“A week ago he promised to be here to see the proofs to-day.”

The voices were growing fainter and fainter; they were returning to the trail.

Father Pedro remained motionless.  A week ago!  Was it a week ago since—­since what?  And what had he been doing here?  Listening!  He!  Father Pedro, listening like an idle peon to the confidences of two lovers.  But they had talked of him, of his crime, and the man had pitied him.  Why did he not speak?  Why did he not call after them?  He tried to raise his voice.  It sank in his throat with a horrible choking sensation.  The nearest heads of oats began to nod to him, he felt himself swaying backwards and forwards.  He fell—­heavily, down, down, down, from the summit of the mountain to the floor of the Mission chapel, and there he lay in the dark.

*****

“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.