Two priests sat before a table, one reading aloud from a bulky manuscript, the other staring absently out of the window.  The reader was an old man; his face was pale and spiritual; no fires burned in his sunken eyes; his mouth was stern with the lines of self-repression.  The Devil lost all interest in him at once, and turned to the younger man.  His face was pale also, but his pallor was that of fasting and the hair shirt; the mouth expressed the determination of the spirit to conquer the restless longing of the eyes; his nostrils were spirited; his figure was lean and nervous; he moved his feet occasionally, and clutched at the brown Franciscan habit.

“Paulo,” said the older priest, reprovingly, as he lifted his eyes and noted the unbowed head, “thou art not listening to the holy counsel of our glorious Master, our saint who has so lately ascended into heaven.”

“I know Junipero Serra by heart,” said Paulo, a little pettishly.  “I wish it were not too hot to go out; I should like to take a walk.  Surely, San Miguel is the hottest spot on earth.  The very fleas are gasping between the bricks.”

“The Lord grant that they may die before the night!  Not a wink have I slept for two!  But thou shouldest not long for recreation until the hour comes, my son.  Do thy duty and think not of when it will be over, for it is a blessed privilege to perform it—­far more so than any idle pleasure—­just as it is more blessed to give than to receive—­”

Here the Devil snorted audibly, and both priests turned with a jump.

“Did you hear that, my father?”

“It is the walls cracking with the intense heat.  I will resume my reading, and do thou pay attention, my son.”

“I will, my father.”

And for three hours the Devil was obliged to listen to the droning voice of the old man.  He avenged himself by planting wayward and alarming desires in Paulo’s fertile soul.

Suddenly the mission was filled with the sound of clamorous silver:  the bells were ringing for vespers—­a vast, rapid, unrhythmical, sweet volume of sound which made the Devil stamp his hoofs and gnash his teeth.  The priests crossed themselves and hurried to their evening duties, Satan following, furious, but not daring to let them out of his sight.

The church was crowded with dusky half-clothed forms, prostrate before the altar.  The Devil, during the long service, wandered amongst them, giving a vicious kick with his cloven foot here, pricking with the sharp point of his tail there, breeding a fine discord and routing devotion.  When vespers were over he was obliged to follow the priests to the refectory, but found compensation in noting that Paulo displayed a keen relish for his meat and wine.  The older man put his supper away morsel by morsel, as if he were stuffing a tobacco-pouch.

The meal finished, Paulo sallied forth for his evening walk.  The Devil had his chance.