II
"Go down quickly and meet them at the gate," said the Prior to Antonio as soon as the young monk had finished his rapid story. "If they are Miguelistas tell them they cannot be harbored here. Say the war is over and we have suffered enough."
"And what if they are Liberals?"
"If they are Liberals—" the Prior began. But he stopped short with trouble in his face. "If they are Liberals," he repeated slowly, "they are coming here for no good."
"There is not a moment to lose," said Antonio.
As he spoke the door of the nearest cell opened and a third monk appeared. He was older than Antonio—perhaps forty years of age. His fine features were pain-worn, and, in spite of the softness of the night, he was drawing his black habit closely round his slender body.
"Here is Father Sebastian," cried the Prior. "He will go with you. Father Sebastian, there is fresh trouble. Antonio has heard soldiers. Meet them at the gate. Tell them of the Abbot's illness. Take them to the guest-house. Say I will speak to them there. Run!"
Antonio gathered up his habit and sped off like a hare. But at the entrance of an avenue flanked by giant camellias he halted, suddenly remorseful. Sebastian overtook him.
"Don't wait for me. Run on," he panted.
Antonio plunged into the dark tunnel. Before he had run half its length the cracked bell at the monastery gate broke into an insolent din. Where the camellias ended he slackened pace and allowed his habit to fall once more in dignified amplitude to his feet. Meanwhile somebody was noisily clanking the scabbard of a sword against the iron bars of the gate. He drew nearer and made out a throng of cloaked men on little white horses.