I will commune with myself awhile under the pear trees." Glad to escape so easily, the young acolyte disappeared down the alley of fig trees, not without a furtive look at the patches of chickweed around their roots, the possible ambuscade of creeping or saltant vermin.

The good priest heaved a sigh and glanced round the darkening prospect.

The sun had already disappeared over the mountain wall that lay between him and the sea, rimmed with a faint white line of outlying fog.

A cool zephyr fanned his cheek; it was the dying breath of the _vientos generales_ beyond the wall.

As Father Pedro's eyes were raised to this barrier, which seemed to shut out the boisterous world beyond, he fancied he noticed for the first time a slight breach in the parapet, over which an advanced banner of the fog was fluttering.