Padre José was eighty years old, and he had been in Mindanao nearly all his life. He spoke Visayan better than the natives, and he understood the Filipinos just as though each one of them had been his child. He had been all around the island and among the pagan tribes who saw their spirits in the trees and streams. He had been back to Spain just once, and he had frozen his fingers over there. As I remember him, he was a dear, grandmotherly old fellow, in a long black gown, who bustled around so for us (we had stopped there on a certain expedition), cooking the eggs himself, and cutting the tough bologna, holding the glass of _moscatel_ so lovingly up to the light before he offered it, that I almost expected him to bring forth crullers, tea, and elderberry pie. His convent was at that time occupied by the municipal authorities; and so he lived in a small _nipa_ house with his two dogs, his Latin library, and the sacristans who at night slept scattered about the floor. The local conditions were unsettled at this time. The garrison at Surigao had been attacked by the so-called ladrones. Night messages were flying to and fro. Padre José's summons seemed a harbinger of trouble. But, in spite of the fact that Padre Pedro had been sick for several days, he obeyed the command of his superior like any soldier, and at midnight saddled the ponies, tucked a revolver under his gown, and started at a gallop down the road. When he arrived at Father José's house, nothing serious was found to be the matter. Only the dear old soul was lonesome and had wanted company. Often at evening we would sit on the veranda till the evening star appeared--"the star that the shepherds know well; the precurser of the moon"--and then the angelus would ring, and Padre Pedro would stand up and doff his cap, and, after a moment spent in silent prayer, "That is good-night,'" he used to say, and then we would go in for dinner. Dinner was served at eight o'clock, and was as formal an affair as the noon meal. The evening would be spent at study, for the padre was a scholar of no mean ability. He had translated some of Stockton's stories into the Visayan language. Speaking of Stockton, Padre Pedro said that he "knew well the spirit of your countrymen." His work was frequently disturbed by the _muchachos_ running in with sums that they had finished on their slates; but the padre never showed the least impatience at these interruptions.