhair because I thought you had admired it.

"Happily I had some pride left. I didn't go to theCascade. But I bound my hair with the turquoise-blueribbon all the same, and waited for you to come to thehouse.

"You know you never came. Instead, your manJosé appeared. I heard chaff flying backwards andforwards between himself and the servants. Fisherrepeated some of it to me; and I learned that you hadstarted at sunrise on a long day's journey.

"That was the last unendurable blow. You had runaway lest I should summon you again to the cascade,or burst into your farm, or do some other shamelessthing. It stung me to the quick. I became in a singlemoment as hard and cold as iron in a frost, and asbitter as poison. I pictured you coming up the nextmorning to say a ceremonious Good-bye—coming upall cool and self-possessed and hateful. It was toomuch. I decided to join my father at once. Ienforced my will like a tyrant; and, before you cameback, we were gone."

She paused. Antonio's human heart was breakingto tell her how he had passed that night kneeling on thefloor beside her bed. But he held his peace; and Isabelwent on:

"In one point you did me immediate good. I putdown my foot boldly, and insisted that we shouldleave Portugal at once. As soon as we landed inEngland I sent Mrs. Baxter away. But I grew morehard and bitter every day. At last, partly fromdistraction, partly out of prudence, I mastered enough ofbusiness to go through my own and my father's affairs.One evening I made a cruel discovery. It was only amatter of five hundred pounds; but it overwhelmed me.I found that this abbey had never been in any sensemine. From my father I found out his plan concerningthe azulejos; and from old Mr. Crowberry I foundthat you knew how things stood all along. Then Iremembered some of my words to you, and my frozenheart melted at the sudden knowledge of your chivalry.Even when I threatened to burn the abbey down youheld your tongue."

It puzzled Antonio that she should make so much ofso little.

"Not chivalry," he protested quietly. "How elsecould I have behaved? Leave it. Come, tell me,Isabel, what first drew you to the religious life."

"I am telling you as fast as I can," she retorted, withall the old quickness and spirit. "From that day Iceased to glower at the memory of you in sullen hate.I began to be almost impersonally interested in yourconduct, your ideals, your character. The themeengrossed me all day long. I recalled everything youhad told me of the years before we met. I lived againthrough every moment of the fortnight we weretogether. And it became plainer and plainer that Icould only explain you in one way. You were toohealthy, too clear-eyed, too much of a man to be afanatic; yet you were breathing your every breath underthe sway of a supernatural idea. Against my will Iwas forced to admit that the idea must be true."

She paused again, weighing her words. Then sheadded:

"Of course, I knew that men have seemed to dowonderful things under the sway of ideas that are onlydelusions. Your idea was not a delusion. No mancan get out of a delusion one atom more than he has putinto it; but I saw that the idea—I mean, thesupernatural reality—which dominated your cool brain wasa reality from which you drew a mysterious something—asomething quite beyond your own self, quite beyondyour own nature. I had felt it, time after time,in your presence. It was not an illusion. It wasthere, indisputably there.

"What could this something be? I strove to squareit with a dozen theories in turn, and I gave it twentynames; but not one would fit. At last, it occurred tome that after all, your own account of it might be true.Antonio ... you can hardly understand. InEngland faith is weak. There we have nearly all beentaught the greater Christian verities; yet it smote melike a thunderbolt from heaven when I suddenly explainedyour life on the theory that the whole Christiangospel is truer than the stars. At the most I hadbelieved that its truths had been realities in Palestineeighteen hundred years ago, and that the devoutmemory of them helped us and ennobled us to-day, likea stirring tale that is told. But, in one overwhelmingrevelation, I saw it as the eternal life of men. I can'tfind words. I saw it as something more vital than theair, something nearer to us than our own selves. Isaw it as an unquenchable light, with the sun blinkingin it like a farthing candle at noonday. And I sawyour life, Antonio, reflecting that light and burning inthe midst of it like a gem."

He bent his head as if in pain; but she finished herspeech.

"Yes, I understood your life at last," she saidvery softly. "It was the vita abscondita cum Christoin Deo, 'the life that is hid with Christ in God.'"

"God knows," he rejoined solemnly, "that I am notaping humility when I say that my life has been wilfuland sinful and proud. Speak of such a life no more,I entreat. Speak of yourself. Tell me how youbecame a nun."

