He looked half absently at Cranch.
"Forgive me, my son," he said, in a changed voice.

"I am only a worn old man.

I must talk with thee more of this--but not to-night--not to-night;--to-morrow--to-morrow--to-morrow." He turned slowly and appeared to glide rather than move under the trees, until the dark shadow of the Mission tower met and encompassed him.

Cranch followed him with anxious eyes.

Then he removed the quid of tobacco from his cheek.
"Just as I reckoned," remarked he, quite audibly.