"I know it," replied the monk, whose new name he told us was Salvador.

"It is a world apart and savours of the mysterious. It possesses also a certain mystic element. Thus the atmosphere surrounding it is romantic and picturesque, appealing strongly to the imagination. Sympathy goes out to the little band of men who have bound themselves together by a vow, forsaken the world and given up all for religion. But if you were called upon to share that life only for a month, all its supposed mystery and charm would disappear. It only exists in the sentiment of the thing, not in the reality. It lies in the beauty of the solitary mountains in which the monasteries are often placed; or the splendid architecture they occasionally preserve. In the dull monotony of a daily round never varied, you would learn to dread the lonely cell--even as I once dreaded it more than death itself. Hence my freedom. It will soon be our refectory hour," looking at a small silver watch he carried beneath his robe. "I must return or fast."

Then there came to us a bright idea. "Why leave us?" we said. "Or if you must do so now, why not return? Would you not be allowed to dine with us this evening? You would tell us of your past life before you became a monk, and of your life since then. It must contain much that is interesting. In the evening shadows you would guide us about the mountain paths, tell us of the evil days that fell upon the monks and their flight into the hills."

Salvador the monk smiled. "You tempt me sorely," he replied. "I should like it much. Such a proposal has never been made to me since I put on cloak and cowl. It would be like a short return to the world--a backward glance into the life that is dead and buried. Then imagine the contrast between your sumptuous repast and the bread and sweet herbs with which we keep our bodies alive. I fear it would not be wise to awaken memories. No, I must not think of it. But to-night I shall dream that I have been to a banquet and walked with you in quiet paths, taking sweet counsel. Oh, I am tempted. What a break in my life to spend a whole day with you, and become once more, as it were, a citizen of the world! But I will make a compromise. If you go up the mountain to-morrow morning to see the sun rise, I will accompany you. Though a fast day, I can do this; and I may take a modest breakfast with you."

This decided us, and we agreed to remain: it would have been cruel to deny him. He folded his camp-stool and prepared to depart.

"You will accompany me to my door," he said, somewhat wistfully, "though to-day I may not ask you to pa.s.s beyond."

So we wended back through the arches in the narrow pa.s.sage between the hill and monastery, and the mountain shadows fell upon us. We reached the great quadrangle, lonely and deserted.

"Let us enter by way of the church," said the monk; "I will show you our little private door."

The great building was silent and empty. Our footsteps woke weird echoes in the distant aisles. Salvador by some secret touch unfastened the door of the screen, which rolled back on its hinges, and we pa.s.sed into the choir.

"Here we attend ma.s.s," said our guide; "a small community of monks, though I am more often at the organ. In days gone by, when they numbered nearly a thousand, it was a splendid and powerful inst.i.tution--a magnificent sight and sound. No need then to add to the funds by teaching. All the glory has departed, but perhaps, in return, we are more useful. Nothing, however, can take from our scenery, though its repose is no longer unbroken. With a railroad at our very doors, who can say that we are now out of the world? Ah!" as a man crossed the choir towards the sacristy; "there is my organ-blower. Would you like me to give you some music?"

"It would be enchanting. But your repast--would you not lose it?"

"I have twenty minutes to spare, and should then still be in time for the end." He beckoned to the man, who approached. "Hugo, have you dined?"

"Si, Padre Salvador."

"Then come and blow for me a little."

He bade us seat ourselves in the stalls, where the organ was best heard.

We listened to their receding footsteps ascending the winding staircase leading to the organ loft. In a few minutes we had lost all sense of outward things. The loveliest, softest, most entrancing music went stealing through the great building. Salvador was evidently extemporising. All his soul was pa.s.sing into melody. Divine harmonies succeeded each other in one continued flow. It was music full of inspiration, such as few mortals could produce; fugitive thoughts more beautiful by reason of their spontaneity than any matured composition ever given to the world. Here indeed was a genius.

Never but once before had we heard such playing. Many years had gone by since one evening on the Hardanger Fjord, we glided through the water under the moonlight and listened to such strains as Beethoven himself could not have equalled. Many a hand oft-clasped in those days lies cold and dead; life has brought its disillusions; the world has changed; but even as we write the glamour of that moonlit night surrounds us, those matchless strains still ring in our ears, lifting us once more to paradise.

This monk's music brought back all those past impressions; "all the sorrow and the sighing, all the magic of the hour." We listened spell-bound, enraptured; and again we were in paradise. No wonder he inspired his pupils to accomplish the impossible. It lasted only a quarter of an hour, but during that time we never stirred hand or foot, scarcely breathed. Ordinary life was suspended; we were conscious only of soul and spirit. When this divine influence ceased we were hardly aware of the silence that succeeded. The monk had thrown us into a trance from which it was difficult to awaken. Only when his cloaked and cowled figure once more entered the choir and quietly approached us did we rouse to a sense of outward things.

"I see my music has pleased you," he said. "I do not affect to depreciate its power, since it influences me no less than others. For the time being I am lost to myself. All my soul seems expressing thoughts that words could never utter. No credit is due to me for a power outside and beyond me. The moment I sit down to the organ, Saint Cecilia takes possession of me, and I merely follow whither she leads.

