BOOK I

ANTONIO

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 and vineyards toward the quiet Atlantic.

For many a day no wind had vexed the waters, and the ocean swell, as

it searched the creeks and caves, hummed no loudlier than a bee

mining deeply in the bells of flowers. Overhead thousands of stars

burned mildly. The May night's soft airs were rich with scents of

lemon-blossom and honeysuckle: and, like a perfume from 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 over each choir-monk's door; and, for

the sake of the lay-brethren whose Latin was less fluent than their

Portuguese, Paz had been painted between each pair of windows on the

kitchen walls. On every one of the monastery's books, both in the

library and in the choir, _Pax_ was stamped in dull gold; and from

the lips of St. Benedict's sons as they met in cloister or garden the

salutation was ever going forth: Peace be with thee.

Peace. Within Antonio's breast as well as without there reigned on

this summer night a peace which passed understanding. Hardly fifteen

hours before, the apostolic hands of a saintly bishop had raised the

young monk to the awful dignity of the priesthood, and had given him

power to offer sacrifice for the dead and for the living.

With eyes at rest upon the dreaming sea the young Antonio recalled

some of the hours he had spent sitting upon this same cork bench.

All of them had not been hours of peace. Antonio remembered March

nights of storm, when mountainous waves uplifted white crests in the

cold shine of a racing moon. He remembered August dusks, when the

thunder pounded and boomed like great guns, or like enormous breakers

on a sandy shore, while the lightning unsheathed its blinding blade,

bright and jagged as a scimitar. He remembered December gales, with

the pine-trees cowering and creaking before the blast; and January

floods raging down the mountain. But, most vividly of all, Antonio

recalled his hours of inward strife and tempest. He remembered that

long night's vigil when he wrestled and prayed against a sudden

temptation to renounce the religious life and go back to the warm,

sweet world. And he remembered those many, many hours of less

sultry, more nipping and stinging tempest when all the arguments

against religion in general, and against monasticism in particular,

went on bursting like hailstones about his head. Thrice during his

novitiate and once more on the very eve of his full profession a

tornado of doubt had well-nigh swung him off his feet and hurled him

back into the world. But on this May night, within him and without,

there was peace.

Peace. Better still, there was peace at last in Antonio's beloved

fatherland, in beautiful Portugal. For more than five-and-twenty

years the garden of the West had lain under the blight of war. At

the bidding of Wellington had not the peasantry laid waste their

fields, so that there should be neither a blade of grass nor a cob of

maize for Napoleon's horses and men? And after Napoleon was flung

back had not the ancient kingdom sunk to be a mere colony of Brazil,

with Englishmen lording it amid the ruins? Worse still, had not the

fratricidal strife of the Absolutists and the Constitutionalists

soaked Portugal's hill-sides with 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 of sixteen thousand Miguelistas had broken

their swords across their knees and dashed their muskets to pieces

against the stones at the news of their betrayal by a selfish and

ungrateful master.

During the long siege of Oporto the echoes of the bugles had often

resounded in Antonio's cell, challenging him to imitate many a monk

of bygone ages and to exchange the cowl for the helmet. This was one

of the most frequent shapes in which his doubts assailed him. He was

young, he was ardent, he loved his country; and sometimes a flush of

shame would burn his cheek as he heard of some desperate sortie from

the beleaguered city. To be praying in a cloister at such a time was

a good work: but, so long as the battles were actually raging, was it

not a work for women, like preparing lint? Once, indeed, he went so

far as to approach the abbot for leave to interrupt his monastic life

while he struck a good blow for Portugal: but the abbot confounded

him by demanding sadly on which side Antonio felt it his duty to

fight. To the old man's question the young one could give no clear

answer. His political sympathies were with sterling liberalism: but

he had read enough history and seen enough of the world to know that

those who preach mostly of liberty often tolerate others' liberty

least, and that both the constitutionalism of Dom Pedro and the

absolutism of Dom Miguel were mere passwords of opportunists rather

than sincere utterances of convictions and principles. In response

to his silence and confusion the abbot charged him, under obedience,

to dismiss the idea of soldiering from his mind: but whenever tidings

of fresh carnage on the banks of the Douro reached the monastery

Antonio's heart bled anew. That Portuguese should have helped to

slay the thousands of Frenchmen whom Massena had flung at the ridges

of Bussaco was a thing for which Massena's master was alone to blame:

but the shooting down of Portuguese by Portuguese was a different

thing. And so it was with a brimming heart that Antonio, as he sat

on his cork bench under the mild stars, thanked God for peace at last

in Portugal.

Peace. Best of all, peace seemed to have begun even for the Church

and for her religious Orders. It was true that the victorious

Liberals had decreed the expected confiscation of the military

Orders' rich possessions: but, instead of heeding the firebrands from

France and suppressing the religious Orders altogether, the new

Government had contented itself with closing the smaller houses and

distributing their old inmates among the larger monasteries. And, it

was true that the State was seeking to impose vexations upon the

Church: but it seemed probable that patience and charity and prudence

on the Church's part would soon make the crooked straight, and that

the Portuguese family would once more dwell in harmony and peace.

Peace. From the peace of the sea Antonio's eyes wandered at last to

the peace of the earth. Roving over wood and meadow and stream, his

gaze came to rest at last in a little clearing between the ending of

the orange-groves and the beginning of the vineyards. This was the

monks' cemetery. It was three hundred years old, and the bones of

nearly all the men who had lived and breathed and walked in the

cloister under his feet lay beneath its pleasant turf and flowers.

In the midst of the clearing a tall and 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 longing than of shrinking. On so soft and

gracious a night even a pagan would have found something alluring in

the thought of death. After the day's glare the dimness was like a

veil for tired eyes, and the scented air was like caressing arms,

wooing one to everlasting rest. Antonio was no pagan and no

voluptuary. He wanted to live strenuously for God, according to the

Holy Rule: but it was good to feel that whenever the body should be

worn and weary even unto death, there would be this plot of hallowed

earth for its repose. With his eyes upon the pale cross Antonio

looked through it into his future. He pictured himself living his

life, as the hundreds of dead men in the cemetery had lived theirs,

in the cell, in the chapel, and in the cloister, studying the divine

mysteries, ever advancing toward perfection, praying for those who

would not pray for themselves, rendering to God some of the praise

and worship whereof the careless deprive Him, and striving, as it

were, to redress the balance of the world. He saw himself giving his

keen mind, his eager spirit, his young strength, his whole manhood to

the divine office, so that the praising of God should not all be left

to the weak, the simple, the aged, and to the fearful souls in the

shadow of death. He knew full well that the world did not understand

such a sacrifice, and that the mass of men were so entirely blind to

the monastic ideal that they would look on him either as a cowardly

shirker of life's duties or as a fanatical abstainer from its joys.

But he had long ago learned to despise the judgments of the world.

His sacrifice was acceptable to his Lord and it was the groundwork of

his spirit's peace. It was as though Antonio heard from the midst of

the stars His voice saying, _Pacem relinquo vobis, pacem meam do

vobis: non quomodo mundus dat, ego do vobis_--"Peace, I leave with

you. My peace I give to you; not as the world giveth give I to you."

Humility made haste to stifle the beginning of pride. This sacrifice

of his--what was it, after all? What great merit was there in

yielding back to God his body, soul and spirit? They were God's own,

and at any moment he could revoke them. Antonio brought his mind

back firmly to the stupendous happenings of the morning, and to the

scene in the chapel when the bishop laid hands upon his head. He,

Antonio, with all his unworthiness was a priest at last, and very

soon he would be called upon to offer that ineffable Sacrifice,

compared with which his own was nothing worth. He, Antonio, would

soon stand before the altar, offering up the Lord and Maker of all

these stars and seas and mountains, the very God of very God, for the

dead and for the living.

For the dead. Still gazing at the pale cross, he vowed to remember

in his first Mass the faithful departed whose dust lay beneath its

pitiful arms. And for the living. A league away two lights still

beamed from the windows of a farm-house, and, far out at sea, the

mast-head lamp on a fisherman's boat twinkled like another star.

They reminded him of the toiling men and women whose cheerful labor

is the _Te Deum_ most beloved of heaven, and he vowed more heartily

still that he would always exercise his priesthood in spiritual

communion with these obscure saints. And, from them, his charity

widened to all Portugal. Portugal had reeled long enough under the

shocks of war, even as her cliffs had seemed to reel and shudder

under the enormous assault and battery 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, with the soft

waters nestling to Portugal's side and crooning a lullaby, might be

an earnest of his country's abiding peace.

He rose from the bench and sought the stone stairway. Less than a

mile from the monastery gate two lanterns were bobbing violently up

and down on the road, as if they were being carried by galloping

horsemen. Antonio strained his ears, and made out the clattering 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 monk had finished his rapid story. "If

they are Miguelistas tell them they cannot be harbored here. Say the

war is over and we have suffered enough."

"And what if they are Liberals?"

"If they are Liberals--" the Prior began. But he stopped short with

trouble in his face. "If they are Liberals," he repeated slowly,

"they are coming here for no good."

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

As he spoke the door of the nearest cell opened and a third monk

appeared. He was older than Antonio--perhaps forty years of age.

His fine features were pain-worn, and, in spite of the softness of

the night, he was drawing his black habit closely round his slender

body.

"Here is Father Sebastian," cried the Prior. "He will go with you.

Father Sebastian, there is fresh trouble. Antonio has heard

soldiers. Meet them at the gate. Tell them of the Abbot's illness.

