From a cork bench on the flat roof of the cloister, the monk Antonio gazed over dim orange-groves and vineyards toward the quiet Atlantic. For many a day no wind had vexed the waters, and the ocean swell, as it searched the creeks and caves, hummed no loudlier than a bee mining deeply in the bells of flowers. Overhead thousands of stars burned mildly. The May night's soft airs were rich with scents of lemon-blossom and honeysuckle: and, like a perfume from a great hidden lily, peace filled earth and heaven. Peace. It was the watchword of Antonio's Order. _Pax_ was chiseled boldly in the old stone lintel over each choir-monk's door; and, for the sake of the lay-brethren whose Latin was less …
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