It was still so early that few of the Indians were stirring, and one of these saddled the Padre’s mule.  Felipe was not yet awake, and for a moment it came in the priest’s mind to open the boy’s door softly, look at him once more, and come away.  But this he did not, nor even take a farewell glance at the church and organ.  He bade nothing farewell, but, turning his back upon his room and his garden, rode down the canyon.

The vessel lay at anchor, and some one had landed from ha and was talking with other men on the shore.  Seeing the priest slowly coming, this stranger approached to meet him.

“You are connected with the mission here?” he inquired.

“I ­am.”

“Perhaps it is with you that Gaston Villere stopped?”

“The young man from New Orleans?  Yes.  I am Padre Ignacio.”

“Then you’ll save me a journey.  I promised him to deliver these into your own hands.”

The stranger gave them to him.

“A bag of gold-dust,” he explained, “and a letter.  I wrote it at his dictation while he was dying.  He lived hardly an hour afterward.”

The stranger bowed his head at the stricken cry which his news elicited from the priest, who, after a few moments’ vain effort to speak, opened the letter and read: 

My dear Friend, ­It is through no man’s fault but mine that I have come to this.  I have had plenty of luck, and lately have been counting the days until I should return home.  But last night heavy news from New Orleans reached me, and I tore the pressed flower to pieces.  Under the first smart and humiliation of broken faith I was rendered desperate, and picked a needless quarrel.  Thank God, it is I who have the punishment.  By dear friend, as I lie here, leaving a world that no man ever loved more, I have come to understand you.  For you and your mission have been much in my thoughts.  It is strange how good can be done, not at the time when it is intended, but afterward; and you have done this good to me.  I say over your words, “Contentment with Renunciation,” and believe that at this last hour I have gained something like what you would wish me to feel.  For I do not think that I desire it otherwise now.  My life would never have been of service, I am afraid.  You am the last person in this world who has spoken serious words to me, and I want you to know that now at length I value the peace of Santa Ysabel as I could never have done but for seeing your wisdom and goodness.  You spoke of a new organ for your church.  Take the gold-dust that will reach you with this, and do what you will with it.  Let me at least in dying have helped some one.  And since them is no aristocracy in souls ­you said that to me; do you remember? ­perhaps you will say a mass for this departing soul of mine.  I only wish, must my body must go under ground in a strange country, that it might have been at Santa Ysabel did Mar, where your feet would often pass.

“‘At Santa Ysabel del Mar, where your feet would often pass.’” The priest repeated this final sentence aloud, without being aware of it.

“Those are the last words he ever spoke,” said the stranger, “except bidding me good-by.”

“You knew him well, then?”

“No; not until after he was hurt.  I’m the man he quarreled with.”

The priest looked at the ship that would sail onward this afternoon.

Then a smile of great beauty passed over his face, and he addressed the strange.  “I thank you.  You will never know what you have done for me.”

“It is nothing,” answered the stranger, awkwardly.  “He told me you set great store on a new organ.”

Padre Ignacio turned away from the ship and rode back through the gorge.  When he had reached the shady place where once he had sat with Gaston Villere, he dismounted and again sat there, alone by the stream, for many hours.  Long rides and outings had been lately so much his custom that no one thought twice of his absence; and when he resumed to the mission in the afternoon, the Indian took his mule, and he went to his seat in the garden.  But it was with another look that he watched the sea; and presently the sail moved across the blue triangle, and soon it had rounded the headland.

With it departed Temptation for ever.

Gaston’s first coming was in the Padre’s mind; and, as the vespers bell began to ring in the cloistered silence, a fragment of Auber’s plaintive tune passed like a sigh across his memory.

[Musical score appears here]

For the repose of Gaston’s young, world-loving spirit, they sang all that he had taught them of Il Trovatore.

After this day, Felipe and all those who knew and loved the Padre best, saw serenity had returned to his features; but for some reason they began to watch those features with more care.

“Still,” they said, “he is not old.”  And as the months went by they would repeat:  “We shall have him yet for many years.”

Thus the season rolled round, bringing the time for the expected messages from the world.  Padre Ignacio was wont to sit in his garden, waiting for the ship, as of old.

“As of old,” they said, cheerfully, who saw him.  But Renunciation with Contentment they could not see; it was deep down in his silent and thanked heart.

One day Felipe went to call him from his garden seat, wondering why the ringing of the bell had not brought him to vespers.  Breviary in lap, and hands folded upon it, the Padre sat among his flowers, looking at the sea.  Out there amid the sapphire-blue, tranquil and white, gleamed the sails of the barkentine.  It had brought him a new message, not from this world; and Padre Ignacio was slowly borne in from the garden, while the mission-bell tolled for the passing of a human soul.