"To-morrow, Judge. My little affairs are in readiness."
During the evening the light of the good priest glimmers late in the lonely little sacristy. The chapel bell tolls the last vespers, for long years, at Lagunitas.
All the precious family papers are accepted by the Judge when the padre makes ready for his departure. The priest, with faltering voice, says early mass, with a few attendants. Delivering up the keys of the sacristy, chapel, and his home to the Judge, he quietly shares the noonday meal.
If there is sadness in his heart his placid face shows it not. He sits in the lonely room replete with memories of the past.
He is gone for a half hour, after the wily Judge lights his cigar, to contemplate the rich domain which shall be his, from the porch of the old home. When the priest returns, it is from the graves of the loved dead. He has plucked the few flowers blooming there. They are in his hand.
His eyes are moist with the silent tears of one who mourns the useless work of long years. They have been full of sadness, separation, spiritual defeat, and untimely death. Even Judge Hardin, merciless as he is, feels compassion for this lonely man. He has asked nothing of him. The situation is delicate.
"Can I do anything for you, Father Francisco?" says Hardin, with some real feeling. He is a gentleman "in modo." The priest may be penniless. He must not go empty-handed.
"Nothing, thank you, save to accept my adieux and my fondest blessing for the little Isabel."
He hands Judge Hardin the address of the religious house to which he will retire in Paris.
"I will deliver to your agent the other papers and certificates of the family. They are stored for safety at the Mission Dolores church."