"There’snobodyinthere，"statedtheVirginian。"Nobodythat’salive，"
headded。Andhecrossedthecabinandwalkedintothedoor。
Thoughhemadenogesture，Isawastonishmentpassthroughhisbody，ashestoppedstill；andallofuscameafterhim。Therehungthecrucifix，witharoundholethroughthemiddleofit。Oneofthemenwenttoitandtookitdown；andbehindit，sunkinthelog，wasthebullet。Thecabinwasbutasingleroom，andeveryobjectthatitcontainedcouldbeseenataglance；norwastherehiding—roomforanything。Onthefloorlaytheaxefromthewood—pile；butIwillnottellofitsappearance。Sohehadshothercrucifix，herRockofAges，thethingwhichenabledhertobearherlife，andthatliftedherabovelife；andshe——buttherewastheaxetoshowwhatshehaddonethen。Wasthiscabinreallyempty？Ilookedmoreslowlyabout，halfdreadingtofindthatIhadoverlookedsomething。
ButitwasastheVirginianhadsaid；nobodywasthere。
Aswewerewondering，therewasanoiseaboveourheads，andIwasnottheonlyonewhostartedandstared。Itwastheparrot；andwestoodawayinacircle，lookingupathiscage。Crouchingflatonthefloorofthecage，hiswingshuddledtighttohisbody，hewasswinginghisheadfromsidetoside；andwhenhesawthatwewatchedhim，hebeganalowcroakingandmonotonousutterance，whichneverchanged，butremainedrapidandcontinuous。IheardMcLeanwhispertotheVirginian，"Youbetheknows。"
TheVirginiansteppedtothedoor，andthenhebenttothegravelandbeckonedustocomeandsee。Amongtherecentfootprintsatthethresholdtheman’sboot—heelwasplain，aswellasthewoman’sbroadtread。Butwhiletheman’sstepsledintothecabin，theydidnotleadawayfromit。
Wetrackedhiscoursejustaswehadseenitthroughtheglasses：upthehillfromthebrushtothewindow，andthentothedoor。Buthehadneverwalkedoutagain。Yetinthecabinhewasnot；wetoreupthehalf—floorthatithad。Therewasnousetodigintheearth。Andallthewhilethatwewereatthissearchtheparrotremainedcrouchedinthebottomofhiscage，hisblackeyefixeduponourmovements。
"Shehascarriedhim，"saidtheVirginian。"WemustfollowupWillomene。"
Thelatestheavysetoffootprintsledusfromthedooralongtheditch，wheretheysankdeepinthesoftersoil；thentheyturnedoffsharplyintothemountains。
"Thisisthecut—offtrail，"saidMcLeantome。"Thesamehebroughtherinby。"
Thetrackswereveryclear，andevidentlyhadbeenmadebyapersonmovingslowly。Whatevertheoriesourvariousmindswerenowshaping，noonespokeawordtohisneighbor，butwewentalongwithahushoverus。
Aftersomewalking，Wigginsuddenlystoppedandpointed。
Wehadcometotheedgeofthetimber，whereanarrowblackcanyonbegan，andaheadofusthetraildrewnearaslantingledge，wherethefootingwasofsmallloosestones。Irecognizedtheodor，thevolcanicwhiff，thatsooftenprowlsandmeetsoneinthelonelywoodsofthatregion，butatfirstIfailedtomakeoutwhathadsetusallrunning。
"Ishelookingdownintotheholehimself？"someoneasked；andthenI
didseeafigure，thefigureIhadlookedatthroughtheglasses，leaningstrangelyovertheedgeofPitchstoneCanyon，asifindeedhewaspeeringtowatchwhatmightbeinthebottom。
Wecamenear。Butthoseeyesweresightless，andintheskullthestoryoftheaxewascarved。Byapieceofhisclothinghewashookedinthetwistedrootsofadeadtree，andhungthereattheextremeverge。Iwenttolookover，andLinMcLeancaughtmeasIstaggeredatthesightIsaw。
Hewouldhavelosthisownfootholdinsavingmehadnotoneoftheothersheldhimfromabove。
Shewastherebelow；Hank’swoman，broughtfromAustriatotheNewWorld。
Thevisionofthatbrownbundlelyinginthewaterwillneverleaveme，I
think。Shehadcarriedthebodytothispoint；buthadsheintendedthisend？Orwassomepartofitanaccident？Hadshemeanttotakehimwithher？Hadshemeanttostaybehindherself？Nowordcamefromthesedeadtoanswerus。Butaswestoodspeakingthere，agiantpuffofbreathroseuptousbetweentheblackwalls。
"There’sthatfluffysighItoldyu’about，"saidtheVirginian。
"He’stalkin’toher！Itellyu’he’stalkin’toher！"burstoutMcLean，suddenly，insuchavoicethatwestaredashepointedatthemaninthetree。"Seehimleanover！He’ssayin’，’Ihaveyu’beatafterall。’"AndMcLeanfelltowhimpering。
Wiggintooktheboy’sarmkindlyandwalkedhimalongthetrail。Hedidnotseemtwentyyet。Lifehadnotshownthissideofitselftohimsoplainlybefore。
"Let’sgetoutofhere，"saidtheVirginian。
Itseemedonemorepitifulstrawthatthelonelybundleshouldbeleftinsuchavaultofdoom，withnolasttouchesofcarefromitsfellow—beings，andnoheapofkindearthtohideit。Butwhethertheplaceisdeadlyornot，mandaresnotventureintoit。SotheytookHankfromthetreethatnight，andearlynextmorningtheyburiedhimnearcamponthetopofalittlemound。
ButthethoughtofWillomenelyinginPitchstoneCanyonhadkeptsleepfrommethroughthatwholenight，nordidIwishtoattendHank’sburial。
Iroseveryearly，whilethesunshinehadstillalongwaytocomedowntousfromthemountain—tops，andIwalkedbackalongthecut—offtrail。
Iwasmovedtolookoncemoreuponthatfrightfulplace。AndasIcametotheedgeofthetimber，therewastheVirginian。Hedidnotexpectanyone。Hehadsetupthecrucifixasnearthedeadtreeasitcouldbefirmlyplanted。
"Itbelongstoher，anyway，"heexplained。
Somelinesofversecameintomymemory，andwithachangeortwoIwrotethemasdeepasIcouldwithmypenciluponasmallboardthathesmoothedforme。
"Callfortherobinredbreastandthewren，Sinceo’ershadygrovestheyhover，AndwithflowersandleavesdocoverThefriendlessbodiesofunburiedmen。
CalltothisfuneraldoleTheant，thefield—mouse，andthemoleTorearherhillocksthatshallkeepherwarm。
"Thatkindo’quaintlanguageremindsmeofaplayIseenoncedinSayntPaul，"saidtheVirginian。"AboutyoungPrinceHenry。"
Itoldhimthatanotherpoetwastheauthor。
"Theyarebothgoodwriters，"saidtheVirginian。Andashewasfinishingthemonumentthatwehadmade，youngLinMcLeanjoinedus。Hewasalittleashamedofthefeelingsthathehadshownyesterday，alittleanxioustocoverthosefeelingswithbrass。
"Well，"hesaid，takinganoffish，man—of—the—worldtone，"allthisfussjustbecauseawomanbelievedinGod。"
"Youhaveputitdownwrong，"saidtheVirginian；"it’sjustbecauseamandidn’t。"
PadreIgnazioAtSantaYsabeldelMartheseasonwasatoneofitsmomentswhentheairhangsquietoverlandandsea。Theoldbreezeshadgone；thenewoneswerenotyetrisen。Theflowersinthemissiongardenopenedwide，fornowindcamebydayornighttoshaketheloosepetalsfromtheirstems。
Alongthebasking，silent，many—coloredshoregatheredandlingeredthecrispodorsofthemountains。Thedustfloatedgoldenandmotionlesslongaftertheriderwasbehindthehill，andthePacificlaylikeafloorofsapphire，onwhichtowalkbeyondthesettingsunintotheEast。Onewhitesailshonethere。Insteadofanhour，ithadbeenfromdawntillafternooninsightbetweentheshortheadlands；andthepadrehadhopedthatitmightbehisship。Butithadslowlypassed。Nowfromanarchinhisgardencloistershewaswatchingthelastofit。Presentlyitwasgone，andthegreatoceanlayempty。Thepadreputhisglassesinhislap。Forashortwhilehereadinhisbreviary，butsoonforgotitagain。
Helookedattheflowersandsunnyridges，thenatthehugebluetriangleofseawhichtheopeningofthehillsletintosight。"Paradise，"hemurmured，"neednotholdmorebeautyandpeace。ButIthinkIwouldexchangeallmyremainingyearsofthisforonesightagainofParisorSeville。MayGodforgivemesuchathought！"
Acrosstheunstirredfragranceofoleandersthebellforvespersbegantoring。Itstonespassedoverthepadreashewatchedtheseainhisgarden。Theyreachedhisparishionersintheiradobedwellingsnearby。
Thegentlecirclesofsoundfloatedoutwarduponthesmoothimmensesilence——overthevinesandpear—trees；downtheavenuesoftheolives；
intotheplantedfields，whencewomenandchildrenbegantoreturn；thenoutofthelapofthevalleyalongtheyellowuplands，wherethementhatrodeamongthecattlepaused，lookingdownlikebirdsatthemapoftheirhome。Thenthesoundwidened，faint，unbroken，untilitmetTemptationridingtowardsthepadrefromthesouth，andcheeredthestepsofTemptation’sjadedhorse"Foraday，onesingledayofParis！"repeatedthepadre，gazingthroughhiscloistersattheemptysea。
Onceintheyearthemother—worldrememberedhim。OnceintheyearabarkentinecamesailingwithnewsandtokensfromSpain。Itwasin1685
thatagalleonhadbegunsuchvoyagesuptothelowercountryfromAcapulco，wheresheloadedthecargothathadcomeacrossTehuantepeconmulesfromVeraCruz。By1768shehadaddedthenewmissionofSanDiegotoherports。Intheyearthatwe，athinstripofcolonistsawayoverontheAtlanticedgeofthecontinent，declaredourselvesanindependentnation，thatSpanishship，inthenameofSaintFrancis，wasunloadingthecenturiesofherowncivilizationattheGoldenGate。Then，slowly，asmissionaftermissionwasplantedalongthesoftcoastwilderness，shemadenewstops——atSantaBarbara，forinstance；andbyPointSanLuisforSanLuisObispo，thatlayinlandalittlewayupthegorgewhereitopenedamongthehills。Thustheworldreachedtheseplacesbywater；
whileonland，throughthemountains，aroadcametoleadtothem，andalsotomanymorethatweretoodistantbehindthehillsforshipstoserve——along，lonely，roughroad，punctuatedwithchurchtowersandgardens。Forthefathersgraduallysostationedtheirsettlementsthatthetravellermighteachmorningrideoutfromonemissionandbyeveningofaday’sfairjourneyrideintothenext。Along，roughroad；andinitswayprettytothinkofnow。
Sothere，by—and—by，wasourcontinent，withthelocomotivewhistlingfromSavannahtoBostonalongitseasternedge，andontheotherthescatteredchimesofSpainringingamongtheunpeopledmountains。Thusgrewthetwosortsofcivilization——notequally。Weknowwhathashappenedsince。To—daythelocomotiveiswhistlingalsofromtheGoldenGatetoSanDiego；buttheoldmissionroadgoesthroughthemountainsstill，andonitthestepsofvanishedSpainaremarkedwithroses，andwhitecloisters，andthecrucifix。
Butthiswas1855。Onlythebarkentinebroughttheworldthathelovedtothepadre。Asforthenewworldwhichwasmakingarudenoisetothenorthward，hetrustedthatitmightkeepawayfromSantaYsabel，andhewaitedforthevesselthatwasoverduewithitspackagecontaininghissingleworldlyindulgence。
Asthelittle，ancientbronzebellcontinueditsswinginginthetower，itsplaintivecallreachedsomethinginthepadre’smemory。Withoutknowing，hebegantosing。Hetookuptheslowstrainnotquitecorrectly，anddroppedit，andtookitupagain，alwaysincadencewiththebell：
[MusicalScoreAppearsHere]
Atlengthheheardhimself，andglancingatthebelfry，smiledalittle。
"Itisaprettytune，"hesaid，"anditalwaysmademesorryforpoorFraDiavolo。Auberhimselfconfessedtomethathehadmadeitsadandputthehermitagebelltogowithitbecausehetoowasgrievedathavingtokillhisvillain，andwantedhimtodie，ifpossible，inareligiousframeofmind。AndAubertouchedglasseswithmeandsaid——howwellI
rememberit！——’IsitthegoodLord，orisitmerelythedevil，thatmakesmealwayshaveaweaknessforrascals？’Itoldhimitwasthedevil。Iwasnotapriestthen。Icouldnotbesosurewithmyanswernow。"AndthenPadreIgnaziorepeatedAuber’sremarkinFrench："’Est—celebonDieu，onest—cebienlediable，quimefaittonjoursaimerlescoquins？’Idon’tknow！Idon’tknow！IwonderifAuberhascomposedanythinglately？IwonderwhoissingingZerlinanow？"
Hecastafarewelllookattheocean，andtookhisstepsbetweenthemonasticherbsandtheoleanderstothesacristy。"Atleast，"besaid，"ifwecannotcarrywithusintoexilethefriendsandtheplacesthatwehaveloved，musicwillgowherewego，eventosuchanendoftheworldasthis。Felipe！"hecalledtohisorganist。"CantheysingthemusicI
taughtthemfortheDixitDominusto—night？"
"Yes，father，surely。"
"Thenwewillhavethat。And，Felipe——"Thepadrecrossedthechanceltothesmallshabbyorgan。"Rise，mychild，andlisten。Hereissomethingyoucanlearn。Why，seenowifyoucannotlearnitwithasinglehearing。"
Theswarthyboyofsixteenstoodwatchinghismaster’sfingers，delicateandwhite，astheyplayed。Soofhisownaccordhehadbeguntowatchthemwhenachildofsix；andthepadrehadtakenthewild，half—scared，spellboundcreatureandmadeamusicianofhim。
"There，Felipe！"hesaidnow。"Canyoudoit？Slower，andmoresoftly，muchacho。Itisaboutthedeathofaman，anditshouldgowithourbell。"
Theboylistened。"Thenthefatherhasplayeditatonetoolow，"saidhe；"forourbellringsthenoteofsol，orsomethingverynearit，asthefathermustsurelyknow。"Heplacedthemelodyintherightkey——aneasythingforhim；butthepadrewasdelighted。
"Ah，myFelipe，"heexclaimed，"whatcouldyouandInotdoifwehadabetterorgan！Onlyalittlebetter！See！abovethisrowofkeyswouldbeasecondrow，andmanymorestops。ThenwewouldmakesuchmusicashasneverbeenheardinCaliforniayet。Butmypeoplearesopoorandsofew！
AndsomedayIshallhavepassedfromthem，anditwillbetoolate；"
"Perhaps，"venturedFelipe，"theAmericanos——"
"Theycarenothingforus，Felipe。Theyarenotofourreligion——orofanyreligion，fromwhatIcanhear。Don’tforgetmyDixitDominus。"Andthepadreretiredoncemoretothesacristy，whilethehorsethatcarriedTemptationcameoverthehill。
Thehourofservicedrewnear；andashewaited，thepadreonceagainsteppedoutforalookattheocean；butthebluetriangleofwaterlaylikeapictureinitsframeofland，emptyasthesky。"Ithink，fromthecolor，though，"saidhe，"thatalittlemorewindmusthavebegunoutthere。"
Thebellrangalastshortsummonstoprayer。Alongtheroadfromthesouthayoungrider，leadingonepack—animal，ambledintothemissionanddismounted。Churchwasnotsomuchinhisthoughtsasfoodand，induetimeafterthat，abed；butthedoorsstoodopen，andaseverybodywasgoingintothem，morevarietywastobegainedbyjoiningthiscompanythanbywaitingoutsidealoneuntiltheyshouldreturnfromtheirdevotions。Soheseatedhimselfattheback，andafterabrief，jauntyglanceatthesunburnt，shaggycongregation，madehimselfascomfortableasmightbe。Hehadnotseenafaceworthkeepinghiseyesopenfor。Thesimplechoirandsimplefoldgatheredforeven—song，andpaidhimnoattentionontheirpart——aroughAmericanboundforthemineswasnolongeranythingbutanobjectofaversiontothem。
Thepadre，ofcourse，hadbeeninstantlyawareofthestranger’spresence。Forthisisthesixthsensewithvicarsofeverycreedandheresy；andiftheparishislonelyandtheworshippersfewandseldomvarying，anewcomerwillgleamoutlikeanewbooktoberead。Andatrainedpriestlearnstoreadshrewdlythefacesofthosewhoassembletoworshipunderhisguidance。ButAmericanvagrants，withnothoughtssaveofgold—digging，andanoverweeningilliteratejargonfortheirspeech，hadlongceasedtointerestthispriest，eveninhisstarvationforcompanyandtalkfromtheoutsideworld；andthereforeaftertheintoning，hesatwithhishomesickthoughtsunchanged，todrawbothpainandenjoymentfromthemusicthathehadsettotheDixitDominus。Helistenedtothetenderchorusthatopens"WilliamTell"；andastheLatinpsalmproceeded，picturesofthepastrosebetweenhimandthealtar。Oneafteranothercamethesestrainswhichhehadtakenfromtheoperasfamousintheirday，untilatlengththepadrewasmurmuringtosomemusicseldomlongoutofhisheart——nottheLatinversewhichthechoirsang，buttheoriginalFrenchwords：
"Ah，voilemanenvie，Voilamonseuldesir：
Rendezmoimapatrie，Oulaissezmoimourir。"
Whichmayberendered：
ButonewishIimplore，Onewishisallmycry：
Givebackmynativelandoncemore，Giveback，orletmedie。
Thenithappenedthathesawthestrangerinthebackofthechurchagain，andforgothisDixitDominusstraightway。Thefaceoftheyoungmanwasnolongerhiddenbytheslouchingpositionhehadatfirsttaken。
"Ionlynoticedhisclothesbefore，"thoughtthepadre。Restlessnesswasplainuponthehandsomebrow，andinthemouththerewasviolence；butPadreIgnaziolikedtheeyes。"Heisnotsayinganyprayers，"hesurmised，presently。"Idoubtifhehassaidanyforalongwhile。Andheknowsmymusic。Heisofeducatedpeople。HecannotbeAmerican。Andnow——yes，hehastaken——Ithinkitmustbeaflower，fromhispocket。I
shallhavehimtodinewithme。"Andvespersendedwithrosycloudsofeagernessdriftingacrossthepadre’sbrain。
Butthestrangermadehisownbeginning。Asthepriestcamefromthechurch，therebelliousyoungfigurewaswaiting。"Yourorganisttellsme，"hesaid，impetuously，"thatitisyouwho——"
"MayIaskwithwhomIhavethegreatpleasureofspeaking？"saidthepadre，puttingformalitytothefrontandhispleasureoutofsight。
Thestrangerreddened，andbecameawareofthepadre’sfeatures，mouldedbyrefinementandtheworld。"Ibegyourlenience，"saidhe，withagracefulandconfidentutterance，asofequaltoequal。"MynameisGastonVillere，anditwastimeIshouldberemindedofmymanners。"
Thepadre’shandwavedapolitenegative。
"Indeedyes，padre。Butyourmusichasastonishedmetopieces。Ifyoucarriedsuchassociationsas——Ah！thedaysandthenights！"hebrokeoff。"TocomedownaCaliforniamountain，"heresumed，"andfindParisatthebottom！’TheHuguenots，’Rossini，Herold——Iwaswaitingfor’IlTrovatore。"’
"Isthatsomethingnew？"saidthepadre，eagerly。
Theyoungmangaveanexclamation。"Thewholeworldisringingwithit，"
hesaid。
"ButSantaYsabeldelMarisalongwayfromthewholeworld，"saidPadreIgnazio。
"Indeeditwouldnotappeartobeso，"returnedyoungGaston。"IthinktheComedieFrancaisemustberoundthecorner。"
Athrillwentthroughthepriestatthetheatre’sname。"AndhaveyoubeenlonginAmerica？"heasked。
"Why，always——excepttwoyearsofforeigntravelaftercollege。"
"AnAmerican！"saidthesurprisedpadre，withperhapsaflavorofdisappointmentinhisvoice。"ButnoAmericanswhohaveyetcomethiswayhavebeen——havebeen"——heveiledthetoobluntexpressionofhisthought——"havebeenfamiliarwith’TheHuguenots，’"hefinished，makingaslightbow。
Villeretookhisunder—meaning。"IcomefromNewOrleans，"hereturned。
"AndinNewOrleanstherelivemanyofuswhocanrecognizea——whocanrecognizegoodmusicwhereverwemeetit。"Andhemadeaslightbowinhisturn。
Thepadrelaughedoutrightwithpleasure，andlaidhishandupontheyoungman’sarm。"Youhavenointentionofgoingawaytomorrow，Itrust？"
saidhe。
"Withyourleave，"answeredGaston，"Iwillhavesuchanintentionnolonger。"
Itwaswiththeairandgaitofmutualunderstandingthatthetwonowwalkedontogethertowardsthepadre’sdoor。Theguestwastwenty—five，thehostsixty。
"AndhaveyoubeeninAmericalong？"inquiredGaston。
"Twentyyears。"
"AndatSantaYsabelhowlong？"
"Twentyyears。"
"Ishouldhavethought，"saidGaston，lookinglightlyattheemptymountains，"thatnowandagainyoumighthavewishedtotravel。"
"WereIyourage，"murmuredPadreIgnazio，"itmightbeso。"
Theeveninghadnowripenedtothelongafter—glowofsunset。Theseawasthepurpleofgrapes，andwinecoloredhuesflowedamongthehighshouldersofthemountains。
"Ihaveseenasightlikethis，"saidGaston，"betweenGranadaandMalaga。"
"SoyouknowSpain！"saidthepadre。
Oftenhehadthoughtofthisresemblance，butneverheardittoldtohimbefore。ThecourtlyproprietorofSanFernando，andtheotherpatriarchalrancheroswithwhomheoccasionallyexchangedvisitsacrossthewilderness，knewhospitalityandinheritedgentlemanners，sendingtoEuropeforsilksandlacestogivetheirdaughters；buttheireyeshadnotlookeduponGranada，andtheirearshadneverlistenedto"WilliamTell。"
"Itisquitesingular，"pursuedGaston，"howonenookintheworldwillsuddenlyremindyouofanothernookthatmaybethousandsofmilesaway。
Onemorning，behindtheQuaiVoltaire，anoldyellowhousewithrustybalconiesmademealmosthomesickforNewOrleans。"
"TheQuaiVoltaire！"saidthepadre。
"IheardRachelin’Valerie’thatnight，"theyoungmanwenton。"Didyouknowthatshecouldsingtoo？ShesangseveralversesbyanastonishinglittleJewmusicianthathascomeupoverthere。"
Thepadregazeddownathisblitheguest。"Toseesomebody，somebody，onceagain，"hesaid，"isverypleasanttoahermit。"
"Itcannotbemorepleasantthanarrivingatanoasis，"returnedGaston。
Theyhaddelayedonthethresholdtolookatthebeautyoftheevening，andnowthepriestwatchedhisparishionerscomeandgo。"Howcanonemakecompanions——"hebegan；then，checkinghimself，hesaid："Theirsoulsareassacredandimmortalasmine，andGodhelpsmetohelpthem。
Butinthisworlditisnotimmortalsoulsthatwechooseforcompanions；
itiskindredtastes，intelligences，and——andsoIandmybooksaregrowingoldtogether，yousee，"headded，morelightly。"Youwillfindmyvolumesasbehindthetimesasmyself。"
Hehadfallenintotalkmoreintimatethanhewished；andwhiletheguestwasutteringsomethingpoliteaboutthenobilityofmissionarywork，heplacedhiminaneasy—chairandsoughtaguardienteforhisimmediaterefreshment。Sincetheyear’sbeginningtherehadbeennoguestforhimtobringintohisrooms，ortositbesidehiminthehighseatsattable，setapartforthegentefina。
SuchanotherlibrarywasnottheninCalifornia；andthoughGastonVillere，inleavingHarvardCollege，hadshutHoraceandSophoclesforeverattheearliestinstantpossibleunderacademicrequirements，heknewtheGreekandLatinnamesthathenowsawaswellasheknewthoseofShakespeare，Dante，Moliere，andCervantes。Thesewereherealso；norcoulditbepreciselysaidofthem，either，thattheymadeapartoftheyoungman’sdailyreading。Ashesurveyedthepadre’saugustshelves，itwaswithatouchofthefloridSoutherngravitywhichhisNortherneducationhadnotwhollyschooledoutofhimthathesaid：
"IfearthatIamnoscholar，sir。ButIknowwhatwriterseverygentlemanoughttorespect。"
Thesubtlepadrebowedgravelytothiscompliment。
Itwaswhenhiseyescaughtsightofthemusicthattheyoungmanfeltagainatease，andhisvivacityreturnedtohim。Leavinghischair，hebeganenthusiasticallytoexaminethetallpilesthatfilledonesideoftheroom。Thevolumeslayrichlyeverywhere，makingapleasantdisorder；
andasperfumecomesoutofaflower，memoriesofsingersandchandeliersrosebrightfromtheprintednames。"Norma，""Tancredi，""DonPasquale，"
"LaVestale"——dimlightsinthefashionsofto—day——sparkledupontheexploringGaston，conjuringtheradianthallsofEuropebeforehim。"’TheBarberofSeville！’"hepresentlyexclaimed。"AndIhappenedtohearitinSeville。"
ButSeville’snamebroughtoverthepadreanewrushofhomethoughts。
"IsnotAndalusiabeautiful？"hesaid。"DidyouseeitinApril，whentheflowerscome？"
"Yes，"saidGaston，amongthemusic。"IwasatCordovathen。"
"Ah，Cordova！"murmuredthepadre。
"’Semiramide！’"criedGaston，lightinguponthatopera。"Thatwasaweek！
Ishouldliketoliveitover，everydayandnightofit！"
"DidyoureachMalagafromMarseillesorGibraltar？"saidthepadre，wistfully。
"FromMarseilles。DownfromParisthroughtheRhoneValley，youknow。"
"ThenyousawProvence！Anddidyougo，perhaps，fromAvignontoNismesbythePontduGard？ThereisaplaceIhavemadehere——alittle，littleplace——witholive—trees。Andnowtheyhavegrown，anditlookssomethinglikethatcountry，ifyoustandinaparticularposition。Iwilltakeyouthereto—morrow。IthinkyouwillunderstandwhatImean。"
"Anotherresemblance！"saidthevolatileandhappyGaston。"Webothseemtohaveaneyeforthem。But，believeme，padre，Icouldneverstayhereplantingolives。Ishouldgobackandseetheoriginalones——andthenI’dhastenuptoParis。"And，withavolumeofMeyerbeeropeninhishand，Gastonhummed："’Robert，Robert，toiquej’aime。’Why，padre，Ithinkthatyourlibrarycontainsnoneofthemassesandalloftheoperasintheworld！"
"Iwillmakeyoualittleconfession，"saidPadreIgnazio，"andthenyoushallgivemealittleabsolution。"
"Withapenance，"saidGaston。"Youmustplayoversomeofthesethingstome。"
"IsupposethatIcouldnotpermitmyselfthisindulgence，"beganthepadre，pointingtohisoperas；"andteachthesetomychoir，ifthepeoplehadanyworldlyassociationswiththemusic。ButIhavereasonedthatthemusiccannotdothemharm——"
Theringingofabellhereinterruptedhim。"Infifteenminutes，"hesaid，"ourpoormealwillbereadyforyou。"Thegoodpadrewasnotquitesincerewhenhespokeofapoormeal。Whilegettingtheaguardienteforhisguesthehadgivenorders，andheknewhowwellsuchorderscouldbecarriedout。Helivedalone，andgenerallysuppedsimplyenough，butnoteventheampletableatSanFernandocouldsurpasshisownonoccasions。
Andthiswasforhimanoccasionindeed！
"Yourhalf—breedswillthinkIamoneofthemselves，"saidGaston，showinghisdustyclothes。"Iamnotfittobeseatedwithyou。"He，too，wasnotmoresincerethanhishost。Inhispack，whichanIndianhadbroughtfromhishorse，hecarriedsomegarmentsofcivilization。Andpresently，afterfreshwaterandnotalittlepainstakingwithbrushandscarf，therecamebacktothepadreayoungguestwhoseeleganceandbearingandeaseofthegreatworldweretotheexiledpriestassweetaswashistraveledconversation。
Theyrepairedtothehallandtooktheirseatsattheheadofthelongtable。ForthestatelySpanishcenturiesofcustomlivedatSantaYsabeldelMar，inviolate，feudal，remote。
Theyweretheonlypersonsofqualitypresent；andbetweenthemselvesandthegentederazonaspaceintervened。Behindthepadre’schairstoodanIndiantowaituponhim，andanotherstoodbehindthechairofGastonVillere。Eachoftheseservantsworeonesinglewhitegarment，andofferedthemanydishestothegentefinaandrefilledtheirglasses。Atthelowerendofthetableageneralattendantwaiteduponthemesclados——thehalf—breeds。Therewasmeatwithspices，androastedquail，withvariouscakesandotherpreparationsofgrain；alsotheblackfresholives，andgrapes，withseveralsortsoffigsandplums，andpreservedfruits，andwhiteandredwine——thewhitefiftyyearsold。Beneaththequietshiningofcandles，fresh—cutflowersleanedfromvesselsofoldMexicanandSpanishmake。
Thereatoneendofthisfeastsatthewild，pastoral，gaudycompany，speakinglittleovertheirfood；andthereattheotherthepalepadre，questioninghisvisitoraboutRachel。Themerenameofastreetwouldbringmemoriescrowdingtohislips；andwhenhisguestwouldtellhimofanewplay，hewasreadywitholdquotationsfromthesameauthor。AlfreddeVignytheyhad，andVictorHugo，whomthepadredisliked。Longafterthedulce，orsweetdish，whenitwasthecustomforthevaquerosandtherestoftheretainerstoriseandleavethegentefinatothemselves，thehostsatonintheemptyhall，fondlytellingtheguestofhisbygoneParis，andfondlylearningoftheParisthatwasto—day。Andthusthetwolingered，exchangingtheirfervors，whilethecandleswaned，andthelong—hairedIndiansstoodsilentbehindthechairs。
"Butwemustgotomypiano，"thehostexclaimed。Foratlengththeyhadcometoalustydifferenceofopinion。Thepadre，withearscriticallydeaf，andwithsmiling，unconvincedeyes，wasshakinghishead，whileyoungGastonsang"Trovatore"athim，andbeatuponthetablewithafork。
"Comeandconvertme，then，"saidPadreIgnazio，andheledtheway。
"DonizettiIhavealwaysadmitted。There，atleast，isrefinement。IftheworldhastakentothisVerdi，withhisstreet—bandmusic——Butthere，now！Sitdownandconvertme。Onlydon’tcrushmypoorlittleErardwithVerdi’shoofs。IbroughtitwhenIcame。Itisbehindthetimestoo。And，oh，mydearboy，ourorganisstillworse。Soold，soold！TogetaproperoneIwouldsacrificeeventhispianoofmineinamoment——onlythetinklingthingisnotworthasoutoanybodyexceptitsmaster。Butthere！Areyouquitecomfortable？"Andhavingseentohisguest’sneeds，andplacedspiritsandcigarsandanash—traywithinhisreach，thepadresathimselfluxuriouslyinhischairtohearandexposethefalsedoctrineof"IlTrovatore。"
BymidnightalloftheoperathatGastoncouldrecallhadbeenplayedandsungtwice。Theconvertsatinhischairnolonger，butstoodsingingbythepiano。Thepotentswingandflowoftunes，thetorrid，copiousinspirationoftheSouth，masteredhim。"Verdihasgrown，"hecried。
"Verdihasbecomeagiant。"Andheswayedtothebeatofthemelodies，andwavedanenthusiasticarm。Hedemandedeverycrumb。WhydidnotGastonrememberitall？Butifthebarkentinewouldarriveandbringthewholemusic，thentheywouldhaveitright！AndhemadeGastonteachhimwhatwordsheknew。"’Nontiscordar，"’hesang——"’nontiscordardime。’
Thatisgenius。Butoneseeshowtheworld；moveswhenoneisoutofit。
’Anostrimontiritorneremo’；hometoourmountains。Ah，yes，thereisgeniusagain。"Andtheexilesighedandhisspiritwenttodistantplaces，whileGastoncontinuedbrilliantlywiththemusicofthefinalscene。
Thenthehostrememberedhisguest。"Iamashamedofmyselfishness，"hesaid。"Itisalreadyto—morrow。"
"Ihavesatlaterinlessgoodcompany，"answeredthepleasantGaston。
"AndIshallsleepallthesounderformakingaconvert。"
"Youhavedispensedroadsidealms，"saidthepadre，smiling。"Andthatshouldwinexcellentdreams。"
Thus，withcourtesiesmoreelaboratethantheworldhastimeforatthepresentday，theybadeeachothergood—nightandparted，bearingtheirlatecandlesalongthequiethallsofthemission。ToyoungGastoninhisbedeasysleepcamewithoutwaiting，andnodreamsatall。Outsidehisopenwindowwasthequiet，serenedarkness，wherethestarsshoneclear，andtranquilperfumeshunginthecloisters。Andwhiletheguestlaysleepingallnightinunchangedpositionlikeachild，upanddownbetweentheoleanderswentPadreIgnazio，walkinguntildawn。
Dayshowedtheocean’ssurfacenolongerglassy，butlyinglikeamirrorbreathedupon；andtherebetweentheshortheadlandscameasail，grayandplainagainsttheflatwater。Thepriestwatchedthroughhisglasses，andsawthegradualsungrowstronguponthecanvasofthebarkentine。
Themessagefromhisworldwasathand，yetto—dayhescarcelycaredsomuch。Sittinginhisgardenyesterdayhecouldneverhaveimaginedsuchachange。Buthisheartdidnothailthebarkentineasusual。Books，music，palepaper，andprint——thiswasallthatwascomingtohim，andsomeofitssavorhadgone；forthesirenvoiceoflifehadbeenspeakingwithhimfacetoface，andinhisspirit，deepdown，theloveoftheworldwasrestlesslyansweringthatcall。YoungGastonshowedmoreeagernessthanthepadreoverthisarrivalofthevesselthatmightbebringing"Trovatore"inthenickoftime。Nowhewouldhavethechance，beforehetookhisleave，tohelprehearsethenewmusicwiththechoir。Hewouldbeamissionarytoo。Aperfectlynewexperience。
"AndyoustillforgiveVerdithesinsofhisyouth？"hesaidtohishost。
"Iwonderifyoucouldforgivemine？"
"Verdihaslefthisbehindhim，"retortedthepadre。
"ButIamonlytwenty—five，"explainedGaston，pathetically。
"Ah，don’tgoawaysoon！"pleadedtheexile。Itwastheplainestburstthathadescapedhim，andhefeltinstantshame。
ButGastonwastoomuchelatedwiththeenjoymentofeachnewdaytounderstand。Theshaftsofanother’spainmightscarcelypiercethebrightarmorofhisgayety。Hemistookthepriest’sexclamationforanxietyabouthisownhappysoul。
"Stayhereunderyourcare？"hesaid。"Itwoulddomenogood，padre。
Temptationsticksclosertomethanabrother！"andhegavethatlaughofhiswhichdisarmedsevererjudgesthanhishost。"BynextweekIshouldhaveintroducedsomesinorotherintoyourbeautifulGardenofIgnorancehere。ItwillbemuchsaferforyourflockifIgoandjointheotherserpentsatSanFrancisco。"
Soonafterbreakfastthepadrehadhistwomulessaddled，andheandhisguestsetforthdownthehillstogethertotheshore。Andbeneaththespellandconfidenceofpleasant，slowriding，andthelovelinessofeverything，theyoungmantalkedfreelyofhimself。
"And，seriously，"saidhe，"ifImissednothingelseatSantaYsabel，I
shouldlongtohearthebirds。Athomeourgardensarefullofthem，andonesmellsthejasmine，andtheysingandsing！WhenourshipfromtheIsthmusputintoSanDiego，IdecidedtogoonbylandandseeCalifornia。Then，afterthefirstdays，Ibegantomisssomething。Allthatbeautyseemedempty，inaway。AndsuddenlyIfounditwasthebirds。Fortheselittlescamperingquailarenothing。Thereseemsasortofdeathintheairwherenobirdseversing。"
"YouwillnotfindanybirdsatSanFrancisco，"saidthepadre。
"Ishallfindlife！"exclaimedGaston。"Andmyfortuneatthemines，I
hope。Iamnotabadfellow，father。YoucaneasilyguessallthethingsthatIdo。Ihavenever，tomyknowledge，harmedanyone。Ididnoteventrytokillmyadversaryinanaffairofhonor。Igavehimamerefleshwound，andbythistimehemustbequiterecovered。Hewasmyfriend。Butashecamebetweenme——"
Gastonstopped；andthepadre，lookingkeenlyathim，sawtheviolencethathehadnoticedinchurchpasslikeaflameovertheyoungman’shandsomeface。
"There’snothingdishonorable，"saidGaston，answeringthepriest’slook。
"Ihavenotthoughtso，myson。"
"Ididwhateverygentlemanwoulddo，"saidGaston。
"Andthatisoftenwrong！"criedthepadre。"ButI’mnotyourconfessor。"
"I’venothingtoconfess，"saidGaston，frankly。"IleftNewOrleansatonce，andhavetravelledaninnocentjourneystraighttoyou。AndwhenI
makemyfortuneIshallbeinapositiontoreturnand——"
"Claimthepressedflower！"putinthepadre，laughing。
"Ah，yourememberhowthosethingsare！"saidGaston；andhelaughedalsoandblushed。
"Yes，"saidthepadre，lookingattheanchoredbarkentine，"Irememberhowthosethingsare。"Andforawhilethevesselanditscargoandthelandedmenandvariousbusinessandconversationsoccupiedthem。Butthefreightforthemissiononceseento，therewasnotmuchelsetohangaboutherefor。
Thebarkentinewasonlyacoasterlikemanyotherswhichnowhadbeguntofilltheseaalittlemoreoflateyears，andpresentlyhostandguestwereridinghomeward。Andguessingatthetwomenfromtheiroutsides，anyonewouldhavegotthempreciselywrong；forwithintheturbulentyoungfigureofGastondweltaspiritthatcouldnotbemoreatease，whilerevoltwassteadilysmoulderingbeneaththeschooledandplacidmaskofthepadre。
Yetstillthestrangenessofhisbeingatsuchaplacecamebackasamarvelintotheyoungman’slivelymind。Twentyyearsinprison，hethought，andhardlyawareofit！Andheglancedatthesilentpriest。A
mansoevidentlyfondofmusic，oftheatres，oftheworld，towhompressedflowershadmeantsomethingonce——andnowcontentedtobleachuponthesewastes！Notevendesirousofabriefholiday，butfindinganoldorganandsomeoldoperasenoughrecreation！"Itishisage，I
suppose，"thoughtGaston。Andthenthenotionofhimselfwhenheshouldbesixtyoccurredtohim，andhespoke。
"Doyouknow，Idonotbelieve，"saidhe，"thatIshouldeverreachsuchcontentmentasyours。"
"Perhapsyouwill，"saidPadreIgnazio，inalowvoice。
"Never！"declaredtheyouth。"Itcomesonlytothefew，Iamsure。"
"Yes。Onlytothefew，"murmuredthepadre。
"Iamcertainthatitmustbeagreatpossession，"Gastoncontinued；"andyet——andyet——dearme！lifeisasplendidthing！"
"Thereareseveralsortsofit，"saidthepadre。
"Onlyoneforme！"criedGaston。"Action，men，women，things——tobethere，tobeknown，toplayapart，tositinthefrontseats；tohavepeopletelleachother，’TheregoesGastonVillere！’andtodeserveone’sprominence。Why，ifIwerePadreofSantaYsabeldelMarfortwentyyears——no！foroneyear——doyouknowwhatIshouldhavedone？Somedayitwouldhavebeentoomuchforme。Ishouldhaveleftthesesavagestoapastornearertheirownlevel，andIshouldhaveriddendownthiscanyonuponmymule，andsteppedonboardthebarkentine，andgonebacktomypropersphere。Youwillunderstand，sir，thatIamfarfromventuringtomakeanypersonalcomment。Iamonlythinkingwhataworldofdifferenceliesbetweenmen’snatureswhocanfeelalikeaswedouponsomanysubjects。Why，notsinceleavingNewOrleanshaveImetanyonewithwhomIcouldtalk，exceptoftheweatherandthebruteinterestscommontousall。Thatsuchaoneasyoushouldbehereislikeadream。"
"Butitisnotadream，"saidthepadre。
"And，sir——pardonmeifIdosaythis——areyounotwastedatSantaYsabeldelMar？IhaveseenthepriestsattheothermissionsTheyare——thesortofgoodmenthatIexpected。Butareyouneededtosavesuchsoulsasthese？"
"Thereisnoaristocracyofsouls，"saidthepadre，almostwhisperingnow。
"Butthebodyandthemind！"criedGaston。"MyGod，aretheynothing？Doyouthinkthattheyaregiventousfornothingbutatrap？Youcannotteachsuchadoctrinewithyourlibrarythere。Andhowaboutallthecultivatedmenandwomenawayfromwhosequickeningsocietythebrightestofusgrownumb？Youhaveheldout。Butwillitbeforlong？Doyounotoweyourselftothesavingofhighergamehenceforth？Arenottwentyyearsofmescladosenough？No，no！"finishedyoungGaston，hotwithhisunforeseeneloquence；"Ishouldridedownsomemorningandtakethebarkentine。"
PadreIgnaziowassilentforaspace。
"Ihavenotoffendedyou？"saidtheyoungman。
"No。Anythingbutthat。YouaresurprisedthatIshould——choose——tostayhere。PerhapsyoumayhavewonderedhowIcametobehereatall？"
"Ihadnotintendedanyimpertinent——"
"Ohno。Putsuchanideaoutofyourhead，myson。YoumayrememberthatIwasgoingtomakeyouaconfessionaboutmyoperas。Letussitdowninthisshade。"
Sotheypicketedthemulesnearthestreamandsatdown。
"Youhaveseen，"beganPadreIgnazio，"whatsortofamanI——wasonce。
Indeed，itseemsverystrangetomyselfthatyoushouldhavebeenherenottwenty—fourhoursyet，andknowsomuchofme。Fortherehascomenooneelseatall"——thepadrepausedamomentandmasteredtheunsteadinessthathehadfeltapproachinginhisvoice——"therehasbeennooneelsetowhomIhavetalkedsofreely。InmyearlydaysIhadnothoughtofbeingapriest。Myparentsdestinedmeforadiplomaticcareer。Therewasplentyofmoneyand——andalltherestofit；forbyinheritancecametometheacquaintanceofmanypeoplewhosenamesyouwouldbelikelytohaveheardof。Cities，peopleoffashion，artists——thewholeofitwasmyelementandmychoice；andby—and—byImarried，notonlywhereitwasdesirable，butwhereIloved。ThenforthefirsttimeDeathlaidhisstaffuponmyenchantment，andIunderstoodmanythingsthathadbeenonlywordstomehitherto。Lookingback，itseemedtomethatIhadneverdoneanythingexceptformyselfallmydays。Ilefttheworld。InduetimeIbecameapriestandlivedinmyowncountry。Butmyworldlyexperienceandmyseculareducationhadgiventomyopinionsaturntooliberalfortheplacewheremyworkwaslaid。Iwassoonadvisedconcerningthisbythoseinauthorityoverme。AndsincetheycouldnotchangemeandIcouldnotchangethem，yetwishedtoworkandtoteach，theNewWorldwassuggested，andIvolunteeredtogivetherestofmylifetomissions。Itwassoonfoundthatsomeonewasneededhere，andforthislittleplaceIsailed，andtothesehumblepeopleIhavededicatedmyservice。Theyarepastoralcreaturesofthesoil。Theirvineyardandcattledaysareapttobelikethesunandstormaroundthem——strongalikeintheirevilandintheirgood。Alltheiryearstheyliveaschildren——childrenwithmen’spassionsgiventothemlikedeadlyweapons，unabletomeasuretheharmtheirimpulsesmaybring。
Hence，evenintheircrimes，theirheartswillgenerallyopensoontotheonegreatkeyoflove，whilecivilizationmakeslockswhichthatkeycannotalwaysfitatthefirstturn。Andcomingtoknowthis，"saidPadreIgnazio，fixinghiseyessteadilyuponGaston，"youwillunderstandhowgreataprivilegeitistohelpsuchpeople，andhourthesenseofsomethingaccomplished——underGod——shouldbringcontentmentwithrenunciation。"
"Yes，"saidGastonVillere。Then，thinkingofhimself，"Icanunderstanditinamanlikeyou。"
"Donotspeakofmeatall！"exclaimedthepadre，almostpassionately。
"ButprayHeaventhatyoumayfindthethingyourselfsomeday——contentmentwithrenunciation——andneverletitgo。"
"Amen！"saidGaston，strangelymoved。
"Thatisthewholeofmystory，"thepriestcontinued，withnomoreoftherecentstressinhisvoice。"AndnowIhavetalkedtoyouaboutmyselfquiteenough。Butyoumusthavemyconfession。"Hehadnowresumedentirelyhishalf—playfultone。"Iwasjustalittlemistaken，youseetooself—reliant，perhaps——whenIsupposed，inmyfirstmissionaryardor，thatIcouldgetonwithoutanyremembranceoftheworldatall。IfoundthatIcouldnot。AndsoIhavetaughttheoldoperastomychoir——suchpartsofthemasarewithinourcompassandsuitableforworship。Andcertainofmyfriendsstillaliveathomearegoodenoughtorememberthistasteofmine，andtosendmeeachyearsomeofthenewmusicthatI
shouldneverhearofotherwise。Thenwestudythesethingsalso。Andalthoughourorganisamiserableaffair，Felipemanagesverycleverlytomakeitdo。Andwhilethevoicesaresingingtheseoperas，especiallytheoldones，whatharmisthereifsometimesthepriestisthinkingofsomethingelse？Sothere’smyconfession！Andnow，whether’Trovatore’
hascomeornot，IshallnotallowyoutoleaveusuntilyouhavetaughtallyouknowofittoFelipe。"
Thenewopera，however，haddulyarrived。AndasheturneditspagesPadreIgnaziowasquicktoseizeatonceuponthemusicthatcouldbetakenintohischurch。Someofitwasreadyfitted。BythatafternoonFelipeandhischoircouldhaverendered"Ah！sel’errort’ingombra"
withoutsliporfalter。
Thosewerestrangerehearsalsof"IlTrovatore"uponthisCaliforniashore。ForthepadrelookedtoGastontosaywhentheywenttoofastortooslow，andtocorrecttheiremphasis。Andsinceitwashot，thelittleErardpianowascarriedeachdayoutintothemissiongarden。There，inthecloistersamongtheoleanders，inthepresenceofthetallyellowhillsandthebluetriangleofsea，the"Miserere"wasslowlylearned。
TheMexicansandIndiansgathered，swarthyandblack—haired，aroundthetinklinginstrumentthatFelipeplayed；andpresidingoverthemwereyoungGastonandthepalepadre，walkingupanddownthepaths，beatingtime，orsingingnowonepartandnowanother。Andsoitwasthatthewildcattleontheuplandswouldhear"Trovatore"hummedbyapassingvaquero，whilethesamemelodywasfillingthestreetsofthefar—offworld。
ForthreedaysGastonVillereremainedatSantaYsabeldelMar；andthoughnotawordofthesortcamefromhim，hishostcouldreadSanFranciscoandthegold—minesinhiscountenance。No，theyoungmancouldnothavestayedherefortwentyyears！Andthepadreforboreurginghisguesttoextendhisvisit。
"Buttheworldissmall，"theguestdeclaredatparting。"Somedayitwillnotbeabletospareyouanylonger。Andthenwearesuretomeet。
Andyoushallhearfrommesoon，atanyrate。"
Again，asuponthefirstevening，thetwoexchangedafewcourtesies，moregracefulandparticularthanwe，whohavenottime，andfightnoduels，findworthaman’swhileatthepresentday。Forduelsaregone，whichisaverygoodthing，andwiththemacertaincarefulpoliteness，whichisapity；butthatisthewayinthegeneralprofitandloss。SoyoungGastonrodenorthwardoutofthemission，backtotheworldandhisfortune；andthepadrestoodwatchingthedustaftertheriderhadpassedfromsight。Thenhewentintohisroomwithadrawnface。Butappearancesatleasthadbeenkeptuptotheend；theyouthwouldneverknowoftheoldman’sdiscontent。
TemptationhadarrivedwithGaston，butwasgoingtomakealongerstayatSantaYsabeldelMar。Yetitwassomethinglikeaweekbeforethepriestknewwhatguesthehadinhishousenow。Theguestwasnotalwayspresent——madehimselfscarcequiteoften。
Sailawayonthebarkentine？Thatwasawildnotion，tobesure，althoughfitenoughtoenterthebrainofsuchayoungscapegrace。ThepadreshookhisheadandsmiledaffectionatelywhenhethoughtofGastonVillere。Theyouth’shandsome，recklesscountenancewouldcomebeforehim，andherepeatedAuber’soldremark，"IsitthegoodLord，orisitmerelythedevil，thatalwaysmakesmehaveaweaknessforrascals？"
Sailawayonthebarkentine！Imaginetakingleaveofthepeoplehere——ofFelipe！Inwhatwordsshouldhetelltheboytogoonindustriouslywithhismusic？No，thiscouldnotbeimagined。Themerepartingalonewouldmakeitforeverimpossiblethatheshouldthinkofsuchathing。"Andthen，"hesaidtohimselfeachnewmorning，whenhelookedoutattheocean，"Ihavegivenmylifetothem。Onedoesnottakebackagift。"
Picturesofhisdeparturebegantoshineandmeltinhisdriftingfancy。
HesawhimselfexplainingtoFelipethatnowhispresencewaswantedelsewhere；thattherewouldcomeasuccessortotakecareofSantaYsabel——ayoungerman，moreuseful，andabletovisitsickpeopleatadistance。"ForIamoldnow。Ishouldnotbelonghereinanycase。"Hestoppedandpressedhishandstogether；hehadcaughthistemptationintheveryact。Nowhesatstaringathistemptation’sface，closetohim，whilethereinthetriangletwoshipswentsailingby。
OnemorningFelipetoldhimthatthebarkentinewashereonitsreturnvoyagesouth。"Indeed？"saidthepadre，coldly。"Thethingsarereadytogo，Ithink。"Forthevesselcalledformailandcertainboxesthatthemissionsentaway。Felipelefttheroom，inwonderatthepadre’smanner。
Butthepriestwaslaughingaloneinsidetoseehowlittleitwastohimwherethebarkentinewas，orwhetheritshouldbecomingorgoing。Butintheafternoon，athispiano，hefoundhimselfsaying，"Othershipscallhere，atanyrate。"Andthenforthefirsttimeheprayedtobedeliveredfromhisthoughts。Yetpresentlyhelefthisseatandlookedoutofthewindowforasightofthebarkentine；butitwasgone。
Theseasonofthewine—makingpassed，andtheputtingupofallthefruitsthatthemissionfieldsgrew。Lotionsandmedicinesweredistilledfromthegardenherbs。Perfumewasmanufacturedfromthepetalsoftheflowersandcertainspices，andpresentsofitdespatchedtoSanFernandoandVentura，andtofriendsatotherplaces；forthepadrehadaspecialreceipt。Asthetimeranon，twoorthreevisitorspassedanightwithhim；andpresentlytherewasawordatvariousmissionsthatPadreIgnaziohadbeguntoshowhisyears。AtSantaYsabeldelMartheywhispered，"Thepadreisgettingsick。"Yetherodeagreatdealoverthehillsbyhimself，anddownthecanyonveryoften，stoppingwherehehadsatwithGaston，tositaloneandlookupanddown，nowatthehillsabove，andnowattheoceanbelow。Amonghisparishionershehadcertaintroublestosoothe，certainwoundstoheal；ahomefromwhichhewasabletodrivejealousy；agirlwhomhebadeherloversetright。Butallsaid，"Thepadreissick。"AndFelipetoldthemthatthemusicseemednothingtohimanymore；heneveraskedforhisDixitDominusnowadays。Thenforashorttimehewasreallyinbed，feverishwiththetwovoicesthatspoketohimwithoutceasing。"Youhavegivenyourlife，"saidonevoice。
"Andtherefore，"saidtheother，"haveearnedtherighttogohomeanddie。""YouarewinningbetterrewardsintheserviceofGod，"saidthefirstvoice。"Godcanbeservedinotherplacesthanthis，"answeredthesecond。AshelaylisteninghesawSevilleagain，andthetreesofAranhal，wherehehadbeenborn。Thewindwasblowingthroughthem；andintheirbrancheshecouldhearthenightingales。"Empty！Empty！"hesaid，aloud。"Hewasrightaboutthebirds。Deathdoesliveintheairwheretheyneversing。"AndhelayfortwodaysandnightshearingthewindandthenightingalesinthetreesofAranhal。ButFelipe，watching，heardonlythepadrecryingthroughthehours："Empty！Empty！"
Thenthewindinthetreesdieddown，andthepadrecouldgetoutofbed，andsooncouldbeinthegarden。Butthevoiceswithinhimstilltalkedallthewhileashesatwatchingthesailswhentheypassedbetweentheheadlands。Theirwords，fallingforeverthesameway，beathisspiritsore，likebruisedflesh。Ifhecouldonlychangewhattheysaid，hecouldrest。
"HasthepadreanymailforSantaBarbara？"saidFelipe。"Theshipboundsouthwardshouldbehereto—morrow。"
"Iwillattendtoit，"saidthepriest，notmoving。AndFelipestoleaway。
AtFelipe’swordsthevoiceshadstopped，aclockdonestriking。Silence，strainedlikeexpectation，filledthepadre’ssoul。Butinplaceofthevoicescameoldsightsofhomeagain，thewavingtreesatAranhal；thenwouldbeRachelforamoment，deciaimingtragedywhileahousefuloffacesthatheknewbynamewatchedher；andthroughallthepanoramarangthepleasantlaughofGaston。ForawhileintheeveningthepadresatathisErardplaying"Trovatore。"Later，inhissleeplessbedhelay，sayingnowathen："Todieathome！SurelyImaygrantedatleastthis。"Andhelistenedfortheinnervoices。Buttheywerenotspeakinganymore，andtheblackholeofsilencegrewmoredreadfultohimthantheirarguments。
Thenthedawncameinathiswindow，andhelaywatchingitsgraygrowwarmintocolor，ussuddenlyhesprangfromhisbedandlookedthesea。
Thesouthboundshipwascoming。PeoplewereonboardwhoinafewweekswouldbesailingtheAtlantic，whilehewouldstandherelookingoutofthesamewindow。"MercifulGod！"hecried，sinkingonknees。"HeavenlyFather，Thouseestthisevilinmyheart。Thouknowestthatmyweakhandcannotpluckitout。Mystrengthisbreaking，andstillThoumakestmyburdenheavierthanIcanbear。"Hestopped，breathlessandtrembling。
Thesamevisionswereflittingacrosshisclosedeyes；thesamesilencegapedlikeadrycraterinhissoul。"Thereisnohelpinearthorheaven，"hesaid，veryquietly；andhedressedhimself。
ItwassoearlystillthatnonebutafewoftheIndianswerestirring，andoneofthemsaddledthepadre’smule。Felipewasnotyetawake，andforamomentitcameinthepriest’smindtoopentheboy’sdoorsoftly，lookathimoncemore，andcomeaway。Butthishedidnotdo，noreventakeafarewellglanceatthechurchandorgan。Hebadenothingfarewell，but，turninghisbackuponhisroomandhisgarden，rodedownthecaution。
Thevessellayatanchor，andsomeonehadlandedfromherandwastalkingwithothermenontheshore。Seeingthepriestslowlycoming，thisstrangerapproachedtomeethim。
"Youareconnectedwiththemissionhere？"heinquired。
"I——am。"
"PerhapsitiswithyouthatGastonVillerestopped？"
"TheyoungmanfromNewOrleans？Yes。IamPadreIgnazio。"
"Thenyouwillsavemeajourney。Ipromisedhimtodelivertheseintoyourownhands。"
Thestrangergavethemtohim。
"Abagofgold—dust，"heexplained，"andaletter。Iwroteitfromhisdictationwhilehewasdying。Helivedscarcelyanhourafterwards。"
Thestrangerbowedhisheadatthestrickencrywhichhisnewselicitedfromthepriest，who，afterafewmomentsvainefforttospeak，openedtheletterandread：
MYDEARFRIEND，——Itisthroughnoman’sfaultbutminethatIhavecometothis。Ihavehadplentyofluck，andlatelyhavebeencountingthedaysuntilIshouldreturnhome。ButlastnightheavynewsfromNewOrleansreachedme，andItorethepressedflowertopieces。UnderthefirstsmartandhumiliationofbrokenfaithIwasrendereddesperate，andpickedaneedlessquarrel。ThankGod，itisIwhohavethepunishment。Mydearfriend，asIliehere，leavingaworldthatnomaneverlovedmore，Ihavecometounderstandyou。Foryouandyourmissionhavebeenmuchinmythoughts。Itisstrangehowgoodcanbedone，notatthetimewhenitisintended，butafterwards；andyouhavedonethisgoodtome。Isayoveryourwords，Contentmentwithrenunciation，andbelievethatatthislasthourIhavegainedsomethinglikewhatyouwouldwishmetofeel。
ForIdonotthinkthatIdesireitotherwisenow。Mylifewouldneverhavebeenofservice，Iamafraid。Youarethelastpersoninthisworldwhohasspokenseriouswordstome，andIwantyoutoknowthatnowatlengthIvaluethepeaceofSantaYsabelasIcouldneverhavedonebutforseeingyourwisdomandgoodness。Youspokeofaneworganforyourchurch。Takethegold—dustthatwillreachyouwiththis，anddowhatyouwillwithit。Letmeatleastindyinghavehelpedsomeone。Andsincethereisnoaristocracyinsouls——yousaidthattome；doyouremember？——perhapsyouwillsayamassforthisdepartingsoulofmine。I
onlywish，sincemybodymustgoundergroundinastrangecountry，thatitmighthavebeenatSantaYsabeldelMar，whereyourfeetwouldoftenpass。"
"’AtSantaYsabeldelMar，whereyourfeetwouldoftenpass。’"Thepriestrepeatedthisfinalsentencealoud，withoutbeingawareofit。
"Thosearethelastwordsheeverspoke，"saidthestranger，"exceptbiddinggood—byetome。"
"Youknewhimwell，then？"
"No；notuntilafterhewashurt。I’mthemanhequarrelledwith。"
Thepriestlookedattheshipthatwouldsailonwardthisafternoon。Thenasmileofgreatbeautypassedoverhisface，andheaddressedthestranger。"Ithankyou，"saidhe。"Youwillneverknowwhatyouhavedoneforme。"
"Itisnothing，"answeredthestranger，awkwardly。"Hetoldmeyousetgreatstoreonaneworgan。"
PadreIgnazioturnedawayfromtheshipandrodebackthroughthegorge。
WhenhereachedtheshadyplacewhereoncehehadsatwithGastonVillere，hedismountedandagainsatthere，alonebythestream，formanyhours。Longridesandoutingshadbeenlatelysomuchhiscustom，thatnoonethoughttwiceofhisabsence；andwhenhereturnedtothemissionintheafternoon，theIndiantookhismule，andhewenttohisseatinthegarden。Butitwaswithanotherlookthathewatchedthesea；andpresentlythesailmovedacrossthebluetriangle，andsoonithadroundedtheheadland。Gaston’sfirstcomingwasinthepadre’smind；andasthevespersbellbegantoringinthecloisteredsilence，afragmentofAuber’splaintivetunepassedlikeasighacrosshismemory：
[MusicalScoreAppearsHere]
ButforthereposeofGaston’ssoultheysangallthathehadtaughtthemof"IlTrovatore。"
ThusithappenedthatPadreIgnazioneverwenthome，butremainedcheerfulmasterofthedesirestodosothatsometimesvisitedhim，untilthedaycamewhenhewascalledaltogetherawayfromthisworld，and"passedbeyondthesevoices，whereispeace。"