The Project Gutenberg eBook ofAntonioThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: AntonioAuthor: Ernest OldmeadowRelease date: July 24, 2024 [eBook #74116]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York: The Century Co, 1909Credits: Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANTONIO ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: AntonioAuthor: Ernest OldmeadowRelease date: July 24, 2024 [eBook #74116]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York: The Century Co, 1909Credits: Al Haines
Title: Antonio
Author: Ernest Oldmeadow
Author: Ernest Oldmeadow
Release date: July 24, 2024 [eBook #74116]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: The Century Co, 1909
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANTONIO ***
BY
ERNEST OLDMEADOW
NEW YORKTHE CENTURY CO.1916
Copyright, 1909, byTHE CENTURY Co.
Published, June, 1909
Contents
BOOK ITHE EXODUS
BOOK IITHE RETURN
BOOK IIIMARGARIDA
BOOK IVTHE AZULEJOS
BOOK VISABEL
BOOK VI"ITE, MISSA EST"
ANTONIO
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.Paxwas 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,Paxwas 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 theTe Deummost 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.
"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."
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!"
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 aperegrinusfrom 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 likeperegrinigaping 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.
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 thatnilmeant "never," knew the single phraseNil 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 wordPaxhad 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.