Once, when a stabbed and dying Mexican, the victim of some gambling-quarrel among the drivers of the "bull-train" to which he was attached, asked a service for the repose of his soul, Father Francesco hastened to the anxious man's side. There he administered the last sacrament of the church to the expiring creature in his own language, who died with a resigned look upon his face, as he listened to the absolving words he could perfectly understand, which was a thing of joy to the holy man who had performed the sacred office. One day late in the month of October, now nearly thirty-six years ago, the "hermit priest" saw walking through the streets of the little village a dark-visaged person, clad in clerical garb, and whom Boccalini believed to be the lover of the woman he had wronged in his youth, and that the stranger, if it were he whom he suspected, could never be persuaded to think that Matteo was not wholly to be blamed for the life he had blasted. He told his friends he could no longer tarry with them; he would go away to the mountains of New Mexico, seek another cave, rear again the blessed cross, emblem of his Master's suffering, and once more live in solitude, from which he had here somewhat strayed. He frequently, when in a communicative mood, had talked much to them of the delights of absolute solitude. It was, he argued, the nurse of enthusiasm; that enthusiasm was the parent of genius; that solitude had always been eagerly sought for in every age; it was the inspiration of the dominant religion of every nation; that their founders were men who, seeking the quiet and seclusion of caverns or the desert, and subordinating the flesh to the spirit, had visions of the "beyond." The veil hiding the better world had been lifted for them, and their teachings had come down to us through the æons, elevating man above the brute. The next morning after the sudden appearance of the stranger whose presence had so discomposed the usually calm priest, a delicious morning in the month of "autumn's holocaust," when the breeze was billowing the russet-colored grass upon the virgin prairies, Father Francesco gathered up his few precious relics, and, accepting the escort of a caravan just ready to start for New Mexico, left Council Grove, his cave, and the warm friends he had made there, forever. The caravan under the protection of which the frightened prelate went westward was owned by a Mexican don, a brother-in-law to Kit Carson. He still resides near the spot where the ill-fated Italian, a year or two after his wearisome journey across the Great Plains, was hurried to eternity.