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Adobe Animate Classroom in
a Book® (2023 Release)

The official training workbook from

Adobe

Russell Chun
Adobe Animate Classroom in a Book® (2023 release)
© 2023 Adobe. All rights reserved.
Adobe Press is an imprint of Pearson Education, Inc. For the
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Any references to company names in sample files are for
demonstration purposes only and are not intended to refer
to any actual organization.
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Flash Player, ActionScript, Adobe Fonts, Illustrator,
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Adobe Inc., 345 Park Avenue, San Jose, California 95110-
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Notice to U.S. Government End Users. The Software and
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Chapter 10 Asset Credits
Running shoes_62402566 © Robert
Babczynski/Shutterstock
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Bain/Shutterstock
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RomarioIen/Shutterstock
Executive Editor: Laura Norman
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Copy Editor: Audrey Doyle
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Compositor: Cody Gates, Happenstance Type-O-Rama
Indexer: Rachel Kuhn
Cover Illustration: Caparo DC,
behance.net/Caparodesigncrew
Interior Designer: Mimi Heft
ISBN-13: 978-0-13-798242-4
ISBN-10: 0-13-798242-9
ScoutAutomatedPrintCode
Where are the Lesson Files?
Purchase of this Classroom in a Book in any format gives
you access to the lesson files you’ll need to complete the
exercises in the book.

1. Go to adobepress.com/AnimateCIB2023.
2. Sign in or create a new account.
3. Click Submit.

Note
If you encounter problems registering your product
or accessing the lesson files or web edition, go to
adobepress.com/support for assistance.

4. Answer the question as proof of purchase.

5. The lesson files can be accessed through the
Registered Products tab on your Account page.
6. Click the Access Bonus Content link below the title of
your product to proceed to the download page. Click
the lesson file links to download them to your
computer.

Note
If you purchased a digital product directly from
adobepress.com or peachpit.com, your product will
already be registered. However, you still need to
follow the registration steps and answer the proof of
purchase question before the Access Bonus Content
link will appear under the product on your
Registered Products tab.
Contents at a Glance
GETTING STARTED

1 GETTING ACQUAINTED

2 CREATING GRAPHICS AND TEXT

3 ANIMATING SYMBOLS WITH CLASSIC TWEENS

4 LAYER PARENTING AND CHARACTER

ANIMATION

5 ANIMATING WITH MODERN RIGGING

6 ANIMATING SYMBOLS WITH MOTION TWEENS

7 ANIMATING THE CAMERA

8 ANIMATING SHAPES AND USING MASKS

9 INVERSE KINEMATICS WITH BONES

10 CREATING INTERACTIVE NAVIGATION

INDEX
Contents
GETTING STARTED

1 GETTING ACQUAINTED
Starting Adobe Animate and opening a
file
Understanding document types and
creating a new document
Getting to know the workspace
Working with the Library panel
Understanding the Timeline panel
Organizing layers in a timeline
Using the Properties panel
Using the Tools panel
Adding layer effects
Undoing steps in Animate
Previewing and exporting your movie
Modifying the content and Stage
Saving your movie

2 CREATING GRAPHICS AND TEXT

Getting started
Understanding strokes and fills
Creating shapes
Making selections
 Editing shapes
Using variable-width strokes
Organizing your drawing
Using brushes
Creating curves
Using brush mode options
About symbols
Creating symbols
Managing symbol instances
Using gradient fills
Using transparency to create depth
Applying filters and color effects
Creating and editing text
Aligning and distributing objects
Sharing your final project
Collaborating via the Assets panel

3 ANIMATING SYMBOLS WITH CLASSIC TWEENS

Getting started
About animation
Understanding the project file
Animating position
Changing the pacing and timing
Animating transparency
Animating filters
Animating transformations
 Editing multiple frames
Creating a path for motion
Easing
Creating nested animations
Adding a 3D title
Exporting your final movie

4 LAYER PARENTING AND CHARACTER

ANIMATION
Getting started
Layer parenting
Tweening instances in connected layers
Graphic symbols for lip-syncing dialogue

5 ANIMATING WITH MODERN RIGGING

Getting started
What is modern rigging?
Using the Asset Warp tool
Editing your rig
Animating your rig
Organizing warped assets
Editing warped assets
Rigs with branching joints
Warp options
Propagating rig edits
Single joints
Using Flexi bones
 Making envelope deformations

6 ANIMATING SYMBOLS WITH MOTION TWEENS

Getting started
Understanding the project file
About motion tweens
Editing the path of motion
About the Motion Editor
Viewing options for the Motion Editor
Adding complex eases

7 ANIMATING THE CAMERA

Animating camera moves
Getting started
Using the camera
Attaching layers to the camera for fixed
graphics
Exporting your final movie

8 ANIMATING SHAPES AND USING MASKS

Getting started
Animating shapes
Understanding the project file
Creating a shape tween
Changing the pace
Adding more shape tweens
Creating a looping animation
 Using shape hints
Previewing animations with onion
skinning
Animating color
Creating and using masks
Animating the mask and masked layers
Easing a shape tween

9 INVERSE KINEMATICS WITH BONES

Getting started
Character animation with inverse
kinematics
Creating the pedaling cycle
Disabling and constraining joints
Adding poses
Inverse kinematics with shapes
Simulating physics with springiness
Tweening automatic rotations
Rig mapping

10 CREATING INTERACTIVE NAVIGATION

Getting started
About interactive movies
ActionScript and JavaScript
Creating buttons
Preparing the timeline
Creating destination keyframes
 Navigating the Actions panel
Adding JavaScript interactivity with the
Actions panel wizard
Creating the “Shop now” button
Playing animation at the destination
Animated buttons
Next steps

INDEX
Getting Started
The 2023 release of Adobe Animate provides a
comprehensive authoring environment for creating
sophisticated animations and interactive, media-rich
applications that you can publish to a variety of platforms.
Animate is widely used in the creative industry to develop
engaging projects that integrate video, sound, graphics,
and animation. You can create original content in Animate
or import assets from other Adobe applications such as
Photoshop and Illustrator, quickly design animation and
multimedia, and use code to integrate sophisticated
interactivity.

Use Animate to generate graphics and animation assets,

publish broadcast-quality animation, build innovative and
immersive websites, create stand-alone desktop
applications, and create apps to distribute to mobile
devices running on Android or iOS.

With extensive controls for animation, intuitive and flexible

drawing tools, and output options for HD video, HTML5,
WebGL, SVG, mobile apps, and desktop applications, Adobe
Animate is a robust multimedia authoring environment that
enables your imagination to become reality.

About Classroom in a Book

Adobe Animate Classroom in a Book (2023 release) is part
of the official training series for Adobe graphics and
publishing software developed with the support of Adobe
product experts. The lessons are designed so that you can
learn at your own pace. If you’re new to Animate, you’ll
learn the fundamental concepts and features you’ll need to
use the program. Classroom in a Book also teaches many
advanced features, including tips and techniques for using
the latest version of this application.

Although each lesson provides step-by-step instructions for

creating a specific project, there’s room for exploration and
experimentation. You can follow the book from start to
finish or do only the lessons that correspond to your
interests and needs. Each lesson concludes with review
questions to reinforce what you’ve learned.

What’s new
The 2023 release of Adobe Animate provides significant
new controls for animation with modern rigging that
includes bone control with Bezier precision, envelope
deformation, and rig editing of warp assets.

The lessons in this book provide opportunities to use some

of the updated features and improvements in Animate,
including the following:

A Flexi bone option in modern rigging that allows you to

use Bezier controls for bone positioning
Animation with envelope deformation using the Asset
Warp tool
Rig editing of warp assets and organizational control in
the Library panel
Refinements to the Paint Bucket fill options for active
layers

Prerequisites
Before you begin using Adobe Animate Classroom in a Book
(2023 release), make sure your system is set up correctly
and that you’ve installed the required software. You should
have a working knowledge of your computer and operating
system. You should know how to use the mouse and
standard menus and commands and also how to open,
save, and close files. If you need to review these
techniques, see the printed or online documentation
included with your macOS or Microsoft Windows software.

