Meanwhile, undisturbed by excitement or intrusion of the outer world, the days had passed quietly at the Mission.  But one evening, at twilight, a swift-footed, lightly-clad Indian glided into the sacristy as if he had slipped from the outlying fog, and almost immediately as quietly glided away again and disappeared.  The next moment Father Esteban’s gaunt and agitated face appeared at Hurlstone’s door.

“My son, God has been merciful, and cut short your probation.  The signal of the ship has just been made.  Her boat will be waiting on the beach two leagues from here an hour hence.  Are you ready? and are you still resolved?”

“I am,” said Hurlstone, rising.  “I have been prepared since you first assented.”

The old man’s lips quivered slightly, and the great brown hand laid upon the table trembled for an instant; with a strong effort he recovered himself, and said hurriedly,—­

“Concho’s mule is saddled and ready for you at the foot of the garden.  You will follow the beach a league beyond the Indians’ cross.  In the boat will await you the trusty messenger of the Church.  You will say to him, ‘Guadalajara,’ and give him these letters.  One is to the captain.  You will require no other introduction.”  He laid the papers on the table, and, turning to Hurlstone, lifted his tremulous hands in the air.  “And now, my son, may the grace of God”—­

He faltered and stopped, his uplifted arms falling helplessly on Hurlstone’s shoulders.  For an instant the young man supported him in his arms, then placed him gently in the chair he had just quitted, and for the first time in their intimacy dropped upon his knee before him.  The old man, with a faint smile, placed his hand upon his companion’s head.  A breathless pause followed; Father Esteban’s lips moved silently.  Suddenly the young man rose, pressed his lips hurriedly to the Father’s hand, and passed out into the night.

The moon was already suffusing the dropping veil of fog above him with that nebulous, mysterious radiance he had noticed the first night he had approached the Mission.  When he reached the cross he dismounted, and gathering a few of the sweet-scented blossoms that crept around its base, placed them in his breast.  Then, remounting, he continued his way until he came to the spot designated by Concho as a fitting place to leave his tethered mule.  This done, he proceeded on foot about a mile further along the hard, wet sand, his eyes fixed on the narrow strip of water and shore before him that was yet uninvaded by the fog on either side.

The misty, nebulous light, the strange silence, broken only by the occasional low hurried whisper of some spent wave that sent its film of spume across his path, or filled his footprints behind him, possessed him with vague presentiments and imaginings.  At times he fancied he heard voices at his side; at times indistinct figures loomed through the mist before him.  At last what seemed to be his own shadow