This decided us, and we agreed to remain: it would have been cruel to deny him. He folded his camp-stool and prepared to depart.
"You will accompany me to my door," he said, somewhat wistfully, "though to-day I may not ask you to pass beyond."
So we wended back through the arches in the narrow passage between the hill and monastery, and the mountain shadows fell upon us. We reached the great quadrangle, lonely and deserted.
"Let us enter by way of the church," said the monk; "I will show you our little private door."
The great building was silent and empty. Our footsteps woke weird echoes in the distant aisles. Salvador by some secret touch unfastened the door of the screen, which rolled back on its hinges, and we passed into the choir.
"Here we attend mass," said our guide; "a small community of monks, though I am more often at the organ. In days gone by, when they numbered nearly a thousand, it was a splendid and powerful institution—a magnificent sight and sound. No need then to add to the funds by teaching. All the glory has departed, but perhaps, in return, we are more useful. Nothing, however, can take from our scenery, though its repose is no longer unbroken. With a railroad at our very doors, who can say that we are now out of the world? Ah!" as a man crossed the choir towards the sacristy; "there is my organ-blower. Would you like me to give you some music?"
"It would be enchanting. But your repast—would you not lose it?"
"I have twenty minutes to spare, and should then still be in time for the end." He beckoned to the man, who approached. "Hugo, have you dined?"
"Si, Padre Salvador."
"Then come and blow for me a little."