Installing Animate
You must purchase the Adobe Animate application as part
of Adobe Creative Cloud. The following specifications are
the minimum required system configurations.

macOS
Multicore Intel™ processor with 64-bit support
macOS version 10.15 (Catalina), version 11.0 (Big Sur),
or version 12 (Monterey)
8 GB of RAM (16 GB recommended)
1024x900 display (1280x1024 recommended)
QuickTime 10.x software recommended
4 GB of available hard-disk space for installation; more
free space required during installation (cannot install on
a volume that uses a case-sensitive file system or on
removable flash storage devices)
OpenGL version 3.3 or higher (Metal Support
recommended)
Broadband internet connection and registration
necessary for required software activation, validation of
subscriptions, and access to online services

Windows
 Intel Pentium® 4, Intel Centrino®, Intel Xeon®, or Intel
Core™ Duo (or compatible) processor (2 GHz or faster
processor)
Microsoft™ Windows™ 10 v2004, v20H2, or v21H1
8 GB of RAM (16 GB recommended)
1024x900 display (1280x1024 recommended)
4 GB of available hard-disk space for installation; more
free space required during installation (cannot install on
removable flash storage devices)
OpenGL™ version 3.3 or higher (DirectX® 12 with
feature level 12_0 recommended)
Broadband internet connection and registration
necessary for required software activation, validation of
subscriptions, and access to online services
For updates on system requirements and complete
instructions for installing the software, visit
helpx.adobe.com/animate/system-requirements.xhtml.

Install Animate from Adobe Creative Cloud at

creative.adobe.com and make sure that you have your login
and password accessible.

Online content
Your purchase of this Classroom in a Book includes online
materials provided by way of your Account page on
adobepress.com. These include the following:

Lesson files
To work through the projects in this book, you will need to
download the lesson files by following the instructions
below.
Web Edition

Note
If you encounter problems registering your product or
accessing the lesson files or Web Edition, go to
www.adobepress.com/support for assistance.

The Web Edition is an online interactive version of the book

providing an enhanced learning experience. Your Web
Edition can be accessed from any device with a connection
to the internet, and it contains the following:

The complete text of the book

Hours of instructional video keyed to the text
Interactive quizzes

Accessing the lesson files and Web Edition

Note
If you purchased a digital product directly from
www.adobepress.com or www.peachpit.com, your
product will already be registered. However, you still
need to follow the registration steps and answer the
proof-of-purchase question before the Access Bonus
Content link will appear under the product on your
Registered Products tab.

You must register your purchase on adobepress.com in

order to access the online content:

1. Go to www.adobepress.com/AnimateCIB2023.
2. Sign in or create a new account.
3. Click Submit.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 The second letter contained a draft for two hundred pounds payable at
sight in Navares. Antonio regarded it without emotion. Even the fact that it
was unaccompanied by a single line of writing from the sender did not stir
him. He had fully expected that the money would arrive in due time from
somewhere, and it was no surprise to find it in his hand. A single thought
filled every corner of his mind. Isabel was a thousand miles away, sunk in
deepest sorrow, with none to comfort her.

Thomé slapped Branco's neck noisily so as to arouse Antonio from his

reverie and to remind him that the postage had not yet been paid. Although
it was not the first time he had seen a man tear open a bulletin of death at
the roadside in the full blaze of noon, Thomé was sympathetic. But business
was business. In his turn every man had to die; but meanwhile Thomé had
to live. Antonio took the hint and gave the man his money.

When José saw the draft, half an hour later, he so far forgot a would-be
monk's decorum as to execute a rustic dance. The next minute, without
being conscious of any incongruity, he said:

"Father I knew this money would come. I knew it this morning, at Mass.
What did the Introit say? Nunc scio vere quia misit Dominus angelum suum,
et eripuit me: 'Now I know verily that the Lord hath sent His angel and hath
delivered me.' I knew. Deo gratias."

"Deo gratias," echoed Antonio. But his eyes were dull and there was no
ring of exultation in his tone. He arose and went to his cell; but she seemed
to be there, opening the cupboards and searching sadly for what she could
not find. He ascended to the roof of the cloister: but restlessness dragged
him down again. Wandering out into the open-air his feet turned of
themselves towards the guest-house. He meant to go no further than the
steps where she had said, "Promise that I may see you again," and where he
had carried her like a child in his arms; but he soon opened the door and
made his way to the salon. The sight of the blue ottoman quickly drove him
out again, and he mounted the stairs until he stood outside her chamber. The
little key was in his pocket, for he never allowed it to go out of his sight. He
fumbled for it and touched it. But it seemed to burn him. He hurried down
the stairs and out of the house.
 Striding along the broad path he returned to the abbey and entered the
chapel. As he sat down in his old place a sudden thought came to his help.
This was the feast of Saints Peter and Paul, the twenty-ninth of June; and on
the eighth of July all Portugal would be celebrating the feast of Saint Isabel,
Portugal's holy Queen. There was just time, neither a day too much nor a
day too little, for the nine days of his novena. He clutched at the
coincidence like a drowning man at a straw; and although in less perilous
moments he might have called it a straw, indeed, he found in it a plank to
buoy up his sinking soul.

There and then he began his nine day's pleading for the Saint's
intercession. In deep humility he made use of a little ill-printed pamphlet,
bought by José years before for a vintem at a village fair. Outside this penny
chap-book one saw a rough woodcut of the Holy Queen, with a crown on
her brow and a scepter in her hand. Inside one found a sequence of pious
exercises for the novena, set forth in the simplest and shortest words of the
vernacular. Antonio could have extemporized more dignified prayers; but
he believed in the communion of saints and chose to link himself with the
child-like faith of the poor and humble.

On the last of June he tramped into Navares to cash the Spanish draft,
and on the first of July he rode into Villa Branca to pay away his money. All
the way out and home, on both the days, he prayed. Every morning of the
nine he heard Mass at the village, and on three mornings he communicated
as well. He besought José to pray for a special intention; and, breaking
through his reserve, he asked some of the village Saints and Blessed Ones
to do the same.

Meanwhile the work in vineyard and distillery had grown heavy.

Throughout his novena he devoted six hours of the twenty-four to sleep and
meals, four to Mass, Office, and prayers, and all the rest to account-keeping
and manual labor. The resultant exhaustion of his bodily strength seemed to
sharpen his spiritual senses. On the fourth day, as he and José were saying
Lauds, Antonio could hardly resist the belief that Sebastian's voice was
joining in the holy Work. When Lauds were finished and he was busy
among the vines, he decided that his overstrained nerves had been wrought
upon by his knowledge that Sebastian's grave was only a few yards away,
just outside the cloister doorway. The next morning, however, his inward
ear seemed to hear afar off a vast babble of deep voices, as if all the
generations of Saint Benedict's sons throughout thirteen hundred years were
reciting Lauds together.

On the sixth and seventh and eighth mornings this mighty murmur of
deep voices reverberated persistently in his ears, like the echoes of distant
Niagaras and Atlantics. On the ninth morning, after his Mass and
communion, he heard it again; but this time there was a difference. While
he was beseeching the Isabel in heaven to pray for the Isabel on earth, an
ineffable harmony filled the ears of his soul. Blending with the deep voices
he heard voices that were high and sweet and clear, like woodbine and
sweet honeysuckle and roses intertwining among the sturdy trunks and
branches of an ancient forest. It was as if all the generations of Saint
Benedict's daughters had added their songs to the songs of all Saint
Benedict's sons.

The tide of harmony ebbed slowly away. But it left behind it a strange
peace in Antonio's soul; even as the tides of ocean bathe the burning sands
and leave them clean and cool. The peace which filled him passed his
understanding, and he did not try to explain it. Rising up quietly, he gave
the little book back to José and went about his work.

October came again; but this time Antonio did not run away. Until the
Indian summer ended he was quieter than usual; but he met its memories
without bitterness. The door of Isabel's room was still kept locked; he still
avoided the stepping-stones, and every night and morning he remembered
her in his prayers; but she had receded from the foreground of his life.

