“But lilies don’t look well on the refectory table, and against the adobe wall,” returned the acolyte, with a pout of a spoilt child; “and surely the flowers cannot help being sweet, any more than myrrh or incense.  And I am not frightened of the heathen Americanos either now.  There was a small one in the garden yesterday, a boy like me, and he spoke kindly and with a pleasant face.”

“What said he to thee, child?” asked Father Pedro, anxiously.

“Nay, the matter of his speech I could not understand,” laughed the boy, “but the manner was as gentle as thine, holy father.”

“’St, child,” said the Padre impatiently.  “Thy likings are as unreasonable as thy fears.  Besides, have I not told thee it ill becomes a child of Christ to chatter with those sons of Belial?  But canst thou not repeat the words—­the words he said?” he continued suspiciously.

“’Tis a harsh tongue the Americanos speak in their throat,” replied the boy.  “But he said ‘Devilishnisse’ and ‘pretty-as-a-girl,’ and looked at me.”

The good father made the boy repeat the words gravely, and as gravely repeated them after him with infinite simplicity.  “They are but heretical words,” he replied in answer to the boy’s inquiring look; “it is well you understand not English.  Enough.  Run away, child, and be ready for the Angelus.  I will commune with myself awhile under the pear trees.”

Glad to escape so easily, the young acolyte disappeared down the alley of fig trees, not without a furtive look at the patches of chickweed around their roots, the possible ambuscade of creeping or saltant vermin.  The good priest heaved a sigh and glanced round the darkening prospect.  The sun had already disappeared over the mountain wall that lay between him and the sea, rimmed with a faint white line of outlying fog.  A cool zephyr fanned his cheek; it was the dying breath of the vientos generales beyond the wall.  As Father Pedro’s eyes were raised to this barrier, which seemed to shut out the boisterous world beyond, he fancied he noticed for the first time a slight breach in the parapet, over which an advanced banner of the fog was fluttering.  Was it an omen?  His speculations were cut short by a voice at his very side.

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.