Father Carillo looked up at the golden sun riding high in the dark blue sky, down over the stately oaks and massive boulders of the valley where quail flocked like tame geese.  He had no wish to leave his paradise, and as the youngest and hardiest of the priests, he knew that he would be ordered to take charge of the expedition.

“It is said also,” continued the older man, “that once a ship from the Continent of Europe was wrecked among those islands—­”

“No?  No?” interrupted several of the priests.

“It is more than probable that there were survivors, and that their descendants live on this very island to-day.  Think of it, my brother!  Men and women of our own blood, perhaps, living like beasts of the field!  Worshipping idols!  Destitute of morality!  Can we sit here in hope of everlasting life while our brethren perish?”

“No!” The possibility of rescuing men of European blood had quenched dissent.  Even Carillo spoke as spontaneously as the others.

As he had anticipated, the expedition was put in his charge.  Don Guillermo Iturbi y Moncada, the magnate of the South, owned a small schooner, and placed it at the disposal of the priests.

Through the wide portals of the mission church, two weeks later, rolled the solemn music of high mass.  The church was decorated as for a festival.  The aristocrats of the town knelt near the altar, the people and Indians behind.

Father Carillo knelt and took communion, the music hushing suddenly to rise in more sonorous volume.  Then Father Jimeno, bearing a cross and chanting the rosary, descended the altar steps and walked toward the doors.  On either side of him a page swung a censer.  Four women neophytes rose from among the worshippers, and shouldering a litter on which rested a square box containing an upright figure of the Holy Virgin followed with bent heads.  The Virgin’s gown was of yellow satin, covered with costly Spanish lace; strands of Baja Californian pearls bedecked the front of her gown.  Behind this resplendent image came the other priests, two and two, wearing their white satin embroidered robes, chanting the sacred mysteries.  Father Carillo walked last and alone.  His thin clever face wore an expression of nervous exaltation.

As the procession descended the steps of the church, the bells rang out a wild inspiring peal.  The worshippers rose, and forming in line followed the priests down the valley.

When they reached the water’s edge, Father Jimeno raised the cross above his head, stepped with the other priests into a boat, and was rowed to the schooner.  He sprinkled holy water upon the little craft; then Father Carillo knelt and received the blessing of each of his brethren.  When he rose all kissed him solemnly, then returned to the shore, where the whole town knelt.  The boat brought back the six Indians who were to give greeting and confidence to their kinsmen on the island, and the schooner was ready to sail.  As she weighed anchor, the priests knelt in a row before the people, Father Jimeno alone standing and holding the cross aloft with rigid arms.