"The question for me," continued the Abbot, ignoring him, "is whether I can obey this decree or not. We have always rendered unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's; but we cannot render unto Cæsar the things that are God's." "The monastery is suppressed. It belongs to the Portuguese people," piped the Viscount. This time the Abbot did not ignore him. "Portuguese?" he echoed. "All these fathers and brethren are Portuguese. The Senhor Captain is a Portuguese. The humblest of these soldiers is a Portuguese. Apparently we are all Portuguese save your Excellency. The Portuguese people! Yes. Here it is in the decree. From this date the possessions of the religious orders are declared to be the possessions of the Portuguese people. Senhores, listen. In time of need we have never failed to share our last crust and our last coin with the Portuguese people. We are Portuguese as well as monks. When the French were in the land we cheerfully gave up all we had to drive them out. More. There are three fathers standing here who hide soldiers' scars under their habits, and there is one who carried dispatches under a hotter fire than any of your Worships have even seen." "This is not the point," whined the Viscount. "It is the only point there is. Your Excellency shall answer me plainly. If we bow to this decree, which of 'the Portuguese people' will enjoy our house and goods? Will they be sold to feed the poor and to clothe the hungry and to pay the just debts of the State?" "I say the monastery is suppressed," the Viscount responded uneasily. "My duty is simply to take possession. How do I know what the Government will do with it?" "Your Excellency knows one thing at least. He can assure the fathers and brethren that he has no secret authority, no plan, no ambition of keeping this place for himself or his friends?" The Viscount of Ponte Quebrada clutched the back of the unoccupied chair for support. Outside his darling business of usury he had always been a weak, foolish, poor creature, easily cowed by any strong man who stood up to him; but the Abbot's words doubly terrified him. Not only did they forebode the miscarriage of his plans; they also filled him with supernatural dread. The dying man had spoken in low and even tones, as if he and his visitors were discussing some commonplace transaction: but the unearthly face, almost immobile between the cope and the miter, would have frightened the Viscount out of his wits if he had not averted his eyes from it. But while he could turn away his eyes, he could not close his ears; and the Abbot's final question probed the depths of the Viscount's scheming so unexpectedly that the schemer quailed in superstitious horror. For a moment or two the cell and the black figures and the smoky lights swung round with him.