"The truth is," replied José, in a mysterious whisper, "they want to find a husband for the Senhorita Margarida."
"Go on."
"Senhor Jorge wants to find some one rich—like your Worship. And Donna Perpetua wants to find a born gentleman—like your Worship."
"Not to beat about the bush," Antonio interrupted, "you mean that Senhor Jorge and Donna Perpetua want ... me?"
José admitted it and began apologizing for his presumptuous interference; but Antonio cut him short by saying:
"You have done quite right to talk with me like this. Thanks. Never ask pardon for speaking plainly. Now we will eat our bread."
It was the custom of the two men to dine on Sundays before going up to the abbey, and to eat a small broa, dipped in wine, on their return. They sat down to this simple supper, without any more words about Margarida, and confined themselves to arranging the farm-work for the morrow. At half-past eight José lit his lantern and went off to bed.
The monk made no haste to follow his example. The room was chilly after the rain: so he kindled a fire of cork-cuttings and walnut-shells. It blazed up lustily, and José's copper and pewter reflected the cheerful light. Antonio blew out the useless candle, drew a chair up to the warmth, and sat down.
Outside, the stillness was profound. José, no doubt, had already fallen asleep. No dog barked, no bird of night cried. Even the Atlantic lay hushed.
From the heart of this silent loneliness the spirit of Antonio fared forth, craving the company of living men. He thought first of his old companions, the fathers and brethren of his Order; of the Abbot, of the Cellarer, of Sebastian, of Cypriano. But it was little more than an hour since he had walked past the doors of their abandoned cells and had sat in the midst of their empty stalls; and, try as he might, he could only think of them as impalpable ghosts hovering over the dim and deserted abbey. Then he tried to think of Crowberry, of the young Queen Victoria's nonchalant Comptroller, of the clean-shaven, wiry, iron-willed Duke. But England seemed ever so far away, on the other side of a thousand miles of rain and darkness; and only one memory stood up warm and clear. It was the memory of that summer evening, when the vane on the gray church tower burned like a flame and when the blue smoke from the cottage hearths and the children's merry cries had suddenly turned the exile sick with yearning for love and home.