Suddenly, above the crashing of tiles, the hideous voices of Devil and demon, the prayers of the padre, sounded the silver music of the bells. Not the irregular clash which was the daily result of Indian manipulation, but long rhythmic peals, as sweet and clear and true as the singing of angels. The Devil and his minions, with one long, baffled, infuriated howl, shot upward into space. Simultaneously a great wind came roaring down the valley, uprooting trees, shaking the sturdy mission. Thunder detonated, lightning cut its zigzag way through black clouds like moving mountains; hail rattled to the earth; water fell as from an overturned ocean. And through all the bells pealed and the priest prayed. Morning dawned so calm and clear that but for the swimming ground and the broken tiles bestrewing it, the priest would have thought he had dreamed a terrible nightmare. He opened the door and looked anxiously forth for Paulo. Paulo was not to be seen. He called, but his tired voice would not carry. Clasping his crucifix to his breast, he tottered forth in search of his beloved young colleague. He passed the rancheria of the Indians, and found them all asleep, worn out from a night of terror. He was too kind to awaken them, and pursued his way alone down the valley, peering fearfully to right and left. The ground was ploughed, dented, and strewn with fallen trees; the river roared like a tidal wave. Shuddering, and crossing himself repeatedly, he passed between the hills and entered a forest, following a path which the storm had blasted. After a time he came to an open glade where he and Paulo had loved to pray whilst the spring and the birds made music. To his surprise he saw a large stone lying along the open. He wondered if some meteor had fallen. Mortal hands--Indian hands, at least--were not strong enough to have brought so heavy a bulk, and he had not seen it in forest or valley before. He approached and regarded it; then began mumbling aves and paters, running them together as he had not done during the visitation and storm. The stone was outlined with the shape of a man, long, young, and slender. The face was sharply cut, refined, impassioned, and intellectual. A smile of cynical contentment dwelt on the strong mouth. The eyes were fixed on something before him. Involuntarily the priest's followed them, and lingered. A tree also broke the open--one which never had been there before--and it bore an intoxicating similitude to the features and form of a surpassingly beautiful woman. "Paulo! Paulo!" murmured the old man, with tears in his eyes, "would that I had been thou!" End of Project Gutenberg's The Splendid Idle Forties, by Gertrude Atherton