November and December were crowded with money troubles. The sales
of the farm and sea-sand wines increased every year, and there was a
constant demand for the two liqueurs: but Antonio's customers soon
perceived that he was not a hard man, and they imposed upon him by taking
excessive credit. His business needed capital; but every development had to
be paid for out of revenue. Worst of all, a further instalment of five hundred
pounds fell due on New Year's Day.
 There was young Crowberry; but, after what he had said about his
father's confused affairs, the monk did not think it fair to ask him for a loan.
There was also Sebastian's Asturian nobleman; but loyalty to his dead friend
restrained Antonio from requesting the Spaniard's further help. In his
difficulty he wrote to Senhor Castro and followed up the letter by
presenting himself in person at the old Castro cellars in Oporto early in
December.

Senhor Castro, who had grown old and liverish, did not want to be
troubled. He admitted that Antonio's English journey had firmly established
the Castro fortunes; but, although he was a rich man, he gave proofs that all
his money was invested beyond immediate recall. In the long run, Antonio
crossed the bridge of boats from Gaia empty-handed.

He searched for the cobbler, his old landlord; but the whole family had
gone to Brazil. Twice or thrice during his heart-wearing stay in the city he
was cheered by the best of greetings in the worst of Portuguese from
Gallegos to whom he had been kind nine years before. These Gallegos,
however, did not help him to raise five hundred pounds. They were the
Gallegos who had failed; for the Gallegos who had succeeded were all
returned into Galicia with their savings.

A few days before Christmas the monk clinched a bad bargain with a
small firm of so-called Anglo-Portuguese bankers, who were really
common money-lenders in bankers' clothing. The head of the firm hailed
from Hamburg and his partner was a Portuguese Jew. These plausible
rascals agreed to lend Antonio a thousand pounds on unconscionable terms.
Although the nominal interest was only seven per cent., one extra and
another made it over twenty. For sending a clerk to attend the transfer at
Villa Branca they required forty pounds, although his expenses could not
exceed twelve. The conditions as to repayment were harsh. As security, the
usurers required a first mortgage on the abbey, a second mortgage on the
farm, a note of hand from Antonio, and a hold on the receipts from wine.
The monk's heart sank as he signed the fatal parchment; but he espied the
gleam in the Hamburg man's eye too late.

On New Year's Day, Antonio had a moment of brightness when the

abbey passed finally out of the control of the Fazenda official; but he soon
found that he had exchanged a whip for a scorpion. Before the
moneylender's clerk returned to Oporto he confided vexatious instructions
to the most unprincipled of the Villa Branca attorneys, who rarely allowed a
month to pass thereafter without sending for Antonio on some frivolous
pretext. Whenever this objectionable person and his still more objectionable
wife desired a Sunday jaunt they drove over to the farm or the abbey,
sponging on Antonio's hospitality and poking inquisitorial noses into
everything. One day the pair brought two char-à-bancs full of their kindred
to celebrate the senhora's birthday by a picnic at the stepping-stones; and
when Antonio very courteously begged that the good things might be drunk
and eaten in some other part of the domain, the attorney promptly became
his active enemy.

Years passed. In spite of a hundred obstacles the wines and liqueurs

made steady progress, and Antonio seemed to be within reach of his goal.
Having ground out to the usurers nearly two thousand pounds in legal costs,
interest, and repayment of principal, he owed them less than two hundred. A
debt on his farm still remained; but the Navares' mortgagee was a
reasonable man who was willing to wait. The monk reckoned that one more
prosperous year would release him from the moneylenders' clutches and
that, two years later, both the farm and the abbey would be his.

But Portugal's honest, hardworking men and women were once more
being brought to the brink of ruin by the politicians. The minister, Costa
Cabral, having been created Count of Thomar, sought to repay Queen Maria
da Gloria by measures of excessive royalism; and immediately all the
turbulent spirits in the country were let loose. Some rough-and-ready poet
dashed down a Portuguese Marseillaise, in which an imaginary "Mary of
the Fountain" was hymned as a Joan of Arc raised up to save the fatherland.
In Villa Branca and Navares, Antonio often heard the lads singing:

Maria of the Fountain

Has a sword in her hand,
To slay the false Cabrals,
The traitors to their land.

Forward! brothers, forward!

Forward! be our cry;
 On! for holy Freedom
To conquer or to die.

Suddenly the Septembrists took arms. Under the Viscount Sa da Bandeira

there broke out the insurrection called by some the Mob-war and by others
the war of Maria da Fonte. Cabral fell, and the Marshal Saldanha filled his
place. To end the bloodshed and disorder foreign Powers intervened.

On the feast of Saints Peter and Paul, exactly four years after Antonio
began his memorable novena to Saint Isabel, the Convention of Granada
was signed and a general amnesty was declared. The good news reached the
farm on Saint Isabel's day, and Antonio hoped against hope that the dates
were good omens. But within two years Cabral was once more in power;
and, two years later, Saldanha and his soldiers once more turned him out.

One morning Thomé and Branco, both grown old, brought a letter to
announce the bankruptcy of the Lisbon shippers to whom Antonio had
entrusted the collection of his accounts. The news came barely a week
before a further payment of one hundred pounds fell due to the
moneylenders. Antonio immediately hired a fast horse and hastened to
Oporto. In answer to his request, the Jew and the German blandly offered to
renew his bonds on terms so outrageous that the monk walked out of their
office. But only three days remained, of which one was a holiday. He called
at Senhor Castro's house to find the master dead.

On the face of it, to raise a sum of two hundred pounds on property

worth three thousand was an absurdly easy task, and Antonio counted on
being able to wash his hands of the moneylenders within twenty-four hours.
But owing to the political unrest an acute financial crisis prevailed in
Oporto. Money was scarce and lenders were shy. Antonio's security was
scores of leagues away, and there was no time to inspect it; nor could the
title be easily investigated, as the deeds were in the money-lenders' hands.

On his last day of grace the monk presented himself again at the so-
called bank and stated that he would accept the hard terms offered. He was
received with a volley of abuse.
 "What?" roared Senhor Neumann. "You have the impudence to come
here again? After all our kindness the other day, what did we get? Nothing
but ingratitude and insults. Get out. We're sick of the whole business. I'm
determined to be done with it once for all. If you've brought our money, pay
it and don't argue. If not, we foreclose the mortgage, and I shall write to
Villa Branca to-night."

"You are quite right, Neumann," said Senhor Mual. "We were talked to
like dirt. Senhor da Rocha could not have turned his back on us more
offensively if we had been downright extortioners or common money-
lenders. But don't be too hard on a man in a hole."

"I shall write to Villa Branca to-night," persisted the German. "I like
business to be pleasant. What did the Senhor come here for at all, if he
didn't mean to be straightforward? I like business to end as pleasantly as it
begins. I like dealing with gentlemen."

Antonio bit his tongue. Senhor Mual spoke again; and once more
Senhor Neumann retorted. At last their trite play-acting came to its usual
end with the German loudly exclaiming:

"Very well, very well, have your way. We're a brace of soft-hearted old
fools. Every scamp that comes along can get round us; it'll serve us right if
we both die in the Misericordia."

Antonio signed fresh papers and hurried back to José. He spent three
days writing English and Spanish and Portuguese letters to his customers in
the Americas, unfolding new offers of discounts and a proposal for cash-
payments against bills of lading. The result was the loss of half his Latin
patrons, whose business could only be conducted on credit. Concurrently
with these disasters the Lisbon Government kept on demanding larger and
larger taxes; and Antonio never caught sight of the old white horse Branco
without a shrinking of heart.

The monk fought on. To save a pound or two a year he gave up his
English papers. But crisis followed crisis, and before long he owed
Neumann and Mual almost as much as he had borrowed from them in the
first instance. The two scoundrels played with him like anglers playing a
pike. Sometimes they gave him so much line that he seemed to be regaining
the deep broad flood of freedom. For a year at a time their letters would be
friendly and the Villa Branca persecution would cease; but whenever the
debt fell below three hundred pounds they struck sharply and began
winding the firmly hooked fish pitilessly back to the bank. They knew how
to enmesh him in widespread nets of petty litigation; and, although Antonio
was far cleverer than the attorney, his cleverness availed him nothing. The
affidavits of his opponents were invariably perjurious, but the monk
scorned to swear falsely in reply, even on the most trifling point. Had he
possessed money to carry appeals into the higher courts he might have
obtained justice; but he never succeeded in going further than the Villa
Branca court of first instance, where local corruption smiled at the maxim
that Truth is mighty and must prevail.