"As soon as I had accounted for your life," saidIsabel, "I was faced by a still harder riddle. Howwas I to account for my own life; and especially, forthe way my life had become intertangled with yours?At the first glance I seemed to have been thrown acrossyour path merely to try you. I seemed to be merelya single rung in your ladder to perfection. But, to becandid, I was not humble enough to rest satisfied withthat. Surely I had some rôle of my own. To besimply another person's trial, another person'sspringboard to heaven, was not enough for a whole life.

"Throughout one black week my new-found faithsuffered an almost total eclipse. I rebelled in loathingagainst God for sacrificing me in the cause of yourmonkish perfection. Why should he have chosen mefor so dreadful a work instead of some woman whohad had her share of happiness? His cruelty seemeddevilish.

"My doubts grew until they broke of their ownweight. One day, soon after my poor father died, Ihad been bitterly recalling what seemed to be thecruelest fact of all—the fact that, for four years before Isaw your face, I had lived in the supernatural persuasionthat you were my destiny and that your lifeneeded mine. Suddenly it flashed upon me that aman and a woman may be predestined to commingletheir lives on some basis other than conventional loveand marriage. I knew that my love for you was notsuch love as I saw among the lovers and the marriedpeople around me; and that from ordinary marriageI had always recoiled.

"It was on the strand of a beautiful English bay,with white cliffs running out miles into the blue water,that I worked out this new thought to the logical end.It was the eighth of July. At about eleven in themorning I held the key in my hand. Antonio, I didnot love you less; but my new faith rushed back amillion fold and I loved God so much more that at last Isaw my love for you in its true light. I saw it as themeans to an end. I saw that you had been sent tome, as Saint Philip was sent to the treasurer of QueenCandace, to make me a Christian. You, a monk, wereraised up to make me a nun.

"I saw much more. I saw that, for years andyears, I had been fighting for happy humanrelationships. I, for whom God's love had reserved thisricher bliss, had cried out, year after year, for afather, a mother, a sister, a brother, a friend. Mybitterest cry, Antonio, had been for you; but Godknows that I had cried out for you less as a husbandthan as a comrade and a most dear friend. On thatJuly morning I saw why our Lord had refused methe lower good to grant me the higher, and how Hehad sorely wounded me that His balm might moresweetly heal me."

Isabel ceased. Her long speech had been growingless and less easy until she could not utter anotherword. The nun thought that the cause was in herself.Why had she not confined herself to recitingthe precise words with which she had come prepared?Or why had she not taken the still better course ofthrowing all her preparation to the winds and ofpouring out her heart to Antonio in whatever wordsmight come? Why had she muddled fragments of aset speech with a nervous impromptu?

She did not know that the cause of her failure wasin the listener. Although her story told Antonio thathis dearest prayer had been superabundantlyanswered, the old wound in his heart was bleedingafresh. For half a moment, with an exquisitespiritual jealousy which was beyond his will, he wasjealous of his Lord. Throughout the long years of hisgrowing love of God his chaste love of Isabel hadnever died; and he could not bear the thought thatperhaps this love was no longer requited. He tried tospeak; but his tongue was tied. Antonio's heart sank.What was this mystery? How was it that their accordwas broken at the very moment when it shouldhave been most perfect?

When the pause had become intolerable Isabel endedit. She began speaking quickly and nervously. Theforced lightness of her tones contrasted almostpainfully with her grave earnestness of a few minutesbefore.

"Your question is answered," she said. "I havetold you how I became a nun. I did not rush into aconvent, like a damsel of romance, out of chagrin ata disappointment in love. My disappointment, if wemay use the word, was only the means of opening myeyes to a vocation as real as your own."

Only! Antonio could see that their wonderful lovehad accomplished all she said. But was it only that,and nothing more? Again he strove to speak; againhe failed; and again it was Isabel who ended thepause.

"For three or four months," she said, in an evenmore matter-of-fact tone than before, "I lived withLady Julia Blighe. I entered the convent atChristmas. Probably you, a monk of Saint Benedict, canhardly take the convents of our Order seriously.Our chant is made easy, all on three notes. We haveflowers in our rooms. Each nun has a silver spoon.I have always been a coward when it came to physicalhardships."

"I know your Order and I revere it," protestedAntonio, finding speech at last. "You are not acoward. The inward mortification is harder to practisethan the outward. I know that the poor people usedto call your nuns 'the holy Maries.' But tell me howyou are employed."

