us.

"Now I particularly want you to notice the abbot," said Don Juan as we
approached the monastery, a very ancient-looking pile of buildings
situated in a most lonely spot on the side of a mountain, yet
surrounded by scenery which would have rivalled any in the world; "he
is a most remarkable man, and possesses, as you will see, a most
remarkable presence."

Presently we drew up at a very plain front door, and were immediately
reconnoitred through a small wicket hole.

"The janitor," observed St. Nivel, "is evidently taking stock of us,
and for that reason, Bill, I feel thankful that you have put on that
new Norfolk suit; it gives the whole party a classy appearance."

The survey seemed satisfactory. Some bolts were shot back and the door
opened, disclosing a monk in a brown habit.

He made some evidently most respectful remarks to Don Juan in Spanish,
and then we all entered the monastery and were shown into a guest-room.

Here in a few minutes another lay brother brought a liqueur stand with
glasses.

"Veritable Chartreuse," remarked Don Juan, as he laid his hand on the
little decanters of green and yellow liquid, "the true stream drunk at
the source!"

He filled the little glasses and handed them round as the lay brother
stood looking on admiringly.

"You must take some," he said, "or they will be offended."

St. Nivel sipped his glass appreciatively.

"The monk who invented this," he remarked sententiously, "_deserved_ to
go to heaven."

"Our abbot will give himself the honour of waiting upon your
lordships," were the lay brother's parting words as translated to us by
Don Juan.

We possessed our spirits in contentment, and awaited his coming, whilst
d'Alta expatiated on the rigours of the Trappists' life, their
isolation, their silence, their exactness in the keeping of the Office
of the Church.

I fear this discourse, earnest though it was on the part of our host,
was lost upon St. Nivel, whom I detected catching flies--and liberating
them immediately--in the most solemn part. To him the severest form of
penance was represented by a life from which all descriptions of
"huntin'" and "shootin'" were excluded. He had been burning to kill
something big in the game line ever since he had set foot on shore, and
I was quite prepared to hear him ask the abbot when he arrived whether
he was "a huntin' man." He had asked that question of almost everybody
we had met up to then in Aquazilia.

The abb