So absorbed was he that after one glance at Evasio Mon he lapsed again into his own thoughts.  The very manner in which he crumbled his bread and handled his knife and fork showed that his mind was as busy as a mill.  He was oblivious to his surroundings; had forgotten his companions.  His mind had more to occupy it than one brief lifetime could hope to compass.  Yet he was so clearly a man in authority that a casual observer could scarcely have failed to perceive that these devout pilgrims, from Italy, from France, from far-off Poland, and Saragossa close at hand in Catalonia, had come to meet him and were subordinate to him.

It was probably no small task to command such men as Evasio Mon—­and the other four seemed no less pliable behind their gentle smile.

When the dessert had been placed on the table and one or two had reflectively eaten a baked almond, more from habit than desire, the little wizened man looked round the table with the manner of a rather absent-minded host.

“It is eight o’clock,” he said in French.  “The monastery gate closes at half-past.  We have no time to discuss our business at this table.  Shall we go within the monastery gates?  There is a seat by the wall, near the fountain, in the courtyard—­”

He rose as he spoke, and it became at once apparent that this was a great man.  For all stood aside as he passed out, and one opened the door as to a prince; of which amenities he took no heed.

The monastery is built against the sheer side of the mountain, perched on a cornice, like a huge eagle’s nest.  The buildings have no pretense to architectural beauty, and consist of barrack-like houses built around a quadrangle.  The chapel is at the farther end, and is, of course, the centre of interest.  Here is kept the sacred image, which has survived so many chances and changes; which, hidden for a hundred and fifty years in a cavern on the mountainside, made itself known at last by a miraculous illumination at night, and for the further guidance of the faithful gave forth a sweet scent.  It, moreover, selected this spot for its shrine by jibbing under the immediate eye of a bishop, and refusing to be carried further up the mountain.

The house of Santa Maria de Jesu has the advantage of being at the outer end of the quadrangle, and thus having no house opposite to it, faces a sheer fall of three thousand feet.  A fountain splashes in the courtyard below, and a low wall forms a long seat where the devout pass the evening hours in that curt and epigrammatic conversation, which is more peaceful than the quick talk of Frenchmen, and deeper than the babble of Italy.

It was to this wall that the little wizened man led the way, and here seated himself with a gesture, inviting his companions to do the same.  Had any idle observer been interested in their movements he would have concluded that these were four travelers, probably pilgrims of the better class, who had made acquaintance at the table d’hote.