A quiet month glided by, bearing the _San Cristofero_ away to more northern shores; and slowly—almost imperceptibly—drifting another bark, long tossed by storms, towards the haven of welcome rest. So gradually was Melchior sinking, that although Fray Fernando watched him, hour by hour, with the devoted love of a brother born for adversity, and José with tender kindness, it was probable that the coming Visitant, the shadow of whose presence any stranger might readily have seen in his face, would take them both by surprise. The more accustomed they grew to the pleasant office of tending him, reading to him, talking with him, the less they seemed to think that all must have an end, and that shortly. By this time they had read the Gospels through—and not once or twice. They had read the Epistles also; they had explored the narratives and prophecies of the Old Testament; they had even, to José’s intense delight, made some acquaintance with “the book of the Golden City,” as he called the Apocalypse. But always they turned back to the Gospels with fresh wonder, interest, and joy. What one of them, at least, found therein, will appear in the following conversation. It was a close and sultry afternoon. Fray Fernando had gone out to perform the duties of his office towards some poor fever-stricken mariners, who lay in a rude shed on the beach, called by courtesy the Hospital. José sat beside Melchior, gently fanning him, and, as he did so, chanting in a low harmonious voice some melody of his people. “Ancha Incay Hocca?” Melchior repeated, opening his eyes with a smile. “If I were you, Don José, I would rather sing a psalm than those heathen words.” “The words I sing are a psalm to me,” José answered; “but if they trouble you I will stop.” “Oh no. But I did not think there were any psalms or sacred songs as yet rendered into your tongue.” “Nor are there, so far as I know. These are words from a Play which my fathers used to act before the white men came.” Melchior heard him with indifference. What were plays to a dying man? He had done with “vain shows;” where he was going all would be real. Still he felt that a little interest in what interested his Indian friend was the least proof he could give of his gratitude for a thousand benefits; so, when José said, “Shall I tell you about it?” he answered promptly, “If you please, Don José.”