“Francisco,” interrupted the priest with a single stride, laying his hand upon Cranch's arm, and staring into his eyes.
Mr. Cranch quietly removed Father Pedro's hand. “I reckon that wasn't the name as I caught it,” he returned dryly. “Hadn't you better sit down?”
“Pardon me—pardon me, Senor,” said the priest, hastily sinking back upon his bench, “I was thinking of other things. You—you—came upon me suddenly. I thought it was the acolyte. Go on, Senor! I am interested.”
“I thought you'd be,” said Cranch, quietly. “That's why I came. And then you might be of service too.”
“True, true,” said the priest, with rapid accents; “and this girl, Senor, this girl is—”
“Juanita, the mestiza, adopted daughter of Don Juan Briones, over on the Santa Clare Valley,” replied Cranch, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, and then sitting down upon the bench beside Father Pedro.
The priest turned his feverish eyes piercingly upon his companion for a few seconds, and then doggedly fixed them upon the ground. Cranch drew a plug of tobacco from his pocket, cut off a portion, placed it in his cheek, and then quietly began to strap the blade of his jack-knife upon his boot. Father Pedro saw it from under his eyelids, and even in his preoccupation despised him.
“Then you are certain she is the babe you seek?” said the father, without looking up.
“I reckon as near as you can be certain of anything. Her age tallies; she was the only foundling girl baby baptized by you, you know,”—he partly turned round appealingly to the Padre,—“that year. Injin woman says she picked up a baby. Looks like a pretty clear case, don't it?”
“And the clothes, friend Cranch?” said the priest, with his eyes still on the ground, and a slight assumption of easy indifference.