The priest here rose, and, with formal politeness, excused himself, urging the peremptory summons of the Council.

“I scarcely expected, indeed, to have had the pleasure of seeing my colleague here,” he added with quiet suavity, turning to the Alcalde.

“I have already expressed my views to the Comandante,” said the official, with some embarrassment, “and my attendance will hardly be required.”

The occasional misleading phosphorescence of Mrs. Brimmer’s quiet eyes, early alluded to in these pages, did not escape Father Esteban’s quick perception at that moment; however, he preferred to leave his companion to follow its aberrations rather than to permit that fair ignis fatuus to light him on his way by it.

“But my visit to you, Father Esteban,” she began sweetly, “is only postponed.”

“Until I have the pleasure of anticipating it here,” said the priest, with paternal politeness bending before the two ladies; “but for the present, au revoir!”

“It would be an easy victory to win this discreetly emotional Americana to the Church,” said Father Esteban to himself, as he crossed the plaza; “but, if I mistake not, she would not cease to be a disturbing element even there.  However, she is not such as would give this Hurlstone any trouble.  It seems I must look elsewhere for the brains of this party, and to find a solution of this young man’s mystery; and, if I judge correctly, it is with this beautiful young agitator of revolutions and her oratorical duenna I must deal.”

He entered the low gateway of the Presidio unchallenged, and even traversed the courtyard without meeting a soul.  The guard and sentries had evidently withdrawn to their habitual peaceful vocations, and the former mediaeval repose of the venerable building had returned.  There was no one in the guard-room; but as the priest turned back to the corridor, his quick ear was suddenly startled by the unhallowed and inconsistent sounds of a guitar.  A monotonous voice also—­the Comandante’s evidently—­was raised in a thin, high recitative.

The Padre passed hastily through the guard-room, and opened the door of the passage leading to the garden slope.  Here an extraordinary group presented itself to his astonished eyes.  In the shadow of a palm-tree, Mrs. Markham, seated on her Saratoga trunk as on a throne, was gazing blandly down upon the earnest features of the Commander, who, at her feet, guitar in hand, was evidently repeating some musical composition.  His subaltern sat near him, divided in admiration of his chief and the guest.  Miss Keene, at a little distance, aided by the secretary, was holding an animated conversation with a short, stout, Sancho Panza-looking man, whom the Padre recognized as the doctor of Todos Santos.

At the apparition of the reverend Father, the Commander started, the subaltern stared, and even the secretary and the doctor looked discomposed.

“I am decidedly de trop this morning,” soliloquized the ecclesiastic; but Miss Keene cut short his reflection by running to him frankly, with outstretched hand.