"How old is Sister Theresa?" inquired the lover. He dared not ask any
questions of the priest as to the nun's beauty.

"She does not reckon years now," the good man answered, with a
simplicity that made the General shudder.

Next day before siesta, the confessor came to inform the French General
that Sister Theresa and the Mother consented to receive him at the
grating in the parlour before vespers. The General spent the siesta in
pacing to and fro along the quay in the noonday heat. Thither the priest
came to find him, and brought him to the convent by way of the gallery
round the cemetery. Fountains, green trees, and rows of arcading
maintained a cool freshness in keeping with the place.

At the further end of the long gallery the priest led the way into a
large room divided in two by a grating covered with a brown curtain. In
the first, and in some sort of public half of the apartment, where the
confessor left the newcomer, a wooden bench ran round the wall, and two
or three chairs, also of wood, were placed near the grating. The ceiling
consisted of bare unornamented joists and cross-beams of ilex wood. As
the two windows were both on the inner side of the grating, and the dark
surface of the wood was a bad reflector, the light in the place was so
dim that you could scarcely see the great black crucifix, the portrait
of Saint Theresa, and a picture of the Madonna which adorned the grey
parlour walls. Tumultuous as the General's feelings were, they took
something of the melancholy of the place. He grew calm in that homely
quiet. A sense of something vast as the tomb took possession of him
beneath the chill unceiled roof. Here, as in the grave, was there not
eternal silence, deep peace--the sense of the Infinite? And besides this
there was the quiet and the fixed thought of the cloister--a thought
which you felt like a subtle presence in the air, and in the dim dusk
of the room; an all-pervasive thought nowhere definitely expressed, and
looming the larger in the imagination; for in the cloister the great
saying, "Peace in the Lord," enters the least religious soul as a living
force.

The monk's life is scarcely comprehensible. A man seems confessed a
weakling in a monastery; he was born to act, to live out a life of work;
he is evading a man's destiny in his cell. But what man's strength,
blended with pathetic weakness, is implied by a woman's choice of the
convent life! A man may have any number of motives for bu