He was in pain, but that was no new condition to a man whose spirit
had ever been robuster than his body. He had, at all events, not
been killed, and his last recollection had been the effort to face
death. So he lay with a twisted smile on his lips listening to
Brother Lucas, who, sad old monk that he was, took infinite pleasure
in glorifying to the young lady his own action in causing the
monastery cart to be brought out, and in driving down the slope at a
breakneck pace to place his medical knowledge at the disposal of
such as might require it. He bowed in a portly way, and indicated
with a very worldly politeness that he himself was, in fact, at the
disposal of the Senorita.

"I was not always a monk--I began life as a doctor," he explained.

And his companion looked at him with speculative, clever eyes,
scenting afar off, with the quickness of her kind, the usual little
romance--the everlasting woman.

"Ah!" she said slowly.

And Whittaker in the alcove coughed with discretion. Both turned
and hurried towards him.

"He has recovered his senses," said the girl.

The monk had, however, not laid aside all the things of this world.
He remembered the little ceremonies appertaining to the profession
which he had once practised. He waived aside the girl, and stooped
over the bed.