"But the sails had filled with the freshening breeze, and the ship was
fast getting under way. The padre gazed at us all, long and sorrowfully,
and, with arms raised up to Heaven, in a faltering voice, which we could
scarcely hear from the increasing distance, called down the blessing of
God on us. With groans and cries we watched the ship sail away, and as
it faded into the distance, we saw our beloved padre kneeling on the
deck in prayer."

"Se–or, there is no more to tell. We waited there on the beach until the
ship had disappeared; then slowly, one by one, found each our horse, and
set out for the mission. All night we rode, not caring how or when we
should get there. When we reached the mission, we found the women and
children gathered together, waiting for us. As soon as they saw us they
burst out weeping and lamenting, for, by our manner, they knew our padre
was gone. Silently we turned loose our horses, and went back to our old
life and work, but with sorrow in our hearts. That is all, Se–or."

I had listened to the old man with great and constantly increasing
interest, and long before he had finished, found myself with brush held
idly in my hand. He had told his story with simple earnestness, crossed,
now and then, with deep emotion, as his love for the Franciscan father,
and sorrow at his loss, came to the surface. After an interval of
silence, I asked him if he had ever heard of the padre since that day.

"Only two or three times," he answered. "A few months afterward we had
news of him from Mexico; he was then about to return to Spain. Two years
after we heard he was at his old home and, a little later, that he was
gone to Rome. Some one told us he lived there till his death, but we
never knew positively."