It was the time of Matins. He thought of his monastic brethren throughout the world rising from their beds to praise God, some of them under the soaring vaults of proud and rich abbeys, some of them in the poor lodgings of weary exiles. His prodigious memory enabled him, without the aid of a book, to recite nearly the whole of Matins, including parts of the Proper; and this he did, rising up and kneeling down as if the whole community were reciting the Office with him. As he rose from his knees the moon's light had all but faded from the chapel. Only upon the bright points of the Holy Child's diadem did some stray beam mysteriously linger. And Antonio, abiding in his place, his soul filled full with peace, said softly: "_Civitas non eget sole_: 'The city hath no need of the sun, nor of the moon to beam in her; for God's clear-shining hath enlightened her and her lamp is the Lamb.'" Thus did Antonio, in his old place, begin once more to do the Work of God. VIII The village nearest to the abandoned farm nestled on the other side of the hill, about four miles away. Thither Antonio tramped at sunrise. Had he ridden his horse the natives might have formed swollen notions as to his wealth and manner of life: so he footed it modestly, in his oldest clothes. The tiny, parchment-faced old dame at whose wine-shop he ate and drank a threepenny breakfast was able and willing to tell him nearly all he wanted to know. The farm, she said, belonged to a bed-ridden widow in Navares, whose husband and two sons had been killed by the same Constitutionalist volley during the first Miguelista attack on Oporto. This poor widow, she added, was living unhappily with her only daughter, the wife of a Navares tanner. It was safe for Antonio to show himself openly in the village and to ask his questions: for the monks had kept inclosure with such strictness that the villagers could have no recollection of the younger fathers. But he deemed it prudent to hold his tongue about the deserted monastery; and, having put down his three vintens, he struck out a path over the hills to Navares. Fortunately the tanner was at home. He was an overgrown man whose bad humor evidently proceeded from dyspepsia: and the monk did not envy the hapless woman who had to subsist on his charity. Eying Antonio's boots and clothes with suspicion, the tanner answered every question so curtly and sulkily that Antonio at last showed spirit, and said: "Perhaps it will be better for me to employ a notary?" "Notary? No, certainly not," gasped the tanner, suddenly alarmed. He was slothful in business; and every lawyer within twenty miles knew him well as a chronic defendant in the civil courts. "I will give your Worship's mother-in-law one hundred and fifty pounds for the whole property," said Antonio, "provided the offer is accepted to-day."