VI
The big bell banged noon. In front of the chapel Saint Benedict's heavy-hearted sons were ready to depart. Only Brother Cypriano was absent.
No one stirred. The captain glanced round with new anxiety. But his suspense did not last long. A lighter bell smote through the dull resoundings of the great gong. It was Brother Cypriano ringing the Angelus. With bowed heads the monks repeated the Angelic Salutation. The soldiers and the captain uncovered: and, with an awkward grab at the brim of his sombrero, even the Viscount made a show of following their example.
This last act of faith being ended, the Abbot made a sign, and two of the brethren approached him with a litter. The old man's miraculous tide of vitality was ebbing as fast as it had flowed, and the captain knew that, in the circumstances, the Minister in Lisbon would not approve of this indecent haste. But he had involved himself too deeply with the Viscount to draw back, and it was essential to his plans that the whole monastic garrison should vacate their barracks without delay. Therefore he contented himself with uttering a string of regrets which nobody heeded.
It was a quarter-past twelve when the procession started. The monks went forth two and two, like the Seventy in the gospel. At their head walked the Prior and the Cellarer, who had much to discuss concerning ways and means. The Abbot's litter was borne at first by Father Isidore and Father Antonio. Brother Cypriano and the other lay-monks brought up the rear. They led five pack-mules, whose burdens contained little more than the monks' winter shoes and habits, and a blanket for each one. The Prior had not asked leave to take either the mules or their loads, but the captain had not raised any objection. As for their personal belongings, the fathers and brethren seemed to be almost literally fulfilling the Holy Rule, and to be carrying away almost nothing of their own. Each monk held a small bundle, in which the four volumes of his breviary were the principal item.
They wound down the paved way without looking back. The Viscount grinned and rubbed his hands. Soon the black files were lost to sight in the avenue of camellias, and a few minutes afterwards the strident grinding of iron on iron proclaimed their arrival at the rusty gate.
The captain gave a signal to Carvalho, whose men had been busy saddling their horses, and immediately a detachment twenty strong cantered after the exiles.
"A guard of honor," chuckled the Viscount.
"I am obeying the Minister's instructions," answered the captain dryly.
"Like a good boy. And at the same time you've got rid of half these prying peasants. But come, we haven't sampled the cellar. And I could eat a couple of those fat trout."
The captain flung aside his uncomfortable thoughts and agreed, with an oath, to a carouse. The pair plunged into the cool corridors, to ransack the larder with small success.
Meanwhile the unpitiful sun was beating on the monks' heads and on the Abbot's rude litter. The cruel ball of fire hung in a dome of so hard a blue that it might have been cut from one immense sapphire. The Atlantic chafed in its bed with a simmering sound, and blinded the eyes like molten copper.
Carvalho and his troopers, who had been hanging on the monks' rear, were the first to surrender. Riding forward to the head of the train, Carvalho in person suggested that both drivers and driven should encamp amicably in a neighboring grove of eucalyptus until the fiercest heat had passed. The Prior agreed.
Of all the eucalyptus groves in Portugal, the grove which the travelers entered was one of the oldest and most grandly grown. Just above it a small pine wood offered a deeper and cooler shade, and a rapid brook made the oasis complete. Almost immediately some of the soldiers began to fraternize with the monks, pressing upon them dark broas baked from maize and rye, and handing round the wine-skins. The monks, in their turn, offered salt fish, which the soldiers joyfully ate quite raw. After the repast the soldiers flung themselves down full length to sleep upon the pine-needles; and although the monks produced their breviaries and tried to say the Office, ere long most of them succumbed to drowsiness.
Antonio was wide awake. His share of the frail old Abbot's weight had seemed not much more than a feather to his youthful strength. He looked round. The mules and horses were browsing happily in the lush herbage. Carvalho and a corporal were spelling out some papers in low tones. The Cellarer and the Prior were equally engrossed in writing and figuring. Under the densest pine tree Father Isidore and Father Sebastian were keeping vigil over the sleeping Abbot.
The young monk sauntered eastward, following up the course of the stream. He suspected that its dancing waters were those which had flowed through the monastery kitchen, and a few minutes' breasting of the pine-crowded slope proved that he was right. From the top of the knoll he could make out the dazzling white front of the chapel, framed in dark granite, and he could hear the dull boom of the great bell striking two o'clock.
At the foot of the knoll, half hidden in verdure, some dilapidated buildings huddled on the banks of the rivulet. He descended to explore them. The windows of the little house were broken, and weeds choked the garden. There were also two barns, raised on stone pillars to thwart the rats, a byre, a threshing floor, and a little orangery in full blossom. Apparently many years had slipped by since the place was inhabited.
Having satisfied his curiosity Antonio was turning away when a thought struck him. He approached the buildings again and examined them much more closely. Then he took his resolution. With his eyes fixed on the glittering white chapel, which shone down upon him like the Bride of the Lamb, he knelt in the long grass and repeated the Benedictine prayer, Excita Domine. His prayer done, he remained a few minutes in meditation before he sought his brethren.
Regaining the knoll's top and beginning to descend, Antonio found that the scene had changed for the worse. The attitudes of some of his drowsy companions were neither dignified nor picturesque. They were wearing their worst tunics for the journey, and the grey dust from the road did not improve the rusty black of the garments. Their bundles looked untidy and paltry. More disenchanting still, some of the monks who were still awake seemed to have descended from their exaltation and to be sourly grumbling together over their misfortunes; while the faces of the Prior and the Cellarer shewed that they were still deeply debating the community's creature-comforts.
For a moment Antonio's enthusiastic faith was shocked and chilled. Was this cause worthy, after all, of the bitter sacrifice he had resolved to make? But his doubt vanished in an instant in the light of a thought which came to him as if from heaven. He thought of the great flights, the great martyrdoms, and understood that if he could have been a looker-on at them all, he would have seen the jewel of faithful love shining out from a dull alloy. Saint Benedict's flight from Subiaco to Monte Cassino, the martyrdom of Saint Laurence—no doubt even these holy happenings had had their ugly elements, their sordid accompaniments. Their realities did not correspond with the idealized versions of stately altar-pieces, and stained glass, and illuminated parchments, and statuary. More: he reminded himself that, according to human standards, even his divine Master had passed poorly from a mean birth to a base death. He recalled the words of Isaias, Non est species ei, neque decor; et vidimus eum et non erat aspectus et desideravimus eum: "There is no beauty in him nor comeliness; and we have seen him, and there was no sightliness that we should desire him."