s foot sometimes appeared before
them, at which Ignacio always crossed himself piously. The eye was
sometimes cheated by a dripping from the rocks, which on closer
inspection proved to be a resinous oily liquid with an abominable
sulphurous smell. When they were within a short distance of the summit,
the discreet Ignacio, selecting a sheltered nook for the camp, slipped
aside and busied himself in preparations for the evening, leaving
the Holy Father to continue the ascent alone. Never was there a more
thoughtless act of prudence, never a more imprudent piece of caution.
Without noticing the desertion, buried in pious reflection, Father Jose
pushed mechanically on, and, reaching the summit, cast himself down and
gazed upon the prospect.

Below him lay a succession of valleys opening into each other like
gentle lakes, until they were lost to the southward. Westerly the
distant range hid the bosky canada which sheltered the mission of San
Pablo. In the farther distance the Pacific Ocean stretched away, bearing
a cloud of fog upon its bosom, which crept through the entrance of the
bay, and rolled thickly between him and the northeastward; the same fog
hid the base of mountain and the view beyond. Still, from time to time
the fleecy veil parted, and timidly disclosed charming glimpses of
mighty rivers, mountain defiles, and rolling plains, sear with ripened
oats, and bathed in the glow of the setting sun. As Father Jose gazed,
he was penetrated with a pious longing. Already his imagination, filled
with enthusiastic conceptions, beheld all that vast expanse gathered
under the mild sway of the Holy Faith, and peopled with zealous
converts. Each little knoll in fancy became crowned with a chapel; from
each dark canyon gleamed the white walls of a mission building. Growing
bolder in his enthusiasm, and looking farther into futurity, he beheld
a new Spain rising on these savage shores. He already saw the spires
of stately cathedrals, the domes of palaces, vineyards, gardens, and
groves. Convents, half hid among the hills, peeping from plantations of
branching limes; and long processions of chanting nuns wound through the
defiles. So completely was the good Father's conception of the
future confounded with the past, that even in their choral strain the
well-remembered accents of Carmen struck his ear. He was busied in
these fanciful imaginings, when suddenly over that extended prospect
the faint, distant tolling of a bell rang sa