The Prior, not wishing to impose his bare opinions upon the community, went to the window and read aloud the long and clear letter from Lisbon which a devout layman had made so much haste to despatch. At the end of his reading he called for candles; and, as soon as they were brought, he threw the council open. No one spoke. All eyes were fixed on Antonio, all ears were waiting for his words. Amidst the prosaic discomforts of their hot march the monks had seen the young priest merely as one more dusty and perspiring exile: but, after the speech of the Prior, they recovered some of the mood in which they had listened to the Abbot's prophecy the night before. The scene had a solemnity of its own. Instead of carved stalls the monks sat on boxes, casks, and heaps of straw: but the few candles, casting vague shadows of black-robed figures upon the death-white walls, filled the mind with bodings of supernatural mystery. One and all gazed upon Antonio's face, fully persuaded that he would speak and ready to obey. Antonio, becoming conscious of their expectation, flushed and fastened his eyes upon the ground. The Prior, putting into words the general feeling, said gently: "Father Antonio, be not afraid. What said our Father Saint Benedict in the Holy Rule? _Ideo autem omnes ad consilium vocari diximus; quia saepe juniori Dominus revelat quod melius est_: 'We have ordained that all be called to Council, because it is often to the youngest that God revealeth what is best.' Speak." The Prior's words, the intent looks of his brethren, the shadows, the candle-flames, the silence, seemed to Antonio like so many hands, great and small, held out hungrily for his words. Besides, was it not disloyal, mean, unbrotherly, to lock away a secret from his brethren? At this thought the hands came searching and plucking in his very breast. But the heavenly light, which had been burning like a bright lamp within him all day long, once more showed him his duty. He knew that among the monks were old men of enfeebled mind and weakened will, whose worn wits would not be proof against the artful pryings and questionings of spies, and that he had no right to burden them with a secret they could not keep. Yet this was a minor consideration. The supreme fact was that God was saying to him, "Hold thy peace." Only when the silence had become unbearable did Antonio answer: "Father Prior, indulge me. If I must speak, I crave leave to speak last." As affectation and false humility were faults which had long been cast out of the community, the Prior reluctantly took Antonio at his word. Indeed, there was that in the young priest's voice which compelled the acquiescence of all. "Then let us, Fathers and Brethren," said the Prior at length, "speak in turn. I will begin. But all I shall say is subject to alteration, nay, perhaps to complete reversal, by the council Father Antonio shall give us." A low murmur of approval rounded off his words.