He turned quickly and beheld one of those “heathens” against whom he had just warned his young acolyte; one of that straggling band of adventurers whom the recent gold discoveries had scattered along the coast.  Luckily the fertile alluvium of these valleys, lying parallel with the sea, offered no “indications” to attract the gold-seekers.  Nevertheless, to Father Pedro even the infrequent contact with the Americanos was objectionable:  they were at once inquisitive and careless; they asked questions with the sharp perspicacity of controversy; they received his grave replies with the frank indifference of utter worldliness.  Powerful enough to have been tyrannical oppressors, they were singularly tolerant and gentle, contenting themselves with a playful, good-natured irreverence, which tormented the good father more than opposition.  They were felt to be dangerous and subversive.

The Americano, however, who stood before him did not offensively suggest these national qualities.  A man of middle height, strongly built, bronzed and slightly gray from the vicissitudes of years and exposure, he had an air of practical seriousness that commended itself to Father Pedro.  To his religious mind it suggested self-consciousness; expressed in the dialect of the stranger, it only meant “business.”

“I’m rather glad I found you out here alone,” began the latter; “it saves time.  I haven’t got to take my turn with the rest, in there,”—­he indicated the church with his thumb,—­“and you haven’t got to make an appointment.  You have got a clear forty minutes before the Angelus rings,” he added, consulting a large silver chronometer, “and I reckon I kin git through my part of the job inside of twenty, leaving you ten minutes for remarks.  I want to confess.”

Father Pedro drew back with a gesture of dignity.  The stranger, however, laid his hand upon the Padre’s sleeve with the air of a man anticipating objection, but never refusal, and went on.

“Of course, I know.  You want me to come at some other time, and in there.  You want it in the reg’lar style.  That’s your way and your time.  My answer is:  it ain’t my way and my time.  The main idea of confession, I take it, is gettin’ at the facts.  I’m ready to give ’em if you’ll take ’em out here, now.  If you’re willing to drop the Church and confessional, and all that sort o’ thing, I, on my side, am willing to give up the absolution, and all that sort o’ thing.  You might,” he added, with an unconscious touch of pathos in the suggestion, “heave in a word or two of advice after I get through; for instance, what you’d do in the circumstances, you see!  That’s all.  But that’s as you please.  It ain’t part of the business.”