"I teach in the school," she answered. "That iswhy I am here to-day. Let me explain. We havehad in our care three sisters from the Beira Alta,daughters of a Portuguese Marquis. Their educationis finished. I brought them out to Oporto and handedthem over to their parents last week. Before I leftEngland I told our Mother Superior all about you,save your name, and it is with her consent that I havecome here to-day. But I believed that your monkshad been restored years and years ago. I expectedto see you for half an hour in a monastery parlor. Asister of the Third Order of Saint Dominic istraveling with me on her way to bring back some pupilsfrom Lisbon. We reached your little town, Navares,last night. There we heard this news. The peoplecould talk of nothing else."

The hardness went out of her tone, and her voicefaltered as she added softly: "They told me, Antonio,that this would be your first Mass. They told me howyou have fought and what you have suffered."

The blue eyes which looked at him so wistfully asshe spoke were the blue eyes which had brimmed withtears twenty years before when she had "cried andcried and cried like a baby" at the sight of hisworn-out cloak and had sobbed: "Poor Antonio! You poorAntonio! My poor Antonio!" His heart broke atthe sight. After twenty years she had come back.Amidst the old sights and sounds she was sittinghardly an arm's length from him. Isabel had comeback. But in less than one little hour they muststand up for the last parting and he would never seeher in this world any more. And meanwhile a frostymonster of false reserve was devouring their tinystore of golden moments one by one.

Antonio sprang to his feet.

"Isabel," he said desperately, "you think I didn'tcare. You think I never loved you. Listen. Thenight you went away I was ready to drop down withfatigue and hunger after riding and tramping fromsunrise to sunset over the mountains. But how did Ispend that dreadful night? I spent it in your chamber,kneeling on the floor against your bed, drinkingdeep of such anguish for you as I pray God you havenever tasted for me. How did I spend the next day?Only by miracle upon miracle was I held back fromthundering after you on the fleetest horse in thecountry-side. Hour after hour that day I tramped,tramped, tramped north, forgetting God and thinkingonly of you, till I came to a saint's grave."

She rose hastily and raised one slender white hand,as if to ward off his burning words. But he wouldnot be put to silence.

"Call me a sentimentalist, a madman, an apostate,anything you will," he cried. "But here is the sheertruth. Whenever I sat down to eat and drink at thefarm you were there, invisibly but undeniably there,sitting at my right hand. Whenever I went into mycell I heard you searching in the cupboard forsomething you could not find. You haunted these woodsall night and all day. To enter the guest-house waslike being dragged into a chamber of torture. More.Believe me or not, as you will. To-day is the firsttime for twenty years that I have set foot on thesestones, or set eyes on yonder cascade, or touched thisboulder with my hand. Isabel, in memory of you Ihave charged José to tend this place like a shrine; butI behold it now for the first time since I stood here, atsunrise, the day after you went away."

His words burst from him like a stampede of eager,bright-eyed creatures suddenly released from longcaptivity. It was as though he would storm and batterdown the gates of her heart and reclaim his ancientplace. She recoiled from him.

"No more, no more!" she cried. "I did not comefor this. Antonio, in God's name, no more!"

"It is in God's name," he retorted, "that I must andwill say more. Isabel, when you went away I did notknow I loved you. I thought my grief was no morethan an aching, bleeding wound of sympathy, of pity.But, little by little, I came to know that I loved you.Not with profane love. I came to believe that ourLord had vouchsafed to me a love such as unfallenman would have had for unfallen woman, and I believedthat you, Isabel, loved me with as holy a love inreturn. It was not a love which weaned me from thelove of God. It was a way of loving God more, andof loving Him more perfectly. I even learned tothank God for our separation; because I knew myhuman weakness and I knew how swiftly this love ofyou, which was also a love of God, might be changedinto a deceitful love of self. But to-day what do Ifind? That your love for me was only a delusion, aphase, a stage, a means to another end—that, and thatonly."

He strode up and down, as if he would shake fromhis shoulders this last and heaviest of his griefs. Butwhen he reached the spot where he had pronouncedhis final answer twenty years before he heard a stepat his side and felt a light touch on his hand.

"No, Antonio," she said "No. Not that and thatonly."

He started violently. She was facing him, withdowncast eyes and with the rose-pink of girlhood oncemore glowing in her cheeks. Her voice was low andsweet.