Of all arts, it is the most divine. Now before we separate let me take you into the Chapel of the Virgin. The image, you know, is considered the great treasure of the monastery."

In his voice there seemed almost an inflection of doubt or amus.e.m.e.nt.

"And you also look upon it in this light?" we asked. "You believe in all the miracles, legends and traditions time has gathered round the image?"

"I must not talk heresy," smiled the monk; "but I believe more in my music."

We had entered the small chapel, where a light was burning before the celebrated image, black and polished as ebony; an image less than two feet high, seated in a chair, with an infant in its arms. The workmanship was rough and rude, the face ugly and African. There was nothing about it to raise the slightest emotion, for it was not even artistic.

"On this very spot," said the monk, "Ignatius Loyola is said to have waited for hours in rapture watching the image and receiving manifestations, after which he founded the Order of the Jesuits. He laid his sword upon the altar, declaring that he had done with it for ever, and henceforth his life should be devoted to paths of peace. In like manner I have stood here for hours, waiting for inspiration, for some manifestation, some token, though it should be only borne in upon the mind with no outward and visible sign. And I have waited in vain.

Nothing has ever come to me. But I seat myself at the organ and seem wafted at once into realms immortal; my soul awakens and expands; I feel heaven within me. It is my one happiness and consolation; that and being alone with nature."

He conducted us back to the screen.

"Then we cannot prevail upon you to be with us this evening?" we said in a final effort. "You will not give us all the experiences of your past life, spiritual and otherwise?--all you went through in your transition state?"

"Tempt me not," returned the monk. "Your voice would persuade me against my reason. I must not return to the sweets of the world even for an evening. Think of the going back afterwards. But to-morrow morning before dawn breaks in the east I will be with you."

He bade us farewell and closed the gate. We watched the solitary figure glide down the choir until it disappeared. The quiet footsteps ceased to echo, and we stood alone in the church. The silence was painful and the building had no power to charm. We pa.s.sed out to the great quadrangle and soon found ourselves in a very different scene.

CHAPTER XVII.

SALVADOR THE MONK.

Gipsies--Picturesque scene--Love pa.s.sages--H. C. invited to festive board--Saved by Lady Maria's astral visitation--The fortune-teller--H. C. yields to persuasion--Fate foretold--Warnings--Photograph solicited--Darkness and mystery--Night scene--Gipsies depart--Weird experiences--Troubled dreams--Mysterious sounds--Ghost appears--H. C. sleeps the sleep of the just--Egyptian darkness--In the cold morning--Salvador keeps his word--Breakfast by candlelight--Romantic scene--Salvador turns to the world--Agreeable companion--Musician's nature--Miguel and the mule--Leaving the world behind--Darkness flies--St. Michael's chapel--Sunrise and glory--Marvellous scene--Magic atmosphere--Salvador's ecstasy--Consents to take luncheon--Heavenly strains--"Not farewell"--Departs in solitary sadness--Last of the funny monk.

It was the other end of the settlement. All the houses were behind us; the railway station was in a depression at our left. The plateau expanded, forming a small mountain refuge, sheltered and surrounded by great boulders that were a part of Mons Serratus towering beyond them.

Gra.s.s and trees grew in soft luxuriance. Under their shadow a picnic party had encamped; noisy Spaniards who looked very much like gipsies; an incongruous element in these solemn solitudes, yet a very human scene. They were scattered about in groups, and the bright handkerchiefs of the women formed a strikingly picturesque bit of colouring. Baskets of rough provisions were abundant. A kettle hung on a tripod and a fire burnt beneath it, from which the blue smoke curled into the air and lost itself in the branches of the trees. The people were enjoying themselves to their hearts' content. Here and there a couple had hoisted a red or green umbrella, which afforded friendly opportunities for tender love pa.s.sages. Some were drinking curiously out of jars with long spouts shaped like a tea-kettle. These they held up at arm's length and cleverly let the beverage pour into their mouths. Practice made perfect and nothing was wasted. Chatter and laughter never ceased. They were of humble rank, which ignores ceremony, and when H. C. approached rather nearly, he was at once invited to join their festive board and make one of themselves.

One handsome, dark-eyed maiden looked at him reproachfully as he declined the honour--the astral body of Lady Maria in her severest aspect having luckily presented itself to his startled vision. The siren had a wonderfully impressive language of the eyes, and it was evident that her hand and heart were at the disposal of this preux chevalier.

"Senor," she said, "I am a teller of fortunes. Show me your hand and I will prophecy yours."

H. C. obligingly held it out. She studied it intently for about half a minute, then raised her eyes--large languishing eyes--and seemed to search into the very depths of his.

"Senor, you are a great poet. Your line of imagination is strongly influenced by the line of music, so that your thoughts flow in rhyme.

But the line of the head communicates with the line of the heart, and this runs up strongly into the mount of Venus. You have made many love vows and broken many hearts. You will do so again. You cannot help it.