Throughout these trials Antonio constantly advanced in the love of God

and his neighbor. Although he could not give money, he gave his time and
strength and knowledge to the help of the weak and harassed around him. A
new cura came to the village, who soon discerned the spirituality of his
mysterious parishioner and insisted on his enjoying the great consolation of
serving at Mass. Meanwhile the monk kept up the daily recitation of the
Divine Office in his old stall. Very often he was cheered by hearing again
with his inward ear the vast, sweet chant of all Saint Benedict's sons and
daughters. In spite of his troubles he was nearly always cheerful; and he
would often echo the words of Saint Paul and say, In omnibus tribulationem
patimus: "We suffer trouble on every side, but we are not in anguish, we are
perplexed, but not in despair, we suffer persecution, but we are not
forsaken, we are cast down, but we are not destroyed."

One morning, when he was dressing for an iniquitous law-suit, Antonio

noticed that his hair at the temples had begun to turn gray. The next moment
he remembered that it was the eve of his birthday, and that on the morrow
he would be fifty years old.
 V

Late one December night, as he lay in his lonely cell, a furious gale
aroused Antonio from sleep. Something was groaning and creaking outside.
He sat bolt upright and listened until he became certain that the great iron
cross which formed the finial to the chapel roof had worked loose.

The monk sprang up and ran out into the rain. Scaling the chapel wall
by means of a swaying ladder, he found to his dismay that the cross was
within an ace of falling. There was no time to run down to the farm for help,
nor even to return to the abbey for tools. The only action that could avail
was to stand with his whole weight on the last ridge-stone and to hold up
the cross against the wind with his whole strength.

Antonio took the cross in his arms. The sou'-wester, roaring like a
thousand lions, thrashed him with stinging thongs of cold rain and did its
best to hurl him down, cross and all. But he held on. Time after time the
ridge shook like a bog under his feet, and the great finial tugged at his arms
like a captured beast striving to escape. His hands bled through gripping the
sharp edges of the iron. Once or twice, during the first half-hour, he was on
the point of relaxing his grasp; but a great thought put endurance into his
heart and strength into his arms. He thought of his Lord, cleaving to the
cross on Calvary with an intensity of love which fastened Him there more
securely than the iron nails. He thought of the darkness which was over all
the land from the sixth to the ninth hour. Hitherto the monk had thought of
that darkness as a mere absence of light; but, as he clung to the iron, with
the brutal tempest howling and roaring and screaming, with the roofs and
the trees whining and moaning, and with the icy darts of rain wounding him
like thorns, he understood that it was a darkness reeling with all the sin of
the world and envenomed with the hot panting of all hell's devils. With
blood on both his hands and pains like red-hot needles in both his feet
Antonio thanked God for this livelier sense of his Savior's passion, and he
repeated the words of Saint Paul, Mortificationem Jesu in corpore nostro
circumferentes: "Bearing about in our bodies the dying of Jesus."

Towards dawn, when the world seemed to be rocking under him and he
was ready to faint, Antonio recalled that other night of storm when, in the
chapel below, Isabel had nestled in his arms. Her presence seemed to be
with him once more. It was as though her white slender hands were helping
his to uphold the thick black iron, and as though her soft, sweet tones were
murmuring encouragement in his ear. The gale and the rain bellowed and
spat, but Isabel's voice softly drowned their din. Erat cum bestiis, et angelus
ministrabat illi: "He was among wild beasts, and an angel ministered unto
him."

José, hurrying to the abbey before sunrise to report serious damage

among the sea-sand vines, arrived just in time to save both the cross and his
master. Having driven in a wedge, he made haste to help Antonio down and
to coax him into bed. To bed the monk went; and in bed he remained for a
week, consumed by fever and tortured by nightmares. He seemed to be
holding the lockless, boltless door of the chapel against the two usurers and
the chief of the Fazenda and the Villa Branca attorney. He, Antonio, was
holding it shut by fiercely pressing knees and thighs and arms and hands,
and shoulders and brow against the oak while his enemies charged at it like
roaring waves at a cliff.

When the monk arose from bed his magnificent health was gone. He
suffered from headaches, and could no longer walk to the neighboring
towns or do much manual labor. To employ his enforced leisure he
advertised himself in two or three English and French papers as a private
tutor wishing to receive one or two boarder-pupils for instruction in the
classics, modern languages, and commercial routine; but there was no
response.

Happily this illness befell during one of Antonio's periods of relief from
the usurers' persecution. He knew, however, that such calms always
heralded storms; and therefore he determined to use what health and
strength remained to him in a grand effort to break out of the usurers'
power. His debt, or rather their claim, stood at about nine hundred pounds.
By selling the mortgaged farm and sea-sand vineyards, and also the whole
plant, stock, and good-will of the wine and liqueur business as a going
concern, Antonio could pay off the nine hundred and turn his back on
Neumann and Mual forever. In the event of local lenders clamoring for the
liquidation of the floating debts which he had incurred on the strength of his
personal credit, he would be able to satisfy them by mortgaging the abbey
timber and part of the domain with a Navares mortgagee. Then, although
his health was enfeebled and José was no longer young, he would set
himself to the task of clearing off the last debts by branding his amber-
colored wine and pushing it in England.

Although so many miracles had been vouchsafed to him, both in his

spiritual and in his temporal affairs, Antonio continued to employ all his
energy and prudence. He maintained his old policy of doing the best he
could and leaving the rest to God; but, until he had done his utmost, he
would have felt it irreverent to expect a miracle. He would plan his
campaign and dispose his forces and post his safeguards as if everything
depended on his own arm and his own brain; and then, but only then, he
would fall down in deepest humility and demand the divine help as if
everything depended upon God. Accordingly he went about his new
operations with so much circumspection that it was high summer before he
saw his way to act decisively.

A payment of two hundred pounds to the usurers was almost due. It was
payable through the Villa Branca attorney. Antonio had over a hundred in
notes at the abbey, and he reckoned that the foreign drafts in the hands of
his banker at Navares would yield at least a hundred and twenty more. As
traveling fatigued him he made up his mind to combine the Navares and
Villa Branca journeys in one. At Navares he would cash his drafts and open
his negotiations for the sale of the farm and the wine-business; and thence
he would ride over the hills to Villa Branca and pay away his two hundred.

There was no hitch at the Navares bank. The drafts realized one hundred
and thirty-one pounds. With a thankful heart Antonio placed the paper
money in his pocket-book and stowed it safely away in his belt of English
leather. But before he was ready to go two men pushed the door open and
strode hastily to the counter.

"It has come?" demanded the elder.

"No. Nothing," said the banker. "But I expect another post to-night."
 The younger man staggered back as if he had been struck. As soon as he
turned Antonio knew him. He was Margarida's brother, Luis. Senhor Jorge
had been dead two years, and Luis was the head of the house. The elder
man Antonio recognized as Margarida's husband, the builder's son from
Leiria, who had set up business on his own account in Navares. Not wishing
to intrude into their trouble, the monk tried to slip out unobserved. But Luis
saw his face and hurried towards him with a cry of joy.

"It is the Senhor da Rocha," he cried. "Theophilo, you are saved."

"We shall see," said Theophilo quietly.

"Let us go to the Campo," suggested Antonio. "There we can talk

quietly."

They walked along the shady side of the street until they came to the
deserted public garden. Under an old lime-tree they sat down, beside a
plashing fountain, and the monk waited for the others to speak.

"It is a matter of money," stinted Theophilo, "and it is not with my

consent that Luis troubles your Worship about it."

"Before my father died," Luis began, "he called me to him and said:
'Luis, you and your brothers and sister have health and a little wealth, but I
can't expect that you won't have troubles. When troubles come, be men and
fight them as I have fought mine. But, if ever they are too strong for you, go
to Manoel da Rocha up at the old abbey. We have seen little of him, through
a misunderstanding that was no fault of his; but I know his worth. Tell him
your trouble and he will help you out.' Those were my father's very words;
and that's why I stopped your Worship at the bank."