"Antonio," she said very slowly, "how strange it allis, and wonderful! You sent me away in autumn,when the sun made haste to set and the storm had tornthe leaves from the trees. I have come back in thespring, amidst thousands of birds and millions of flowers.I have come back in the sunshine to find that youloved me even more than I loved you."

Her voice died away so gently that Antonio couldnot be sure whether the headlong waterfall and thedelirious birds had not robbed him of some sweetsaying. At last she spoke again and said:

"Yes, Antonio, you loved me more than I lovedyou. But do not think that I loved you little orlightly. Above all, do not fear that my love is dead.Antonio, I will tell you what I had never meant to tellanybody in this world."

He waited a long time before she began herconfession. To help her he bent his gaze upon theground. At last he heard her speaking, so softly thathe had to strain his ears to listen.

"I, too," she said, "cherished such a love. But Iam no theologian. Although my love of you hadawakened my love of God, I thought it was wrong togo on cherishing it after its work was done. Foryears and years I thrust it away as a snare. I socrowded my waking hours with prayer and labor andstudy that no time was left for other thoughts. But,time after time—not thrice, or ten times, but fivehundred—my nights have been rosy with the samewonderful dream. In my dream I seem to have enteredinto the bliss of heaven, and to be moving in thefullness of the love of God, as in a soft glory oflife-giving golden light. At the beginning of my dreamit is always a churchly heaven, pillared and domed,with holy chants drifting hither and thither like cloudsof incense and with clouds of incense mounting upwardlike holy chants. But, little by little, it changes.The dim dome widens and brightens into a blue sky,with the smoke of the incense sailing in it like pearlyclouds; and the stark pillars soften into tree trunkscrowned with cool foliage and hung with clingingroses. Instead of rolling organs I hear the surf of asummer sea breaking on soft sand, and instead of thechants I hear the birds, and thousands of brooksringing like little bells. Cool grass, gay with wildflowers, spreads itself in the place of golden streets andmarble pavements. But, all the time, the same holylight is over it all, like the light before a summersunset among green hills. Then I become conscious thatthe heaven I am walking in is not some strangeunhomely land high above the stars. Video cÅ“lumnovunt et terram novam: 'I see a new heaven and anew earth,' and I know, with sudden joy, that I amwalking in this beautiful world, made new, purged ofevil and pain, and wholly conformed to the mind ofGod.

"My dream unfolds always in the same way.Gradually I see that the woods in which I am walkingare woods I have walked in before. The voices of thesea and the brooks are good to hear, because they arethe voices of old friends. At last I push past amimosa, on fire with golden flowers like a burning bush,and I halt on the margin of this pool. I wait, withthe cascade rumbling at me like thunder and flashingat me like lightning. I turn round; and, withouthearing your footfall, I find you at my side. Then wewander off together, sometimes down deep ravines,sometimes up through pines to brown moorlands purplewith heather, sometimes along the banks of lakesand rivers, or along the sea-shore, with the holy lightalways over us and with God's love nearer to us thanour own souls. That is my dream."

After pausing a little, she added:

"At first I thought my dream was a snare. I sayagain that I am not a theologian. Still, I tried topuzzle out if such dreams were against sound doctrine.At first I feared they were. But I came to see thatthe words of our Lord, 'In the resurrection theyneither marry nor are married,' referred to marryingof an earthly kind. Many another scripture came tomy mind; and many another thought came tocomfort me. Our Mother, the Blessed Virgin crowned inheaven—is she not a woman still? And do we notthink of this saint or of that as still a man or still awoman, as the case may be? Is the life hereafter tobe a blank Nirvana? Will it be less richly personalthan the life we are living now? But these are onlymy own poor thoughts, worth less than nothing. Irest rather in two great scriptures. In domo Patrismei mansiones multÅ“ sunt: 'In my Father's house aremany mansions.' And again, 'Eye hath not seen, norhath the ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart ofman what things God hath prepared for those wholove Him.' But let me be plain to the end. Mydreams are beyond my control; and, when I am awake,I do not willingly dwell on these thoughts."

The big bell of the monastery, vocal once more afterseven-and-twenty years of silence, struck twelve. Themonk and the nun listened to the strokes withoutspeaking. Before the last echoes died away BrotherCypriano rang the Angelus.

"Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariœ," said Antonio,with bowed head. And Isabel responded:

"Et concepit de Spiritu sancto."

When the pious exercise was finished she said:

"It is time to go."

