bounded lightly by him, or a quail ran into the bushes. The melancholy
call of plover from the adjoining marshes of Mission Creek came to him
so faintly and fitfully that it seemed almost a recollection of the past
rather than a reality of the present.

To add to his discomposure one of those heavy sea-fogs peculiar to the
locality began to drift across the hills and presently encompassed
him. While endeavoring to evade its cold embraces, Padre Vicentio
incautiously drove his heavy spurs into the flanks of his mule as that
puzzled animal was hesitating on the brink of a steep declivity. Whether
the poor beast was indignant at this novel outrage, or had been for some
time reflecting on the evils of being priest-ridden, has not transpired;
enough that he suddenly threw up his heels, pitching the reverend man
over his head, and, having accomplished this feat, coolly dropped on his
knees and tumbled after his rider.

Over and over went the Padre, closely followed by his faithless mule.
Luckily the little hollow which received the pair was of sand that
yielded to the superincumbent weight, half burying them without further
injury. For some moments the poor man lay motionless, vainly endeavoring
to collect his scattered senses. A hand irreverently laid upon his
collar, and a rough shake, assisted to recall his consciousness. As the
Padre staggered to his feet he found himself confronted by a stranger.

Seen dimly through the fog, and under circumstances that to say the
least were not prepossessing, the new-comer had an inexpressibly
mysterious and brigand-like aspect. A long boat-cloak concealed his
figure, and a slouched hat hid his features, permitting only his eyes
to glisten in the depths. With a deep groan the Padre slipped from the
stranger's grasp and subsided into the soft sand again.