In years, he could not have exceeded twenty-five, yet the countenance
was that of one well versed in intrigue. The cast was Italian--the
crisp black hair, swarthy complexion, and never-to-be-mistaken eyes.
A large amount of Jesuit determination was expressed in his iris,
blended with cunning, malignity, and fierceness. The features were
prominent particularly the nose; the lips finely cut, but thin; the
teeth beautiful and regular. In stature he was low, and habited in the
dress of his order, a long black coat or gown, buttoned to the throat,
and reaching nearly to the feet.

Glancing at his watch as the sound of the last step died away,
he paced round and round the altar, neglecting now the many
genuflections, bows, and crossings with which he had honored the
images in the presence of his flock. His brows were knit, as if in
deep thought, and doubtless he revolved the result of some deep-laid
plan, when the door was hurriedly opened, and a man, bowing low before
the images, approached him. The dress of the stranger declared him a
ranchero: he wore no jacket but his pantaloons were of buckskin, and
his broad sombrero was tucked beneath his arm.

"Benedicit, Juan!"

"Bueño noche, Padre."

"What tidings do you bring me?" said Father Mazzolin.

The Mexican handed him a letter, and then, as if much fatigued, leaned
heavily against the wall, and wiped his brow with a large blue cotton