The Angelus still rang, his trembling ceased, he remained motionless and rigid.
The American, who had uncovered in deference to the worshiper rather than the rite, waited patiently.

The eyes of Father Pedro returned to the earth, moist as if with dew caught from above.

He looked half absently at Cranch.
"Forgive me, my son," he said, in a changed voice.

"I am only a worn old man.

I must talk with thee more of this--but not to-night--not to-night;--to-morrow--to-morrow--to-morrow." He turned slowly and appeared to glide rather than move under the trees, until the dark shadow of the Mission tower met and encompassed him.
Cranch followed him with anxious eyes.