The 10th of August, 1852, brought little change to the dull monotony of wind, fog, and treeless coast line.Only the sea was occasionally flecked with racing sails that outstripped the old, slow-creeping trader, or was at times streaked and blurred with the trailing smoke of a steamer.There were a few strange footprints on those virgin sands, and a fresh track, that led from the beach over the rounded hills, dropped into the bosky recesses of a hidden valley beyond the coast range.
It was here that the refectory windows of the Mission of San Carmel had for years looked upon the reverse of that monotonous picture presented to the sea.It was here that the trade winds, shorn of their fury and strength in the heated, oven-like air that rose from the valley, lost their weary way in the tangled recesses of the wooded slopes, and breathed their last at the foot of the stone cross before the Mission.It was on the crest of those slopes that the fog halted and walled in the sun-illumined plain below; it was in this plain that limitless fields of grain clothed the fat adobe soil; here the Mission garden smiled over its hedges of fruitful vines, and through the leaves of fig and gnarled pear trees: and it was here that Father Pedro had lived for fifty years, found the prospect good, and had smiled also.
Father Pedro's smile was rare.He was not a Las Casas, nor a Junipero Serra, but he had the deep seriousness of all disciples laden with the responsible wording of a gospel not their own.And his smile had an ecclesiastical as well as a human significance, the pleasantest object in his prospect being the fair and curly head of his boy acolyte and chorister, Francisco, which appeared among the vines, and his sweetest pastoral music, the high soprano humming of a chant with which the boy accompanied his gardening.
Suddenly the acolyte's chant changed to a cry of terror.Running rapidly to Father Pedro's side, he grasped his sotana, and even tried to hide his curls among its folds.
"'St! 'st!" said the Padre, disengaging himself with some impatience."What new alarm is this? Is it Luzbel hiding among our Catalan vines, or one of those heathen Americanos from Monterey? Speak!""Neither, holy father," said the boy, the color struggling back into his pale cheeks, and an apologetic, bashful smile lighting his clear eyes."Neither; but oh! such a gross, lethargic toad! And it almost leaped upon me.""A toad leaped upon thee!" repeated the good father with evident vexation."What next? I tell thee, child, those foolish fears are most unmeet for thee, and must be overcome, if necessary, with prayer and penance.Frightened by a toad! Blood of the Martyrs!
'Tis like any foolish girl!"
Father Pedro stopped and coughed.
"I am saying that no Christian child should shrink from any of God's harmless creatures.And only last week thou wast disdainful of poor Murieta's pig, forgetting that San Antonio himself did elect one his faithful companion, even in glory.""Yes, but it was so fat, and so uncleanly, holy father," replied the young acolyte, "and it smelt so.""Smelt so?" echoed the father doubtfully."Have a care, child, that this is not luxuriousness of the senses.I have noticed of late you gather overmuch of roses and syringa, excellent in their way and in moderation, but still not to be compared with the flower of Holy Church, the lily.""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.
