routine.  Yet at this moment a sudden thought whitened his yellow cheek.  What if the Father Superior deemed it necessary to impart the secret to Francisco?  Would the child recoil at the deception, and, perhaps, cease to love him?  It was the first time, in his supreme selfishness, he had taken the acolyte’s feelings into account.  He had thought of him only as one owing implicit obedience to him as a temporal and spiritual guide.

“Reverend Father!”

He turned impatiently.  It was his muleteer, Jose.  Father Pedro’s sunken eye brightened.

“Ah, Jose!  Quickly, then; hast thou found Sanchicha?”

“Truly, your reverence!  And I have brought her with me, just as she is; though if your reverence make more of her than to fill the six-foot hole and say a prayer over her, I’ll give the mule that brought her here for food for the bull’s horns.  She neither hears nor speaks, but whether from weakness or sheer wantonness, I know not.”

“Peace, then! and let thy tongue take example from hers.  Bring her with thee into the sacristy and attend without.  Go!”

Father Pedro watched the disappearing figure of the muleteer and hurriedly swept his thin, dry hand, veined and ribbed like a brown November leaf, over his stony forehead, with a sound that seemed almost a rustle.  Then he suddenly stiffened his fingers over his breviary, dropped his arms perpendicularly before him, and with a rigid step returned to the corridor and passed into the sacristy.

For a moment in the half-darkness the room seemed to be empty.  Tossed carelessly in the corner appeared some blankets topped by a few straggling black horse tails, like an unstranded riata.  A trembling agitated the mass as Father Pedro approached.  He bent over the heap and distinguished in its midst the glowing black eyes of Sanchicha, the Indian centenarian of the Mission San Carmel.  Only her eyes lived.  Helpless, boneless, and jelly-like, old age had overtaken her with a mild form of deliquescence.

“Listen, Sanchicha,” said the father, gravely.  “It is important that thou shouldst refresh thy memory for a moment.  Look back fourteen years, mother; it is but yesterday to thee.  Thou dost remember the baby—­a little muchacha thou broughtest me then—­fourteen years ago?”

The old woman’s eyes became intelligent, and turned with a quick look towards the open door of the church, and thence towards the choir.

The Padre made a motion of irritation.  “No, no!  Thou dost not understand; thou dost not attend me.  Knowest thou of any mark of clothing, trinket, or amulet found upon the babe?”

The light of the old woman’s eyes went out.  She might have been dead.  Father Pedro waited a moment, and then laid his hand impatiently on her shoulder.

“Dost thou mean there are none?”

A ray of light struggled back into her eyes.

“None.”

“And thou hast kept back or put away no sign nor mark of her parentage?  Tell me, on this crucifix.”