The cell of the Abbot was a room about twenty feet square. Its furniture consisted of a small painted table, two stools, two straight-backed chairs, a portrait of Saint Benedict, a very large crucifix of ebony and ivory, an old oak desk covered with papers and a narrow bed.
To his surprise and relief the viscount found the bed empty and the Abbot throned upon one of the high-backed chairs. But his fears returned when a lay-brother set eight candles, in a bronze candelabrum, upon the painted table. By their light he saw a face which seemed to gaze on him from beyond the grave. To the old man's right and left stood the Prior and Father Isidore, supporting him. They had vested the Abbot in a cope stiff with gold embroidery, and they had placed his miter on his head and his crozier in his hand.
The captain paused in the doorway, embarrassed. Then he ducked his head and crooked his knee in awkward obeisance and blurted out, "Your Reverence, here is the Senhor Visconde."
"To what noble Visconde am I speaking?" asked the Abbot.
The civilian recovered himself and answered proudly:
"Your Excellency is speaking to the Visconde de Ponte Quebrada."
"I thought I knew all the titulars of Portugal," the Abbot returned in his small, clear tones, "but I do not know the Viscondes of Ponte Quebrada."
The Visconde was nettled, but he held his chin high and retorted:
"It is a new creation. I am the first Visconde. I am proud to say I have won the title by my own merits, and not merely because I am my father's son."
"Your Excellency has commanded in action?" the Abbot asked. "No doubt Ponte Quebrada was the scene of a battle—a victory?"