Take them to the guest-house. Say I will speak to them there. Run!"

Antonio gathered up his habit and sped off like a hare. But at the

entrance of an avenue flanked by giant camellias he halted, suddenly

remorseful. Sebastian overtook him.

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

Antonio plunged into the dark tunnel. Before he had run half its

length the cracked bell at the monastery gate broke into an insolent

din. Where the camellias ended he slackened pace and allowed his

habit to fall once more in dignified amplitude to his feet.

Meanwhile somebody was noisily clanking the scabbard of a sword

against the iron bars of the gate. He drew nearer and made out a

throng of cloaked men on little white horses.

"We demand entrance," piped a weak voice, as a trooper flashed the

light of a lantern through the bars into Antonio's face.

"If you are Miguelistas," returned Antonio, "I must refuse."

"Miguelistas?" squeaked the weak voice. "Miguelistas! If we were

Miguelistas you would make us welcome like the traitors you are.

Miguelistas! We are no Miguelistas. Open in the name of the Queen."

"Why?" asked Father Sebastian quietly, as he took his place at

Antonio's side.

The beam of the lantern searched Father Sebastian's face also. Then

the weak voice began again. But it was immediately drowned by the

strong and hearty tones of an officer, who plucked the lantern out of

the soldier's hand and held it close to his own face so that he could

be seen while he was speaking.

"Your Reverences," he said, "we ask pardon. But we must enter. We

are simply doing our duty. Your Reverences have not heard of the

decrees."

"Your Excellency is wrong," answered Father Sebastian. "We have

studied them all. The military orders are suppressed; but ours is

not a military order. The smaller monasteries are to be closed; but

this is not one of the smaller monasteries. What have the decrees to

do with us?"

"Everything," retorted the weak voice in triumph. The officer turned

in his saddle and held the lantern up 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 hours old. All

the orders are suppressed. All of them, big and little. All of

them, in all Portugal. All of them, bag and baggage, root and

branch, lock, stock and barrel. It was high time. Here is the

decree in my hand. Open the gates before we smash them down."

"If this is true," flung back Antonio in an outburst of 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

have come--"

"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 the days when Wellington

and his staff had made the monastery their headquarters: but the bolt

gave way at last. The gates turned upon their rusty hinges with a

piercing sound which cut through the darkness like a wail. One might

almost have believed that the genius of the place was crying to

heaven for help. Men and horses began pressing through the gate, but

Father Sebastian stood in their way.

"Senhor Captain," he said, "our Prior is at your Excellency's

service. But our Abbot is lying sick. He is nearly eighty years

old. This path leads to our guest-house. The Prior begs that he may

attend you there. It is not far. We will show your Excellency the

way."

The captain hesitated. Even the feeble light of the lanterns was

enough to show that he did not relish his task. But before he could

speak the squat, blonde man piped out:

"Most decidedly and emphatically not. The sick and the aged shall

have every consideration; but there are no longer people here

entitled to call themselves Priors and Abbots. Senhor Captain, our

duty is clear. Let us get on."

"Your Reverence," said the captain to Father Sebastian. "I am sorry.

But what can I do? My instructions are to support the Senhor

Visconde in taking possession of the monastery. The Prior shall see

the decree. I will do my best not to distress the reverend Abbot.

But I cannot follow you to the guest-house."

He leaped down from his horse, and led it behind Antonio and

Sebastian into the avenue of camellias. The squat civilian followed,

without dismounting, and about thirty troopers brought up the rear.

The two monks walked with bowed heads, Sebastian praying, Antonio

burning. No one spoke: but the rattle of hoofs and weapons was so

loud that the Prior guessed the failure of his ambassadors almost as

soon as the last soldier had crossed the sill of the gate.

Before the noisy procession clattered into the paved space in front

of the monastery, the eighteen choir-monks, with the Prior at their

head and the lay brethren behind, were already assembled under the

stone vault of the vestibule. As every one of them issued from his

cell carrying a lamp or a candle they seemed to be assembled for some

solemn religious function, such as a mass or requiem. Most of the

monks were old men; for the long years of foreign invasions and civil

wars had not been fertile in religious vocations. To more than half

of them the monastery had been their only home for forty years or

more. Hardly ten words had been exchanged among them as to the

meaning of the Prior's summons; yet one and all of them divined their

fate. Two or three of the oldest and weakest huddled against their

younger and stronger brethren, with the look of hunted animals who

hear the dogs beginning to nose and work at the mouths of their

burrows.

Expressing his failure by a sad gesture, Father Sebastian bowed to

the Prior and passed in to join the crowd in the vestibule, with

Antonio in his wake. The captain followed on their heels, uncovering

respectfully as the Prior advanced to meet him. There was a silence;

but it was quickly ended by a wheezy cry from without: "Wait for me!

This is my business. Wait for me, I say."

"We are waiting for the Senhor Visconde," rapped back 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. Here Ferreira, you fat dog, help me

down."

The fat dog Ferreira backed up and with his arms clasped round the

burly trooper's neck, the Viscount was rescued from the perils of the

thick-legged horse. Either from stupidity or from malice, Ferreira

did not set him down upon his feet but carried him up the monastery

steps as sailors carry land-lubbers ashore through the surf. When he

finally landed on the vestibule floor the Viscount might have

recovered his dignity had not another trooper, safely hidden in the

outer darkness, uttered a loud guffaw. He turned round angrily with

a threat at his tongue's end: but the weird black ranks of monks

silently staring at him in the smoky light scared him into

speechlessness.

"The most illustrious and most excellent Senhor Visconde will explain

to your Reverence why we are here," 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 from Lisbon the Viscount

had been jotting down a discourse on the inevitable victory of the

emancipated human intellect over priestcraft and superstition. It

was in the best French manner. Even during his fearsome hour on the

thick-legged horse, after the roughness of the by-roads had compelled

him to descend from his chariot, he had contrived to add a flourish

or two to his peroration. But the steady eyes of the Prior burned 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 tell you, you are suppressed."

An indescribable sound burst from the listening monks. It was

composed of the prayers of some, blended with the moans of despair or

the cries of incredulity or indignation of the others. The smoky

vault re-echoed it strangely. But the Prior turned upon 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 than one fist was fiercely clenched.

But not a word was spoken until the Prior demanded:

"Let me read the decree."

Without waiting for an answer he took the papers out of the

Viscount's clasp and perused them from beginning to end. Then he

handed them back and began to think deeply. At last he raised his

head and said loudly:

"Senhor Viscount; Senhor Captain; soldiers--you have come here to rob

God. For years your comrades have been pouring out their blood in

civil strife--and why? On the plea that Portugal must be ruled by

the will of the people instead of by the will of kings. Is this the

will of the people? Answer me. If Dom Pedro had told you amidst the

shot and shell of Oporto that these were to be the first-fruits of

his victory, I say that Donna Maria would never have reached her

throne. You have been deceived. You were fighting for Absolutists

after all. It is not Liberalism to trample on every liberty save

your own."

"This is stark treason," sputtered the Viscount.

"It is stark truth," rejoined the Prior. "But I will return to our

business. Senhores, give me leave to prepare him for your visit, and

I will lead you to the cell of our Abbot. Father Isidoro, go and

make all ready."

"The Abbot?" echoed the captain astonished. And the Viscount turning

very red as Father Isidoro disappeared, gasped out:

"The Abbot? No. Certainly not. Decidedly not. The Abbot is very

old and very ill. Your young men have told me so. It is

unnecessary. Decidedly not. We will treat the sick and the aged

with more humanity."

"These papers," said the Prior curtly, tapping the roll in the

Viscount's hand, "are addressed to the Abbot. They are his

death-warrant; and your Excellency shall not shirk executing it."

"It is inhumanity!" the Viscount cried.

"Not on our part," answered the Prior. "We are his children, and we

know our Abbot. He shall not be carried away in a litter to-morrow

to die among strangers. Kill him here. Kill him now. Our beloved

father would have it so. Senhores, excuse me. In five minutes I

will return."

Before the Prior's sandals had ceased to resound on the cloister

flags twenty tongues were loosened. The ranks of monks broke up into

little groups, some dismayed, others defiant. As for the Viscount he

turned upon the captain wrath fully.

"We are fools to allow it," he cried. "What have we to do with dying

old men? It's a trick to work on our feelings. They mean to turn

the soldiers against us. Yes, we're fools. I say we're a pair of

fools."

"Perhaps your Excellency will speak for himself," grunted the

captain, whose disgust for his work was growing 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 in possession?"

"I think not," said the captain. "I'm no lawyer: but the Prior says

these papers are addressed first and foremost to the Abbot."

A confused murmuring had been growing louder and louder among the

troopers who crowded the doorway. All of a sudden it rose to an

uproar, and two struggling men lurched into the light, locked in a

fierce embrace. The captain sprang upon them as if they had been two

fighting terriers, cuffing them roundly 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 one another with tigerish

eyes as they prepared for a second spring; but their comrades rushed

upon them and held them apart.

"Miguelite hunchback!" snarled the one.

"Liberal nigger!" hissed the other.

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

They held their tongues. But the Viscount did not hold his.

"Captain," he piped out, "this is mutiny, rank mutiny. Nigger,

Liberal Nigger, indeed! Surely you 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 the Abbot and I'll mind

mine with my men," retorted the officer thoroughly roused and,

ignoring the Viscount's sputterings, he strode up to the soldier who

had cried "Liberal nigger" and demanded:

"José, you were wounded in Oporto?"

