Of all the eucalyptus groves in Portugal, the grove which the travelers entered was one of the oldest and most grandly grown. Just above it a small pine wood offered a deeper and cooler shade, and a rapid brook made the oasis complete. Almost immediately some of the soldiers began to fraternize with the monks, pressing upon them dark broas baked from maize and rye, and handing round the wine-skins. The monks, in their turn, offered salt fish, which the soldiers joyfully ate quite raw. After the repast the soldiers flung themselves down full length to sleep upon the pine-needles; and although the monks produced their breviaries and tried to say the Office, ere long most of them succumbed to drowsiness.
Antonio was wide awake. His share of the frail old Abbot's weight had seemed not much more than a feather to his youthful strength. He looked round. The mules and horses were browsing happily in the lush herbage. Carvalho and a corporal were spelling out some papers in low tones. The Cellarer and the Prior were equally engrossed in writing and figuring. Under the densest pine tree Father Isidore and Father Sebastian were keeping vigil over the sleeping Abbot.
The young monk sauntered eastward, following up the course of the stream. He suspected that its dancing waters were those which had flowed through the monastery kitchen, and a few minutes' breasting of the pine-crowded slope proved that he was right. From the top of the knoll he could make out the dazzling white front of the chapel, framed in dark granite, and he could hear the dull boom of the great bell striking two o'clock.
At the foot of the knoll, half hidden in verdure, some dilapidated buildings huddled on the banks of the rivulet. He descended to explore them. The windows of the little house were broken, and weeds choked the garden. There were also two barns, raised on stone pillars to thwart the rats, a byre, a threshing floor, and a little orangery in full blossom. Apparently many years had slipped by since the place was inhabited.
Having satisfied his curiosity Antonio was turning away when a thought struck him. He approached the buildings again and examined them much more closely. Then he took his resolution. With his eyes fixed on the glittering white chapel, which shone down upon him like the Bride of the Lamb, he knelt in the long grass and repeated the Benedictine prayer, Excita Domine. His prayer done, he remained a few minutes in meditation before he sought his brethren.
Regaining the knoll's top and beginning to descend, Antonio found that the scene had changed for the worse. The attitudes of some of his drowsy companions were neither dignified nor picturesque. They were wearing their worst tunics for the journey, and the grey dust from the road did not improve the rusty black of the garments. Their bundles looked untidy and paltry. More disenchanting still, some of the monks who were still awake seemed to have descended from their exaltation and to be sourly grumbling together over their misfortunes; while the faces of the Prior and the Cellarer shewed that they were still deeply debating the community's creature-comforts.
For a moment Antonio's enthusiastic faith was shocked and chilled. Was this cause worthy, after all, of the bitter sacrifice he had resolved to make? But his doubt vanished in an instant in the light of a thought which came to him as if from heaven. He thought of the great flights, the great martyrdoms, and understood that if he could have been a looker-on at them all, he would have seen the jewel of faithful love shining out from a dull alloy. Saint Benedict's flight from Subiaco to Monte Cassino, the martyrdom of Saint Laurence—no doubt even these holy happenings had had their ugly elements, their sordid accompaniments. Their realities did not correspond with the idealized versions of stately altar-pieces, and stained glass, and illuminated parchments, and statuary. More: he reminded himself that, according to human standards, even his divine Master had passed poorly from a mean birth to a base death. He recalled the words of Isaias, Non est species ei, neque decor; et vidimus eum et non erat aspectus et desideravimus eum: "There is no beauty in him nor comeliness; and we have seen him, and there was no sightliness that we should desire him."
VII
Two miles outside Navares a hurrying horseman almost collided with the head of the monks' procession. He turned out to be a courier from Lisbon with an urgent letter for the Prior.