"No," cried Antonio, suddenly perceiving that shehad picked up her cloak and mantilla. "You mustnot go."

"I must go," she said, smiling gently. "Antonio,things are changed indeed. In the old days your greataim was to drive me away."

"You must not go," he said, with the utmostenergy. "The duch*ess of Ribeira Grande is at theguest-house, with servants. There is room for youand for your friend the Dominican sister. You needrest, until to-morrow. You must not go."

She shook her head, still smiling gently, and heldout her hand.

"Good-bye, Antonio," she said.

He took the hand; but instead of grasping it andletting it fall he held it, and said once more:

"Until to-morrow you must not go."

She began to disengage her fingers. Antoniogripped them fiercely and pleaded not only with hisvoice, but with his eyes.

"Isabel," he said, "one room at the guest-house isstill yours. It can be made ready for you and foryour friend to-night. It is your old room, with thewhite roses. I have suffered no one to enter it fortwenty years."

This time she left her hand in his. The monk'svoice, his brown velvet eyes, his clasp, and the rush ofold memories were too much for her. She trembleda little; and suddenly a rain of tears fell uponAntonio's hand.

"Antonio," she sobbed, "I must go. Now. Don'task me again. But, before I go, there is one thingmore to tell you."

For many moments her weeping would not let herspeak. At last she whispered between her sobs:

"That little bowl. The bowl you gave me, with theblue-and-orange bird. Do not despise me. Whenthe time came, I felt I could give up the whole world,except that. For two months I turned a deaf ear toGod, all because I couldn't give up ... that."

The exceeding bitterness of the memory made hersob afresh. When she could speak again, she said:

"Antonio, I will tell you where the little bowl isto-day. It has been made into a lamp. I had it encasedin brass, so that it cannot break, and plated over withthe purest silver. It hangs in a little church, in a slumnear the London docks. It burns before the image ofSaint Antonio."

Antonio could not speak. He forgot that he wasstill holding her hand, and she did not remember thatshe had not taken it away. After a long time shemurmured, almost inaudibly:

"Antonio ... one night I gave you a rose."

He released her white fingers. Then he drew forthhis breviary and placed it in her hand. She took itwonderingly; but he averted his eyes. Isabel gazed atthe worn volume. She could see that there was somekind of a book-marker, marking the Office of theday. She opened the book and saw a pressed whiterose, flecked and veined with faint blood-red.

She looked at it a long, long while. Then she shutthe book and gave it back to Antonio. Withoutanother word he wrapped the thin wrap about her formand helped her to arrange the mantilla on hershoulders. When the moment of parting came she simplygave him her hand, like a proud English lady; and he,like a courtly Portuguese gentleman, bent over it andlightly kissed her finger-tips.

She went away by the path she had taken ontheir last afternoon, twenty years before. Antonio,strangely calm, watched her as she pressed up thesteep way. He was conscious that she still walkedwith willowy, girlish grace. He remembered howhe had watched her that other afternoon, and how hehad wondered if she would turn round and look back.

The two cypresses hid her from his sight. Hebreathed a quiet prayer for herself and for him. Buthe did not close his eyes; for they were fixed on theone point where she would reappear. His being wasfilled full with such peace and bliss as he had neverknown.

She reappeared. She turned round. She wavedher hand. She was gone.

As soon as Antonio re-entered the porch of themonastery the Fathers thronged forward pressing him tobreak his long fast. But he shook his head andtrudged on, looking neither to the right hand nor tothe left. In the cool cloister he paused a momentupon the slab which covered the body of Sebastian.Then he turned into the narrow doorway and climbed,with dragging steps, to his old seat on the flat roof.One of the younger monks tried to follow; but Joséand Cypriano barred his passage. The two sturdyfellows, eyeing one another jealously, stood guard oneither side of the gloomy opening, like two geniikeeping the door of a cave.

Antonio sat down on the bench of cork. At thesame moment a carriage rolled out through the principalgate of the abbey. He knew that it was bearingIsabel to rejoin her friend at Navares. Down thedusty hill it went; past the farm; and onwards until itwas no more than a tremulous black spot against thewhiteness of the road. As it approached thepine-woods some plate of burnished brass in the harnesscaught the light and blazed at Antonio for a moment,like a tiny sun. Then the shadow engulfed it, and hesaw it no more.

