Legends and Tales | Page 9

few words of thankful prayer, thought
how miraculously he had been preserved, and made a vow of
candlesticks to the blessed Saint Jose. He then called in a faint voice,
and presently the penitent Ignacio stood beside him.
The joy the poor fellow felt at his patron's returning consciousness for
some time choked his utterance. He could only ejaculate, "A miracle!
Blessed Saint Jose, he lives!" and kiss the Padre's bandaged hand.
Father Jose, more intent on his last night's experience, waited for his
emotion to subside, and asked where he had been found.
"On the mountain, your Reverence, but a few varas from where he
attacked you."
"How?--you saw him then?" asked the Padre, in unfeigned
astonishment.
"Saw him, your Reverence! Mother of God, I should think I did! And
your Reverence shall see him too, if he ever comes again within range
of Ignacio's arquebuse."
"What mean you, Ignacio?" said the Padre, sitting bolt-upright in his
litter.
"Why, the bear, your Reverence,--the bear, Holy Father, who attacked
your worshipful person while you were meditating on the top of yonder
mountain."
"Ah!" said the Holy Father, lying down again. "Chut, child! I would be
at peace."
When he reached the Mission, he was tenderly cared for, and in a few
weeks was enabled to resume those duties from which, as will be seen,
not even the machinations of the Evil One could divert him. The news
of his physical disaster spread over the country; and a letter to the
Bishop of Guadalaxara contained a confidential and detailed account of
the good Father's spiritual temptation. But in some way the story leaked
out; and long after Jose was gathered to his fathers, his mysterious

encounter formed the theme of thrilling and whispered narrative. The
mountain was generally shunned. It is true that Senor Joaquin Pedrillo
afterward located a grant near the base of the mountain; but as Senora
Pedrillo was known to be a termagant half-breed, the Senor was not
supposed to be over- fastidious.
Such is the Legend of Monte del Diablo. As I said before, it may seem
to lack essential corroboration. The discrepancy between the Father's
narrative and the actual climax has given rise to some scepticism on the
part of ingenious quibblers. All such I would simply refer to that part of
the report of Senor Julio Serro, Sub- Prefect of San Pablo, before whom
attest of the above was made. Touching this matter, the worthy Prefect
observes, "That although the body of Father Jose doth show evidence
of grievous conflict in the flesh, yet that is no proof that the Enemy of
Souls, who could assume the figure of a decorous elderly caballero,
could not at the same time transform himself into a bear for his own
vile purposes."

THE ADVENTURE OF PADRE VINCENTIO
A LEGEND OF SAN FRANCISCO.
One pleasant New Year's Eve, about forty years ago, Padre Vicentio
was slowly picking his way across the sand-hills from the Mission
Dolores. As he climbed the crest of the ridge beside Mission Creek, his
broad, shining face might have been easily mistaken for the beneficent
image of the rising moon, so bland was its smile and so indefinite its
features. For the Padre was a man of notable reputation and character;
his ministration at the mission of San Jose had been marked with
cordiality and unction; he was adored by the simple-minded savages,
and had succeeded in impressing his individuality so strongly upon
them that the very children were said to have miraculously resembled
him in feature.
As the holy man reached the loneliest portion of the road, he naturally
put spurs to his mule as if to quicken that decorous pace which the

obedient animal had acquired through long experience of its master's
habits. The locality had an unfavorable reputation. Sailors--deserters
from whaleships--had been seen lurking about the outskirts of the town,
and low scrub oaks which everywhere beset the trail might have easily
concealed some desperate runaway. Besides these material obstructions,
the devil, whose hostility to the church was well known, was said to
sometimes haunt the vicinity in the likeness of a spectral whaler, who
had met his death in a drunken bout, from a harpoon in the hands of a
companion. The ghost of this unfortunate mariner was frequently
observed sitting on the hill toward the dusk of evening, armed with his
favorite weapon and a tub containing a coil of line, looking out for
some belated traveller on whom to exercise his professional skill. It is
related that the good Father Jose Maria of the Mission Dolores had
been twice attacked by this phantom sportsman; that once, on returning
from San Francisco, and panting with exertion from climbing the hill,
he was startled by a stentorian cry of "There she blows!"