The grape-harvest in September was a good one, and it was only by cutting an hour from his sleep-time that the monk could fill full his appointed measures of work and prayer. Then came October, with its vintage of memories. On the anniversary of Senhor Jorge's serao Antonio could be serene; for Margarida had just been happily married to a handsome and honorable young man of Leiria, the son of a prosperous builder. But with the approach of the anniversary of his first meeting with Isabel he grew troubled; and, to divert his thoughts, he departed hurriedly for Lisbon, where he had business to transact with the shippers of his wines and cordials. In Lisbon he learned that a journey to England would be to his advantage. But England meant Isabel; so, on the anniversary of her flight from the guest-house, he turned his back on the capital and hastened home.
By mortgaging his farm the monk succeeded in paying the third instalment of the abbey's price. He faced the New Year with less than twenty pounds of ready money, and with the obligation to find five hundred by the first of July. A request for a more flexible arrangement was flung back at him by the Fazenda official with vindictive contempt. As the spring advanced, Antonio laid his plan for the immediate outright purchase of the abbey on a fifteen hundred pound mortgage before four separate persons; but without exception they either could not or would not entertain it. In these circumstances he felt bound to cut down his gifts to village charities and his bounties to the hangers-on of the countryside. As a result, José came home one day with a black eye, received while he was punishing three village loafers for calling the Senhor da Rocha a skin-flint and a miser.
By May-day Antonio's sales of stock and the pledging of his credit had brought him in only three hundred pounds, and there was nothing left that he could pawn without crippling himself hopelessly in the near future. But he was not cast down. He was doing his utmost, and he calmly left the rest with God.
III
Very early one morning, at the end of May, Antonio heard light footsteps passing his cell. Although he sprang up immediately from bed he could not open his door in time to see the intruder's face or form. He caught no more than half a moment's glimpse of a slender and darkly garbed figure disappearing round the angle of the corridor.
Having scrambled into his clothes, he started in pursuit. The light tap-tap of shod feet on the stones told him that his visitor was making for the chapel. The monk, who was barefooted, followed noiselessly.
Peeping into the chapel through the little door amid the azulejos, Antonio saw a tall spare man kneeling before the altar. Even if his back had not been turned to Antonio it would have been impossible to see his face, because he was hiding it in his hands. The stranger wore a long black cloak, uncomfortably thick and heavy for the torrid Portuguese summer. But it was plain that he did not find it too warm. With long, thin, death-pale hands, he drew its folds more closely round his body; and, as he did so, the familiar movement revealed his identity to Antonio.
It was Father Sebastian.
Antonio hurried forward and knelt at his side. But Sebastian did not move, nor did he cease praying for four or five minutes; and when at last he turned towards Antonio it was without the slightest sign of surprise. Rising painfully, he left the altar and made a gesture, inviting Antonio to follow him.