He stopped. The first stroke of the Angelus rang from the little tower.
The first stroke of that bell before whose magic exorcism all human
passions fled, the peaceful bell that had for fifty years lulled the
little fold of San Carmel to prayer and rest, came to his throbbing
ear. His trembling hands groped for the crucifix, carried it to his
left breast; his lips moved in prayer. His eyes were turned to the cold,
passionless sky, where a few faint, far-spaced stars had silently
stolen to their places. The Angelus still rang, his trembling ceased, he
remained motionless and rigid.

The American, who had uncovered in deference to the worshiper rather
than the rite, waited patiently. The eyes of Father Pedro returned
to the earth, moist as if with dew caught from above. He looked half
absently at Cranch.

"Forgive me, my son," he said, in a changed voice. "I am only a worn
old man. I must talk with thee more of this--but not to-night--not
to-night;--to-morrow--to-morrow--to-morrow."

He turned slowly and appeared to glide rather than move under the trees,
until the dark shadow of the Mission tower met and encompassed him.
Cranch followed him with anxious eyes. Then he removed the quid of
tobacco from his cheek.

"Just as I reckoned," remarked he, quite audibly. "He's clean gold on
the bed rock after all!"