VII
Antonio knew a spot where the brook, swollen with winter rains, had smashed down the arch through which it used to flow: and there he scrambled up into the abbey domain. The ever-mounting moon illuminated the familiar scenes with fairy radiance.
Emitte lucem tuam, said Antonio in fervent prayer and thanksgiving, as he breasted the weed-grown slope. "Send forth thy light and thy truth: they shall lead me to thy holy hill, and to thy tabernacles, and I will go unto the altar of God." And when an opening in the trees once more showed him the glistening chapel his mind swung from the Psalter to the Apocalypse, and he thought once more of Saint John's vision of the Bride habentem claritatem Dei: "having the clear-shining of God, and her light like a precious stone's, like a jasper's, like crystal."
Grass was growing between the paving-stones in front of the chapel and lichens flourished on the north wall. The gardens were unkempt, and one had to break a way through alleys and avenues. On banks and terraces the fleshy-leaved ice-plant had secured firm holding. But, so far as outward appearances went, the abbey had suffered no irreparable harm.
Massive padlocks guarded all the entrances, while seals, affixed to stout bands of linen, spoke eloquently of the zeal which the Government had shown after the affair of their precious Visconde de Ponte Quebrada. But Antonio was not to be dismayed by locks, bolts, and bars. For years he had cherished a plan of obtaining entrance to the monastery, and he did not delay its execution.
Antonio knew that, hidden in the wood, there was a sluice by which the torrent's waters could be diverted from the abbey kitchen into their original channel. This sluice had been used only four times a year, when the bed of the stream was cleaned out: but it was kept in good working order. As he plunged under the trees the monk understood the difference between the brightest moonlight and the weakest daylight: but he had little difficulty in finding what he sought.
The gear of the sluice was stiff: but Antonio was strong, and his task was soon accomplished. For the first time in three years the water began gurgling among the dust and dead leaves of its ancient bed, and nothing but a slender runnel was left for the stone channel which ran through the kitchen.
Antonio threw off his boots and socks and outer garments and swung himself down into the ankle-deep stream. Before him yawned the black tunnel by which the waters passed over the whole width of the refectory, a distance of about eight yards. He went down on his hands and knees and crawled along towards the ghostly light which gleamed at the further end. His progress was painful. The small boulders which had accumulated in the passage during three years of neglect cut his hands and bruised his knees and tore his feet. But he did not turn back; and soon he was standing in the moon-lit kitchen.
The blue-and-white tiles, the blue Pas on its white ground, the stoves, the great jars and pots, the burnished copper chimney—all were there as of old. Antonio opened the door of the refectory. Six or seven of the bottles emptied by the Visconde and the captain had been stacked in a corner, probably by some person who went through the monastery before the padlocking and sealing: but in all other respects the noble room was in perfect order.
The monk made his way to the cells. They had not been disturbed since the monks quitted them. The big candelabrum had not been removed from the cell of the Abbot. Antonio entered his own cell with a thumping pulse. The few books and oddments which, despite the strict letter of Saint Benedict's rule, had been considered his own, were all in their due places. A spare habit was hanging on the wall. Portugal's wonderful climate had kept it so dry and sweet that he put it on as if it were the coat he had left lying on the grass outside.