tion to him, but what, or
why, he could not remember; so much greater seemed the enormity of his
own transgression. He thought Cranch had put in his hands the letter he
had written to the Father Superior, saying that his secret was still
safe, and that he had been spared the avowal and the scandal that might
have ensued. But through all, and above all, he was conscious of one
fixed idea: to seek the sea-shore with Sanchicha, and upon the spot
where she had found Francisco, meet the young girl who had taken his
place, and so part from her forever. He had a dim recollection that
this was necessary to some legal identification of her, as arranged by
Cranch, but how or why he did not understand; enough that it was a part
of his penance.

It was early morning when the faithful Antonio, accompanied by
Sanchicha and Jose, rode forth with him from the Mission of San Carmel.
Except on the expressionless features of the old woman, there was
anxiety and gloom upon the faces of the little cavalcade. He did not
know how heavily his strange abstraction and hallucinations weighed
upon their honest hearts. As they wound up the ascent of the mountain
he noticed that Antonio and Jose conversed with bated breath and many
pious crossings of themselves, but with eyes always wistfully fixed
upon him. He wondered if, as part of his penance, he ought not to
proclaim his sin and abase himself before them; but he knew that his
devoted followers would insist upon sharing his punishment; and he
remembered his promise to Cranch, that for _her_ sake he would say
nothing. Before they reached the summit he turned once or twice to look
back upon the Mission. How small it looked, lying there in the peaceful
valley, contrasted with the broad sweep of the landscape beyond,
stopped at the farther east only by the dim, ghost-like outlines of the
Sierras. But the strong breath of the sea was beginning to be felt; in
a few moments more they were facing it with lowered _sombreros_ and
flying _serapes_, and the vast, glittering, illimitable Pacific opened
out beneath them.

Dazed and blinded, as it seemed to him, by the shining, restless
expanse, Father Pedro rode forward as if still in a dream. Suddenly he
halted, and called Antonio to his side.

"Tell me, child, didst thou say that this coast was wild and desolate
of man, beast, and habitation?"

"Truly I did, reverend father."

"Then what is that?" pointing to the shore.

Almost at their feet nestled