Even the Oporto Liberal whistled his surprise. Antonio, bending forward unconsciously, strained his ears to catch every word. "They say," concluded the man from Lisbon, "that no play-actor in the world could have done better than the Viscount. When he saw the empty hole he threw up his hands and began raving like a madman, and tore his hair. But nobody is taken in. He has stormed and raged and threatened: but Lisbon's too hot for him, and he's taken himself off on an English packet." "And the diamond cups?" demanded two voices at once. "Don't ask me," chuckled the man from Lisbon. "Ask the Viscount of Ponte Quebrada. After all, what does it matter? Portugal has been robbed a thousand times before, and this is simply the thousand and first. As I've said already, friars and monks are loafers and wastrels; but they're being driven out by knaves and thieves." "The whole tale's a pack of lies!" roared the Oporto Liberal. And, rising up, he banged the table with his fist until the wine leaped out of the glasses. The Lisbon man, who had told his tale in bantering, almost jovial tones, sprang up in his turn and blazed out with a brace of lurid oaths. In a moment the whole place was in an uproar and things looked ugly for the Southerner. But just as the first blow was about to be struck Antonio leaped between the combatants. "Senhores," he cried, "the whole tale is not a pack of lies. I used to work for that old Abbot in the monks' vineyards. It is true that the Viscount of Ponte Quebrada tried to seize the abbey's treasures for himself." For two or three seconds everybody stared at Antonio in speechless surprise. Then the din of angry voices broke out louder than ever. The tavern-keeper bawled out commands which no one heeded, while threats and curses filled the air. From other tables excited men came hurrying to the fray. Antonio saw that the odds were a dozen to two: so he gripped the man from Lisbon by the shoulders and half shoved, half swung him to the open door and into the safety of the street. And, in spite of being well cursed and hustled for his pains, he did not relax his hold until they had gained a dim and quiet alley. When Antonio said good-night and would have turned homeward, the Southerner had the grace and sense to know that a service had been rendered to him. Rather sulkily he grunted: "Stop. One moment. You meant well. Who are you?" "My name," answered the monk, "is Francisco Manoel Oliveira da Rocha." It was Antonio's true name, but from long disuse it came haltingly from his lips. "What are you doing in Oporto?" "Looking for work," said Antonio. "I only arrived this morning. Perhaps I shall have better luck to-morrow. In Gaia the wine-merchants do not want hands." "That's all stuff and nonsense!" snorted the man from Lisbon. "They want a man badly at the cellars of Castro and de Mattos." Antonio explained that he had approached the Senhores Castro and de Mattos and had been turned out.