ing his day; there was no love in him for the president of the missions.
"Is Padre Tápis expected, then?" he asked.
"He will come on his periodical inspection in a few days, unless delayed in the south. What is this?" Padre Ignacio rose as Don Geronimo appeared at the door which led through the butler's pantry into the kitchen.
Captain del Valle, his back in that direction, squirmed in his chair to see. "What is this parade, Geronimo?"
"It is this savage from no man knows where," Don Geronimo replied. "He appeared at the door a little while ago as if he had dropped from the clouds, carrying a rifle under his arm. I have brought him for your disposal."
Padre Ignacio went forward, brows drawn in his sharp scrutiny of the crudely garbed stranger, severe, unfriendly to behold.
"Where do you come from?" Padre Ignacio asked.
The stranger leaned forward in his eagerness to grasp the meaning of the words, a keen look of intelligent concentration in his eyes. He shook his head slowly, disappointment coming over him like a shadow.
"He doesn't understand Castilian," Don Geronimo explained.
Padre Ignacio was not much of a linguist, outside the Indian dialects and the Latin he had used so long that it had become more as a natural endow-
