"It must be an old convent or monastery," he thought, after noticing these. "Here in Mexico they often have them in odd, out-of-the-way places, I've heard. Out of the way this place surely is, considering the climb we've had to reach it. Monks in it, too?" he added, recalling the two men he had seen on the preceding night, and how they where habited. "A strange sort they seem, with a _captain_ at their head--my prison companion! Well, if it give us sanctuary, as he appears to think it will, I shall be but too glad to join the holy brotherhood." He lay a little longer, his eyes running around the room, to note that the rough lime-wash on its walls had not been renewed for years; green moss had grown upon them, and there were seams at the corners, stains showing were rainwater had run down. If a monastery, it was evidently not one in the enjoyment of present prosperity, whatever it might have been in the past. While still dreamily conjecturing about it, the door of his room was gently pushed ajar, and so held by whoever had opened it. Turning his head round, Kearney saw a man in long loose robes, with sandalled feet and shaven crown, girdle of beads, crucifix, cowl, and scapular--in short, the garb of the monk with all its insignia. "I have come to inquire how you have slept, my son," said the holy man, on seeing that he was awake. "I hope that the pure atmosphere of this, our mountain home--so different from that you've been so lately breathing--will have proved conducive to your slumbers." "Indeed, yes," rejoined he inquired after, conscious of having slept well. "I've had a good night's rest--the best allowed me for a long time. But where--" While speaking, he had dropped his feet to the floor, and raised himself erect on the side of the bed, thus bringing him face to face with the friar. What caused him to leave the interrogatory unfinished was a recognition. The countenance he saw was a familiar one, as might be expected after having been so close to his own--within a few feet of it--for days past. No disguise of dress, nor changed tonsure, could hinder identification of the man who had partaken of his chain in the Acordada; for he it was. "Oh! 'tis you, Don Ruperto!" exclaimed Kearney, suddenly changing tone. "The same, my son," rejoined the other, with an air of mock gravity. At which the young Irishman broke out into a loud guffaw, saying:-- "Well, you're the last man I should ever have supposed to be a monk!" He recalled some strong denunciations of the Holy Brethren he had heard pass the lips of his late fellow-prisoner.