e between him and the
altar. One after another came these strains which he had taken from the
operas famous in their day, until at length the padre was murmuring to
some music seldom long out of his heart--not the Latin verse which the
choir sang, but the original French words:

"Ah, voile man envie,
Voila mon seul desir:
Rendez moi ma patrie,
Ou laissez moi mourir."

Which may be rendered:

But one wish I implore,
One wish is all my cry:
Give back my native land once more,
Give back, or let me die.

Then it happened that he saw the stranger in the back of the church
again, and forgot his Dixit Dominus straightway. The face of the young
man was no longer hidden by the slouching position he had at first
taken. "I only noticed his clothes before," thought the padre.
Restlessness was plain upon the handsome brow, and in the mouth there
was violence; but Padre Ignazio liked the eyes. "He is not saying any
prayers," he surmised, presently. "I doubt if he has said any for a long
while. And he knows my music. He is of educated people. He cannot be
American. And now--yes, he has taken--I think it must be a flower, from
his pocket. I shall have him to dine with me." And vespers ended with
rosy clouds of eagerness drifting across the padre's brain.

But the stranger made his own beginning. As the priest came from the
church, the rebellious young figure was waiting. "Your organist tells
me," he said, impetuously, "that it is you who--"

"May I ask with whom I have the great pleasure of speaking?" said the
padre, putting formality to the front and his pleasure out of sight.

The stranger reddened, and became aware of the padre's features, moulded
by refinement and the world. "I beg your lenience," said he, with a
graceful and confident utterance, as of equal to equal. "My name is
Gaston Villere, and it was time I should be reminded of my manners."

The padre's hand waved a polite negative.

"Indeed yes, padre. But your music has astonished me to pieces. If you
carried such associations as--Ah! the days and the nights!" he broke
off. "To come down a California mountain," he resumed, "and find Paris
at the bottom! 'The Huguenots,' Rossini, Herold--I was waiting for 'Il
Trovatore."'

"Is that something new?" said the padre, eagerly.

The young man gave an exclamation.