"And if we refuse?" he said. "If the noble Viscount and I refuse; if no inventory is signed or delivered: then what will your Worships do?" The Prior answered promptly and firmly: "We will see to it that your Excellencies do not rob their masters on earth as well as their Master in heaven. We will see to it that your Excellencies, as well as ourselves, obey this decree. Portugal shall not be cheated. Let the inventory be signed and we will go forth without strife to regain our rights elsewhere. Peace is our watchword, and we are vowed to poverty. But let your Excellencies refuse--" He made a long pause, and only when the suspense had become intolerable did he add in ringing tones: "Then these brave men who have bled for Portugal will do their duty. They are not hirelings: they are volunteers and patriots. Senhor captain, do not deceive yourself. Men are not born in cowls. Under Wellington I led Portuguese troops into fourteen battles. Your men love Portugal, and they do not hate God. I have only to give the word and more than half of them will be mine. Here is the inventory and here are pens and ink. Your Excellencies will verify it--and sign." Two lay brethren approached carrying a deal table, upon which Father Sebastian laid two copies of the inventory, an earthenware inkstand and a bundle of goose-quills. At the same time Brother Cypriano bore forward a carved chair, in which the Abbot sat down. Ungovernable rage set fire to the captain's wits at the very moment when he needed all his coolness. He had sold his soul and his country for gold which, after all, he was not to receive. He turned savagely towards his seducer, and saw with disgust that the Viscount, whose sense of dignity was nearly as small as his sense of humor, had opened a vast umbrella. "What are we to do?" the captain rapped out. "Do? We refuse, of course. It's all bravado. Leave them to me. I will answer." He turned to the Prior with a ridiculous air of importance and shut up his umbrella. But before he could speak a word the guffaw which had so much disconcerted and offended him the night before in the vestibule broke again from one of the soldiers. As the Prior had said, these men were not mercenaries. Their ranks comprised a salt-winner from Aveiro, the two sons of a Lisbon saddler, a fisherman from Figueira da Foz, two quarrymen from the Minho, and a score or so of peasants from the Beiras: but one and all of them had something of the fidalgo in his air, and one and all of them was dimly conscious of the upstart Viscount's low breeding.