After a while, when there was no sign of Professor Pilbeam, he made his way along the guests' corridor and down to the great church which was likely to be empty at this hour when the outer doors were closed. There were few, except during tourist hours, who visited the church -- even on a Sunday -- so that to Father Leopoldo it was like a close family home, almost free from the intrusion of strangers. He could pray there his individual prayer and it was there he would often pray for Descartes, and sometimes he would even pray to Descartes. The church was ill-lit, and as he entered by the private door from the monastery he did not at first recognize a figure which stood examining the rather grotesque painting of a naked man stuck in a thorn bush. Then the man spoke in his American accent -- it was Professor Pilbeam.
"I know you are not very fond of Saint Ignatius," he said, "but at least he was a good soldier and a good soldier would find more useful ways of suffering than throwing himself into a lot of thorns."
Father Leopoldo abandoned the thought of private prayer, and in any case the rare opportunity to speak was a greater privilege. He said, "I am not so sure that Saint Ignatius was all that concerned with what was useful. A soldier can be very romantic. I think it is for that reason he is a national hero. All Spaniards are romantic, so that sometimes we take windmills for giants."
"Windmills?"
"You know that one of our great modern philosophers compared Saint Ignatius to Don Quixote. They had a lot in common."
"I haven't read Cervantes since I was a boy. Too fanciful for my taste. I haven't much time for fiction. Facts are what I like. If I could unearth one undiscovered document about Saint Ignatius I would die a happy man."
"Fact and fiction -- they are not always easy to distinguish. As you are a Catholic. . ."
"A rather nominal one, father, I'm afraid. I haven't bothered to change the label that I was born with. And of course being a Catholic helps me in my research -- it opens doors. Now you, Father Leopoldo, you are a student of Descartes. That's hardly likely to open many doors for you, I should imagine. What brought you here?"
"I suppose Descartes brought me to the point where he brought himself -- to faith. Fact or fiction -- in the end you can't distinguish between them -- you have just to choose."
"But to become a Trappist?"
"I think, you know, professor, that when one has to jump, it's so much safer to jump into deep water."
"And you don't regret. . .?"
"Professor, there are always plenty of things to regret. Regrets are part of life. One can't escape regrets even in a twelfth-century monastery. Can you escape from them in the University of Notre Dame?"
"No, but I decided long ago that I was not a jumper."
It was an unfortunate remark, for at that moment jump he did as an explosion outside was followed seconds later by two more, and the sound of a crash.
"A tyre gone," Professor Pilbeam exclaimed. "I'm afraid there's been a motor accident."
"That was no tyre," Father Leopoldo said. "Those were gun shots." He made for the stairs and called back over his shoulder, "The church doors are locked. Follow me." He ran down the passage by the guest rooms as fast as his long robe would allow him and arrived out of breath at the head of the great ceremonial staircase. The professor was close behind. "Go and find Father Enrique. Tell him to open the church doors. If someone's been hurt we can't carry him up all these stairs."
Father Francisco, who was in charge of the little shop near the entrance, had left his picture postcards, rosaries and liqueur bottles. He looked frightened, and scrupulously he waved his hand towards the door without breaking his vow of silence.
A small Seat car had smashed against the wall of the church. Two Guardia had left their jeep and were approaching with caution with their guns at the ready. A man with blood on his face was trying to open the door of the Seat. He called angrily to the Guardia, "Come and help, you assassins. We are not armed."
Father Leopoldo said, "Are you hurt?"
"Of course I'm hurt. That's nothing. I think they've killed my friend."
The Guardia put away their guns. One of them said, "We only shot at the tyres." The other explained, "We had our orders. These men were wanted for causing a riot."
Father Leopoldo looked at the passenger through the shattered glass of the windscreen. He exclaimed, "But he's a priest," and a moment later, "a monsignor."
"Yes," the stranger said with anger, "a monsignor -- and if the monsignor hadn't stopped to piss we would have been safe in your monastery by now."
The two Guardia managed to wrench the passenger door open. "He's alive," one of them said.
"No thanks to you."
"You are both under arrest. Get into the jeep while we pull your friend out."
The doors of the church swung open and Professor Pilbeam joined them.
Father Leopoldo said, "These men are injured. You can't take them away like this."
"They are wanted for causing a riot and stealing money."
"Nonsense. The man in the car is a monsignor. Monsignors don't steal money. What's your friend's name?" he asked the stranger.
"Monsignor Quixote."
"Quixote! Impossible," Professor Pilbeam said.
"Monsignor Quixote of El Toboso. A descendant of the great Don Quixote himself."
"Don Quixote had no descendants. How could he? He's a fictional character."
"Fact and fiction again, professor. So difficult to distinguish," Father Leopoldo said.
The Guardia had succeeded in removing Father Quixote from the wrecked car and they laid him on the ground. He was trying to speak. The stranger leant over him. "If he dies," he told the Guardia, "by God, I'll see you pay for this."
One of the Guardia looked uneasy, but the other demanded sharply, "What is your name?"
"Zancas, Enrique, but monsignor," he rolled the title as though it were a salute or a drum, "prefers to call me Sancho."
"Profession?"
"I am the former Mayor of El Toboso."
"Your papers."
"You are welcome to them if you can find them in this wreck."
"Señor Zancas," Father Leopoldo said, "can you make out what the monsignor is trying to say?"
"He is asking if Rocinante is all right."
"Rocinante?" Professor Pilbeam exclaimed. "But Rocinante was a horse."
"He means the car. I daren't tell him. The shock might be too great."
"Professor, will you please telephone to Orense for a doctor? Father Francisco knows the number."
The surly Guardia said, "We can see about the doctor. We are taking them to Orense."
"Not in this condition. I forbid it."
"We will have an ambulance sent."
"You can send your ambulance if you want, but it may have to wait a long time: these two will stay here in the monastery until the doctor allows them to leave. I shall speak to the bishop in Orense and I am sure he will have something to say to your commanding officer. Now don't you dare to finger your gun at me."