Myself.—How many aspirants for the mission are you at present instructing?
Rector.—Not one, my son; not one. They are all fled. The flock is scattered and the shepherd left alone.
Myself.—Your reverence has doubtless taken an active part in the mission abroad?
Rector.—I was forty years in the Philippines, my son, forty years amongst the Indians. Ah me! how I love those Indians of the Philippines.
Myself.—Can your reverence discourse in the language of the Indians?
Rector.—No, my son. We teach the Indians Castilian. There is no better language, I believe. We teach them Castilian, and the adoration of the Virgin. What more need they know?
Myself.—And what did your reverence think of the Philippines as a country?
Rector.—I was forty years in the Philippines, but I know little of the country. I do not like the country. I love the Indians. The country is not very bad; it is, however, not worth Castile.
Myself.—Is your reverence a Castilian?
Rector.—I am an Old Castilian, my son.