At length, in the year, 1835, Poblet was attacked by the peasantry, who came down like a furious avalanche upon the building that for its beauty should have been held twice sacred.
By this time, too, a change for the better had come over the monks. Much wealth and influence had gone from them; they were quietly doing good. But the traditions of the past are slow in dying. The mob believed the monastery was a vast treasure-house; untold riches lay buried in fictitious graves, hidden in tombs and hollow pillars. It was now that the men of Reus proved capable of fiendish acts of excitement. The monks were driven from their refuge and many were cruelly massacred. The pent-up fury of ages was let loose like a torrent. No power could stay the thirst for so-called revenge. It was their hour; a short-lived hour; but how much was accomplished! The monastery was ruined. The mob, infuriated at finding no heaps of gold, no hidden treasures, tore down pillars, defaced monuments, desecrated the church, left the beautiful traceried windows in ruins, and then set fire to the building.
The sun had risen on as fair and peaceful a scene as earth could show; it set on the saddest of devastations. Yet, thanks to the solid masonry, much escaped. For the monks it was lamentation and mourning and woe. It has been recorded that the sun went down in a deep-red ball, reflection of the blood of the martyred monks. But the people are superstitious. We have seen it ourselves sink over the Spanish plains also a fiery-red ball, intense and glowing, when the world was at peace. Yet, it must have been a special sunset on that memorable day of 1835, for it is recorded that long after the sun disappeared clouds shot to and fro in the sky like swords of flame. But this, too, we have gazed upon in days of peace and quietness.
CHAPTER XXIX.
LORENZO.
Day visions—All passes away—End of the feast—Francisco gathers up the fragments—Ghosts of the past—Outside the monastery—Oasis in a desert—After the vintage—Francisco gleans—Guilty conscience—Custom of country—Dessert—Primitive watering-place—Off to the fair—Groans and lamentations—Sagacious animal—Cause of sorrows—Rage and anger—Donkey listens and understands—A hard life—Washing a luxury—Charity bestowed—Deserted settlement—Quaint interior—Back to the monastery—Invidious comparisons—A promise—Good-bye to Poblet—Troubled sea again—Suffering driver—Atonement for sins—Earns paradise—Wine-pressers again—Rich stores—Good samaritans—Quaint old town—Bygone prosperity—Lorenzo—Marriage made in heaven—House inspected—On the bridge—At the station—Kindly offer—Glorious sunset—Loretta's good-bye—"What shall it be?"—Flying moments—As the train rolls off.
ALL this passed before us as a vision whilst we sat in those wonderful cloisters. We imagined the scene in all its ancient glory. We saw monks pacing to and fro in their picturesque Benedictine dress. The proud step of a mitred abbot echoed as it passed onwards in pomp and ceremony and disappeared up the staircase to the palace of King Martin the Humble: far more humble and conciliating than the uncrowned kings of Poblet. We heard the monotone of the Miserere ascending through the dim aisles of the great church, the monks bowing their heads in mock humility. We saw Martin the Humble take the throne-seat to the right of the altar as though he felt himself least of all the assembled. And we saw that solitary death-bed of Wharton the self-banished whilst yet in his youth, and marvelled what silent, secret sorrow had bid him flee the world. Everything had passed away; kings and monks, wealth and power, and to-day the silence of death reigns in Poblet.
When our modest feast was over, and H. C. had tried for the third time to extract a final drop of Laffitte from the second empty bottle, we left Francisco to gather up the fragments, and without the custodian—who was now taking a refreshing sleep after his appreciated bumper—wandered about the ruins as we would, realising all their beauty and influence, all the true spirit of the past that overshadowed them. Every room and court was filled with a crowd of cowled monks and mitred abbots. Up crumbling and picturesque' stairways we saw a shadowy procession ascending; the ghostly face of Martin the Humble looked down upon us from the exquisite windows of his palace, shorn of nearly all their tracery.
It was difficult to leave it all, but we wanted to see a little of the outer world. Francisco committed his basket to the guardian—now wide awake—and in a few moments we found ourselves outside the great entrance, facing the crumbling dependencies. Beyond the gateway we turned to the left and passed up the valley. It was broad and far-reaching, and the monastery looked in the centre of a great undulating plain. From the slopes of a vineyard on which we sat awhile, it rose like an oasis in a desert, its picturesque outlines clearly marked against the blue sky. An irregular, half-ruined wall enclosed the vast precincts. In the far distance were chains of hills. There was no trace anywhere of a monks' garden, but in their despotic days they probably had all their wants supplied in the shape of tithes. The landscape was bare of trees, yet the rich soil yields abundantly the fruits of the earth. In the vineyard nearly all the grapes had been plucked; but Francisco wandering to and fro found a few bunches and plucked them. Warmed by the sunshine they were luscious and full of sweet flavour. We felt almost guilty of eating stolen fruit.
"Are we not very much like boys robbing an orchard, Francisco?"