Expressing his failure by a sad gesture, Father Sebastian bowed to the Prior and passed in to join the crowd in the vestibule, with Antonio in his wake. The captain followed on their heels, uncovering respectfully as the Prior advanced to meet him. There was a silence; but it was quickly ended by a wheezy cry from without: "Wait for me! This is my business. Wait for me, I say." "We are waiting for the Senhor Visconde," rapped back the captain with a touch of scorn. "Then bring me a stool," the Viscount demanded. "Help me down. Bring me a stool or a chair. Here Ferreira, you fat dog, help me down." The fat dog Ferreira backed up and with his arms clasped round the burly trooper's neck, the Viscount was rescued from the perils of the thick-legged horse. Either from stupidity or from malice, Ferreira did not set him down upon his feet but carried him up the monastery steps as sailors carry land-lubbers ashore through the surf. When he finally landed on the vestibule floor the Viscount might have recovered his dignity had not another trooper, safely hidden in the outer darkness, uttered a loud guffaw. He turned round angrily with a threat at his tongue's end: but the weird black ranks of monks silently staring at him in the smoky light scared him into speechlessness. "The most illustrious and most excellent Senhor Visconde will explain to your Reverence why we are here," announced the captain dryly. "I am at your Excellency's service," said the Prior, stepping forward and looking the Viscount in the face. For two whole days during his carriage-ride from Lisbon the Viscount had been jotting down a discourse on the inevitable victory of the emancipated human intellect over priestcraft and superstition. It was in the best French manner. Even during his fearsome hour on the thick-legged horse, after the roughness of the by-roads had compelled him to descend from his chariot, he had contrived to add a flourish or two to his peroration. But the steady eyes of the Prior burned up all the Viscount's fine phrases like stubble, and he could only stutter: "You are suppressed. All convents are suppressed. This Order is suppressed. Here is the decree. I tell you, you are suppressed." An indescribable sound burst from the listening monks. It was composed of the prayers of some, blended with the moans of despair or the cries of incredulity or indignation of the others. The smoky vault re-echoed it strangely. But the Prior turned upon his brethren sharply. "We will be silent," he said. They were silent. A few lips moved in prayer. Many eyes flashed fire at the despoiler and more than one fist was fiercely clenched. But not a word was spoken until the Prior demanded: "Let me read the decree." Without waiting for an answer he took the papers out of the Viscount's clasp and perused them from beginning to end. Then he handed them back and began to think deeply. At last he raised his head and said loudly: