The stranger then proceeded to inform him, that he had been diligently observing the Holy Father’s triumphs in the valley.  That, far from being greatly exercised thereat, he had been only grieved to see so enthusiastic and chivalrous an antagonist wasting his zeal in a hopeless work.  For, he observed, the issue of the great battle of Good and Evil had been otherwise settled, as he would presently show him.  “It wants but a few moments of night,” he continued, “and over this interval of twilight, as you know, I have been given complete control.  Look to the West.”

As the Padre turned, the stranger took his enormous hat from his head, and waved it three times before him.  At each sweep of the prodigious feather, the fog grew thinner, until it melted impalpably away, and the former landscape returned, yet warm with the glowing sun.  As Father Jose gazed, a strain of martial music arose from the valley, and issuing from a deep canyon, the good Father beheld a long cavalcade of gallant cavaliers, habited like his companion.  As they swept down the plain, they were joined by like processions, that slowly defiled from every ravine and canyon of the mysterious mountain.  From time to time the peal of a trumpet swelled fitfully upon the breeze; the cross of Santiago glittered, and the royal banners of Castile and Aragon waved over the moving column.  So they moved on solemnly toward the sea, where, in the distance, Father Jose saw stately caravels, bearing the same familiar banner, awaiting them.  The good Padre gazed with conflicting emotions, and the serious voice of the stranger broke the silence.

“Thou hast beheld, Sir Priest, the fading footprints of adventurous Castile.  Thou hast seen the declining glory of old Spain,—­declining as yonder brilliant sun.  The sceptre she hath wrested from the heathen is fast dropping from her decrepit and fleshless grasp.  The children she hath fostered shall know her no longer.  The soil she hath acquired shall be lost to her as irrevocably as she herself hath thrust the Moor from her own Granada.”

The stranger paused, and his voice seemed broken by emotion; at the same time, Father Jose, whose sympathizing heart yearned toward the departing banners, cried in poignant accents,—­

“Farewell, ye gallant cavaliers and Christian soldiers!  Farewell, thou, Nunes de Balboa! thou, Alonzo de Ojeda! and thou, most venerable Las Casas!  Farewell, and may Heaven prosper still the seed ye left behind!”

Then turning to the stranger, Father Jose beheld him gravely draw his pocket-handkerchief from the basket-hilt of his rapier, and apply it decorously to his eyes.

“Pardon this weakness, Sir Priest,” said the cavalier, apologetically; “but these worthy gentlemen were ancient friends of mine, and have done me many a delicate service,—­much more, perchance, than these poor sables may signify,” he added, with a grim gesture toward the mourning suit he wore.