"Three times," said José sullenly. There was a saber wound in his

cheek and two fingers were gone from his left hand. As he spoke he

laid his thumb and two fingers upon some third wound hidden by his

thread-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 of God," he cried, raising his voice to

a shout, "I'll be shot 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 when you know you ought to be in a

mad-house? Where do 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 keep his horse because it's his own."

The scared peasant flushed and would have answered. But his boor's

personality was top-heavy and lop-sided, and he went down like a

skittle before the captain's next ball.

"Go home this instant!" bellowed the captain. And helped by the

friendly hustling of his wiser comrades, José soon found himself

hoisted on his old horse and ambling under the camellias toward his

mother's roof-tree.

Meanwhile a lay-brother had returned from the Abbot's cell. In a

loud voice and with a ceremonious air he said:

"The most excellent and most reverend Lord Abbot is at the service of

your Excellencies."

III

The cell of the Abbot was a room about twenty feet square. Its

furniture consisted of a small painted table, two stools, two

straight-backed chairs, a portrait of Saint Benedict, a very large

crucifix of ebony and ivory, an old oak desk covered with papers and

a narrow bed.

To his surprise and relief the viscount found the bed empty and the

Abbot throned upon one of the high-backed chairs. But his fears

returned when a lay-brother set eight candles, in a bronze

candelabrum, upon the painted table. By their light he saw a face

which seemed to gaze on him from beyond the grave. To the old man's

right and left stood the Prior and Father Isidore, supporting him.

They had vested the Abbot in a cope stiff with gold embroidery, and

they had placed his miter on his head and his crozier in his hand.

The captain paused in the doorway, embarrassed. Then he ducked his

head and crooked his knee in awkward obeisance and blurted out, "Your

Reverence, here is the Senhor Visconde."

"To what noble Visconde am I speaking?" asked the Abbot.

The civilian recovered himself and answered proudly:

"Your Excellency is speaking to the Visconde de Ponte Quebrada."

"I thought I knew all the titulars of Portugal," the Abbot returned

in his small, clear tones, "but I do not know the Viscondes of Ponte

Quebrada."

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

"It is a new creation. I am the first Visconde. I am proud to say I

have won the title by my own merits, and not merely because I am my

father's son."

"Your Excellency has commanded in action?" the Abbot asked. "No

doubt Ponte Quebrada was the scene of a battle--a victory?"

"Your most reverend Lordship is wrong," interrupted the captain.

"The illustrious Visconde has served her majesty in other ways. To

hire the English transports for Belle Isle and the Açores meant

money. To pay the French and Belgian and English officers and men at

Oporto meant more money. The English Admiral Napier, who destroyed

the Miguelista fleet, required still more money. Money was hard to

find: but the noble Visconde had powerful friends in London. He

knows the Senhor Rothschild, that clever man who kept back from the

English the news of Waterloo 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 he added, "Is the noble Visconde

a born Portuguese?"

The Viscount boiled over with rage. "I have not come 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 force of soldiers," the

Abbot answered. "Why? Because the Government fears we may tear the

decree to pieces. I have not questioned your Excellency out of idle

curiosity. I am the father of this family; I am responsible for

their little patrimony; and when I go to stand, as go I so soon must,

before my Lord, I must not go as an unfaithful steward."

"The monastery is suppressed," the Viscount repeated.

"The question for me," continued the Abbot, ignoring him, "is whether

I can obey this decree or not. We have always rendered unto Cæsar

the things that are Cæsar's; but we cannot render unto Cæsar the

things that are God's."

"The monastery is suppressed. It belongs to the Portuguese people,"

piped the Viscount.

This time the Abbot did not ignore him. "Portuguese?" he echoed.

"All these fathers and brethren are 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 the decree. From this date

the possessions of the religious orders are declared to be the

possessions of the Portuguese people. Senhores, listen. In time of

need we have never failed to share our last crust and our last coin

with the Portuguese people. We are Portuguese as well as monks.

When the French were in the land we cheerfully gave up all we had to

drive them out. More. There are three fathers standing here who

hide soldiers' scars under their habits, and there is one who carried

dispatches under a hotter fire than any of your Worships have even

seen."

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

"It is the only point there is. Your Excellency shall answer me

plainly. If we bow to this decree, which of 'the Portuguese people'

will enjoy our house and goods? Will they be sold to feed the poor

and to clothe the hungry and to pay the just debts of the State?"

"I say the monastery is suppressed," the Viscount responded uneasily.

"My duty is simply to take possession. How do I know what the

Government will do with it?"

"Your Excellency knows one thing at least. He can assure the fathers

and brethren that he has no secret authority, no plan, no ambition of

keeping this place for himself or his friends?"

The Viscount of Ponte Quebrada clutched the back of the unoccupied

chair for support. Outside his darling business of usury he had

always been a weak, foolish, poor creature, easily cowed by any

strong man who stood up to him; but the Abbot's words doubly

terrified him. Not only did they forebode the miscarriage of his

plans; they also filled him with supernatural dread. The dying man

had spoken in low and even tones, as if he and his visitors were

discussing some commonplace transaction: but the unearthly face,

almost immobile between the cope and the miter, would have frightened

the Viscount out of his wits if he had not averted his eyes from it.

But while he could turn away his eyes, he could not close his ears;

and the Abbot's final question probed the depths of the Viscount's

scheming so unexpectedly that the schemer quailed in superstitious

horror. For a moment or two the cell and the black figures and the

smoky lights swung round with him.

"Also our gold monstrance," the low, even tones persisted, "our

Limoges triptych, our two chalices with the great rubies, our Saint

Jerome in the Wilderness, painted on wood by Gran Vasco, our five

silver reliquaries, the seven-branched candlestick from Venice, our

illuminated Conferences of the Solitaries of Cassian, and all our

plate and vestments? We saved them from the French, burying them in

the woods; and Father Leo was shot because he would not reveal the

hiding-place. What about these things? Will they be respected?

Will they be honorably preserved in 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 upon them for

his own profit?"

Every face turned towards the Viscount of Ponte Quebrada. Fifty eyes

seemed to be boring like fifty white-hot gimlets into his most secret

thoughts. He pulled himself together for a final attempt at bullying

bluster.

"I have been insulted enough!" he screamed. "You are 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

shelter to every traitor that knocked at your door."

"This latest war, thank God, almost passed us by," said the Prior,

stepping forward. "While it lasted we gave shelter to five

combatants only. Two were Dom Miguel's, three were the Queen's.

They were all wounded. If they came here wounded again we should

once more take them in."

"My questions have not been answered," interrupted the Abbot's clear,

small voice.

"And they shan't be," retorted the Viscount, who had regained his

courage. "And hark you all, you are on sufferance here. Keep civil

tongues in your heads and clear out quietly. We have the right to

pitch you out into the road."

"I think not," the Abbot answered. "The decree speaks of to-morrow

noon. We shall remain here until that hour; and perhaps longer.

Meanwhile your Excellency has time to answer my questions. Our own

answer turns upon his."

"I am afraid, my Lord Abbot, there is only one answer possible," said

the captain. "By noon this house must be empty, save for the guard."

"And if we resist?"

The captain meditated before he replied in grave tones: "Your

Reverences will not resist. Your Reverences will protest and bow,

without disgrace, to superior force. And if any injustice has been

done, the Queen, or the judges in Lisbon, or the ministers, or the

Parliament must be moved to put it right."

"And in the meantime," said the Abbot, "what will become of this

consecrated place, and of its sacred belongings? We have an

inventory of every valuable thing. If we go at noon will your

Excellencies sign a copy of it, to remain in our hands?"

"They are not yours," squeaked the Viscount in greedy 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, Senhor Visconde, that

Portugal does not lose them," the Abbot answered.

A grunt of delight came from the soldiery thronging the cell doorway.

The Abbot took advantage of it to close the interview.

"Senhores," he said, "we will exchange our final answers to-morrow

morning, after High Mass, at eleven o'clock. Till then these men

will be ordered, no doubt, to respect our house and the life we lead

in it. The guest-house is being prepared. I wish your Excellencies

good-night."

The Viscount of Ponte Quebrada framed an answer, but as he glanced at

the Abbot's face the words froze on 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 ordered off to the

guest-house?" the Viscount began as they regained the vestibule.

"I prefer it," said the captain curtly. "Hi, Ferreira, you and Pirez

and Pedro Telles will come with us. Carvalho, I leave you in charge

of the monastery. Place four guards at the sacristy door and two at

each outlet. Understand, no monk must be allowed to lock or unlock

any door, or gate, or cupboard, or to go outside; no, not even the

Prior or the Abbot himself. If they want to say their prayers in the

chapel, they may: but watch them yourself and see that nothing is

taken or hidden. Treat them with complete respect: but if there is

any sign of trouble, send for me on the instant."

As soon as he had approved Carvalho's choice of sentries the captain

strode out into the open air without another word to the Viscount. A

dozen paces ahead went a lay-brother with a lantern, Ferreira and

Pirez and Telles crowding behind him. A moment later the little

nobleman was puffing at the captain's side. The captain quickened

his pace by artful but unmistakable degrees until the nobleman could

only keep up with him by a succession of little runs. Needing all

his breath for this exercise, he could not talk.

The guest-house was not much more than fifty years old. An

aristocratic abbot had built it for the accommodation of his too

numerous visitors, whose comings and goings had excessively disturbed

the peace of the cloister. It was an oblong building of granite,

standing high in a clearing. From its moss-grown terrace there was a

view by daylight of the monastery's whole domain, of the plain

beyond, and of the Atlantic filling all the West.

