On returning to London and to the Jermyn Street office Mr. Crowberry found that the news of his offer had spread, and that orders had arrived by post which would exhaust the whole shipment of wine. A little figuring showed that Antonio's plan had earned for the firm of Castro eleven hundred pounds more than the sum which would have been tardily paid by the royal household. Mr. Crowberry was radiant. He pressed upon Antonio a hundred guineas, and added that if Senhor Castro did not give him a hundred guineas more he was an even worse miser than he looked. Mr. Crowberry concluded by saying that Antonio was too good for a piggery like Oporto, and that he must stay and make his fortune in London. Antonio shook his head. How did he know that he was not already too late, and that the abbey had not passed irrevocably into desecrating hands? Now that he had amassed his two hundred pounds his course was clear. Besides, he was home-sick. For days he had been thinking of his famous namesake, the holy Antonio, called of Padua, but properly of Lisbon, whose crowning self-mortification was to exile himself for life from beautiful Portugal. Nevertheless, he gave way to the next request of his kindly chief. Young Edward Crowberry, a muffish youth with soft yellow hair, was to be placed for three years in the Oporto office; and, with a view to shaking him up and opening his mind, Mr. Crowberry begged Antonio to take him overland through France and Spain. He himself, he said, would go by sea and meet them at Oporto. Landing at Boulogne one August afternoon, Antonio and his charge traveled by a fast public coach to Amiens, and there, for the first time, the monk found his dreams of a Gothic cathedral come true. From Amiens they went to Beauvais, whose overweening choir offended his religious sense. At Rouen he lingered in wonder. The cathedral, with its unstudied harmony of many styles, reminded him of the Church herself--a divine idea working itself out in history through many minds, yet never in self-contradiction. Notre Dame de Paris also impressed him deeply: it seemed bigger than Paris, bigger than France, and to be challenging both the metropolis and the nation to a truer grandeur of spirit and conduct. In the dimness cast by the thirteenth-century glass of Chartres he thought of Westminster Abbey, with its huddle of pagan monuments, and compared it with our Lady's glorious shrine, wherein not a single body, not even a saint's, lay buried. The stone embroideries of the west front of Tours recalled to him Henry the Fourth's saying that it ought to be under a glass case: and Antonio liked it the less on that account.