"Your father was one of the best men I ever met," said Antonio. "May
he rest in peace. Tell me your trial; and if I can help you I will."

"It is not easy to tell," faltered Luis. "If we cannot raise a conto of reis
by three o'clock Theophilo must go to prison. My mother and Margarida
will die of disgrace."
 "Luis has not told your Worship," broke in Theophilo proudly, "that if I
go to prison I go for another's crime. Before God, I am innocent. In an
accursed hour I became the friend of Victor Sequeira, the treasurer to the
municipal council. When I began business he lent me a few milreis. Last
year he persuaded me to endorse some bills. He swore it was a matter of
form. The bills have been protested, and I am responsible. On Monday I
found that Sequeira ran away last week and that the bills were fraudulent,
and that I cannot clear myself of complicity in the swindle. For my wife's
sake they gave me four days to find the money. The time expires at three
o'clock. We have pledged everything; but we still need a conto of reis. That
is the tale. Luis has made me tell it. We have no right to expect that your
Worship is interested in such a miserable affair."

"I am interested, I am grieved most deeply," said Antonio, in great

agitation. "I know what it is to suffer terribly through signing papers in a
hurry. But ... a conto of reis! Two hundred and twenty English pounds!"

"It is a great sum," answered Luis simply. "But if your Worship had it,
he would lend us the money. It is only for a few hours. The bank expects a
post to-night. Theophilo has written to his father, and the money will
come."

"Senhor Theophilo," said Antonio, who had become very pale, "at this
moment I have two hundred and thirty-eight pounds in my belt. I meant to
sleep here to-night, at the hospedaria, and to go on Saturday to pay the
money away at Villa Branca. To settle my debt there is more than life or
death to me."

Theophilo curled his lip.

"Your Worship is scornful," added Antonio. "If your Worship were not
too well-bred he would say that I am telling a tale such as men nearly
always tell when they are asked for a loan of money. No doubt Luis here
partly thinks the same. Everybody in the village knows that I make a great
deal of money and that I spend no more than a peasant. Everybody knows
that I'm called the abbey miser and that I give away hardly a pound a year."

They remained silent.

 "But everybody doesn't know," the monk continued, "that for more than
fifteen years I have been in the grip of Oporto money-lenders. Everybody
doesn't know that I have paid thousands of pounds—yes, thousands—in
costs and interest, and that I still owe nearly as much as the original loan. I
was going to Villa Branca to pay them nearly a conto of reis, and I had set
my whole heart on getting out of their power. If I must renew this part of
the debt it will be on ruinous terms, and I have no longer the health to go on
fighting."

"I have stated already," declared the proud Theophilo, "that Luis has
troubled your Worship without my consent. If I must go to prison ... well, to
prison I must go, as better men have gone before me."

"Not so fast," said the monk. "Humanly speaking, is it certain your

father will send the funds? Have you recent knowledge of his financial
position? Can he disengage money from his business at such short notice?
If I let you have the use of my conto of reis till to-morrow night, is there a
risk of my losing it?"

"None!" cried Luis. But Theophilo, having reflected, said:

"I thank the Senhor. I shall not trouble him. There is a risk. An
Englishman, from one of their great cities called Scotland, is contractor for
works at Figueira da Foz. He has farmed out his contract to my father, and
he is treating him unfairly. Your Worship, there is a risk."

Antonio sat staring at the fountain. In spite of the great heat he felt cold.
At three o'clock Senhor Jorge's son-in-law and Margarida's husband must
be thrown into a felon's prison for a crime not his own, in default of one
conto of reis. And he, Antonio, had a conto of reis in his belt. By lending
this proud and honest man the money he could perform a work of mercy
which would pluck six men and women out of an inferno of despair and
raise them to a paradise of thankfulness.

But there was a risk, a grave risk. Judging by his experience of

Portuguese mercantile concerns, Antonio could indulge only a faint hope of
Theophilo's receiving the money from Leiria before it was due at Villa
Branca. And in that event—
 The Navares clock struck two. Theophilo sprang to his feet.

"Adeus, Senhor," he said, "and thanks."

"No!" cried Antonio, plunging after him and gripping his arm. "I have
not refused. An hour remains. Give me thirty minutes. This is a terrible
affair. Stay here. In half an hour I will return."

Without awaiting an answer he hurried away. Quitting the Alameda by a

side gate, he dived into a sunless alley and pushed at the door of the church
of the Santa Cruz. It swung inwards. He hastened along the broad nave until
he came to the brazen grille which barred the chapel of the Santissimo.
There he sank down on the plank floor and, stretching despairing hands to
the Presence on the altar, he cried out in agony, Domine, quid me vis facere:
"Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?"

The answer came swiftly. It was as though a voice, a strong Man's

voice, yet a voice even sweeter than Isabel's, said in his ear:

"Antonio, lend Theophilo your conto of reis."

Of all the supernal voices which had ever spoken to him, this was the
nearest and the clearest. If the brazen grille had opened and an angel had
come forth proclaiming it with the voice of a trumpet, Antonio could not
have been more sure that his Lord was bidding him lend Theophilo the
money. Yet he could not, all in a moment, accept the answer. Horror,
kindling almost to anger, filled his soul.

So this was to be the end. For fifteen years he had been slaving to fill
the pockets of infamous extortioners; and now he was to take the price of
freedom and pay it away to replace the plunderings of a runaway swindler.
A hideous thought, more foul and hideous than the blankest atheism, rushed
into his mind. It was a thought about God. That God existed Antonio could
not doubt; nor could he question that God intervened, as the Christians
believe, in men's and women's lives. The Christians said that He was all-
powerful, all-knowing, and all-loving. But perhaps the truth was, after all,
that He was all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-mocking.
 Antonio could grant that a work of mercy to men should take
precedence of a work of praise towards God. But if God had intended him
for works of mercy, why had He called him into a contemplative Order, and
why had He suffered him to go on finding a dozen contos for usurers while
he was refusing pence to honest men? And Isabel, his breaking of the heart
of Isabel—how did that supreme deed fit into the sorry scheme? Yes, God
had mocked him. He had made the world, and all the men and women in it,
as a puppet-show to divert His eternal boredom. He had sat lounging on the
arch of heaven for five-and-twenty years watching his, Antonio's, toil and
strife just as a lazy lout lolls on the grass watching ants working hour after
hour at the ant-hill which he intends to kick to pieces before he goes home.

The monk did not deliberately think these thoughts. They swept
thunderously over him like a tidal wave drowning a lowland coast. For a
moment they roared in his ears and took away his wits. But as he came to
the surface he rallied all the forces of his soul and struck out desperately to
regain his rock of faith. God was no mocker. He was Love, all Love; and
the thick blackness of this new and dreadful ordeal was only a shadow cast
by the eternal Light. Nevertheless, Antonio all but failed to resist the
sucking undertow of fresh doubts and to maintain his foothold amidst the
battering surf of despair.

Close beside him, on an altar to the right of the grille, rose a statue of
the Blessed Virgin, crowned with a golden crown and robed in the blue
velvet robe of an eighteenth-century Portuguese princess. To her Antonio
cried out for help. When words of his own refused to come he poured forth
the words of Saint Bernard's prayer Memorare. For a prolonged while no
help came, and he crouched on the planks, shrinking from the heavy stripes
which God had appointed him. He remembered the ruined abbeys of
England. Doubtless stronger and wiser men than he had labored to restore
them to the Church and to her Orders; but three hundred years had passed,
and so far as Antonio knew, not one monastic house had been rebuilt upon
the old foundations. Perhaps it was the divine will that the Orders,
renouncing the world, should never be too long rooted in this acre or that;
and perhaps it was ordained that they must renew their vows to the Lady
Poverty in hovels and barns and caves. But, in that case, why had God
bidden him waste his life in separation from the exiled brethren of his
Order? He gazed through the grille as if he would demand the answer. But
the ears of his soul heard no word save:

"Antonio, lend Theophilo your conto of reis. Antonio, lend Theophilo

your conto of reis."

