At a sign the alcalde unlocked the doors and threw them open.  They disclosed an irregular trench, in which, filled with sand, lay the half-excavated stern of a boat.

“It was the dingy of the Trinidad, gentlemen; you can still read her name.  I found hidden away, tucked under the stern sheets, moldy and water-worn, some clothes that I recognized to be the baby’s.  I knew then that the child had been taken away alive for some purpose, and the clothes were left so that she should carry no trace with her.  I recognized the hand of an Indian.  I set to work quietly.  I found Sanchicha here, she confessed to finding a baby, but what she had done with it she would not at first say.  But since then she has declared before the alcalde that she gave it to Father Pedro of San Carmel, and that here it stands—­Francisco that was!  Francisca that it is!”

He stepped aside to make way for a tall girl, who had approached from the cottage.

Father Pedro had neither noticed the concluding words nor the movement of Cranch.  His eyes were fixed upon the imbecile Sanchicha,—­Sanchicha, of whom, to render his rebuke more complete, the Deity seemed to have worked a miracle, and restored intelligence to eye and lip.  He passed his hand tremblingly across his forehead, and turned away, when his eye fell upon the last comer.

It was she.  The moment he had longed for and dreaded had come.  She stood there, animated, handsome, filled with a hurtful consciousness in her new charms, her fresh finery, and the pitiable trinkets that had supplanted her scapulary, and which played under her foolish fingers.  The past had no place in her preoccupied mind; her bright eyes were full of eager anticipation of a substantial future.  The incarnation of a frivolous world, even as she extended one hand to him in half-coquettish embarrassment she arranged the folds of her dress with the other.  At the touch of her fingers he felt himself growing old and cold.  Even the penance of parting, which he had looked forward to, was denied him; there was no longer sympathy enough for sorrow.  He thought of the empty chorister’s robe in the little cell, but not now with regret.  He only trembled to think of the flesh that he had once caused to inhabit it.

“That’s all, gentlemen,” broke in the practical voice of Cranch.  “Whether there are proofs enough to make Francisca the heiress of her father’s wealth, the lawyers must say.  I reckon it’s enough for me that they give me the chance of repairing a wrong by taking her father’s place.  After all, it was a mere chance.”

“It was the will of God,” said Father Pedro, solemnly.

They were the last words he addressed them.  For when the fog had begun to creep in-shore, hastening their departure, he only answered their farewells by a silent pressure of the hand, mute lips, and far-off eyes.