Day showed the ocean’s surface no longer glassy, but lying like a mirror breathed upon; and there between the short headlands came a sail, gray and plain against the flat water.  The priest watched through his glasses, and saw the gradual sun grow strong upon the canvas of the barkentine.  The message from his world was at hand, yet to-day he scarcely cared so much.  Sitting in his garden yesterday, he could never have imagined such a change.  But his heart did not hail the barkentine as usual.  Books, music, pale paper, and print ­this was all that was coming to him, some of its savor had gone; for the siren voice of Life had been speaking with him face to face, and in his spirit, deep down, the love of the world was restlessly answering it.  Young Gaston showed more eagerness than the Padre over this arrival of the vessel that might be bringing Trovatore in the nick of time.  Now he would have the chance, before he took his leave, to help rehearse the new music with the choir.  He would be a missionary, too:  a perfectly new experience.

“And you still forgive Verdi the sins of his youth?” he said to his host.  “I wonder if you could forgive mine?”

“Verdi has left his behind him,” retorted the Padre.

“But I am only twenty-five!” exclaimed Gaston, pathetically.

“Ah, don’t go away soon!” pleaded the exile.  It was the first unconcealed complaint that had escaped him, and he felt instant shame.

But Gaston was too much elated with the enjoyment of each new day to comprehend the Padre’s soul.  The shafts of another’s pain might hardly pierce the bright armor of his gaiety.  He mistook the priest’s entreaty, for anxiety about his own happy spirit.

“Stay here under your care?” he asked.  “It would do me no good, Padre.  Temptation sticks closer to me than a brother!” and he gave that laugh of his which had disarmed severer judges than his host.  “By next week I should have introduced some sin or other into your beautiful Garden of Ignorance here.  It will be much safer for your flock if I go and join the other serpents at San Francisco.”

Soon after breakfast the Padre had his two mules saddled, and he and his guest set forth down the hills together to the shore.  And, beneath the spell and confidence of pleasant, slow riding and the loveliness of everything, the young man talked freely of himself.

“And, seriously,” said he, “if I missed nothing else at Santa Ysabel, I should long for ­how shall I say it? ­for insecurity, for danger, and of all kinds ­not merely danger to the body.  Within these walls, beneath these sacred bells, you live too safe for a man like me.”

“Too safe!” These echoed words upon the lips of the pale Padre were a whisper too light, too deep, for Gaston’s heedless ear.

“Why,” the young man pursued in a spirit that was but half levity, “though I yield often to temptation, at times I have resisted it, and here I should miss the very chance to resist.  Your garden could never be Eden for me, because temptation is absent from it.”

“Absent!” Still lighter, still deeper, was this whisper that the Padre breathed.

“I must find life,” exclaimed Gaston, “and my fortune at the mines, I hope.  I am not a bad fellow, Father.  You can easily guess all the things I do.  I have never, to my knowledge, harmed any one.  I didn’t even try to kill my adversary in an affair of honor.  I gave him a mere flesh-wound, and by this time he must be quite recovered.  He was my friend.  But as he came between me ­”

Gaston stopped, and the Padre, looking keenly at him, saw the violence that he had noticed in church pass like a flame over the young man’s handsome face.

“That’s nothing dishonorable,” said Gaston, answering the priest’s look.  And then, because this look made him not quite at his ease:  “Perhaps a priest might feel obliged to say it was dishonorable.  She and her father were ­a man owes no fidelity before he is ­but you might say that had been dishonorable.”

“I have not said so, my son.”

“I did what every gentleman would do.” insisted Gaston.

“And that is often wrong!” said the Padre, gently and gravely.  “But I’m not your confessor.”

“No,” said Gaston, looking down.  “And it is all over.  It will not begin again.  Since leaving New Orleans I have traveled an innocent journey straight to you.  And when I make my fortune I shall be in a position to return and ­”

“Claim the pressed flower?” suggested the Padre.  He did not smile.

“Ah, you remember how those things are!” said Gaston:  and he laughed and blushed.

“Yes,” said the Padre, looking at the anchored barkentine, “I remember how those things are.”

For a while the vessel and its cargo and the landed men and various business and conversations occupied them.  But the freight for the mission once seen to, there was not much else to detain them.

The barkentine was only a coaster like many others which had begun to fill the sea a little more of late years, and presently host and guest were riding homeward.  Side by side they rode, companions to the eye, but wide apart in mood; within the turbulent young figure of Gaston dwelt a spirit that could not be more at ease, while revolt was steadily kindling beneath the schooled and placid mask of the Padre.

Yet still the strangeness of his situation in such a remote, resourceless place came back as a marvel into the young man’s lively mind.  Twenty years in prison, he thought, and hardly aware of it!  And he glanced at the silent priest.  A man so evidently fond of music, of theaters, of the world, to whom pressed flowers had meant something once ­and now contented to bleach upon these wastes!  Not even desirous of a brief holiday, but finding an old organ and some old operas enough recreation!  “It is his age, I suppose,” thought Gaston.  And then the notion of himself when he should be sixty occurred to him, and he spoke.

“Do you know, I do not believe,” said he, “that I should ever reach such contentment as yours.”

“Perhaps you will,” said Padre Ignacio, in a low voice.

“Never!” declared the youth.  “It comes only to the few, I am sure.”

“Yes.  Only to the few,” murmured the Padre.

“I am certain that it must be a great possession,” Gaston continued; “and yet ­and yet ­dear me! life is a splendid thing!”

“There are several ways to live it,” said the Padre.

“Only one for me!” cried Gaston.  “Action, men, women, things ­to be there, to be known, to play a part, to sit in the front seats; to have people tell one another, ‘There goes Gaston Villere!’ and to deserve one’s prominence.  Why, if I was Padre of Santa Ysabel del Mar for twenty years ­no! for one year ­do you know what I should have done?  Some day it would have been too much for me.  I should have left these savages to a pastor nearer their own level, and I should have ridden down this canyon upon my mule, and stepped on board the barkentine, and gone back to my proper sphere.  You will understand, sir, that I am far from venturing to make any personal comment.  I am only thinking what a world of difference lies between natures that can feel as alike as we do upon so many subjects.  Why, not since leaving New Orleans have I met any one with whom I could talk, except of the weather and the brute interests common to us all.  That such a one as you should be here is like a dream.”

“But it is not a dream,” said the Padre.

“And, sir ­pardon me if I do say this ­are you not wasted at Santa Ysabel del Mar?  I have seen the priests at the other missions.  They are ­the sort of good men that I expected.  But are you needed to save such souls as these?”

“There is no aristocracy of souls,” said the Padre, again whispering.

“But the body and the mind!” cried Gaston.  “My God, are they nothing?  Do you think that they are given to us for nothing but a trap?  You cannot teach such a doctrine with your library there.  And how about all the cultivated men and women away from whose quickening society the brightest of us grow numb?  You have held out.  But will it be for long?  Are you never to save any souls of your own kind?  Are not twenty years of mesclados enough?  No, no!” finished young Gaston, hot with his unforeseen eloquence; “I should ride down some morning and take the barkentine.”

Padre Ignacio was silent for a space.

“I have not offended you?” asked the young man.

“No.  Anything but that.  You are surprised that I should ­choose ­to stay here.  Perhaps you may have wondered how I came to be here at all?”

“I had not intended any impertinent ­”

“Oh no.  Put such an idea out of your head, my son.  You may remember that I was going to make you a confession about my operas.  Let us sit down in this shade.”

So they picketed the mules near the stream and sat down.