"What is behind these doors?" demanded Mr. Crowberry. "Cells," said Antonio, curtly. "Cells?" "Why not, sir?" asked young Crowberry, in honeyed tones. "Why not cells here as in other penitential establishments? All the best prisons have them. I thought it was a matter of common knowledge that the principal occupation of a monk when he gets into a monastery is to prevent the other monks getting out." "Shut up!" snapped his father, striding on. Mrs. Baxter spoke at last. She adventured the point of her shoe and the tip of her nose into Antonio's cell, which had been left open. "Is this the condemned cell, Mr. Edward?" she asked with a shudder. "They're all condemned cells, ma'am," Edward answered. "Every monk was condemned to penal servitude for life. At the end of his term he was taken out to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. A few days after, he was buried alive, or walled up. If this didn't cure him of his errors the Abbot began to think it was really time for something to be done; and he was sentenced to take a bath." Antonio turned away, grievously wounded. After their solemn conversations on the highest and holiest things, these jests scorched him like hot irons. But, upon reflection, he could condone much of young Crowberry's offense. Doubtless the youth had a good motive in plying the edged tool of ridicule against the prejudices of his companions. But his main excuse lay in his inability to take monks seriously. The youth did not know that Antonio was himself a monk, and that this had been Antonio's cell and that Antonio had spoken to his Lord within it. He had never consciously met a monk in his life. Monks to him were like mailed knights to a reader of historical novels; they were merely the picturesque literary fictions of Mrs. Radcliffe, of Sir Walter Scott, of "Monk" Lewis. Or, rather, monks to young Crowberry were pretty much what exorcists had been to Antonio. Although the Church still ordained exorcists, and exorcists were prayed for every Good Friday, Antonio had turned more than one light pleasantry about them. Nevertheless the monk could have wished that young Crowberry had spoken otherwise. When every allowance had been made, his irony remained more mischievous than useful; and Antonio determined to counteract it. Turning to Mrs. Baxter he gave her a rapid sketch of a monk's day. At the very outset, when he told her how every monk answered the loud knock at his cell door before daybreak with "Thanks be to God!" the Excellent Creature shivered; but, in spite of herself, she grew interested. Even Mr. Crowberry condescended to return and to give the orator his grudging attention. But at Isabel Antonio threw only two furtive glances; for she seemed to be hearing him with distaste.