Father Pedro stopped and coughed.

“I am saying that no Christian child should shrink from any of God’s harmless creatures.  And only last week thou wast disdainful of poor Murieta’s pig, forgetting that San Antonio himself did elect one his faithful companion, even in glory.”

“Yes, but it was so fat, and so uncleanly, holy father,” replied the young acolyte, “and it smelt so.”

“Smelt so?” echoed the father doubtfully.  “Have a care, child, that this is not luxuriousness of the senses.  I have noticed of late you gather over-much of roses and syringa, excellent in their way and in moderation, but still not to be compared with the flower of Holy Church, the lily.”

“But lilies don’t look well on the refectory table, and against the adobe wall,” returned the acolyte, with a pout of a spoilt child; “and surely the flowers cannot help being sweet, any more than myrrh or incense.  And I am not frightened of the heathen Americanos either, now.  There was a small one in the garden yesterday, a boy like me, and he spoke kindly and with a pleasant face.”

“What said he to thee, child?” asked Father Pedro, anxiously.

“Nay, the matter of his speech I could not understand,” laughed the boy, “but the manner was as gentle as thine, holy father.”

“’St, child,” said the Padre, impatiently.  “Thy likings are as unreasonable as thy fears.  Besides, have I not told thee it ill becomes a child of Christ to chatter with those sons of Belial?  But canst thou not repeat the words—­the words he said?” he continued suspiciously.

“’T is a harsh tongue the Americanos speak in their throat,” replied the boy.  “But he said ‘Devilishnisse’ and ‘pretty-as-a-girl,’ and looked at me.”

The good father made the boy repeat the words gravely, and as gravely repeated them after him with infinite simplicity.  “They are but heretical words,” he replied, in answer to the boy’s inquiring look; “it is well you understand not English.  Enough.  Run away, child, and be ready for the Angelus.  I will commune with myself awhile under the pear trees.”

Glad to escape so easily, the young acolyte disappeared down the alley of fig trees, not without a furtive look at the patches of chickweed around their roots, the possible ambuscade of creeping or saltant vermin.  The good priest heaved a sigh and glanced round the darkening prospect.  The sun had already disappeared over the mountain wall that lay between him and the sea, rimmed with a faint white line of outlying fog.  A cool zephyr fanned his cheek; it was the dying breath of the vientos generales beyond the wall.  As Father Pedro’s eyes were raised to this barrier, which seemed to shut out the boisterous world beyond, he fancied he noticed for the first time a slight breach in the parapet, over which an advanced banner of the fog was fluttering.  Was it an omen?  His speculations were cut short by a voice at his very side.