There were plentiful lights in the best rooms of the guest-house, and

broad pans of charcoal burning cosily on the floors. Even for their

evictors the Prior and Abbot were keeping up the best traditions of

monkish hospitality. Two bottles of wine--one red, one white--stood

on a table, flanked by a giant loaf, a goat's-milk cheese, and a

basket of black cherries. An iron pot of soup exhaled comfortable

odors from a brazier near the window.

"Is this stuff all right?" sniffed the Viscount the moment they were

alone.

The captain arched his brows.

"I mean," explained the other, "is it safe? One has heard of such

things as poisons."

"Your Excellency is not obliged to touch it," the captain answered.

He emptied half a bottle of red wine into a coarse glass and drank it

at a single draught. Then he broke off a hunk of bread and fell upon

his soup. The civilian followed his example. For a Viscount he ate

a little unpleasantly.

"About this affair down there," began the captain brusquely 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 make terms."

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

"Questions!" cried the Viscount in a fury; "the Abbot's questions!

The Abbot's insults, you mean."

Weighing his words and maintaining his politeness with an effort the

captain said:

"My orders are to go to almost any extremity rather than use force

against these monks. And on the whole we have succeeded better than

I hoped. If we permit the Abbot to save his face, he will evacuate

the position to-morrow, and will fight only in Lisbon to regain it.

At the same time I quite understand that your Excellency can hardly

answer questions which sound like insults. But he can leave it all

to me. It can do no harm to sign their inventory; and, with due

permission, I assure the Abbot that the noble Visconde de Ponte

Quebrada has not the faintest idea of dealing with the monastery for

his own ends. At noon they will go."

The Viscount looked searchingly at the captain across the crumbs and

rinds. The captain looked no less searchingly at the Viscount. Each

saw a certain distance into the other's mind.

"Captain," said the Viscount at last, "as that ghastly old corpse of

an Abbot was impudent enough to observe, I am not a born Portuguese.

Give me leave to drop this flummery of 'Excellency,' and all the rest

of it, so that we can talk openly for five minutes. About this

inventory. Some of the things are valuable. The whole lot might be

worth nearly a thousand pounds."

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

The Viscount pricked up his ears: but detecting nothing ironical or

suspicious in the captain's voice or expression, he continued:

"Say a round thousand. Out of that the Government must 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 past pilferings from the

noble purse. This the Viscount knew; for he would never have dared

to depend on his face-reading powers alone. Yet in spite of the

absence of witnesses, he was taking a certain risk, and he awaited

the captain's answer nervously. It came without much delay:

"I draw the line somewhere," said the captain. "I don't rob

churches. Besides," he added in a contemptuous outburst, "I believe

in honor, even among thieves. I'm not a fool. The stuff is worth

five thousand pounds if it's worth a penny."

The Viscount fidgeted about miserably, crumbling up bread. "Not

five," he whined. "Say two thousand seven hundred. Or three at the

outside. Now we'll suppose--"

"Senhor Visconde de Ponte Quebrada, we will suppose nothing,"

retorted the captain, getting up in disgust. "I don't know what you

are yourself: but damn it all, I'm a Christian. Will you sign that

inventory ... or shall I? And what is your answer on your honor--if

you've got any--to the Abbot?"

The Viscount climbed off his chair and struck an attitude.

"You are armed to the teeth, while I am defenseless," he said

grandly, "but I will not brook these insults. 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 niggers? Who is it

that protects traitors? 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 and burst forth like a tide

of molten lava. He seized the Viscount's velvet collar as if it had

been the scruff of 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: and in five seconds he

had his victim groveling on the floor. "Take those words back, and

ask my pardon, here and now, on your knees, before I wring your neck."

"I ... take them back. I ... I beg your pardon," moaned the Viscount.

He was about to rise when the captain dropped a heavy hand on his

shoulder and forced him down again.

"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 and he shall settle it

between you. But mark. Don't try revenge. If anything goes wrong

with me in Lisbon--with my promotion, with my career--I sha'n't let

you off a second time, you blackguard. Even if it's some other man's

intrigue, it's your dirty neck I shall come and wring. If you want

to be on the safe side you'd better see to it that I'm major next

week and colonel before next year is out. You son of a pig, get up!"

IV

When the door of his cell had fairly closed behind the captain and

the Viscount, the Abbot made a sign that all should gather round him.

For eight months he had not been seen in choir, and for many days

disease and weakness had imprisoned him in his bed; but, as his

spiritual family pressed forward, a measure of strength returned to

him. Perhaps it was the excitement; perhaps it was supernatural

assistance. He rose slowly to his feet and, leaning on his crozier,

began:

"_Carissimi, nolite peregrinari in fervore, qui ad tentationem vobis

fit, quasi novi aliquid contingat: sed communicantes Christi

passionibus gaudete, ut in revelatione gloriae ejus gaudeatis

exsultantes._"

The Abbot's eye rested upon Brother Cypriano, the least lettered of

the lay-monks, and, for Brother Cypriano's benefit, he sought to turn

St. Peter's words into the vernacular.

"'Most beloved, do not think strange this fiery trial which comes to

try you, as if some new thing were happening to you: but, sharing in

the sufferings of Christ, rejoice, so that at the revelation of his

glory you may rejoice with great joy.'"

His translation did not wholly satisfy the Abbot, and he sought to

mend it. "_Nolite peregrinari_," he repeated. "Brother Cypriano, a

peregrinus is one who comes from a foreign land. If a _peregrinus_

from China should land in Portugal, he would find many of our most

familiar customs new and strange. _Nolite peregrinari_. It is as

though Saint Peter would say to us all to-night: 'My beloved, men are

smiting you and driving you forth from your only shelter. Why are

you surprised? Do not stand like _peregrini_ gaping and staring, as

Greeks might gape and stare at Barbarians. This is not a strange

thing: it is the old way, the natural way of the world with our Lord

and with his own.' If He suffered, shall not we suffer? _Non est

servus major domino suo_: 'A servant is not greater than his Lord.'

Yes, Saint Peter, after all, is only echoing our divine Lord's own

words. _Beati estis cum maledixerint vobis, et persecuti vos

fuerint, et dixerint omne malum adversum vos mentientes, propter me:

gaudete et exsultate quoniam merces vestra copiosa est in coelis: sic

enim persecuti sunt prophetas qui fuerunt ante vos_. 'Blessed are ye

when they shall revile you and shall persecute you, and shall falsely

speak all that is evil against you for My sake: be glad and rejoice,

for abundant is your reward in heaven; for so they persecuted the

prophets which were before you.'"

The aged man's voice became almost sonorous as he rolled forth the

Latin words. He so pronounced the vowels that one thought of bells,

some silvern, some of bronze. Most of his hearers had extinguished

the lamps and candles which they still held in their hands: but here

and there a flame still flickered. Unconsciously they had fallen

into such groups and attitudes that the sable monks, with the white

and golden Abbot in their midst, might have stepped down from some

painted and gilded altar-piece of the fourteenth century. For a

brief spell the venerable Abbot continued comforting his children,

striving to subdue their worldly anger and to lift their dire trouble

to the height of the Cross. He knew the whole of the New Testament

by heart, in Latin, and as he had begun his exhortation with words of

Saint Peter, he went on quoting from the letters of that apostle only.

"_Et quis est qui vobis noceat?_" he demanded. "'Who is he that can

hurt you?' _Humiliamini sub potenti manu Dei, ut vos exaltet in

tempore visitationis; omnem sollicitudinem vestram projicientes in

eum, quoniam ipsi cura est de vobis_. 'Humble yourself under God's

mighty hand, that He may exalt you in the time of visitation; casting

upon Him all your care, because He careth for you.'"

Growing fatigued at last, he sat down and became fully conscious for

the first time of his miter and crozier and cope. Praying Father

Isidoro to divest him of this magnificence, he seemed to recover

strength again as he faced the fathers clad simply in his habit with

a gold cross upon his breast. With the laying aside of his pomps his

manner became more intimate and free.

"I have been preparing," he said, "for this blow. The characters of

those men who have struck us left me little hope. Dom Pedro's

advisers are taking a leaf from the book of the English King Henry

the Eighth. They want money so as to carry on a spendthrift

government, and they want lands and great houses so as to create a

new aristocracy which will maintain them in power. Therefore the

monasteries must be besmirched by false accusations and God must be

robbed."

"But, my father, we shall resist," broke out Brother Cypriano,

clenching his enormous hands.

The Abbot shook his head sadly.

"No," he said, "there can only be one end. We are men of peace, not

of blood. In my weakness and sickness our Lord has seemed to open my

eyes to the future. Saint Peter's words might be mine: _Certus quod

velox est deposito tabernaculi mei secundum quod et Dominus noster

Jesus Christus significavit mihi_. I am 'certain that the laying

down of my tabernacle is at hand, as our Lord Jesus Christ also hath

signified to me.' Fathers and brethren, to-morrow will see the end

of this community. For more than three hundred years Saint

Benedict's children have sought to live by his Holy Rule on this

spot; but to-morrow ends all. We can do no more than frustrate the

sacrilegious greed of this foreign Visconde and save our patrimony

for Portugal."

