The Abbot shook his head sadly.
"No," he said, "there can only be one end. We are men of peace, not of blood. In my weakness and sickness our Lord has seemed to open my eyes to the future. Saint Peter's words might be mine: Certus quod velox est deposito tabernaculi mei secundum quod et Dominus noster Jesus Christus significavit mihi. I am 'certain that the laying down of my tabernacle is at hand, as our Lord Jesus Christ also hath signified to me.' Fathers and brethren, to-morrow will see the end of this community. For more than three hundred years Saint Benedict's children have sought to live by his Holy Rule on this spot; but to-morrow ends all. We can do no more than frustrate the sacrilegious greed of this foreign Visconde and save our patrimony for Portugal."
Taken by themselves the Abbot's words would not have stifled discussion, and even the unconditional obedience they owed to him would not have held back the more militant monks from trying to defeat his will. But the unearthly light in the old man's eyes, which had so terrified the Viscount, beamed forth upon these men like a pillar of fire guiding them in God's way. Even the burly and unmystical Cypriano yielded to the spell. Accordingly no one felt that there was anything dictatorial in the Abbot's procedure when he took their assent for granted and passed quietly on to arrange the details of the community's last hours beneath its historic roofs.
After the Prior, the Cellarer, and two other monks had been consulted, it was agreed that the life of the monastery should proceed as if nothing had happened. Conformably to the Holy Rule, Matins were appointed to be sung at about two o'clock, so that Lauds could follow at break of day. In the order of the monks' Low Masses no alteration was made: but, for the High Mass, the Abbot asked all to pray that he might be given strength to pontificate. As for the inventory, it was decided to adhere to the Abbot's demands. Finally, the tiny town of Navares, four leagues away, was chosen as the first night's shelter after the exodus. In Navares the Cellarer had a kinsman, a corn-merchant, in whose house and barns some sort of lodgings could be found.
When the Abbot was lain down at last on his hard and narrow bed, the Prior would have had the throng withdraw: but the Abbot forbade him. He wished to speak, he said, to all the fathers and brothers in turn. One by one the monks knelt down beside the bed and kissed the wasted hand with love and reverence; and to each and every one he spoke some word of affectionate encouragement or counsel, and humbly asked their prayers.
Antonio was the last of the choir-monks to come forward. As he knelt down a hush fell upon all. Amidst the general affliction they had lacked time to think of Antonio's bitter trial: but when the Abbot spoke he put the thoughts of all into words.
"Father Antonio," he said, laying his old white hand on the young monk's curling black hair, "may our Lady of Perpetual Succor comfort you. For the present God does not suffer you to say your first Mass. But remember Saint Ignatius of Loyola, who, of his own will, prepared himself for a year before he presumed to offer the holy sacrifice. Your great day will come; and when it shall dawn, I pray you to offer that first Mass for my poor soul and for all who are standing here."
Antonio, deeply moved, was about to rise: but, as he lifted his head, he felt the Abbot's hand suddenly gripping his arm with superhuman strength. At the same time he saw the benign light which had beamed from the old eyes grow brighter and brighter, till the Abbot's whole face was transfigured and glorified. His brethren saw it too; and, by a common impulse, every one of them knelt down on the stones. At last the Abbot's voice began playing upon the tense silence, like an unseen hand on silver strings.
"My son," said the far-away, clear tones. "My son, rejoice. I was wrong. This is not the end. God clears my eyes. Long years must pass away; but I see our chapel swept and garnished. I see Antonio sitting once more in choir, doing the Work of God in his old place. I see him standing before the high altar. I see him holding up our great chalice. I see him offering the Holy Sacrifice for us all. Rejoice."
He ceased; and while all were still marveling at his prophecy the light quickly faded from the prophet's face. With closed eyes he sank wearily back upon his hard pillow. The Prior made a sign. Father Isidoro and a lay-brother remained to tend the sufferer; and, with full hearts and moving lips, the other monks passed out of the chamber one by one.