Very calmly and with perfect concentration of mindAntonio resumed his devout thanksgiving for his firstMass. God had enabled him to rebuild His brokenaltar and to offer upon it the Holy Sacrifice. In thedazzling refulgence of that immense grace his sufferingsand hardships were no more than grains of dustdancing in a sunbeam. The chief events of his pastre-enacted themselves before him, like a stage show, andhe saw that his life had been an unbroken pageant ofdivine mercy, full of glittering lights and rich shadows.He recalled all that God had done in him, and viditquod esset bonum; "he saw that it was good."

When the monk's thanksgiving was finished Isabelreclaimed his mind. The strange peace which haddescended upon them both, as she gazed at their whiterose, abode with him still. There was no rebellion inhis soul, no ache in his heart. The whole history oftheir love unrolled its bright length before him, like aholy scroll illuminated in blue and blood-red and gold,and he found nothing written therein that he wouldhave altered or erased. Vidit quod esset bonum. Itwas good, all good, to the end.

He sat and pondered upon their wonderful love.At first he was confident that Isabel and he, he andIsabel, were the lovers of lovers, the supreme loversof all time. But humility brought him a largerthought. Surely, before Isabel and he were born,there had been men and women loving as purely andas grandly. And surely there would be men andwomen loving as grandly and as purely after he andIsabel were dead.

Compared with all this love, of all these lovers in allthe past and all the present, surely the shining ofthe sun was as darkness? He closed his eyes that hemight behold the greater light. And, in thatsurpassing radiance, he seemed to be reading the deepestsecrets of eternity and to be solving the riddle at theinmost heart of the universe. He saw innumerableloves ever ascending, like golden mists, out of the loveof God. He saw those innumerable loves returninginto the love of God again, like rivers into the sea.And with every return of love he saw the love of Godgrowing richer and sweeter, like a fruit ripening inthe sun. It seemed as if even God himself werewaxing greater and as if, in the act of creation, theCreator took as well as gave. Without creation God muststill have been perfect; but even God could rise fromthe lower perfection to the higher. Without creationthe eternal Word was like a trumpet blown on anillimitable plain: but, with creation, the Word waslike that same trumpet resounding and reverberatingamidst re-echoing hills. God had need of man. Godwas Love, a pure white ray of love, and humanitywas a prism turning this way and that and breakingthe whiteness into the fairest colors. All love wasone. Antonio's love for Isabel, Isabel's love forAntonio, was a drop flung forth from the bottomlessocean of the love of God to shine like a gem in thesunlight.

No. Not like a mere grain of spray which leapedfree and sparkled for a moment and then fell back tolose its identity for ever. Rather was it like theimmortal soul of a new-born babe, a something suddenlyexisting, a something with no past, but with aneverlasting future, a something with an eternalidentity which even God himself could not destroy. Godwould no more revoke and destroy His emanationsof love than He would revoke and destroy Hisemanations of being. Innumerable loves would chime forever in noblest harmony with the love of God, likebrooks murmuring with the sea—vox turbÅ“ magnÅ“,vox aquaram multarum et vox tonitruorum magnorum:"a voice of a great multitude, a voice of great waters,a voice of mighty thunderings."

The monk rested awhile in this thought. He knewit was the thought of Isabel's dream. But suddenly awhite light blazed in his soul. Isabel vanished as ifshe had never been. All the human love he had beencherishing fell from him, like a dying torch from thegrasp of a man who strides forth out of a cave into theblinding light of a summer noon. Antonio was caughtup into an ecstasy of the pure love of God.

When he opened his eyes at last and gazed upon theAtlantic he knew that he was weary. The hands wereweary that had labored so roughly for his Lord. Thefeet were weary that had tramped so many a league indust and heat; and the brain was weary that hadpuzzled and worried and planned till it could puzzle andworry and plan no more. But it mattered not at all.Was not the day's work done? There was plenty oftime to sleep. Ranging over wood and meadow andstream, Antonio's gaze came to rest in the littleclearing between the ending of the orange-groves and thebeginning of the vineyards; and he looked withlonging at the white cross which rose tall and slenderabove the monks' graves.

Peace filled earth and heaven. His tired eye-lidsdrooped over Antonio's eyes. The airs around himwere rich with scents of lemon-blossom andsuckle. The Atlantic lay unvexed by wind; and theocean swell, as it searched the creeks and caves,hummed no louder than a heavy-laden honey-beelumbering home.

THE END

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74116 ***