So presently, these three, and another behind them, were riding out of the gates of Montblanch, a colonel's commission in the army of Don Carlos in Rollo's breast-pocket, a monopoly promise of all the Priorato wine for six years in that of John Mortimer, and in Brother Hilario's a dispensation absolving him for the length of his military service from all conventual and other vows. It is difficult to say which of the three was the happiest. "That bit of paper is worth more than a thousand pounds any day at Barcelona!" said John Mortimer triumphantly, slapping the pocket which contained the Abbot's undertaking about the Priorato. "It is as good as done if only I can get those sixty hogsheads down to the sea, as an earnest of what is to come!" Ah, if only, indeed! Rollo smiled quietly as he put his hand into his pocket, and touched the colonel's commission that nestled there. "I must keep a tight rein on my command," he said. "I hear these Carlist fellows are the devil and all!" But as for Brother Hilario, it is grievous to state that he stood up in his stirrups and hallooed with pure joy when he lost sight of the monastery towers, that he threw his pocket breviary into a ditch, and concealed carefully the jewelled crucifix in the breast of his blue velvet coat--with the intent, as he openly averred, of pawning it so soon as they got to Madrid. He turned round upon the huge attendant--a simple Gallegan peasant by his dress--who followed them by order of the Abbot. "By the way, sirrah," he cried, "we pass through the village of Sarria, do we not?" The Gallegan lifted a pair of eyes that burned slumberously, like red coals in a smith's furnace, and with a strange smile replied, "Yes, _caballero_, we do pass through Sarria." As for the Prior, he stood at the gate where he had given the lads his benediction, and watched them out of sight. Father Anselmo was at his elbow, but half a pace behind. "There they go," said the Prior. "God help them if the Nationalists overhaul them. They carry enough to hang them all a dozen times over. But praise to St. Vincent and all the saints, nothing to compromise us, nor yet the Abbey of Our Lady of Montblanch!" CHAPTER XI CARTEL OF DEFIANCE It was indeed Ramon Garcia, who on a stout shaggy pony, a portmanteau slung before and behind him, followed his masters with the half-sullen, wholly downcast look of the true Gallegan servitor. He was well attired in the Galician manner, appearing indeed like one of those Highlanders returning from successful service in the Castillas or in Catalunia, all in rusty brown double-cloth, the _pano pardo_ of his class, his wide-brimmed hat plumed, and his _alpargatas_ of esparto grass exchanged for holiday shoes of brown Cordovan leather.