“There are other relations, perhaps?”

“None.”

Father Pedro was silent.  When he spoke again, it was with a changed voice.  “What is your purpose, then?” he asked, with the first indication of priestly sympathy in his manner.  “You cannot ask forgiveness of the earthly father you have injured, you refuse the intercession of Holy Church with the Heavenly Father you have disobeyed.  Speak, wretched man!  What is it you want?”

“I want to find the child.”

“But if it were possible, if she were still living, are you fit to seek her, to even make yourself known to her, to appear before her?”

“Well, if I made it profitable to her, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” echoed the priest, scornfully.  “So be it.  But why come here?”

“To ask your advice.  To know how to begin my search.  You know this country.  You were here when that boat drifted ashore beyond that mountain.”

“Ah, indeed.  I have much to do with it.  It is an affair of the alcalde—­the authorities—­of your—­your police.”

“Is it?”

The Padre again met the stranger’s eyes.  He stopped, with the snuffbox he had somewhat ostentatiously drawn from his pocket still open in his hand.

“Why is it not, Senor?” he demanded.

“If she lives, she is a young lady by this time, and might not want the details of her life known to any one.”

“And how will you recognize your baby in this young lady?” asked Father Pedro, with a rapid gesture, indicating the comparative heights of a baby and an adult.

“I reckon I’ll know her, and her clothes too; and whoever found her wouldn’t be fool enough to destroy them.”

“After fourteen years!  Good!  You have faith, Senor”—­

“Cranch,” supplied the stranger, consulting his watch.  “But time’s up.  Business is business.  Good-by; don’t let me keep you.”

He extended his hand.

The Padre met it with a dry, unsympathetic palm, as sere and yellow as the hills.  When their hands separated, the father still hesitated, looking at Cranch.  If he expected further speech or entreaty from him he was mistaken, for the American, without turning his head, walked in the same serious, practical fashion down the avenue of fig trees, and disappeared beyond the hedge of vines.  The outlines of the mountain beyond were already lost in the fog.  Father Pedro turned into the refectory.

“Antonio.”

A strong flavor of leather, onions, and stable preceded the entrance of a short, stout vaquero from the little patio.

“Saddle Pinto and thine own mule to accompany Francisco, who will take letters from me to the Father Superior at San Jose to-morrow at daybreak.”

“At daybreak, reverend father?”

“At daybreak.  Hark ye, go by the mountain trails and avoid the highway.  Stop at no posada nor fonda, but if the child is weary, rest then awhile at Don Juan Briones’ or at the rancho of the Blessed Fisherman.  Have no converse with stragglers, least of all those gentile Americanos.  So” ...