The heap of pine-cones burning on Antonio's narrow hearth crackled pleasantly and gave out fragrant vapors. But, as the monk crouched over it chafing his nerveless hands, he could not help thinking of the blaze he had seen in the vast fireplace of a famous old English banqueting-hall at the close of a chilly, rainy day. The recollection increased his resentment against the shaggy José, who was waiting for his new master's word as meekly as a drenched sheep-dog on a moor. Antonio's pity was submerged for the moment under his disgust at having had to fight for life, half-naked, in a tropical downpour. "Here are some dry clothes," he said sharply, opening a chest and throwing out the suit in which he had ridden to Villa Branca. And, while José was changing, he stamped upstairs to do the same. Antonio boasted three suits in all. The oldest was the dripping raiment he was actually wearing--the clothes which José had bundled into the hollow tree. The second was the suit he had lent to his guest. The third was the masterpiece in broadcloth which a London tailor had made at the expense of Messrs. Crowberry and Castro for Antonio's memorable journey. Over and above these the monk possessed his habit. It was a choice between the patched, rusty-black habit or the fine gentleman's broadcloth. Antonio hesitated. At last he put on the habit and returned to the kitchen. José, awkward in his town-made clothes, stood waiting. From the extreme of bloodthirstiness he had passed to the extreme of sheepishness: and, as Antonio entered in his monkish garb, he retreated a step and went down clumsily on his knees as if he saw a priest on his way to the altar. "Get up," said Antonio. "I am wearing my monk's habit simply because my clothes are wet. Get up. Nearer the fire. Sit down. Tell me why you were at the abbey to-night." José got up and approached the hearth, where he seated himself on the keg which was Antonio's second-best stool. But he remained tongue-tied. The monk repeated his question. "Your Reverence--" began José. Then his tongue was tied once more. "Never mind 'Your Reverence' just now," said Antonio, more kindly. "Tell me a plain tale. What were you doing at the abbey? Why did you try to drown me before you gave me a chance to explain? It is a serious matter. If I'd been a weaker man, at this moment you would be a murderer." "I did wrong, Father," said José humbly. "But God knows I thought I was doing right. I thought your Reverence had found out about the things and that he'd come to steal them." "What things?" "The things the Viscount of Pont' Quebrad' buried in the ground." Antonio started violently. He paced the room. Then he hurried back to the fireside and said: