Hurlstone bowed his head and turned his irresolute feet towards the upper extremity of the garden, indicated by the priest, which seemed to offer more seclusion and security than the avenue of pear-trees.  He was dazed and benumbed.  The old dogged impulses of self-destruction—­revived by the priest’s reproaches, but checked by the vision of his dead and forgotten father, which the priest’s words had called up—­gave way, in turn, to his former despair.  With it came a craving for peace and rest so insidious that in some vague fear of yielding to it he quickened his pace, as if to increase his distance from the church and its apostle.  He was almost out of breath when he reached the summit, and turned to look back upon the Mission buildings and the straggling street of the pueblo, which now for the first time he saw skirted the wall of the garden in its descent towards the sea.  He had not known the full extent of Todos Santos before; when he swam ashore he had landed under a crumbling outwork of the fort; he gazed now with curious interest over the hamlet that might have been his home.  He looked over the red-tiled roofs, and further on to the shining bay, shut in by the impenetrable rampart of fog.  He might have found rest and oblivion here but for the intrusion of those fellow-passengers to share his exile and make it intolerable.  How he hated and loathed them all!  Yet the next moment he found himself scrutinizing the street and plaza below him for a glimpse of his countrywomen, whom he knew were still in the town or vainly endeavoring to locate their habitation among the red-tiled roofs.  And that frank, clear-eyed girl—­Miss Keene!—­she who had seemed to vaguely pity him—­she was somewhere here too—­selected by the irony of fate to be his confederate!  He could not help thinking of her beauty and kindness now, with a vague curiosity that was half an uneasiness.  It had not struck him before, but if he were to accept the ridiculous attitude forced upon him by Todos Santos, its absurdity, as well as its responsibility, would become less odious by sharing it with another.  Perhaps it might be to her advantage—­and if so, would he be justified in exposing its absurdity?  He would have to see her first—­and if he did, how would he explain his real position?  A returning wave of bitterness threw him back into his old despair.

The twilight had slowly gathered over the view as he gazed—­or, rather a luminous concentration above the pueblo and bay had left the outer circle of fog denser and darker.  Emboldened by the apparent desertion of the Embarcadero, he began to retrace his steps down the slope, keeping close to the wall so as to avoid passing before the church again, or a closer contact with the gardener among the vines.  In this way he reached the path he had skirted the night before, and stopped almost under the shadow of the Alcalde’s house.  It was here he had rested and hidden,—­here he had tasted the first sweets of isolation and oblivion in the dreamy