The Holy Cross by Eugene Field

Whilst the noble Don Esclevador and his little band of venturesome / followers explored the neighboring fastnesses in quest for gold, the / Father Miguel tarried at the shrine which in sweet piety they had hewn / out of the stubborn rock in that strangely desolate spot. Here, upon / that serene August morning, the holy Father held communion with the / saints, beseeching them, in all humility, to intercede with our beloved / Mother for the safe guidance of the fugitive Cortes to his native / shores, and for the divine protection of the little host, which, / separated from the Spanish army, had wandered leagues to the northward, / and had sought refuge in the noble mountains of an unknown land. The / Father's devotions were, upon a sudden, interrupted by the approach of / an aged man who toiled along the mountain-side path, -- a man so aged and / so bowed and so feeble that he seemed to have been brought down into / that place, by means of some necromantic art, out of distant centuries. / His face was yellow and wrinkled like ancient parchment, and a beard / whiter than Samite streamed upon his breast, whilst about his withered / body and shrunken legs hung faded raiment which the elements had / corroded and the thorns had grievously rent. And as he toiled along, / the aged man continually groaned, and continually wrung his palsied / hands, as if a sorrow, no lighter than his years, afflicted him.

"In whose name comest thou? " demanded the Father Miguel, advancing a / space toward the stranger, but not in threatening wise; whereat the / aged man stopped in his course and lifted his eyebrows, and regarded / the Father a goodly time, but he spake no word.