Father Pedro passed his hand across his forehead.
“But who are these?” he said, pointing to two figures who now appeared upon the trail.
Antonio turned.
“It is the Americano, Senor Cranch, and his adopted daughter, the mestiza Juanita, seeking your reverence, methinks.”
“Ah!” said Father Pedro.
Cranch came forward and greeted the priest cordially. “It was kind of you, Father Pedro,” he said, meaningly, with a significant glance at Jose and Antonio, “to come so far to bid me and my adopted daughter farewell. We depart when the tide serves, but not before you partake of our hospitality in yonder cottage.”
Father Pedro gazed at Cranch and then at Juanita.
“I see,” he stammered. “But she goes not alone. She will be strange at first. She takes some friend, perhaps—some companion?” he continued, tremulously.
“A very old and dear one, Father Pedro, who is waiting for us now.”
He led the way to a little white cottage, so little and white and recent, that it seemed a mere fleck of sea foam cast on the sands. Disposing of Jose and Antonio in the neighboring workshop and outbuildings, he assisted the venerable Sanchicha to dismount, and, together with Father Pedro and Juanita, entered a white palisaded enclosure beside the cottage, and halted before what appeared to be a large, folding trap-door, covering a slight, sandy mound. It was locked with a padlock; beside it stood the American alcalde and Don Juan Briones. Father Pedro looked hastily around for another figure, but it was not there.