Taken by themselves the Abbot's words would not have stifled

discussion, and even the unconditional obedience they owed to him

would not have held back the more militant monks from trying to

defeat his will. But the unearthly light in the old man's eyes,

which had so terrified the Viscount, beamed forth upon these men like

a pillar of fire guiding them in God's way. Even the burly and

unmystical Cypriano yielded to the spell. Accordingly no one felt

that there was anything dictatorial in the Abbot's procedure when he

took their assent for granted and passed quietly on to arrange the

details of the community's last hours beneath its historic roofs.

After the Prior, the Cellarer, and two other monks had been

consulted, it was agreed that the life of the monastery should

proceed as if nothing had happened. Conformably to the Holy Rule,

Matins were appointed to be sung at about two o'clock, so that Lauds

could follow at break of day. In the order of the monks' Low Masses

no alteration was made: but, for the High Mass, the Abbot asked all

to pray that he might be given strength to pontificate. As for the

inventory, it was decided to adhere to the Abbot's demands. Finally,

the tiny town of Navares, four leagues away, was chosen as the first

night's shelter after the exodus. In Navares the Cellarer had a

kinsman, a corn-merchant, in whose house and barns some sort of

lodgings could be found.

When the Abbot was lain down at last on his hard and narrow bed, the

Prior would have had the throng withdraw: but the Abbot forbade him.

He wished to speak, he said, to all the fathers and brothers in turn.

One by one the monks knelt down beside the bed and kissed the wasted

hand with love and reverence; and to each and every one he spoke some

word of affectionate encouragement or counsel, and humbly asked their

prayers.

Antonio was the last of the choir-monks to come forward. As he knelt

down a hush fell upon all. Amidst the general affliction they had

lacked time to think of Antonio's bitter trial: but when the Abbot

spoke he put the thoughts of all into words.

"Father Antonio," he said, laying his old white hand on the young

monk's curling black hair, "may our Lady of Perpetual Succor comfort

you. For the present God does not suffer you to say your first Mass.

But remember Saint Ignatius of Loyola, who, of his own will, prepared

himself for a year before he presumed to offer the holy sacrifice.

Your great day will come; and when it shall dawn, I pray you to offer

that first Mass for my poor soul and for all who are standing here."

Antonio, deeply moved, was about to rise: but, as he lifted his head,

he felt the Abbot's hand suddenly gripping his arm with superhuman

strength. At the same time he saw the benign light which had beamed

from the old eyes grow brighter and brighter, till the Abbot'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

last the Abbot's voice began playing upon the tense silence, 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. God clears my eyes. Long years must

pass away; but I see our chapel swept and garnished. I see Antonio

sitting once more in choir, doing the Work of God in his old place.

I see him standing before the high altar. I see him holding up our

great chalice. I see him offering the Holy Sacrifice for us all.

Rejoice."

He ceased; and while all were still marveling at his prophecy the

light quickly faded from the prophet's face. With closed eyes he

sank wearily back upon his hard pillow. The Prior made a sign.

Father Isidoro and a lay-brother remained to tend the sufferer; and,

with full hearts and moving lips, the other monks passed out of the

chamber one by one.

V

The short night passed without any grave disorder. Indeed, only two

light conflicts occurred. During Matins one of Carvalho's guards

fell asleep on the floor of the nave, and his unseemly snoring would

have hindered the general devotion if the giant Brother Cypriano had

not picked up the slumberer and carried him out into the cloister as

easily as he would have carried a little child. The other conflict,

which was only settled by dragging the captain from his bed at the

guest-house, broke out soon after sunrise, when the Brethren entered

the sacristy to prepare for serving the Fathers' Masses. At first

Carvalho and his men stoutly refused to allow a single chalice or

paten or vestment to be brought out of the drawers and cupboards: but

the Prior had stood by the community's rights and the captain gave

way.

Never before, in the oldest monk's memory, had the Hours been so

fervently recited. Words which had become trite through thousands of

repetitions glowed again with timely meaning. For instance, at the

beginning of Matins, the verse "O God, incline unto mine aid, O Lord

make haste to help me" burst forth with passionate entreaty. The

same thought was in every mind. In ten hours it would be noon: the

Lord must make haste indeed. As for the Lord's Prayer every clause

of it searched the monks' hearts. God's kingdom seemed to be

departing: but they said, "Thy kingdom come." With food and shelter

both uncertain they pleaded, "Give us this day our daily bread." The

squat Viscount's greedy face rose up before them all: yet they strove

after sincerity when they said, "As we forgive them that trespass

against us." As directed by the Holy Rule this petition was breathed

silently: but it was aloud that they cried, "Deliver us from evil."

Despite their exaltation and their quickened faith, all were amazed

when the Abbot sent word that their loving prayers had been answered

and that he felt strong enough to pontificate at the High Mass.

After Prime he called Antonio to his cell that he might speak with

him alone. When the door was shut the young priest was about to

kneel: but the Abbot prevented him.

"Rather," he said, speaking with the utmost solemnity, "ought I to

kneel, Father Antonio, to you. God and our holy father Saint

Benedict have called you to a glorious work. It is yours to lead our

Order back to this place. But not yet. Be patient. Be humble. Be

prudent. Keep your own counsel. Wait for the guidance of God."

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

"Whither God shall guide you I do not know," the Abbot continued.

"Perhaps through dark and stony places. It may even be that for long

years you will be unable to exercise your priesthood and to follow up

your religious life. But, if such should be His trial of you,

remember this. Our blessed Lord Himself did not break the Bread and

take the Cup until the night before He died. Go in peace."

Throughout the High Mass the flame burned ever more and more hotly in

Antonio's breast. He seemed, like Saint Teresa, to have the very

stuff of his heart on fire. From the Introit to the Communion he

duly sang every note that belonged to his duty; but, as the sacred

mysteries proceeded, he felt as if only his body remained on the

earth, and that his spirit was dwelling with the Abbot's in a

supernal world of pure ecstasy.

The Viscount, the captain, and half the soldiers were present at the

Mass, some of them assisting with devotion. They salved their

consciences by reminding themselves that the Almighty was more

powerful than the Government in Lisbon, and that He could be left to

look after His own business. As for the Viscount and the captain, in

some amazing fashion they had made up their quarrel of the night

before, and it was evident that a mysterious understanding existed

between them. As the Mass neared its close their nervousness could

not be concealed. After all, the soldiers were Catholics; for even

the most irreligious of them would not wish to die without a priest.

The Viscount repeatedly whispered to the captain his fear that the

Abbot was meditating a coup, and that he would suddenly win a strong

bodyguard to his defense by threatening the despoilers with

excommunication.

After the last gospel the Abbot advanced and stood leaning 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 the words of Jeremias:

"_Hereditas nostra versa est ad alienos; domus nostrae ad

extraneos._"*

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

After a long pause he stretched out a fatherly hand and pleaded in

the words of Saint Peter:

"_Et ipsi tamquam lapides vivi superaedificamini, domus spiritualis,

sacerdotium sanctum, offerre spirituales hostias acceptabiles Deo per

Jesum Christum._"*

* "Be ye also as living stones built up, a spiritual house, a holy

priesthood, to offer up spiritual sacrifices, acceptable to God by

Jesus Christ."

That was all. But it was too much for the Viscount and the captain.

The captain's Latin was restricted to a confused recollection of an

assertion of Julius Cæsar's to 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 his thanksgiving, they laid

their puzzled heads together, wondering what secret words of command

he had spoken to his followers.

It was five minutes to eleven.

"You saw that chalice?" whispered the Viscount. "There's another

like it, only bigger. The rubies are from India. They're Burmese.

They came through Goa from the hoard of some Indian king or other. I

know their whole history."

He was developing a humbugging tale about the difficulty of marketing

large rubies for their full value when a gong-like sound, rich and

deep, stopped him short. It was the great bell of the abbey which

had been ungeared during the Abbot's illness. Ten more strokes

slowly followed.

"Eleven o'clock," said the captain. But nothing happened and nobody

appeared. The Viscount and he exchanged nervous glances.

A minute later Carvalho entered and announced that the community was

assembled, with the Abbot at its head, in the paved space which

fronted the chapel. The captain at once ordered that all the

soldiers, save the sacristy guards, should fall in and attend him on

the same spot.

At five minutes past eleven Carvalho's words of command had ceased

echoing through the cloisters, and the men's heels were already

resounding on the stones outside. Some one threw open the western

doors of the chapel, and a wave of warm air, heavy with the scent of

orange-blossom, surged into the cool dimness to mingle itself with

the lingering fragrance of the incense. The captain looked out. He

could see the monks, all in black, drawn up in two lines behind the

Abbot, and, facing them, his own troopers, dismounted and unkempt.

The captain strode forth boldly into the bright sunshine, and the

Abbot came forward a step to meet him. It was like an encounter of

two old-world champions for single combat, with their little armies

looking on. They exchanged salutations punctiliously.

As the Viscount pottered up in the captain's rear the Prior took a

place beside the Abbot, and began to speak in such far-ringing tones

that the soldiers twenty yards away could hear every syllable.

"His most illustrious Reverence the Lord Abbot," he said, "charges me

to give your Excellencies his answer and the answer of this

community. We cannot give up these holy places either to Portugal or

to any man within her borders: because they are not ours to give. If

we must abandon our patrimony for a while, we shall do so under

protest against this robbing of God and of the faithful departed.

But there are limits to our meekness. We are Portuguese men as well

as Catholic monks, and we shall not surrender this abbey to your

Excellencies until the inventory has been signed and delivered."

