under the mild sway of the Holy Faith, and peopled with zealous
converts. Each little knoll in fancy became crowned with a chapel; from
each dark canyon gleamed the white walls of a mission building. Growing
bolder in his enthusiasm, and looking farther into futurity, he beheld
a new Spain rising on these savage shores. He already saw the spires
of stately cathedrals, the domes of palaces, vineyards, gardens, and
groves. Convents, half hid among the hills, peeping from plantations of
branching limes; and long processions of chanting nuns wound through the
defiles. So completely was the good Father's conception of the
future confounded with the past, that even in their choral strain the
well-remembered accents of Carmen struck his ear. He was busied in
these fanciful imaginings, when suddenly over that extended prospect
the faint, distant tolling of a bell rang sadly out and died. It was the
Angelus. Father Jose listened with superstitious exaltation. The mission
of San Pablo was far away, and the sound must have been some miraculous
omen. But never before, to his enthusiastic sense, did the sweet
seriousness of this angelic symbol come with such strange significance.
With the last faint peal, his glowing fancy seemed to cool; the fog
closed in below him, and the good Father remembered he had not had his
supper. He had risen and was wrapping his serapa around him, when he
perceived for the first time that he was not alone.

Nearly opposite, and where should have been the faithless Ignacio, a
grave and decorous figure was seated. His appearance was that of an
elderly hidalgo, dressed in mourning, with mustaches of iron-gray
carefully waxed and twisted around a pair of lantern-jaws. The
monstrous hat and prodigious feather, the enormous ruff and exaggerated
trunk-hose, contrasted with a frame shrivelled and wizened, all
belonged to a century previous. Yet Father Jose was not astonished. His
adventurous life and poetic imagination, continually on the lookout