The cura's breakfast was enlarged in Antonio's honor. Over and above the inevitable bacalhau, or salted stock-fish, there was a whole hake. It had been caught only half a dozen hours before, and it made a fine show with its head and tail projecting over the ends of a long rough dish, gaily painted with birds and flowers. There was also a piled-up mess of boiled beef and ham sausage, banked on rice and white cabbage and moated round with a broth full of chick-peas. Each breakfaster was also served with a couple of eggs, fried in olive oil; and the meal was rounded off by a basket of late strawberries. To wash down the solids the cura opened three bottles of sharp green wine.
Antonio ate and drank sparingly. During the meal he confined himself to answering his host's innumerable questions, and listening, without resentment, to sly hints about monkish arrogance and luxury: but while the cura was busy with his strawberries, he told simply and shortly the tale of the alien Visconde de Ponte Quebrada. As he ceased speaking he saw that the old man was half won round to the monks' side.
"And now, what are you going to do?" asked the cura.
"For the present," said Antonio, "I am going back into the world. I will be a burden upon none. I am going to work; and, when I have put a little money by, I have a plan of doing something for my Order."
"What can you do for a living?"
"I understand vines and wine. At the abbey I had charge of the vineyard."
"You are making your way to Oporto?"
"Yes. To Oporto."
"Very well. I sell two pipes of green wine every year to a firm there. I will give you a letter. But what about your clothes? You can't go back into the world like this."
"I sought you this morning, Father," said Antonio with a great effort, "for this very reason."