"My Father," said Rollo, laying a strong constraint upon himself, "I have indeed a thing to tell that is hard and painful. The monasteries throughout all Spain are to be suppressed on the twentieth day of this month by order of the Madrid Government." As the words passed his lips, the bland expression on Don Baltasar's face changed into one of fierce hatred and excitement. There was forced from his lips that sharp hiss of indrawn breath which a man instinctively makes as he winces under the surgeon's knife. Then almost instantly he recovered himself. "Well," he said, "we cannot save the Abbey, we cannot save the Holy Church from this desecration. I have cried 'Pater mi, si possibile est, transeat a me calix iste!' But now I say 'Verumtamen non sicut ego volo, sed sicut tu!'" Then with a curious change of countenance (the difference between a priest's expression at the altar and in the sacristy when things have gone crossly) he turned to Rollo. "Nevertheless," he said, "I do not deny that to you we owe all thanks and gratitude. Perhaps some day you shall be repaid!" When Rollo looked round the saturnine priest had disappeared. His host and he were alone. The Abbot poured out the coffee. "You will take some of our famous _liqueur_," he said, calmly and graciously as ever. "The receipt has been in the possession of the Abbey for well-nigh a thousand years." It seemed a pity that so many things which had lasted a thousand years should come to an end on the twentieth day of the month. Meantime, however, he imitated the nonchalance of the Abbot. The _liqueur_ was not to be despised. Rollo held out his glass scarcely knowing what he did. The Abbot poured into it a generous portion of the precious fluid. It was of the keen cold green known to painters as viridian--the colour of turnip leaves with the dew on them. Don Baltasar drew a glass towards him across the table. "I am no winebibber," he said, "my vows do not allow of it. But I will give you a toast, which, if you permit me, I will drink with you in the pure wine of the flint." Rollo rose to his feet, and stood looking at the Prior out of his steadfast blue eyes. They touched their glasses ceremoniously, the elder, however, avoiding the gaze of the younger. "May you be rewarded, not according to your successes, but according to your deserts!" said Don Baltasar. They drank, and Rollo, astonished by the strange bitter-sweet taste of the _liqueur_, could only stammer, "I thank you, Prior. Indeed, you are over kind to me. I only wish I had had--better news--better news to bring you!"