He was not a Las Casas, nor a Junipero Serra, but he had the deep seriousness of all disciples laden with the responsible wording of a gospel not their own.

And his smile had an ecclesiastical as well as a human significance, the pleasantest object in his prospect being the fair and curly head of his boy acolyte and chorister, Francisco, which appeared among the vines, and his sweetest pastoral music, the high soprano humming of a chant with which the boy accompanied his gardening.
Suddenly the acolyte's chant changed to a cry of terror.

Running rapidly to Father Pedro's side, he grasped his _sotana_, and even tried to hide his curls among its folds.
"'St! 'st!" said the Padre, disengaging himself with some impatience.
"What new alarm is this?
Is it Luzbel hiding among our Catalan vines, or one of those heathen Americanos from Monterey?
Speak!" "Neither, holy father," said the boy, the color struggling back into his pale cheeks, and an apologetic, bashful smile lighting his clear eyes.

"Neither; but oh! such a gross, lethargic toad! And it almost leaped upon me." "A toad leaped upon thee!" repeated the good father with evident vexation.

"What next?
I tell thee, child, those foolish fears are most unmeet for thee, and must be overcome, if necessary, with prayer and penance.