Not yet could he submit. The smoldering rebellion in his heart was
quickening for a burst of flame. At last his eyes rested on the faded gilt
legend running along the pedestal of the Virgin's blue-robed image, Ecce
ancilla Domini, fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum: "Behold the handmaid of
the Lord, be it unto me according to thy word." To Antonio this brief
scripture recalled more than the pearly moment when the Virgin of virgins,
despising the evil tongues of men and looking steadfastly into the deep,
dark eyes of sorrow, surrendered herself to the will of God; for it recalled
also the fiery hour when he himself, in the same words, had finally accepted
the monastic life. With the memory of old battles and old victories there
rushed upon him new graces.

"Ecce servus Domini," he cried in sudden triumph, "fiat mihi secundum

verbum tuum!" And, having prostrated himself with loving reverence before
his Master, he rose up and sped back to the Campo, where Theophilo was
striding up and down.

"Senhor Theophilo," said the monk, "I will lend you my conto of reis."

Theophilo stared at him in amazement. So sure had he felt of Antonio's

refusal that he would not have remained in the Campo had there been any
other quiet and open place wherein to spend his last hour of freedom. He
resisted; flushed; seized the monk's hand and dropped it the same moment;
and at last began to stammer incoherent protests and thanks.

"But I will lend it," continued Antonio, "only on one condition."

"On any condition you like," cried Theophilo, beside himself with joy.
"If it's a hundred per cent, I don't mind. I'll work like a slave to pay back
every vintem and still I shall be your Excellency's debtor."
 "I ask harder terms than a hundred per cent," explained the monk
quietly. "My condition is this. Pledge me your word that if your father's
money does not come in time to settle my own debt in Villa Branca you will
never reproach yourself on my account. Promise that you will believe me
when I say that, although I shall be happier to-morrow night with your
father's conto of reis, I shall not be miserable without it. Promise to believe
that, if your father fails us, I shall have no grievance against him or against
Luis or against you."

Theophilo could only stand stock still, staring and breathing hard. The
clock struck half-past two.

"Quick!" urged Antonio. "There's no time to lose. See, here is the conto
of reis. Pledge me your word that you will obey my condition, and the
money is yours."

"Your Worship cannot mean this," broke in Luis. He had leaned against
Antonio expecting to find him a broken reed, and he could hardly believe
that this oak-like sturdiness was not a delusion.

"I mean every word," Antonio answered. "Come, take the money. I trust
you to remember the terms."

He drew a few notes from the pocket-book and pressed all the rest into
Theophilo's hand. The young builder clutched them eagerly; but a moment
later he sought to thrust them back.

"No," he groaned, "I cannot, I must not. My father will fail me and you
will curse us!"

"Come," answered Antonio gently, "I will tell you a secret. I have a
Friend. While you sat by this fountain I went and asked His advice. I have
asked it many and many a time, and He has never misled me yet. He told
me to lend you this conto of reis. If the post does not bring a conto in its
place, do not grieve. It is between my Friend and me. Go."

They looked at him wonderingly; but he hastened away. From the far
side of the garden he saw them stand a whole minute irresolute. Then Luis
seized Theophilo's arm and they walked off quickly into the town. As for
Antonio, he returned to the church of Santa Cruz, and there, in a corner, he
began to say his Office. He recited it without rapture, but with a quietness
of mind which was better than ecstasy.

Towards four o'clock two men entered the nave and knelt before the
brazen grille. They did not discover Antonio; but, from his obscure corner,
he could see their faces as they rose from their knees, and he knew that they
had guessed Who was his Friend.

VI

The post arrived at six o'clock; but it brought no letter from Theophilo's
father. Luis, with a pale face came to the hospedaria after dinner and broke
the news falteringly. Glancing through the window, Antonio saw Theophilo
pacing up and down outside. The monk put on his hat and walked into the
street.

"Senhor, this is terrible," moaned Theophilo. "There is nothing."

"It is terrible indeed," answered Antonio, smiling. "At half-past two you
make me a promise, and at half-past six you break it. Come, remember.
Cheer up."

They walked beside him with downcast eyes.

"Come," he said again. "This will never do. Tell me. Does Donna
Margarida know what you have been passing through?"

"Thank God, she does not, and she never shall!" cried Theophilo.

"Very well. Let us go to your home and hear some music and be gay.
I'm a country booby, and when I visit the town I want to see some life. It is
dull in the inn."
 Theophilo became voluble in apologies for his negligence. He
despatched one of the stable-boys hot-foot to warn the Senhora of their
approach and followed with Antonio and Luis. In ten minutes they reached
a garish new house, faced all over with colored tiles.

Margarida received her old flame with slight chilliness. Although she
had turned thirty-five her good looks were not greatly diminished. With her
sat Perpetua, Jorge, Lucia, and Juliana, her four black-eyed children, who
were struck dumb by the advent of the handsome stranger. At first the
proceedings were dull and frigid enough to remind Antonio of his first visit
to Margarida's home. But Luis and Theophilo, in reaction from their days of
stress and terror, soon became almost hysterically gay. The guitars came
out; and when everyone was tired of singing and strumming fados Antonio
devoted himself to the little Jorge and his three tongue-tied sisters. He
gradually wooed them out of their shyness by telling them a tale of the
buried city of Troja, at the mouth of the Sado. By the time he was half
through a revised version of the Three Hunchbacks of Setubal the audience
had begun to be more tongue-free than himself; and when he made Perpetua
hold the candle so that his clenched left fist and his right-hand fingers and
knuckles threw upon the wall a shadow of a long-eared rabbit nibbling a
cabbage as big as itself, the house rang with shouts of laughter.

The children were sent to bed at nine, wailing bitterly at their

banishment. Theophilo took the guitar and played softly, so as not to keep
them awake. He had a sympathetic touch and his music soothed Antonio.
Sitting in a great chair, the monk looked round the room and wondered. His
conto of reis had gone. In forty hours it would be too late to pay the
attorney, and the usurers could be trusted so to foreclose the mortgage as to
swindle him out of nearly all he had. Yet, somehow, he was happier than he
had been for many a day. For a short while he asked himself if it were not
callous to gaze so calmly at the wreck of his life's work. Ought he not to be
aching and smarting and bleeding as he had ached and smarted and bled for
Isabel? Did he truly care as deeply for the abbey and for the Order as he had
cared for her?

All these probings left him unpricked. His contentment obstinately

refused to be ruffled. Breaking his rule, he drank two glasses of sweet wine
and ate a whole broa of Margarida's making. When he rose to go
Margarida's manner was perceptibly less aloof, and she begged him to come
again. At the street door Theophilo said:

"Your Excellency has heaped kindness upon kindness. How shall I ever
repay him?"

"By permitting me to visit his house again to-morrow night," answered

Antonio; "your Worship will have become my creditor. Adeus."

He worked his hand free from Theophilo's iron grip and returned to the
hospedaria, where he fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.
Next morning, after Mass, he did not lose a moment in opening negotiations
for the raising of an immediate conto of reis on his encumbered assets. But
Luis and Theophilo, in pledging all they possessed, had almost exhausted
the ready-money resources of Navares. Late in the after noon Antonio
thought he was succeeding; but the existence of the Oporto usurers' second
mortgage on the farm blocked the way. At four o'clock he gave up the
struggle and went to Santa Cruz to say his Office. At half-past five he sat
down in the hospedaria to dine.

Just after the soup tureen had been placed on the table a tremendous
noise arose from the street. Every dog in Navares was outside, barking his
hardest, and the iron shoes of a spirited horse were hammering on the
cobbles. The Gallego waiter rushed downstairs to welcome the guest. Doors
banged, hostlers shouted, buckets clanked, a horse neighed. The inn cat,
which Antonio had been nursing, leaped from his knee and rushed
downstairs to the lobby whence the prolonged wail of a badly scratched dog
immediately ascended.

The monk, alone at the table, filled his gaudy plate with vegetable soup
and began to eat. The stranger came upstairs to his room amidst a babble of
welcoming voices. Through the thin wall Antonio could hear him drop his
heavy boots on the bare floor. A cheerful splashing followed. The Gallego
waiter, hurrying in with a dish of bacalhau, white cabbage, and hard-boiled
eggs, excitedly explained to Antonio that the newcomer was an
Englishman; and, five minutes later, a plumpish, rather florid man, with a
clean-shaven face and soft yellow hair, strode into the room calling out an
order for green wine.

