He began the descent, holding the cross aloft, chanting solemnly; his Indians, to whom he had given a swift signal, following and lifting up their voices likewise.  The mountain on this side was bare, as if from fire, the incline shorter and steeper.  The priest noted all things, although he never forgot his lines.

Below was a little band of men and women.  A broad plain swept from the mountain’s foot, a forest broke its sweep, and the ocean thundered near.  The people were clad in garments made from the feathered skins of birds, and were all past middle age.  The foot of the mountain was perforated with caves.

When he stood before the trembling awe-struck savages, he spoke to them kindly and bade them rise.  They did not understand, but lifted their heads and stared appealingly.  He raised each in turn.  As they once more looked upon his full magnificence, they were about to prostrate themselves again when they caught sight of the Indians.  Those dark stolid faces, even that gay attire, they could understand.  Glancing askance at the priest, they drew near to their fellow-beings, touched their hands to the strangers’ breasts, and finally kissed them.

Father Carillo was a man of tact.

“My children,” he said to his flock, “do you explain as best you-can to these our new friends what it is we have come to do.  I will go into the forest and rest.”

He walked swiftly across the plain, and parting the clinging branches of two gigantic ferns, entered the dim wood.  He laid the heavy cross beneath a tree, and strolled idly.  It was a forest of fronds.  Lofty fern trees waved above wide-leaved palms.  Here and there a little marsh with crowding plant life held the riotous groves apart.  Down the mountain up which the forest spread tumbled a creek over coloured rocks, then wound its way through avenues, dark in the shadows, sparkling where the sunlight glinted through the tall tree-tops.  Red lilies were everywhere.  The aisles were vocal with whispering sound.

The priest threw himself down on a bed of dry leaves by the creek.  After a time his eyes closed.  He was weary, and slept.

He awoke suddenly, the power of a steadfast gaze dragging his brain from its rest.  A girl sat on a log in the middle of the creek.  Father Carillo stared incredulously, believing himself to be dreaming.  The girl’s appearance was unlike anything he had ever seen.  Like the other members of her tribe, she wore a garment of feathers, and her dark face was cast in the same careless and gentle mould; but her black eyes had a certain intelligence, unusual to the Indians of California, and the hair that fell to her knees was the colour of flame.  Apparently she was not more than eighteen years old.

Father Carillo, belonging to a period when bleached brunettes were unknown, hastily crossed himself.

“Who are you?” he asked.

His voice was deep and musical.  It had charmed many a woman’s heart, despite the fact that he had led a life of austerity and sought no woman’s smiles.  But this girl at the sound of it gave a loud cry and bounded up the mountain, leaping through the brush like a deer.