Yet still the strangeness of his being at such a place came back as a marvel into the young man's lively mind. Twenty years in prison, he thought, and hardly aware of it! And he glanced at the silent priest. A man so evidently fond of music, of theatres, of the world, to whom pressed flowers had meant something once--and now contented to bleach upon these wastes! Not even desirous of a brief holiday, but finding an old organ and some old operas enough recreation! “It is his age, I suppose,” thought Gaston. And then the notion of himself when he should be sixty occurred to him, and he spoke. “Do you know, I do not believe,” said he, “that I should ever reach such contentment as yours.” “Perhaps you will,” said Padre Ignazio, in a low voice. “Never!” declared the youth. “It comes only to the few, I am sure.” “Yes. Only to the few,” murmured the padre. “I am certain that it must be a great possession,” Gaston continued; “and yet--and yet--dear me! life is a splendid thing!” “There are several sorts of it,” said the padre. “Only one for me!” cried Gaston. “Action, men, women, things--to be there, to be known, to play a part, to sit in the front seats; to have people tell each other, 'There goes Gaston Villere!' and to deserve one's prominence. Why, if I were Padre of Santa Ysabel del Mar for twenty years--no! for one year--do you know what I should have done? Some day it would have been too much for me. I should have left these savages to a pastor nearer their own level, and I should have ridden down this canyon upon my mule, and stepped on board the barkentine, and gone back to my proper sphere. You will understand, sir, that I am far from venturing to make any personal comment. I am only thinking what a world of difference lies between men's natures who can feel alike as we do upon so many subjects. Why, not since leaving New Orleans have I met any one with whom I could talk, except of the weather and the brute interests common to us all. That such a one as you should be here is like a dream.” “But it is not a dream,” said the padre. “And, sir--pardon me if I do say this--are you not wasted at Santa Ysabel del Mar? I have seen the priests at the other missions They are--the sort of good men that I expected. But are you needed to save such souls as these?” “There is no aristocracy of souls,” said the padre, almost whispering now. “But the body and the mind!” cried Gaston. “My God, are they nothing? Do you think that they are given to us for nothing but a trap? You cannot teach such a doctrine with your library there. And how about all the cultivated men and women away from whose quickening society the brightest of us grow numb? You have held out. But will it be for long? Do you not owe yourself to the saving of higher game henceforth? Are not twenty years of mesclados enough? No, no!” finished young Gaston, hot with his unforeseen eloquence; “I should ride down some morning and take the barkentine.”