"I was but saying that the moon is very late to--hark!"
"It is this muggy weather. There! you certainly heard something?"
"Nothing, Gil; nothing but the nightingale yonder."
A cuculla flew into the padre's face. He brushed it gently away. It returned to wander over the long wisps of grey hair which straggled over the collar of the hot, dignified coat. The padre took the cuculla in his fingers, and placed it gently upon the leaves of the bougainvillia vine.
"I certainly think that the sweetest songsters I ever heard are the nightingales in this enclosure."
A footstep sounded on the graveled pathway which ran close to the veranda.
"Ah! It is you, Andres? Buenas noches." Silencio raised his hand with a warning gesture. Andres's stolid face expressed as stolid acquiescence.
"Buen' noch', Señor. We did not find her at the _asta de lanterna_, Señor."
"Andres, take the child home; he is weary."
The tone was curt, unlike the kindly Don Gil. It was as if he had laid his hands on Andres's shoulders and were pushing him along.
"I should like to remain here, Señor. Perhaps she may come to-night. Who knows? Perhaps the good God will send her. He knows that I--cannot--bear--it, I can _not_ bear--" The child's voice broke in a sob.
Silencio's kindly nature was touched. "Take him round to Guillermina, Andres, and get dinner; both of you."
Then Piombo brought a flaring Eastern lamp, at which Don Gil relighted his often extinguished cigarette.
"How still the night! How far a sound would carry on a night like this." The padre had but just uttered these words when a long, booming sound struck upon the listening as well as the unexpectant ear.
Silencio bounded from his chair. He caught up a cloak which was lying conveniently ready.
"A steamer ashore!" he shouted. The old padre struggled to his feet. "Do not come. Go round to the quarters. Send the men to help. It must be at the sand spit. Follow me to the headland," and he was gone in the darkness. The padre wondered somewhat at Silencio's suspecting at once the locality of the stranded steamer, if that were the cause of the gun of distress. As he wondered, it spoke again, and gathering his wits together, he hastened round to the quarters.
Silencio bounded along the camino and up the cliff pathway. His feet seemed winged. The familiar local knowledge of childhood stood him in good stead at this crucial moment. He reached the staff. It was short work to release the cord and lower the lantern, extinguish the light, replace the red slide with a white one, and hoist the darkened signal in place again. Then he turned and ran quickly down the sandy bank.