Antonio rose and found himself face to face with young Crowberry.
But, somehow, he could not feel in the least degree surprised.

"Good evening, Teddy," he said quietly. "Welcome to Navares."

Young Crowberry jumped. He stared blankly across the soup at the

gray-haired man with the gentle voice. Then he flung himself forward
against the table so impetuously that a brown water-pot was overturned and
an empty glass jumped down to the floor with a crash.

"Da Rocha! By Jove! Da Rocha!" he cried, wringing the monk's hand.

"Man, I've come all the way from England to find you. Why the deuce did
you drop writing? And what do you mean by growing gray hairs? How's
José and all the little Josés, and the champagne and all the little
champagnes, and the orange brandy? Have you pawned the spoons? Da
Rocha! By Jove!"

"Come round and sit beside me," said Antonio.

As the deluge from the overturned water-pot had soaked the cloth all
round him the monk bade the waiter remove his cover and young
Crowberry's to the little table by the window.

"And ask him to bring green wine," said young Crowberry. "Quarts,
Gallons, Buckets, Hogsheads, Bottomless pits. I'm as thirsty as the devil."

When orderly conversation became possible, the monk was able to

puzzle out a mystery which had pained him. By comparing notes and sifting
dates they found that one letter from Antonio must have gone down in the
wreck of the mail-boat Hortensia, and that another letter had reached
England while an unsatisfactory sub-tenant was occupying young
Crowberry's chambers. After this misunderstanding had been righted the
monk proceeded to draw out his friend's recent history. He found that young
Crowberry, in his own phrase, had made three fortunes, of which he had
lost two and three-quarters in financing foreign railway companies by
whom he had been employed.

"But what does it matter?" demanded young Crowberry. "I've a quarter

of a fortune left, and I'm hoping it'll be enough for my scheme. The man I'm
trying to get in with isn't greedy."

"Explain," asked the monk.

"I'm hoping to buy a share of a snug little business and settle down,"
young Crowberry answered. "A wine business. I was born among bottles,
and a cellar's better than a tunnel. That's why I've come to Portugal. I've
invested four thousand pounds in British Funds for miscellaneous purposes,
and to-morrow I'm going to offer my remaining five thousand to a man
named da Rocha for a partnership."

Antonio heard him without visible emotion. For a long minute he gazed
quietly into the street. At last he said:

"Edward, you asked me half an hour ago if I had pawned the spoons.
They were pawned two years ago, to pay a Jew twenty per cent interest on a
loan I'd repaid twice over. But it's a long story. Drink your coffee. Then we
will go to your room."

In young Crowberry's room Antonio disclosed his secret. He began with

his brief experiences as a youth in Lisbon. Rapidly and vividly he described
his brief skepticism, his vocation to the religious life, his noviciate, his full
profession, his ordination, his expulsion from the abbey, and his vow at the
farm. Omitting only the affairs of Margarida and Isabel, he brought the
history right down to that very day and to the moment of his failing to raise
money in replacement of Theophilo's conto of reis. He slurred lightly over
every passage in the narrative which might sound like self-praise, and
sought rather to exhibit himself as a blunderer who ought to have attained
his end years and years ago. He wound up by saying simply:

"It is our Lord who has sent you here to-day. If you have it with you, I
will borrow a conto of reis and we will ride over to Villa Branca together in
the morning. On the way we will talk about the partnership. My maximum
price for a half-share will be a thousand pounds."

"My minimum offer is five thousand," said the engineer firmly.

"Remember that I'm hoping to foist myself upon you till death do us part. I
have wound up all my affairs in England. Meanwhile here is a conto of
reis."

Some one knocked loudly at the door. It was the Gallego announcing
that two senhores wished to see the Senhor da Rocha at once. The senhores,
treading on the Gallego's heels, turned out to be Theophilo and Luis. They
pressed into the room, but fell back at the sight of a stranger.

"You may speak freely, Theophilo," said Antonio. "This is the Senhor
Crowberry. He knows my affairs. Tell me what you want. My own trouble
is over. Senhor Crowberry has brought me a conto of reis."

"And here it is," put in Crowberry, opening his pocket-book. "I don't
know how much a conto may be; but if it's less than two thousand pounds,
help yourself."

"No," cried Theophilo. "We want nothing. Senhor da Rocha, I have

wonderful news. Sequeira has come back. He had mixed the town money
up with his own, but he is not a thief. He has just come back from Lisbon,
and he has repaid me every vintem of what Luis and I paid to the municipal
chamber yesterday. See. Here are the notes. Seven contos and two hundred
milreis."

"And a special post has arrived from Leiria," added the radiant Luis,
"with a conto from Theophilo's father. Theophilo, show it to their
Excellencies."

"How many contos are here?" asked Crowberry, spreading out his notes.

"At the present exchange, you have at least twelve," said Antonio. "A
conto is a million reis of our money and more than two hundred pounds of
yours, at par."
 "So we've twenty million reis altogether," Crowberry chuckled. "Let's
change 'em into coppers and swim in 'em to see what it's like. Hasn't any
gentleman got a conto or two more? I once knew a duke who overlooked a
whole threepenny-bit for a week. It was in the lining of his old coat."

Luis and Theophilo stared at the Englishman with open mouths. They
could not understand a word he said, but this made him the more
marvelous. From Crowberry they shifted their wonder to Antonio. He
seemed to have called down from the skies a familiar sprite who handed out
millions as coolly as one boy giving another a few screws of newspaper for
the tail of his kite.

"Put back your money, all of you," commanded Antonio. "Theophilo,

give me your father's conto and we are square. And have I your leave to
present my friend to Donna Margarida?"

The whole party made haste to the tiled house, where Jorge and his
sisters hailed Antonio with shouts of joy. They were shy of young
Crowberry at first; but, having asked ten minutes' leave of absence, the
Englishman slipped out to a confeitaria and returned laden with so exciting
a load of candied oranges, Elvas plums, Coimbra marzipan, and Spanish
chocolate that Antonio's star was eclipsed for half an hour. The guitars and
the sweet wine came out once more. Later on young Crowberry began to
tease poor Margarida with such exaggerated compliments, in bad
Portuguese, that Antonio was forced to kick his heel and to explain in
hurried English that Navares was neither London nor Paris. But Theophilo
did not take offense, and the visit was entirely a success.

On the way home Antonio asked:

"Do you hear anything of Miss Kaye-Templeman and Mrs. Baxter?"

"The widow Baxter is now the widow Lamb," answered Crowberry.

"Lamb was a master-tanner. He survived the wedding six months. That's all
I know. As for Isabel, I've heard nothing for years and years and years. After
her father died she went to live with Lady Julia Blighe. By the way, you
never told me what you really and truly thought of her."
 Antonio turned the subject.

"When you say," he demanded, "that you are planning to live and die
with me, what do you mean? If you are looking for a rural life, with the
sports of a country gentleman, England is the only place to find it. If it's
wine that interests you, I'm sorry; because you drink too much already.
What do you mean?"

"I am not looking for the sports of a country gentleman," said

Crowberry. "As for wine, you are mistaken. I drink a glass or two a day of
the lightest at meals, and I never touch port or spirits. Da Rocha, I will tell
you what I mean. Perhaps you were pained in my bedroom when I did not
show great astonishment at hearing that you are Father Antonio, a monk of
Saint Benedict."

"I was not pained. But I wondered."

"Father Antonio, I guessed your secret years ago. I guessed it on the

voyage home from Lisbon. I guessed that you were working to regain the
abbey. From what Sir Percy told my father, I believed you secured it after
we went away. I imagined that you had resumed the cloistered life and that
this was why you didn't write to your old friends in the world."

"But you came out, this time, to become my partner as a wine-grower,"

objected Antonio.

"Yes and No. I came out with money to buy vineyards and to work for
my living as you have done. I meant to buy them as close to the abbey as I
could. I meant to seek you out and to ask you ... to tell you..."

