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."