"Then these brave men who have bled for Portugal will do their duty. They are not hirelings: they are volunteers and patriots. Senhor captain, do not deceive yourself. Men are not born in cowls. Under Wellington I led Portuguese troops into fourteen battles. Your men love Portugal, and they do not hate God. I have only to give the word and more than half of them will be mine. Here is the inventory and here are pens and ink. Your Excellencies will verify it—and sign."
Two lay brethren approached carrying a deal table, upon which Father Sebastian laid two copies of the inventory, an earthenware inkstand and a bundle of goose-quills. At the same time Brother Cypriano bore forward a carved chair, in which the Abbot sat down.
Ungovernable rage set fire to the captain's wits at the very moment when he needed all his coolness. He had sold his soul and his country for gold which, after all, he was not to receive. He turned savagely towards his seducer, and saw with disgust that the Viscount, whose sense of dignity was nearly as small as his sense of humor, had opened a vast umbrella.
"What are we to do?" the captain rapped out.
"Do? We refuse, of course. It's all bravado. Leave them to me. I will answer."
He turned to the Prior with a ridiculous air of importance and shut up his umbrella. But before he could speak a word the guffaw which had so much disconcerted and offended him the night before in the vestibule broke again from one of the soldiers. As the Prior had said, these men were not mercenaries. Their ranks comprised a salt-winner from Aveiro, the two sons of a Lisbon saddler, a fisherman from Figueira da Foz, two quarrymen from the Minho, and a score or so of peasants from the Beiras: but one and all of them had something of the fidalgo in his air, and one and all of them was dimly conscious of the upstart Viscount's low breeding.
The guffaw was not the worst. Although the troopers still stood at attention, the captain's sharp ears detected mutterings and whisperings. During the morning the men had debated among themselves the motives of the Viscount for risking his neck on horseback in order to do work which pertained to a sheriff's officer, and they had decided that the Abbot's demand was prudent, patriotic and just. Again, the hospitality of the Cellarer, the impressive rites in the chapel, and, above all, the holiness of the Abbot had increased their distaste for the work they were come to do.
"Our final word—" began the Viscount, pitching high his tin-whistle voice. But the captain came to his senses in time. He seized the little man's fat arm angrily and hissed in his ear:
"You cursed fool, be quiet. Wait." And, in a loud voice, he said to the Prior, "I will sign."
A cheer from the soldiers greeted his words. Then, so that they might verify the treasures detailed in the inventory, the Prior conducted his glowering visitors to the sacristy. The Blessed Sacrament had already been removed: but he seemed to shrink from polluting the chapel with their presence, and therefore he chose a roundabout route. Passing through the cloisters he led the way through the kitchen.