To the consternation of the more aged and timid monks the captain

made a gesture of scorn. All his words and actions the night before

had encouraged them to hope that he would prove their stanchest ally

against the Viscount. They did not know and could not guess that he

had bartered away the remains of his honor for a promise of twelve

hundred and fifty English pounds.

"And if we refuse?" he said. "If the noble Viscount and 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 rob their masters on

earth as well as their Master in heaven. We will see to it that your

Excellencies, as well as ourselves, obey this decree. Portugal shall

not be cheated. Let the inventory be signed and we will go forth

without strife to regain our rights elsewhere. Peace is our

watchword, and we are vowed to poverty. But let your Excellencies

refuse--"

He made a long pause, and only when the suspense had become

intolerable did he add in ringing tones:

"Then these brave men who have bled for Portugal will do their duty.

They are not hirelings: they are volunteers and patriots. Senhor

captain, do not deceive yourself. Men are not born in cowls. Under

Wellington I led Portuguese troops into fourteen battles. Your men

love Portugal, and they do not hate God. I have only to give the

word and more than half of them will be mine. Here is the inventory

and here are pens and ink. Your Excellencies will verify it--and

sign."

Two lay brethren approached carrying a deal table, upon which Father

Sebastian laid two copies of the inventory, an earthenware inkstand

and a bundle of goose-quills. At the same time Brother Cypriano bore

forward a carved chair, in which the Abbot sat down.

Ungovernable rage set fire to the captain's wits at the 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

savagely towards his seducer, and saw with disgust that the Viscount,

whose sense of dignity was nearly as small as 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 of importance and shut

up his umbrella. But before he could speak a word the guffaw which

had so much disconcerted and offended him the night before in the

vestibule broke again from one of the soldiers. As the Prior had

said, these men were not mercenaries. Their ranks comprised a

salt-winner from Aveiro, the two sons of a Lisbon saddler, a

fisherman from Figueira da Foz, two quarrymen from the Minho, and a

score or so of peasants from the Beiras: but one and all of them had

something of the fidalgo in his air, and one and all of them was

dimly conscious of the upstart Viscount's low breeding.

The guffaw was not the worst. Although the troopers still stood at

attention, the captain's sharp ears detected mutterings and

whisperings. During the morning the men had debated among themselves

the motives of the Viscount for risking his neck on horseback in

order to do work which pertained to a sheriff's officer, and they had

decided that the Abbot's demand was prudent, patriotic and just.

Again, the hospitality of the Cellarer, the impressive rites in the

chapel, and, above all, the holiness of the Abbot had increased their

distaste for the work they were come to do.

"Our final word--" began the Viscount, pitching high his tin-whistle

voice. But the captain came to his senses in time. He seized the

little man's fat arm angrily and hissed in his ear:

"You cursed fool, be quiet. Wait." And, in a loud voice, 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 the inventory, the Prior

conducted his glowering visitors to the sacristy. The Blessed

Sacrament had already been removed: but he seemed to shrink from

polluting the chapel with their presence, and therefore he chose a

roundabout route. Passing through the cloisters he led the way

through the kitchen.

As he entered the lofty room the Viscount, despite his chagrin, could

not repress a cry of admiration. A dado of blue and white tiles ran

all round to a height of six feet; and, above, the lime-washed walls

were as white as the purest snow, save where the word _Pax_ had been

painted upon them in shapely letters of blue. Above the fireplace,

which was in the middle of the room, rose a canopy of burnished

copper, so elongated that it pierced the vaulted roof. This was the

chimney. But the great surprise was a rivulet of clear water which

rushed down a stone channel the whole length of the room. Centuries

before, the monks had diverted a mountain stream from its bed, and

ever since, night and day, winter and summer, the cheerful waters had

gone on leaping and singing through the great white hall. Near its

egress, at the north-west corner of the kitchen, the rivulet ran

through a square frame of perforated boards. Like a similar

contrivance in the vast and famous abbey of Alcobaça this frame

formed a place of storage for a few freshwater fish, so that the

refectory tables should not go unfurnished even when the Atlantic

storms kept the monks' boat idle.

But the Prior was not in a mood to act as cicerone to sightseers, and

he strode on until the sacristy was reached. Carvalho's guards were

at their posts, and they had been joined by four monks who had come

directly through the chapel. Among them were Sebastian and Antonio.

The sacristy was dustless and spotless; and when the cupboards were

opened every inch of embroidery and every ounce of plate were found

in their places as described in the inventory. At the sight of the

gold and silver and precious stones the Viscount's eyes glittered

like glass beads. He would have taken the holy vessels in his fat

hands to fondle them had not the Prior sternly repelled him. By way

of revenge, as well as to mislead the captain, the Viscount then set

himself to depreciate everything. The triptych was not Limoges, and

he had his doubts about the rubies. The vestments were falling to

pieces. As for the Gran Vasco, who was Gran Vasco, after all? He

was a painter whom not one collector in a thousand had ever heard of.

Besides, the painting was certainly a copy.

To these remarks the Prior did not pay the smallest heed. When

everything had been verified, he kissed with exceeding reverence a

reliquary containing the relics of martyrs who had suffered for the

Church. Then he replaced this last treasure on its shelf and locked

the cupboard. The captain held out his hand for 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 drew the 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. We tell them how these fellows

threatened resistance and tried to win over my soldiers. We tell

them how the Abbot is an old miser doting on the gold and silver;

that we fear a raid of their sympathizers in force; and that we have

thought it wise to bury the treasure. We ask them to send a lock-up

van and twenty more men to bring it away. And meanwhile..."

"Yes. Meanwhile..." repeated the Viscount, beaming and chuckling.

"Meanwhile... By the way, you see these tiles on the walls?"

Yes, the captain saw them. The walls of the oblong nave were almost

entirely clothed with _azulejos_, or blue-and-white tiles. The

multitudinous squares formed large pictures crowded with life-size

figures.

"If we could get them down some day from the walls," murmured the

Viscount, "I know an Englishman who would pay a thousand pounds for

them."

He was interrupted by Brother Cypriano, who demanded 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 chapel directly into the paved space.

The captain looked haggard, but the Viscount was radiant.

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

Forgetting himself in his elation, he began to sign the name of his

humble days: but he quickly scratched out the half-written word and

substituted his grandiose signature as Visconde de Ponte Quebrada.

Then he handed the quill to the morose captain, who slowly subscribed

his name.

"There!" cried the Viscount, picking up the great iron keys of the

abbey and the small steel keys of the sacristy cupboard. "Now I hope

everybody is satisfied. I wish your Reverences a pleasant journey."

VI

The big bell banged noon. In front of the chapel Saint Benedict's

heavy-hearted sons were ready to depart. Only Brother Cypriano was

absent.

No one stirred. The captain glanced round with new anxiety. But his

suspense did not last long. A lighter bell smote through the dull

resoundings of the great gong. It was Brother Cypriano ringing the

Angelus. With bowed heads the monks repeated the Angelic Salutation.

The soldiers and the captain uncovered: and, with an awkward grab at

the brim of his sombrero, even the Viscount made a show of following

their example.

This last act of faith being ended, the Abbot made a sign, and two of

the brethren approached him with a litter. The old man's miraculous

tide of vitality was ebbing as fast as it had flowed, and the captain

knew that, in the circumstances, the Minister in Lisbon would not

approve of this indecent haste. But he had involved himself too

deeply with the Viscount to draw back, and it was essential to his

plans that the whole monastic garrison should vacate their barracks

without delay. Therefore he contented himself with uttering a string

of regrets which nobody heeded.

It was a quarter-past twelve when the procession started. The monks

went forth two and two, like the Seventy in the gospel. At their

head walked the Prior and the Cellarer, who had much to discuss

concerning ways and means. The Abbot's litter was borne at first by

Father Isidore and Father Antonio. Brother Cypriano and the other

lay-monks brought up the rear. They led five pack-mules, whose

burdens contained little more than the monks' winter shoes and

habits, and a blanket for each one. The Prior had not asked leave to

take either the mules or their loads, but the captain had not raised

any objection. As for their personal belongings, the fathers and

brethren seemed to be almost literally fulfilling the Holy Rule, and

to be carrying away almost nothing of their own. Each monk held a

small bundle, in which the four volumes of his breviary were the

principal item.

They wound down the paved way without looking back. The Viscount

grinned and rubbed his hands. Soon the black files were lost to

sight in the avenue of camellias, and a few minutes afterwards the

strident grinding of iron on iron proclaimed their arrival at the

rusty gate.

The captain gave a signal to Carvalho, whose men had been busy

saddling their horses, and immediately a detachment twenty strong

cantered after the 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've got rid of half these

prying peasants. But come, we haven't sampled the cellar. And I

could eat a couple of those fat trout."

The captain flung aside his uncomfortable thoughts and agreed, with

an oath, to a carouse. The pair plunged into the cool corridors, to

ransack the larder with small success.

Meanwhile the unpitiful sun was beating on the monks' heads and on

the Abbot's rude litter. The cruel ball of fire hung in a dome of so

hard a blue that it 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 on the monks' rear,

were the first to surrender. Riding forward to the head of the

train, Carvalho in person suggested that both drivers and driven

should encamp amicably in a neighboring grove of eucalyptus until the

fiercest heat had passed. The Prior agreed.

Of all the eucalyptus groves in Portugal, the grove which the

travelers entered was one of the oldest and most grandly grown. Just

above it a small pine wood offered a deeper and cooler shade, and a

rapid brook made the oasis complete. Almost immediately some of the

soldiers began to fraternize with the monks, pressing upon them dark

_broas_ baked from maize and rye, and handing round the wine-skins.