You are sincere for the moment, but your affections are like champagne.

They fizz and froth and blaze up like a rocket, then pa.s.s away. You will not marry for many years. Then it will be a lady with a large fortune.

She will not be beautiful. She will squint, and be a little lame, and have a slight hump--you cannot have everything--but she will be amiable and intellectual. I see here a rich relative, who is inclined in your favour. It is in her power to leave you wealth. Beware how you play your cards. I see by your hand that you just escape many good things by this fickle nature. I warn you against it, but might as well tell the wind not to blow. There is one thing, however, may save you--the stars were in happy conjunction at your birth. The influence of the house of Saturn does not affect you. I see little more at present. Much of your future depends on yourself. To you is given, more than to many, the controlling of your fate. You may make or mar your fortune. No, senor," as H. C.

laughed and tried to glide a substantial coin into her hand, "I do not tell fortunes for money to-day. It is a _festa_ with our tribe, almost a sacred day, the anniversary of a great historical event. To-day we do all for love; but I should much like your photograph."

[Ill.u.s.tration: VALLEY OF MONTSERRAT.]

H. C. chanced to have one in his pocket-book, which he had once put aside for the Madrid houri who married the Russian n.o.bleman. This he presented with much grace to the enraptured Sibyl. Their heads were very close together at the moment; there seemed a clinking sound in the air.

We happened to be consulting the time, and on looking up, the Sibyl's face seemed flushed and conscious, and H. C.'s poetically pale complexion had put on a delicate pink. This was a little too suspicious--even to our unsuspecting mind--and with a hasty bow to the interesting a.s.sembly, and wishing them all good appet.i.tes and fair fortunes, we went on our way. Looking back once, the charming Sibyl was still gazing towards us with a very sentimental expression, whilst H. C.

for the next ten minutes fell into silence.

The day wore on to evening. We watched the shades of night gathering over the vast valley and distant hills. Everything grew hazy and indistinct, and finally gave place to a world of darkness and mystery.

The outlines of Mons Serratus loomed upwards against the night sky. The stars came out flashing and brilliant as they travelled along in their awful and majestic silence. The great constellations were strongly marked. Here and there lights twinkled in the monastery, and in the various houses of the settlement. Where the gipsy party had encamped, silence and solitude now reigned. A black mark told where the tripod had held the kettle and betrayed what had been. The whole encampment had returned to the lower world by the evening train. We had watched them enter a special carriage, which they filled to overflowing. Their spirits had not failed. As the train moved off they sent up a shout which echoed and re-echoed in many a gorge and cleft. Presently, when the stars had travelled onwards, we felt it was time to disappear from the world for a season. We were taking a last look at the Gothic arches, through which the sky and the stars shone with serene repose. The night was solemn and impressive; a strange hush lay upon all. It might have been a dead universe, only peopled by the spirits of the dead-and-gone monks and hermits roaming the mountain ranges. Throughout the little settlement not a soul crossed our path; doors and windows were closed; here and there a light still glimmered. We caught sight of another wandering light far up a mountain path, held by some one well acquainted with his ground--perhaps a last surviving hermit taking his walks abroad, or a monk contemplating death and eternity in this overwhelming darkness. We wondered whether it was Salvador, our musical monk, seeking fresh inspiration as he climbed nearer heaven.

As we pa.s.sed out of the arches we came upon our funny little monk, who, having ended all his duties, was going to his night's rest. He caught sight of us and gave a brisk skip.

"Welcome to Montserrat," he cried once more. "I am delighted to see you." From long habit he evidently used the form unconsciously--it was his peculiar salutation. "You are about to retire, senor. Let me conduct you to your rooms. I should like to see you comfortably settled for the night."

From his tone and manner he might have been taking us to fairyland; beds of rose-leaves; a palace fitted up with gold and silver, where jewels threw out magic rays upon a perfumed atmosphere. He swung back the great gates of the Hospederia. We pa.s.sed into an atmosphere dark, chilling, and certainly not perfumed. Mysterious echoes died away in distant pa.s.sages. The little monk lighted a lantern that stood ready in the corridor, and weird shadows immediately danced about. One's flesh began to creep, hair stood on end. In this huge building of a thousand rooms we were to spend a solitary night. It was appalling. As the monk led the way pa.s.sages and staircases seemed endless: a labyrinth of bricks and mortar. Should we survive it: or, surviving, find a way out again?

[Ill.u.s.tration: A FEW OF THE GIPSIES AT MONTSERRAT.]

At last our rooms. Small candles were lighted that made darkness visible. We should manage to see the outline of the ghosts that appeared and no more. The little monk skipped away, wishing us pleasant dreams.

Pleasant dreams! Never but once before--and that in the fair island of Majorca--did we spend such a night of weird experiences. If we fell asleep for a moment our dreams were troubled. We awoke with a start, feeling the very thinnest veil separated us from the unseen. The corridors were full of mysterious sounds: our own particular room was full of sighs. Ghostly hands seemed to pa.s.s within an inch of our face, freezing us with an icy cold wind that never came from Arctic regions.