“She is a mestiza, and thou art a child of the Church, though this following of gypsy wenches does not show it.”

“But Father Pedro does not object,” urged the boy.

“The reverend father has forgotten he was ever young,” replied Antonio, sententiously, “or he wouldn’t set fire and tow together.”

“What sayest thou, good Antonio?” asked Francisco quickly, opening his blue eyes in frank curiosity; “who is fire, and who is tow?”

The worthy muleteer, utterly abashed and confounded by this display of the acolyte’s direct simplicity, contented himself by shrugging his shoulders, and a vague “Quien sabe?”

“Come,” said the boy, gayly, “confess it is only the aguardiente of the Blessed Fisherman thou missest.  Never fear, Juanita will find thee some.  And see! here she comes.”

There was a flash of white flounces along the dark brown corridor, the twinkle of satin slippers, the flying out of long black braids, and with a cry of joy a young girl threw herself upon Francisco as he entered the patio, and nearly dragged him from his mule.

“Have a care, little sister,” laughed the acolyte, looking at Antonio, “or there will be a conflagration.  Am I the fire?” he continued, submitting to the two sounding kisses the young girl placed upon either cheek, but still keeping his mischievous glance upon the muleteer.

“Quien sabe?” repeated Antonio, gruffly, as the young girl blushed under his significant eyes.  “It is no affair of mine,” he added to himself, as he led Pinto away.  “Perhaps Father Pedro is right, and this young twig of the Church is as dry and sapless as himself.  Let the mestiza burn if she likes.”

“Quick, Pancho,” said the young girl, eagerly leading him along the corridor.  “This way.  I must talk with thee before thou seest Don Juan; that is why I ran to intercept thee, and not as that fool Antonio would signify, to shame thee.  Wast thou ashamed, my Pancho?”

The boy threw his arm familiarly round the supple, stayless little waist, accented only by the belt of the light flounced saya, and said, “But why this haste and feverishness, ’Nita?  And now I look at thee, thou hast been crying.”

They had emerged from a door in the corridor into the bright sunlight of a walled garden.  The girl dropped her eyes, cast a quick glance around her, and said,—­

“Not here, to the arroyo,” and half leading, half dragging him, made her way through a copse of manzanita and alder until they heard the faint tinkling of water.  “Dost thou remember,” said the girl, “it was here,” pointing to an embayed pool in the dark current, “that I baptized thee, when Father Pedro first brought thee here, when we both played at being monks?  They were dear old days, for Father Pedro would trust no one with thee but me, and always kept us near him.”

“Aye and he said I would be profaned by the touch of any other, and so himself always washed and dressed me, and made my bed near his.”