"Go on," said Antonio, taking his arm as they walked, "To ask me what?
To tell me what?"

"To tell you that the burning desire of my soul," broke out the other
ardently, "is to become a monk, like you. To ask you for your prayers and
for your help. And when I saw you standing over your soup, still in a
layman's dress, I didn't alter my mind."
 Antonio remembered the vision of young Crowberry's future which had
unrolled itself before him while the youth and he sat side by side on the
cloister roof the day before Sir Percy failed to tear down the azulejos. In
reverent thankfulness he listened to this older Crowberry without
interrupting him again. But the Englishman misinterpreted his silence, and
added hastily:

"Let me be plain. I don't claim to have the highest and holiest vocation.
Some would say there is cowardice in what I want to do. I am running away
from the world. The truth is that so long as I am in the world I cannot love
and praise God. Whenever I have a pit and a gallery to play to, I am a rattle,
a gas-bag, a mountebank. In spite of myself I jest about the holiest things,
thus injuring others as well as myself. I want to work hard with my hands,
to rise early, to sleep and eat roughly, and to learn to pray. Let people call
me a coward if they please. I'm nearly forty. I've made my money, and I'm
standing aside to let needier men make theirs. Besides, I hate railways.
They will do more harm than good."

Antonio was still mute.

"When a middle-aged man in my country has made a competency,"

young Crowberry continued, "he either remains in business to make money
which he does not need, or he retires and lives a life of selfish and
expensive pleasure. A few, a very few, devote themselves to philanthropy or
politics, and I honor them for it; but it has been breathed into my soul that I
am to help mankind by prayer. Da Rocha, you are silent. You are shocked.
You think that, instead of rising up early to pray, I ought to rise up early to
go hounding and shooting the poor beasts and birds who have as much right
to their lives as I have to mine."

"I have been silent," rejoined Antonio, "only because I could not speak
for thankfulness. Nearly twenty years ago I knew that you would become a
priest, and I hoped that you might become a monk."

"You consent? I may be your pupil?" cried the Englishman.

"I consent. You may be my helper, my fellow-laborer. You have much to

learn and much to unlearn. Listen. This very night your training shall begin.
Resolve that you will never again say you are as thirsty as the devil. The
rest we will talk of to-morrow."

Antonio smiled kindly as he spoke. Young Crowberry noticed that the

monk's expression was full of a solemn sweetness which had not been
visible in the old days. At the same moment he became conscious of
Antonio's broken health. The monk walked rather slowly and leaned heavily
on the layman's arm. They did not speak another word till they reached the
inn door.

Next morning, when Antonio awoke, he found young Crowberry

standing over him with a bowl of Brazilian coffee and goat's milk, a newly-
baked roll of white bread, and, rarest delicacy of all, a pat of butter. Protest
was useless. A quarter of an hour later the sprucest barber in Navares
appeared and shaved Antonio with the skill of a German. At seven o'clock
horses began stamping outside; and, at five minutes past, Antonio and the
Englishman were seated in a well-hung carriage behind a pair of bays.

"Does the Jehu understand English?" asked young Crowberry, cutting

short Antonio's remonstrances against all this luxury. "No. He doesn't."
"Good. Then, most reverend and illustrious Father, listen to me. One month
from this date I, the most irreverend Senhor Teddy Crowberry, will begin to
be your most docile servant. I shall obey you in all things. You shall be my
Lord Abbot till one of us dies. But, for this month, your Reverence will
obey me. Argument is useless. If I spend five guineas a day for thirty days,
remember that I hope to live on fivepence a week for the following thirty
years."

"A month! It is impossible," cried Antonio. "Besides, José expects me

back to-night."

"I think he doesn't. An old ruffian on a white horse has taken him a
letter from me. I was nearly asking him to send on your shirts to the inn at
Villa Branca; but, if your Excellency will forgive my disgusting rudeness, I
couldn't feel sure that you had a shirt to send. From Villa Branca we shall
go to Oporto and punch the heads of those Jews. We shall wind up all your
affairs there. Thence we shall go to Braga and see the Archbishop. After
that, back to Coimbra, and to Lisbon to see the Patriarch and the Pope's
Nuncio, and perhaps to Evora. See what a lot I know! I've been thinking it
all over and over and over in the night. You are the only Benedictine left in
Portugal, and we shall have to get these big pots to help us. Pah! How the
sun does blaze. I'm as thirsty as an archbishop."

Young Crowberry had his way. After the Villa Branca attorney had been
paid, Antonio was driven to the principal inn and served with such a
luncheon as he had not eaten for twenty years. The next day, Sunday, after
the military Mass, the monk ate a still more elaborate meal and whiled
away the hour of digestion by reclining on the shaded balcony looking at
the promenaders in the Passeio and listening to the band. In the cool of the
evening they set out in a luxurious chariot towards Oporto. Three days were
spent on the journey.

It was a triumphal progress. One of young Crowberry's first acts on

arriving at an inn was to send forward a mounted messenger, with full
instructions, to the next halting-place. As these couriers bruited it in every
wayside wineshop that a bountiful Englishman was on the road, Antonio's
chariot was attended by troops of brown-footed, brown-eyed, black-haired
children who threw flowers at the travelers and trotted alongside the wheels
pleading for "five little reis"—the Portuguese farthing. Instead of cinco reis
young Crowberry flung out tostões, or fivepenny pieces, such as most of the
youngsters had never handled on their own account before, and the chariot
rolled on amidst pæans of joy.

In Oporto, where Antonio had supported life on a few pence a day, the
travelers put up at a French-managed hotel and drank dry champagne from
Reims. Emboldened by this lively draught, young Crowberry dealt with
Neumann and Mual to such purpose that they thankfully accepted three
hundred pounds in full discharge of Antonio's outstanding obligations. With
the abbey deeds in Antonio's valise the travelers took the direct road for
Lisbon, where the archbishops and bishops, as peers of the kingdom, had
assembled for the opening of the Cortes. Here and there along the route
young Crowberry pointed out the cuttings and embankments for the
projected railway. In Coimbra they rested two days and read up every book
they could find in the University library which bore upon the case before
them.
 Young Crowberry was for a theatrical burst upon the whole bench of
bishops in Lisbon; but the prudent Antonio sought out his own diocesan and
confided to him the whole story. The prelate heard him attentively and with
growing emotion. He told Antonio that the Dominicans and Franciscans had
already recovered certain houses in Portugal, and that the Government,
having got its money, was winking at the return of the Orders. He bestowed
upon the monk a fervent blessing and bade him return the next day.

Within forty-eight hours Antonio was received by three-fourths of the

Portuguese hierarchy, and by the Papal Nuncio as well. His tale brought
tears to the eyes of all, not excepting a political bishop who was supposed
to believe that Portugal would be better off without the religious Orders
than with them. The Nuncio dispatched a special memorandum to Rome,
and three of the bishops wrote long letters to Benedictine abbots abroad,
including an abbot-president, asking for their counsel.

Young Crowberry's deportment among these dignitaries left a little to be

desired. At his entrance he would kneel and kiss the ring of a suffragan with
disconcerting ardor, and the next minute he would begin to tell the Primate
of the Spains a funny story in execrable French. On the whole, however,
young Crowberry was better liked for his worldliness than for his piety. His
dinner at the Bragança Hotel made a deep impression upon those
ecclesiastics who were not too dignified to assist at it; and when their
magnificent month drew to a close the Englishman and Antonio left Lisbon
with the knowledge that they had committed no grave blunders and that
they had made a host of powerful friends.

José received the Senhor Crôbri warmly. Within two days of the
Englishman's arrival at the abbey the mortgages on the farm and the sea-
sand vineyards were cleared off and the silver spoons came back from
pawn. On Saint Isabel's Day both José and young Crowberry were assigned
to cells in the monastery; and from that morning community life was solidly
established and the work of God was regularly performed in choir. At
Christmas, with Antonio's permission, another novice arrived in the person
of an English clergyman who had been young Crowberry's closest friend.

Months passed. Twice Antonio received ecclesiastical notables at the

abbey and twice he was bidden to Lisbon. At length it was found possible to