* * * * *

“He moves.”

“Blessed Saint Anthony preserve him!”

It was Antonio’s voice, it was Jose’s arm, it was the field of wild oats, the sky above his head,—­all unchanged.

“What has happened?” said the priest feebly.

“A giddiness seized your reverence just now, as we were coming to seek you.”

“And you met no one?”

“No one, your reverence.”

Father Pedro passed his hand across his forehead.

“But who are these?” he said, pointing to two figures who now appeared upon the trail.

Antonio turned.

“It is the Americano, Senor Cranch, and his adopted daughter, the mestiza Juanita, seeking your reverence, methinks.”

“Ah!” said Father Pedro.

Cranch came forward and greeted the priest cordially.

“It was kind of you, Father Pedro,” he said, meaningly, with a significant glance at Jose and Antonio, “to come so far to bid me and my adopted daughter farewell.  We depart when the tide serves, but not before you partake of our hospitality in yonder cottage.”

Father Pedro gazed at Cranch and then at Juanita.

“I see,” he stammered.  “But she goes not alone.  She will be strange at first.  She takes some friend, perhaps—­some companion?” he continued, tremulously.

“A very old and dear one, Father Pedro, who is waiting for us now.”

He led the way to a little white cottage, so little and white and recent, that it seemed a mere fleck of sea-foam cast on the sands.  Disposing of Jose and Antonio in the neighboring workshop and outbuildings, he assisted the venerable Sanchicha to dismount, and, together with Father Pedro and Juanita, entered a white palisaded enclosure beside the cottage, and halted before what appeared to be a large folding trap-door, covering a slight sandy mound.  It was locked with a padlock; beside it stood the American alcalde and Don Juan Briones.  Father Pedro looked hastily around for another figure, but it was not there.

“Gentlemen,” began Cranch, in his practical business way, “I reckon you all know we’ve come here to identify a young lady, who”—­he hesitated—­“was lately under the care of Father Pedro, with a foundling picked up on this shore fifteen years ago by an Indian woman.  How this foundling came here, and how I was concerned in it, you all know.  I’ve told everybody here how I scrambled ashore, leaving the baby in the dingy, supposing it would be picked up by the boat pursuing me.  I’ve told some of you,” he looked at Father Pedro, “how I first discovered, from one of the men, three years ago, that the child was not found by its father.  But I have never told any one, before now, I knew it was picked up here.

“I never could tell the exact locality where I came ashore, for the fog was coming on as it is now.  But two years ago I came up with a party of gold hunters to work these sands.  One day, digging near this creek, I struck something embedded deep below the surface.  Well, gentlemen, it wasn’t gold, but something worth more to me than gold or silver.  Here it is.”