The monks, in their turn, offered salt fish, which the soldiers

joyfully ate quite raw. After the repast the soldiers flung

themselves down full length to sleep upon the pine-needles; and

although the monks produced their breviaries and tried to say the

Office, ere long most of them succumbed to drowsiness.

Antonio was wide awake. His share of the frail old Abbot's weight

had seemed not much more than a feather to his youthful strength. He

looked round. The mules and horses were browsing happily in the lush

herbage. Carvalho and a corporal were spelling out some papers in

low tones. The Cellarer and the Prior were equally engrossed in

writing and figuring. Under the densest pine tree Father Isidore and

Father Sebastian were keeping vigil over the sleeping Abbot.

The young monk sauntered eastward, following up the course of the

stream. He suspected that its dancing waters were those which had

flowed through the monastery kitchen, and a few minutes' breasting of

the pine-crowded slope proved that he was right. From the top of the

knoll he could make out the dazzling white front of the chapel,

framed in dark granite, and he could hear the dull boom of the great

bell striking two o'clock.

At the foot of the knoll, half hidden in verdure, some dilapidated

buildings huddled on the banks of the rivulet. He descended to

explore them. The windows of the little house were broken, and weeds

choked the garden. There were also two barns, raised on stone

pillars to thwart the rats, a byre, a threshing floor, and a little

orangery in full blossom. Apparently many years had slipped by since

the place was inhabited.

Having satisfied his curiosity Antonio was turning away when a

thought struck him. He approached the buildings again and examined

them much more closely. Then he took his resolution. With his eyes

fixed on the glittering white chapel, which shone down upon him like

the Bride of the Lamb, he knelt in the long grass and repeated the

Benedictine prayer, _Excita Domine_. His prayer done, he remained a

few minutes in meditation before he sought his brethren.

Regaining the knoll's top and beginning to descend, Antonio found

that the scene had changed for the worse. The attitudes of some of

his drowsy companions were neither dignified nor picturesque. They

were wearing their worst tunics for the journey, and the grey dust

from the road did not improve the rusty black of the garments. Their

bundles looked untidy and paltry. More disenchanting still, some of

the monks who were still awake seemed to have descended from their

exaltation and to be sourly grumbling together over their

misfortunes; while the faces of the Prior and the Cellarer shewed

that they were still deeply debating the community's

creature-comforts.

For a moment Antonio's enthusiastic faith was shocked and chilled.

Was this cause worthy, after all, of the bitter sacrifice he had

resolved to make? But his doubt vanished in an instant in the light

of a thought which came to him as if from heaven. He thought of the

great flights, the great martyrdoms, and understood that if he could

have been a looker-on at them all, he would have seen the jewel of

faithful love shining out from a dull alloy. Saint Benedict's flight

from Subiaco to Monte Cassino, the martyrdom of Saint Laurence--no

doubt even these holy happenings had had their ugly elements, their

sordid accompaniments. Their realities did not correspond with the

idealized versions of stately altar-pieces, and stained glass, and

illuminated parchments, and statuary. More: he reminded himself

that, according to human standards, even his divine Master had passed

poorly from a mean birth to a base death. He recalled the words of

Isaias, _Non est species ei, neque decor; et vidimus eum et non erat

aspectus et desideravimus eum_: "There is no beauty in him nor

comeliness; and we have seen him, and there was no sightliness that

we should desire him."

VII

Two miles outside Navares a hurrying horseman almost collided with

the head of the monks' procession. He turned out to be a courier

from Lisbon with an urgent letter for the Prior.

Pleased to be spared the rest of the journey to the monastery, and

still better pleased with the broad coin which the Cellarer gave him

from the community's scanty purse, the messenger delivered his

package and was about to set his horse's head homewards, without

inquiring what the monks' exodus might mean, when Carvalho bade him

halt.

"Your Reverence," said Carvalho to the Prior none too respectfully,

"I have no orders to stop letters, but I have positive orders that

your Reverences must not attempt to harangue the people of Navares.

And I have further orders that your Reverences must not remain in

Navares beyond noon to-morrow. I am to conduct all who wish it to

Lisbon, where the Government will settle the matter of the pensions

of your Reverences as soon as possible."

He showed the Prior two more sheets from the Viscount's inexhaustible

store of papers in support of his announcement. For a moment the

Prior lost his self-control.

"Cur!" he said.

Carvalho bowed, with the scornful smile of borrowed power towards

fallen greatness, and rode off to dispose his men in two extended

files, which could, if necessary, envelop the monks completely. The

Prior also went back along the line, briefly telling the news to each

pair of monks and bidding them be ready for a council in their

lodging at Navares.

As the Cellarer's kinsman, the Navares corn-merchant, lived on the

outskirts of the town, the shelter of his house was gained before

news of the monks' arrival had reached the townspeople. The

corn-merchant was a convinced Liberal, and something of an

anti-clerical: but he received the Cellarer's brethren with hearty

sympathy and lavish hospitality. He gave up to the Abbot his own

room. The beds of clean straw which he caused to be made along the

whole length of a newly lime-washed granary were softer than the

mattresses at the monastery, and his supper of soup and salt fish and

cheese and wine was appetizing 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 to the monks' discussions.

"Very well," shouted Carvalho after the Cellarer had convinced him

that his precious papers gave him no right to violate a private

domicile, "I go: but I forbid their Reverences to hold any kind of

assembly."

"Their Reverences," retorted the corn-merchant, who feared man even

less than he feared God, "will do as they please so long as they are

in my house. As for your Worship, he will kindly walk out of it."

After supper the council began. _Veni Creator Spiritus_ was sung.

Then the Prior rose, with the letter from Lisbon in his hand, and

said.

"Dear Fathers and Brethren. God help us to bear our many sorrows.

The courier has brought bad news.

"For some reason, which the Visconde de Ponte Quebrada could explain,

our house was the first to be seized. But before many days have

passed the spoilers will possess themselves of all the houses of our

Order. We are forbidden to take counsel with any other community of

outcast religious, or to establish ourselves in new houses. Without

God's help this is the end of the Portuguese Benedictine congregation.

"From man we have nothing to hope. The Government is one of bad

faith. In my hand I have the proofs that the earlier laws of this

Spring were shams. All the time it was intended to suppress the

Orders entirely: but the Government dared not let the people see the

thick end of the wedge. They have revealed it at last with fear and

trembling. Their Bill was fathered upon one Minister alone, the

Senhor Joaquim d'Aguiar. It was arranged that, in the event of

public indignation, the other Ministers were to repudiate openly both

the Senhor d'Aguiar and his Bill, although, in secret, it was their

joint act and deed. Portugal is being governed in a poisonous mist

of tricks and lies.

"But why does the Portuguese people suffer God to be robbed and His

servants thrown into the highway without crowding to the rescue?

Alas, dear Fathers and Brethren, I know the answer. Our poor land is

sick of war: but there is a deeper reason why even the most fervent

Catholics will not unsheath the sword again in our defense. Dom

Miguel deceived them. Just as Dom Pedro has made a sham of

Liberalism, so Dom Miguel has made a sham of piety. Dom Miguel

raised the cry of 'Throne and Altar.' But he cared only for the

Throne. If Saint Michael and all the angels should descend to earth

in our defense, the Catholics of Portugal might join their banners:

but the Portuguese Catholics will not believe again in any merely

human leader. They remember Evora Monte.

"More: in many lands this tyranny and treachery of the Government

will be applauded and upheld. Many lands have lent the Emperor Pedro

money, and they claim the right to influence him in secret. The

Protestants of England will rejoice in our downfall because we are

Catholics and monks: the atheists and Jews of France and the Low

Countries because we are Christians. The oppression of monks will

spread. Spain, France, even Italy, will suffer. _Pater dimitte

illis; non enim sciunt quid faciunt_: 'Father, forgive them; they

know not what they do.'"

The long room was growing dimmer while the Prior was speaking, and

when he had finished he could hardly see the features of his

auditors. For two or three long minutes silence blended itself with

the dusk. The livelier-minded among the monks sat still because they

felt that the Prior's words were all too true, while the simpler

souls were cowed and hushed by the splintering of their last props of

hope.

The Prior, not wishing to impose his bare opinions upon the

community, went to the window and read aloud the long and clear

letter from Lisbon which a devout layman had made so much haste to

despatch. At the end of his reading he called for candles; and, as

soon as they were brought, he threw the council open.

No one spoke. All eyes were fixed on Antonio, all ears were waiting

for his words. Amidst the prosaic discomforts of their hot march the

monks had seen the young priest merely as one more dusty and

perspiring exile: but, after the speech of the Prior, they recovered

some of the mood in which they had listened to the Abbot's prophecy

the night before. The scene had a solemnity of its own. Instead of

carved stalls the monks sat on boxes, casks, and heaps of straw: but

the few candles, casting vague shadows of black-robed figures upon

the death-white walls, filled the mind with bodings of supernatural

mystery. One and all gazed upon Antonio's face, fully persuaded that

he would speak and ready to obey.

Antonio, becoming conscious of their expectation, flushed and

fastened his eyes upon the ground. The Prior, putting into words the

general feeling, said gently:

"Father Antonio, be not afraid. What said our Father Saint Benedict

in the Holy Rule? _Ideo autem omnes ad consilium vocari diximus;

quia saepe juniori Dominus revelat quod melius est_: 'We have

ordained that all be called to Council, because it is often to the

youngest 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 to Antonio like so many hands,

great and small, held out hungrily for his words. Besides, was it

not disloyal, mean, unbrotherly, to lock away a secret from his

brethren? At this thought the hands came searching and plucking in

his very breast. But the heavenly light, which had been burning like

a bright lamp within him all day long, once more showed him his duty.

