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the Gentiles and the slaves, who violently beat their breasts, severely scourged themselves, and wearied out every saint of the calendar with petitions for pity and protection. And how describe the joy and enthusiasm with which they heard the triumph of Portugal and Spain united under the sceptre of Philip of Castile?

Such was the state of affairs when, on an April evening of 1628, two men walked down the slope upon whose summit rose the Jesuit convent, and began to pace to and fro under the myrtle avenues bordering the Tamanduatahy.

Both wore the habit of the Jesuits; one, however, had passed the age of forty, at which time men begin to die; his hair was already waxing iron grey, and his head somewhat bald. A sympathetic and amiable countenance, eyes full of loving-kindness, and gentle manners distinguished from his fellows this Father Eusebio de Monserrate.

Conversing with his companion, who had little exceeded the first score of years, the priest now fingered the big black beads of a lengthy rosary, ending in a large metal cross; then stopped for a moment the better to listen and to reply with short and guarded words. Now he raised his eyes to heaven, then he fixed them upon the youth as if to read the secrets of his soul. Tall, vigorous, and framed for activity was the junior, still a Novice in the Company; but now, weighed down by sorrow, he was apparently readier to confess himself than to keep up a regular and consecutive exchange of thoughts.

Lingeringly died out the daylight after the sun had buried itself behind tall Jaraguá, the saddle-back fronting the Penha mound. The latest splendours of the west were reflected eastwards in bands of pink and green, which seemed to rise and spire upwards as the crimson glow waxed cooler; and presently they gave way to a soft neutral tint, based upon a vaporous grey, and tinged with the faintest emerald, where it