"No," answered the Blessed One curtly. "I do not go, Senhor, up to the old abbey chapel on dark nights. And what is more, I don't intend to."
"I am glad to hear it," said José, with maddening slowness. "The Senhora is better at home. And the rest of your Worships too."
When the general excitement could no longer be suppressed, Senhor Jorge, who had just re-entered the room, demanded sternly:
"What is all this? Why are we better at home?"
"Because," said José in awe-struck tones, "it's very easy for us to talk and be brave here, in the light and in good company. But I don't think we should stay up there very long if we saw—"
"If we saw—?" urged six or seven voices.
"If we saw a monk, all in black, sitting in his stall, with a face as white as a curd cheese."
Rosalina Saldanha screamed and collapsed into the stout arms of Joanna Quintella. Twenty people began talking at once, and bombarding José with questions.
"No," cried Antonio loudly. "No more. We've had more than enough of witchcraft and ghosts and superstition. Donna Perpetua—Senhor Jorge—I ask pardon for interfering."
"Your Worship is quite right," answered Senhor Jorge, with warmth. "In my own house such talk is forbidden. We don't want the maids in hysterics. Luiz—Affonso—every one is dying of thirst and hunger. Where are the broas?"