"Sebastian," he said, "ask all my brethren to forgive me and to pray for me. Take care of my breviary, if you can. Good-bye." A sentry challenged him as he strode forth: but Antonio threw him aside. "I am not your prisoner," he said; and the fellow, bemused by wine and by fatigue, fell back without another word. Hurrying though Navares he contrived to pass the apothecary's shop unobserved by the throng of leading townsmen who were warmly debating the rights and wrongs of the monks' case. Outside the taverns he was less successful; and in one instance, a lewd insult which was flung after him led to bitter rejoinders and a scuffle. A young man, whose pleasant face contrasted oddly with his words, ran after Antonio to say that the monks ought to have been driven out long ago: but, on the other hand, four separate men offered him hospitality, ranging from a pull of wine to a night's lodging. Thanking friends and forgiving foes, the young priest pressed forward until the last houses of Navares were more than a league behind him. Only then did he sink down to rest. His halting-place was on a more northerly point of the long range of hills on which stood the monastery from which he had been cast into exile. By the stars he knew that exactly twenty-four hours had passed since his reverie on the cork bench, on the flat roof of the cloister. The airs around him, like the airs of the night before in the monastery garden, were rich with scents of lemon-blossom and honeysuckle. The Atlantic still lay unvexed by wind: but the ocean swell, as it searched the creeks and caves, hummed heavily and wearily, like a great bee mining in the bells of flowers that held no honey. BOOK II THE RETURN I Antonio slept soundly until sunrise. When he awoke the larks were in full song. He sat up. The carpet of pine-needles around him was curiously patterned with long black stripes--the tree-trunks' shadows cast by the low, strong sun. No wind moved in the wood: but out at sea the weather seemed to have freshened, for the chaunt of the Atlantic was quicker and louder. The monk knelt down and said his morning prayers. Then, obeying the call of the great waters, he arose and struck along the margin of a maize-field towards the shore. In half an hour he was ankle-deep in fine yellow sand. But the beach fell away too steeply and the undertow sucked too strongly for a plunge, so he turned and plodded northward. Two miles of toilsome going brought him to a little estuary, about a furlong wide. Along the further bank sprawled a white village with a considerable tower: but none of the villagers appeared to be astir. The out-flowing tide had left a deep pool of clear water. Antonio swiftly stripped and jumped in; and only when the level of the water had so far fallen that further swimming was impossible did he emerge from his bath.