He was
dazed and benumbed. The old dogged impulses of self-destruction--revived
by the priest's reproaches, but checked by the vision of his dead and
forgotten father, which the priest's words had called up--gave way, in
turn, to his former despair. With it came a craving for peace and rest
so insidious that in some vague fear of yielding to it he quickened his
pace, as if to increase his distance from the church and its apostle. He
was almost out of breath when he reached the summit, and turned to look
back upon the Mission buildings and the straggling street of the pueblo,
which now for the first time he saw skirted the wall of the garden in
its descent towards the sea. He had not known the full extent of Todos
Santos before; when he swam ashore he had landed under a crumbling
outwork of the fort; he gazed now with curious interest over the hamlet
that might have been his home. He looked over the red-tiled roofs, and
further on to the shining bay, shut in by the impenetrable rampart of
fog. He might have found rest and oblivion here but for the intrusion of
those fellow-passengers to share his exile and make it intolerable.
How he hated and loathed them all! Yet the next moment he found himself
scrutinizing the street and plaza below him for a glimpse of his
countrywomen, whom he knew were still in the town or vainly endeavoring
to locate their habitation among the red-tiled roofs.
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