He knew that among the monks were old men of enfeebled mind and

weakened will, whose worn wits would not be proof against the artful

pryings and questionings of spies, and that he had no right to burden

them with a secret they could not keep. Yet this was a minor

consideration. The supreme fact was that God was saying to him,

"Hold thy peace."

Only when the silence had become unbearable did Antonio answer:

"Father Prior, indulge me. If I must speak, I crave leave to speak

last."

As affectation and false humility were faults which had long been

cast out of the community, the Prior reluctantly took Antonio at his

word. Indeed, there was that in the young priest's voice which

compelled the acquiescence of all.

"Then let us, Fathers and Brethren," said the Prior at length, "speak

in turn. I will begin. But all I shall say is subject to

alteration, nay, perhaps to complete reversal, by the council Father

Antonio shall give us."

A low murmur of approval rounded off his words.

"My own council," continued the Prior, "would be this. The Father

Cellarer knows to a vintem how much money we can find. Let us, for

the present, turn our cheek to the smiter and abandon our community

life. Let each of us decide where and how he can best live till we

have bettered or worsened our case in Lisbon, and let him declare to

the Father Cellarer what money he will need. For the present Father

Isidoro and Brother Cypriano and I will remain here with our beloved

Father Abbot. He believes"--here the Prior's voice trembled--"that

God will call his soul away to-morrow; and it is not for us to say

'God forbid.' But be it to-morrow, or next week, or next month, or

next year, here we stay, Father Isidoro, Brother Cypriano and I, even

though all the horses and men in Portugal be sent to move us. And,

when we have laid our beloved Father's remains in the earth, I will

join the Father Cellarer in Lisbon. We shall live in the house of

the writer of this letter, the Senhor Aureliano Gonçalves de Sousa,

the notary, in the Rua Augusta. Let every one of us keep in touch,

one with another, at that address until our future is clearly known."

The Cellarer spoke in the same sense. He was followed by the monks

in turn. Every one of them, with varying degrees of conviction,

repeated the Prior's saving clause about Antonio's coming words, and

every one of them endorsed the Prior's counsel.

Father Isidoro and seven other choir-monks added that their refuge

would be in a house of their Order on Spanish soil, just across the

Guadiana. It appeared that they had been discussing the matter all

day, and that they had fixed upon this particular Spanish monastery

because it was within two hours' ride of Portugal. Father Sebastian

announced that he would take shelter at the Inglezinhos in Lisbon.

These English Fathers, he said, could not be suppressed because they

were secular priests and British subjects: but they had a cloister

and something of community life. Other monks spoke of Vigo, of

Santiago de Compostela, of Salamanca, and of a new house in Belgium

where there was a strict observance. Two dreamed of Monte Cassino

itself, and one surprised the Council by mentioning a Benedictine

house in Protestant England, not far from legendary Glastonbury.

Some of the oldest Fathers named friends, clerical and lay, in

various cities of Portugal, beneath whose roofs they could die

quietly if the Prior's and the Cellarer's fight in Lisbon should end

in defeat. As for the lay-brethren, they decided to go in a body to

Evora, where Brother Lorenzo had claims on the protection of the

Archbishop.

It was inevitable that these announcements should generate in the

Council an unmonkish excitement. After having been so long persuaded

that they would live the rest of their lives and die their due deaths

within the same square mile of earth, there was something strangely

fascinating in this sudden unrolling of the map of Europe. The solid

sorrow of their dispossession was almost hidden for the moment under

a whirl and flutter of little arrangements; even as a fatal reef is

hidden under the pretty spray of the rollers it has smashed to

glittering atoms. The buzz of talk which followed on the more formal

speaking was not without the shrill note of schoolboys as they

discuss a thousand plans for an approaching holiday.

The Cellarer who, despite his preoccupation with its temporals, was

one of the community's most spiritually-minded members, swiftly

detected the danger.

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

His bright firm voice cut through the dull buzz like an eagle dashing

through starlings, scattering them all in flight. Every monk felt

the just rebuke, and once more there was silence.

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

Antonio felt that he could not speak from his place by the wall. He

rose and advanced with bowed head into the midst of his brethren.

The corn-merchant's tiny candles were flickering down into their

sockets; and he waited a few moments in the hope that darkness might

enveil him before he opened his mouth. But the lights leaped into

fuller brightness. He raised his head. Everywhere he saw eyes,

eyes--old eyes and young eyes, loving eyes and stern eyes, dull eyes

and eager eyes, hopeful eyes and fearful eyes--everywhere eyes, eyes

fixed on him, Antonio, alone.

"Father Prior--" he began. But his prepared words were taken away.

The eyes went on piercing him until he felt like the holy martyr

Sebastian in the midst of the sharp arrows. At last words burst from

him.

"My Fathers, my Brethren," he cried. "Forgive me. To-morrow I am

going back into the world."

One of the lights went out suddenly, as if Antonio's apostasy had

struck it down like a blow. But for five or six seconds no one

stirred or spoke. A second candle-flame leaped up and died away.

Then, in the dimness, uprose a confused murmuring, sharpened here and

there by exclamations of scorn or anger or bitter sorrow. More

distinctly than the rest was heard the garrulous contempt of Father

Bernardo, whose lapses into the sin of gluttony had so often

scandalized the brethren. Father Bernardo's righteous scorn was

sincere. He had no vocation to be a saint or a hero himself; but he

knew that saints and heroes were necessary, and he despised Antonio

for turning his back upon the light.

The Cellarer left his seat and came to Antonio's side. Isidore and

Sebastian followed him, and other monks showed signs of doing the

same. But before a word could be breathed into his ear, Antonio

wrenched himself out of the midst of the increasing group and threw

himself on his knees at the Prior's feet.

"For the love of Jesus Christ," he pleaded, in low intense tones,

"bid them leave me in peace."

The Prior took one of the remaining candles and looked at Antonio

intently. At first a shade of scorn darkened his cheek; for he

imagined that he saw in Antonio's eyes no more than the physical

anguish of a hunted animal. But he looked more deeply; and he saw

more.

"Fathers and Brethren," he commanded. "Let us have order and

silence. Father Sebastian shall speak with Father Antonio; and,

after him, the Father Cellarer. It is time for Compline."

As everybody knew the almost invariable prayers and psalms of

Compline by heart, there was no need for fresh candles, and the

community began to recite the office. All had resumed their places

save Antonio, who moved slowly away to the obscurest corner, near the

granary door. There he stood, blending his prayers and praises with

those of his brethren for the last time. He joined in the Confession

with deep humility, smiting his breast: and when the Hebdomadarius

gave the Absolution, Antonio crossed himself as if Calvary itself

were before his eyes. In due time the Psalms, the Hymn, the Little

Chapter, and _Pater Noster_ had been said, and the monks began the

proper Antiphon of the Blessed Virgin, _Salve Regina_. Repeating the

pious words, Antonio quietly opened the granary door; and, at the end

of the prayer _Omnipotens sempiterne Deus_, he slipped forth into the

soft night.

Across the courtyard a light was burning in the room where the Abbot

still lay in unnatural sleep. Antonio drew near and gazed through

the glass. The old man's hands were clasped on his breast, and his

garment fell into stiff folds like the alabaster draperies of a

mitered effigy on a tomb. Antonio breathed towards the frail body

the prayer he had heard at the beginning of Compline, _Noctem quietam

et finem perfectum_: "May the Almighty Lord grant him a quiet night

and a perfect end."

As he turned away with a bursting heart he came face to face with

Father Sebastian, who had seen his stealthy flight. Sebastian, as

usual, was drawing his habit closely round his body. There was more

than usual of the consumptive glow on his cheek and of the too bright

fire in his eyes. The two men faced each other searchingly.

"Father Antonio," asked Sebastian at last, "is this our 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 led into the high road.

But, before he passed out, he seized his friend's thin hand in a

fierce grip.

"Sebastian," he said, "ask all my brethren to forgive me and to pray

for me. Take care of my breviary, if you can. Good-bye."

A sentry challenged him as he strode forth: but Antonio threw him

aside. "I am not your prisoner," he said; and the fellow, bemused by

wine and by fatigue, fell back without another word.

Hurrying though Navares he contrived to pass the apothecary's shop

unobserved by the throng of leading townsmen who were warmly debating

the rights and wrongs of the monks' case. Outside the taverns he was

less successful; and in one instance, a lewd insult which was flung

after him led to bitter rejoinders and a scuffle. A young man, whose

pleasant face contrasted oddly with his words, ran after Antonio to

say that the monks ought to have been driven out long ago: but, on

the other hand, four separate men offered him hospitality, ranging

from a pull of wine to a night's lodging.

Thanking friends and forgiving foes, the young priest pressed forward

until the last houses of Navares were more than a league behind him.

Only then did he sink down to rest. His halting-place was on a more

northerly point of the long range of hills on which stood the

monastery from which he had been cast into exile. By the stars he

knew that exactly twenty-four hours 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 before in the

monastery garden, were rich with scents of lemon-blossom and

honeysuckle. The Atlantic still lay unvexed by wind: but the ocean

swell, as it searched the creeks and caves, hummed heavily and

wearily, like a great bee mining in the bells of flowers that held no

honey.