He looked at his hands, at the rough bark of the pear tree next which he stood, at the streaked and rain-eroded walls of the Mission and garden.

The exaltation of his mind calmed itself; the unnatural strain under which he laboured slackened.

He became thoroughly master of himself again, matter-of-fact, practical, keen.
But just so sure as his hands were his own, just so sure as the bark of the pear tree was rough, the mouldering adobe of the Mission walls damp--just so sure had Something occurred.

It was vague, intangible, appealing only to some strange, nameless sixth sense, but none the less perceptible.

His mind, his imagination, sent out from him across the night, across the little valley below him, speeding hither and thither through the dark, lost, confused, had suddenly paused, hovering, had found Something.