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."